Hey there!
This was written under the influence of Nine Inch Nail's 'Closer' and some heavy jetlag and will therefore, make no sense. Probably will end up smut, or just a ramble without an end (or beginning, or middle).
AU, OOC, OC, (potentially) PWP. Terrible filthy language and inappropriateness abounds.
I suggest you ignore Naruto canon for the purpose of this piece xD (I certainly did.)
"Good evenin', Miss Ginger."
"Evening, Benny! The usual?"
"Aye. Make it half a pint today though, the Missus'll kill me if I miss dinner." Benjamin O'Connell shakes the rain out of his hair and wills the chill away from his bones.
"Ha!" She fills the glass. "Tell Martha I said hello, and that she still owes me that recipe for that coq au vin."
"Aye, aye, I'll pass on the message for ya. 'Ock-oh-van, block o' sand… you ladies and your fancy French cookin'…" Benny accepts the drink from Miss Ginger, and chuckles quietly. "It's pre' quiet 'ere tonight, ain't it?"
"Yes…" Miss Ginger frowns for a second. "Something doesn't feel quite right, Benny."
Benny shrugs. He had stopped believing in the sixth sense twelve years ago, around the time when his son was lost in the woods for four nights and his sixth sense had told him nothing. "Maybe so, Miss Ginger. But don' worry yer pretty little head abou' it, the night's still a young'un, even though that rain seems to be hellbent on somethin'."
It is now eleven thirty-nine, according to the cuckoo-clock tucked between the bottles of whiskey. The bar is still empty. Miss Ginger checks that her knife is in its usual hiding place – in a notch under the bar. She doesn't take any chances, not any more. Not with the Akatsuki wandering around – and especially tonight, with the tingling across her skin foreshadowing something bad.
The door slams open.
The something bad comes in the form of one bloodied, rain-drenched, half-naked man. He staggers into a chair, slamming his feet onto the table, groaning as he inspects the numerous wounds across his chest. The cuts are recent; the blood is fresh and trickles slowly down his stomach.
"Oh my." Miss Ginger cannot help herself. There is just so much blood.
"Stop staring and get me a fucking beer, woman." The voice is raspy from a lack of sleep. Miss Ginger bites her lip and gropes blindly with both hands – one to a bottle of aforementioned beer and the other to the knife. Her heart beats ridiculously fast as her fingers curve around the handle and the rings on her fingers clink against the hilt. She prays he did not hear.
"What's your name?" He cracks open one eye.
"Miss Ginger." There is a crackle of lightning and then the slow, solid boom of thunder to accentuate her name. It's almost funny in afterthought - almost, but not quite.
"Put that knife back where it came from before it finds a new home in your fucking throat, Ginger."
Ginger clenches her jaw and tightens her grip on the knife. Let's face it. She's terrified. "It's 'Miss Ginger'. And no, I won't."
"What did you say?"
"I said no. I don't know who you are, but you don't come in here and start threatening me."
"You don't know who the fu—"
"—There will be no foul language in my bar, stranger." Miss Ginger raises her knife and wonders why she can't shut up. Her hand trembles.
"You little bit—!"
"—You will finish your drink in absolute silence, pay up, and leave."
He grins at her with bloodstained lips. She shudders, but refuses to let her legs give way. Her heart is thundering in her ears. Boom. Boom. Boom. His smile is too wide and the silence is too long. Finally, he laughs. "You're one crazy bitch, Ginger. You don't know who you're messing with, do you."
"I said – no foul langu—oh!"
She says 'oh!' because she is pressed against the wall, her entire body held there by hands that are impossibly strong, by arms that ripple with muscles, by eyes that are purple – purple? – and burning with what can only be described as madness.
"Miss Ginger, you're in for a treat tonight," he whispers, daring her to move as he oh-so-gently slides the knife and the beer out of her hands. Taking a slow swig of the drink, he eyes her up and down and slams the knife into the nearest table. She reacts instinctively, indignantly, curling her body into the wall and away from his prying eyes. "Get away from me, you little creep." But her voice cracks, and he merely laughs again. "Heard of the Akatsuki, Miss Ginger?"
She hates the way he says her name, mocking and sing-song and sliding smoothly between her collarbones and making her heart flutter in fear and something else. He licks his lips. "The Akatsuki." She replies numbly. "Jesus Christ, the Akatsuki. You're o-one of them. Fuck. Oh fuck."
"Clever girl, Miss Ginger. Clever girl and a filthy mouth." He whispers into her ear, smirking as she flinches violently and starts thrashing to get away. He pins her down with one arm across her chest, taking another swig of the beer, watching her try to slap and kick him away with an easy grin tinged with cold, calculating madness.
"You little fuck, you crazy fucking shit get OUT OF HERE!" She bites his arm furiously, deeply, and then emits a little cry as he just laughs.
"You little minx, Ginger." He grins at her. "Into the kinky shit, are we?" The stranger leans in close, his slick silver hair brushing her neck as he traces his tongue slowly down her neck, groaning his approval. "You taste so good, Miss Ginger," he whispers, biting her bronze skin softly and feeling her stiffen and whimper in response.
"Please," she pushes against his wounded chest and he hisses in pain, arching away, "oh shit, I'm sorry – just please, please stop." Her voice is so small and flat he steps back, eyeing her lazily and taking another swig of his drink.
She staggers away and rests her forehead against the cool bar, forcing back the tears that have sprung to her throat and willing her heart to slow. What is wrong with this man? He swings from death threats to love bites to – to backing away to the other corner of the room and ignoring her entirely? Jesus, who cares what's wrong with this man? He's crazy.
He's absolutely fucking crazy and Miss Ginger needs to get out of here.
"Y-you're bleeding." She hates that she must do this. Yanking the knife up and raising it defensively, she takes a step closer.
"Congratu-fucking-lations, Ginger. Yes, I'm bleeding." He shrugs off his cloak and winces slightly, exposing more of the wounds – they are staggering, really, slicing all the way around his sides and down his back. She is dumbstruck for a split second, wondering just how muscular a man can be.
And how much blood he needs to lose before he dies.
She can't sit here waiting for him to bleed to death.
"I-I have i-i-iodine!"
He stares at her. "I don't need your bloody iodine."
"Y-you're bleeding!"
He seems to be considering something, slugging the last of the beer and swallowing slowly. "What time is it, Ginger?"
She allows her eyes to slide to the cuckoo clock and is surprised that only nineteen minutes have passed. "Eleven fifty-eight."
Suddenly he grins again, a wide, menacing one that sends little sparks of fear down her forearms. "I'm not due anywhere for hours. Get the fucking iodine, princess. And a few shots of Jager while you're at it."