Hey, everybody!
So a bit of a heads up for people here who follow de'Baia, or are currently reading his other story "The Last Empire" - this is not him!
We're actually two of his close friends who are a part of the DnD group whose campaign is used as a backdrop for the aforementioned fic. Now, de'Baia is away for Christmas break. But with his permission and support, my boyfriend and I have been given access to this account for an idea we've been playing around with...
That maybe it'd be cool to "expand" our universe by making another story from our notes.
As a foreword: this will work within the same world and timeframe as The Last Empire. Some characters and events may be referenced and appear between the two, to build up the "interconnectedness" of our Home-brew, but it's also not necessary to read one or the other to get a full grasp of what's happening (though we really do recommend you check out that story, too; if any are interested in a more mature, Cold War-esque take on ninja, de'Baia has done an awesome job making sense of our antics!).
Also, definitely not a writer - our brains are not geared for it. We'll update when we can. De'Baia even offered to edit and give pointers when able (not this chapter - you'll see why :S). But overall, just think of this as our small contribution to sharing a bit of the universe we've crafted with one another over these years for everyone else.
Thanks, guys, and hope you enjoy :)
P.S. We do not own any of the characters mentioned, nor condone or wish to imply ANY themes or views on our behalf, or that of the owner of this account. Anything conveyed here is strictly for narrative purposes.
Chapter I. My End Is Our Beginning...
The code name given to him was Twilight.
He didn't choose it for himself, his. handler Ms. Sherwood did. Hell, there was a lot about him which wasn't "him" these days. These green Bruno Banani pants tailored to the precise edge of his frame, this Shmauder button-down and vest combo, with the small edelweiss pin over his lapel, the Arnulf tie and Hugo Boss jacket with its silk, double lining. Perfectly, able to conceal his standard issue Walther P5's holster without drawing attention.
Even the name - his alias, "Loid Forger", wasn't his, either.
Yes, was much West Germany's Bundesnachrichtendienst - the Federal Intelligence Service; BND for those tongues not quick enough for the harsh tang of the German language - had given. Three squares a day, a cozy cot, a home beyond the war torn streets of a bombed out existence, an outlet for all those skills acquired in his time in the Bundeswehr.
There was also much it took away.
But this night, he couldn't complain; her body is pressed close and warm to his own, strong fingers grasp at him - his chest, his waist; fumbling over the Versace belt which would've been too expensive for him alone to purchase, but one Syliva believed worked well for his "character". Loid was a case manager for Duetsche Notenbank, East Germany's premier central bank for the "Democratic" Republic, who'd recently transferred from Erfurt in Thuringia to Berlin.
And she...?
Well, she never really gave him a chance to find out who she was.
From what he knew, Yor Briar was a simple clerk.
She worked in East Berlin's Town Hall. One among many men and women who tirelessly tallied notes, pressed trousers, and jotted down the schedule for the National Unity Party's Chairman, Donovan Desmond. The main man who's party backed, supported, and bankrolled Operation Тёмная ночь, "Dark Night". A clandestine op undertaken in 1945 which saw the transfer of over fifteen hundred of Nazi Germany's highest graded scientists, geneticists, researchers, and historiographers of the occult across Soviet lines.
Loid's - Twilight's - main mission: infiltrate the inner workings of Donovan's National Unity Party, find the whereabouts of a known SS alchemist who'd recently contacted the BND asking for asylum, and bring him across. Not just over into West Berlin, but out of the East entirely; he was a hunted man, apparently. Who'd not be safe so long as he remained within Fourth Internationale territory. KGB and their Stasi affiliates were hot on his heels. But in exchange for immunity regarding his past, the man promised to sensitive information concerning a top secret Soviet weapon's program he'd been working on.
A program known only as "007".
Loid doesn't have much to go on, nor much time to operate. Even the man's alias - "Slave 23" - gives him little to work with. All the Stasi networks were being closed off, with his team's infiltration along the border already raising a few eyebrows. Movement along radio waves were being monitored, checkpoints were choked with T-34's and BTR-152's; the overall feel of the city now was set in a general malaise of Eastern militarism, which have Loid the impression they were all operating now within the jaws of a lion. One bad misstep is all it would take to see those jaws fall firmly down upon their collective heads. jaws comprised of goose-stepping, steel-toed boots, dreary, cold gulags in the middle of nowhere, and God knows how many hours of brutal, dehumanizing torture.
And Yor will either be that "one bad misstep", or just the thing he need to clear his head.
Franky's "girlfriend" was a pale-skinned, ebony haired, mild-mannered woman; who'd intrigued Loid from the start, enticed him throughout, and who now finally demanded his full attention.
Her tongue duels his own as she slams him against the wall, causing a number of the picture frames against the tacky wallpaper to tremble. The people in them are all strangers - they are not his parents, are not his friends; are more lies creating a facsimile of the man Yor is infatuated with. The man she wants and truly yearns for. It's not him - definitely, not him. And it makes him feel guilty that as she pulls him in, he does so to her.
Even though he wants to - needs to - push her away.
Which is a lot easier said than done; Yor's strong. Surprisingly, so. Stronger than a woman he figured like her could've been. It only makes the feel of her body pressing against his own, her hips pinning him down, grinding away till his inhibitions are gone, all the more intoxicating. Like the three year Merlot finished earlier tonight, to help wash down the meal she'd made for them. Yor was gorgeous, but Franky did say one hang-up of hers was she'd no idea how to make her way around a kitchen.
"Her hands would never be confused with that of a chef's." His afro'ed friend told him.
Fair; his own could never be mistaken for that of a lothario's, either.
Clumsy, gainly, a bit awkward as they fumbled over her cumbersome sweater. Pizza paddles is what one high school fling called them. And it astonished him, honestly. He could strip fit his G3 rifle in record time blindfolded, type near two hubdred words a minute, but a woman's bra was the bane to his existence. So, in the end he bypassed that alrogether, contenting himself to run his hand slowly down her backside, over the thin divide of her black dress, outlining the cleft of her right butt-cheek before squeezing.
His instincts are afire with questions.
Large, thick, toned like that of a well-trained gymnast's; she ever says she rarely frequents the gym. Her schedule in Desmond's office, she says, gives little time to find reprieve. Curious, not the body of a sedentary receptionist, a small part of him thinks; mind ever being on the job. Whereas, another small part tells him to shut the hell up.
Yor moans into the kiss, bucking him as she does. She brings her leg up through the slit of her dress to wrap around his waist, rubbing the back of his thigh, challenging him as she delves her long tongue in to languish his taste. Loid fights back as best he can - this being perhaps only his fourth French kiss he'd ever partaken in. Second, while "on the job", per se.
She wants him.
He wants her, too.
But not as he is now. As instead the man the BND tried desperately to cover up and hide under false aliases, fake ID's, and cloak-and-dagger disguises. Twilight had no feelings, no emotions, was "turned off" to the world because he couldn't afford to not be perfect, to not be the best the BND had to offer. Because when the veil of your existence lay between the bated breath of mutual extinction from nuclear fire, or the slow, monotonous creep of the normalcy for the unknown, "Twilight" needed to be perfect.
Unlike "Loid".
Loid Forger was nothing more than a simple cast-off of a Nazi father who died in the war; the son of a shoe-cobbler mother who passed from the pox; an ardent believer in the worker's democratic right of self-governance against the predatory tactics of the capitalist West.
These things Yor believed to be true about the man she leads by the belt buckle. Off towards the queen-sized bed with the flannel sheets that still smell of laundry detergent and dryer sheets. Loid marks the scent well as he's pushed forcefully onto his back, and his belt is ripped off, and tossed to the other side of the bedroom. Dipping beneath the band of his pants, Yor's warm finds what she's looking for. Taking him with a mischievous look, a sultry, low voice tells him to relax. Take it easy.
"I've got this."
Yes, he concurs, she does.
Yor straddles his lap, settling her thighs slowly, teasingly, to ride him like she's some John Wayne cowboy in the saddle. Her blush is apparent, her eyes glazed with desire, vino, and lust. Loid wants to pull her back down and kiss her again, but instead she playfully resists; she slaps his hands away, and instead guides them back to rest on her backside. The lace of her stockings leave little to the imagination, and even less when she begins to rock back and forth. Loid feels everything - her weight pushing down on him, her hot warmth; the feel of her fingers caressing him, teasing him, guiding him in between the two globes of her ass. Reaching behind she coaxes him out of his boxers, holds him close, and squeezes. He hisses through clenched teeth as she envelops him.
That's about the only thing he can manage to say. It's not "stop." Nor flowery words or whimsies about love. And definitely not the truth - he's far too well-trained for that. But only gasps, exhales, and a hungry moan as she continues to dry hump him into oblivion, tear open his shirt, the buttons clanging loudly upon the floorboards. The cool air of his apartment makes gooseflesh appear upon his chest; she warms him by bending over, pressing her chest on his, licking the nape of his neck, as he continues to fondle her rear.
Her tongue makes a line up his neck, tracing his lips, playfully teasing his to come out and play. There's little he can do but obey; he might've picked up that her feet locks in behind his calves, powerful hips corral his own, her own unique "submission hold" tight around the "D" in his own "BND".
But he doesn't.
Yor is the only thing he wants, the one, sole possession in this highrise the BND hasn't given him, nor can take away. She could be his for the night. Just the one. And Franky...
Franky ought to know its only business.
He as well as any should've known a relationship with a woman like Yor was a risk. A personal trist on the job which was bound to end badly. For him or her.
Black hair blocks his vision; he's a novice now working in the dark by the feel of his hands. Every curve he commits to memory. Mustering up courage, he slips neath her leggings. She hungrily growls into their kiss as he runs his fingers along the slip of her G-string, down the cleft of one cheek, digging into the other with his nails. Yor lets out lusty snarl, and biting down on his tongue. It catches him off-guard; where he is hesitant, cautious, Yor has become reckless, exuberant, controlling. With a strong shift of her legs, she turns their bodies and pulls him on top. Nails drag across Loid's bare chest, pulling at his corded, tense muscles, trying to carve out his heart, as she tweaks his nipples.
With her surprisng strength, Loid knows she has the upper hand; Yor seems determined to dictate the field as she wants, yet a carnal urge inside won't let her get all she wants. His jacket and ripped shirt are thrown off, revealing the highly trained, sleek, body of a greyhound. He's born and bred to the absolute best. Where others treated themsleves like a theme park, Loid learned to respect his body as a temple. He knows he looks good - from time to time Sylvia had used him as a honeypot for certain targets.
Anything for the mission, he'd ever remind himself.
Anything.
Yor's eyes go wide with excitement when after he breaks off from another kiss, he drags himself down her body. He kisses, bites, and plays with her on the way down; never relinquishing his hold on her rump, till he handles the hem of her pants and tugs. He pulls them down clumsily at first, but soon theyre off.
Breathless, wordless, she silently encourages him by bringing her hands to cup the top of his head. With a slight push, Loid is guided down. His tongue flicks against her stomach, teases against the cloth of her panties with his teeth, and puts kisses against her inner thighs.
Pant* *Pant* *Pant*
"Loid..."
The sound of "not" his name catches him off-guard, momentarily giving him a pause. Stings like a needle pricking his skin. Like the shot given before he crossed over the wall and into the East; scurvy, flu, chicken pox, hep C. Loid was actively made to become "sicker" on the off-chance his medical records needed confirming. Crazy, but then again, so were the Stasi; they'd caught an agent last summer when a simple teeth cleaning gave them away. A filling was logged in a spot not previously stated before.
Loid was his replacement.
He didn't like it then, and he didn't like it now. It was the cherry on top of the cake of all these falsehoods he told to this woman. This beautiful, gorgeous, magnificent woman.
A woman he can say actually...
Well...
Perhaps, he can answer that later.
She may not know who he is, may have fallen in love with a "lie", but she will definitely know how much she means to him this night.
...Which Yor finds so positively sweet.
Both that he feels so strongly for her, and that he honestly thinks she doesn't understand who or what he is.
Pant* *Pant* *Pant*
Garden had tasked Yor to uncover his whereabouts for over three months. To track him, hunt him down, mind this man's habits and shadow every one of his contacts. Franky Franklin was an easy enough mark to make out; the man was pegged by Eastern intelligence for almost a year before he set up his little cigar and variety shop off Schumacher and Blint. Fiona Frost, too; she was good, but Sylvia Sherwood overplayed her hand choosing Ms. Frost to go over with Loid. The woman had been made in Budapest, and was on Fourth Internationale radars ever since.
All of them were stepping stones to the agent known as Twilight, whom she now had right where she wanted him: face down between her legs, muzzled by flimsy silk.
Yor wraps herself about Loid's head, one hand tangled in his blonde locks, pushing him deeper into her. While the other goes up her body. She takes in a sharp inhale when Loid nips at her, kisses her, kneads her ass still as he tries to bury himself in her scent. Good, Yor thinks; it'll keep his eyes covered then, and his hands powerless in their current position.
He wouldn't be able to stop her then even if he wanted.
Pant* *Pant* *Pant*
"Sigh..."
Her fingers trace up her body, caressing over the contours of her chest, before going up to pull at her hair. A golden stiletto there keeps the last remants of her long hair from unfolding out. She takes hold of it, just as a muffled moan comes from down below. She humps his face, her thick thighs like pale boas constricting about, sealing him within her womanhood. He's playful like a high school boy - energetic, sweet, a bit more into foreplay than she's used to. But she doesn't mind: Yor enjoys playing with her food before the coup de grace is served.
Her hand grips his head hard, keeping him in place, cooing for him to keep going. He obliges with the slightest of caresses, his nose pressing into her, tongue lightly dancing under the fabric of her panties. She calls out his name, loving being teased, but also telling him to quit screwing around; from what she gathered of "Loid Forger", he was cautious, meticulous, an unnervingly slow man. But in this, she wouldn't let him take his time. Not now. She grips his head a little tighter, wrapping one leg about the back of his neck, and "locking" the other in place putting him in a triangle.
Another muffled moan, another small laugh escaping her lips, and the point of the golden stiletto is primed downward.
Does she feel bad?
Honestly... no.
She hadn't felt bad for any of the others before Loid Forger, nor should she.
Because whatever her emotions were for this man, they paled to what she felt for Anya.
And Yor will do whatever it takes to make sure she'll never end up in the clutches of this man, nor that of Van Hohenheim's.