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Dark Times HET : helga the Hutt is back

Posted on 2012.03.22 at 18:59
Current Mood: cheerfulcheerful
Tags: , , , ,
Title: Professionals
Author: Helgaleena
Fandom: Star Wars, Dark Times comics
Characters: Ember Chankeli, On Prine, Dass Jennir
Genre: het, adult
Warnings: light bondage
Word count: 3036

On the trail of the fugitive Jedi Dass Jennir, bounty hunter On Prine incidentally liberates his traveling companion, former madam Ember Chankeli, from a caravan of slave traders.
All the dialogue is by Randy Stradley, the writer of Dark Times: Out of the Wilderness Volume 4. I am just translating into words, and adding extra action.






Ember Chankeli had the bounty hunter’s attention. She wasn’t sure why, but there had to be a reason for it, and when she figured it out, there was bound to be a way for her to take advantage of the situation; of that she was certain.

After he’d interrupted Dass Jennir’s rescue attempt, the slaver caravan Jennir had been trying to spring her from was demoralized. Their guards were all sliced up or dead; the beasts of burden and their frightened handlers willingly left their barges full of cargo behind at Prine’s lethal insistence, heading overland for the nearest oasis.

At first, Ember had hoped to join their exodus, thinking the gaunt sniper in black might be a typical pirate after the cargo, possibly with backup waiting in orbit, to touch down and haul the load off system. But evidently he shared the opinion of the locals, that she was cargo as well. They raised no fuss about leaving their blond human captive behind with the payload.

Dass Jennir had needed to run like a womp-rat from Prine’s rifle, even after Jennir shot the bounty hunter’s speeder out from under him. Prine had just rolled through the air like a gymnast and landed upright, still firing. And Jennir had the other captive, Maddie, the one he’d managed to cut free, to worry about.

Ember had seen it all, while dangling uncomfortably upside down from one shackled ankle. When Prine had landed after his somersault, weapon at the ready, Dass Jennir had vanished, almost like magic. Somewhere down a narrow canyon between the arid buttes, he was on the trail of the local woman he’d saved successfully, and tossed onto the back of his ungulate runner beast to flee.

The mysterious third party had turned around leisurely after that and looked her up and down most thoroughly and speculatively, she thought. What a picture she must have made; lucky she was wearing those tight fitting trousers, and that her tunic had elastic around the waist, or she’d have had been blinded by her own clothing and had no mystery left!

Although she’d been upside down, she’d still been aware of his piercing black gaze, sharp enough to feel. His meager mouth, like a mere slash in his bone-pale face, was hooked in a grin, nearly a sneer. Helpless rage at her own powerlessness heated the blood that had already rushed to her head due to her position. But she carefully didn’t clench her fists. She kept her palms open, in token of surrender.

Evidently the opportunity to smirk, along with the gloating appraisal of her absurd lack of dignity upside down, was sufficient for the moment. He turned away, to intimidate the caravan’s unfortunate survivors, and left her hanging.

And the instant he was out of sight around the side of the huge transport, she’d taken a deep breath, stretched down as far as she could reach over the sand, and plucked up the blaster dropped by one of the dead guards. She could feel it now, a comforting lump of plast and duranium alloy, inside her tunic’s ballooning waist band.

The manacles he’d put on her were quite loosely attached to one another, with a flexible half meter of cable between them. It would be ever so easy to reach her hidden insurance policy at any moment, if the time was ever right—if she wasn’t stranded in the middle of nowhere with no way to leave this unknown quantity, this Prine. Doubtless he’d secured some food and water from the survivors before they’d left, or rather, been run off. She hadn’t been allowed to search anything; they’d only cut her down at his order and let him bind her again.

So she sat with hands demurely in her lap, cross-legged upon the cooling sands of evening behind the mystery man overseeing the departing herd, and made small talk, like the professional hostess she was, hoping to draw him out.

“I’m surprised you spared any of them.” Damn, if it was up to Ember, she surely wouldn’t; she’d have drilled every single one of the schuttas who’d given her this big ugly bruise on her face, and left them for the scavengers.

Prine didn’t even bother to turn around. His beaky profile was as black as his clothing against the sunset horizon. “Why shouldn’t I? I wasn’t hired to kill them. I’m a professional, not a monster.”

Oh, so it was professional to shoot the tire out and spill her over the side of that big buggy to flap upside down like an idiot, and take out half the guards because they were between him and Jennir, or simply firing back? Oh, yeah. But she swallowed her annoyance and kept her voice casual and sweet as he finally turned back around and legged it over to her, his tightly trousered calves like sticks of carbonite.

“You made them leave their barges behind. They can’t be happy about that. What if they come back?”

Prine’s face and body were so gaunt and pale, his dark hair so short and ragged, it looked as if it were falling out because he was starving. But his eyes glittered clear and unnaturally sharp as he met hers and replied, “Then I kill them.”

The self-assurance, almost glee, with which he said it gave her a frisson of panic; she could oh so easily imagine that his eyes upon her face were assessing exactly what sort of impact had been required to cause the bruise around her eye, how long ago it was made, what pulse beat in her neck and how to part the bones with one clean snap---

She swallowed the lump of terror, fed it to her anger, and lit up her seductive smile.

“There must be a reason you didn’t send me with them. I think I can guess what it is—men always want the same thing.”

His grin got bigger. He was very close now. She could smell the synth leather and the machine oil and the pong from off his days of unwashed small clothes, the expiring liners of his lightweight speeder boots. He was smirking, but he was reaching for her too. So she batted her eyes and let her tongue run over her lip as his hand approached her lap.

But what he did was grab her ankle, and yank it toward her face. Ember nearly went over backwards, and she couldn’t put an elbow behind herself without jerking her other arm nearly round her own waist. What the kriff?

“It’s your shoes,” he smirked. “Your footprints. You’re the woman that was traveling with Jennir. You’re the reason he attacked the caravan.”

He dropped her foot and stood up again, sending some sort of signal to his beetle-like aerial droid, while she tried to regain her dignity. “And you’re the reason he’ll return. Until then, you’re my prisoner.”

Ember made her move. “Or your partner.” He was getting ready to walk off and ignore her. That was never what Ember desired. She jumped up and walked after him, giving it the sweetest spin she could.

“Look, it’s true I was with Jennir, but it was against my will.” She saw one of his eyebrows rise skeptically and let some contempt creep into her voice while she hurried to keep pace with him. “He wanted to save me, the dope. He was trying to do a good deed and return me to my family.” Stang! He wasn’t stopping. “If I’d wanted to settle down on Vondarc, I’d never have run away! I have bigger plans than that.”

And now, she had his attention. She got around in front of him, face to face with that grin, with a grin of her own. She had good teeth, and she flashed them. “You want Jennir? I’ll help you, in exchange for my freedom—and a split of the bounty on him. And I know exactly how to lure him back,” she bluffed, as smooth as any Sabacc player.

At last he lost the smirk. She was in his space, and he was in hers. He was looking her over, hard. Up and down. Oh, how she loved to have eyes on her. Just imagine, even banged up and filthy, she still had it! He had his hands near her again, could easily reach for her and take the bait. He kept looking her up and down, speculating, and she could feel herself getting ready to do the dance. Her smile felt more genuine every second.

“Let’s say I agree,” he remarked in a low purring tone; “how do you know I won’t betray you?”

One taste and he’d be Ember’s; that’s how she knew… breathily she answered with her sunset eyes on his, dark and gleaming, “You’re a professional.”

The droid over his shoulder had its lenses on them. It was almost like a holovid shoot. What a turn-on. Seduction in the desert! The heroine’s charms melt the defenses of the man—and in the next instant Prine’s dark gloved hands were all over her, under her clothing, pulling her close, his face close to her ear---

--yanking the blaster out of the back of her leggings, pointing it at her—

Now he was really smiling, with teeth. He had a lot of big, crooked teeth, too. The blaster put her at arm’s length, the way a blaster barrel does up close, and when she was far enough away to suit him, unable to hit at him, it finally pointed safely at the sky.

“I am; a professional, and we professionals guard against being shot in the back,” he stated smugly. And then his grin went away.

The haze of her own annoyance blinded her to the approach of the swift punch in the gut that landed her flat on her back the next minute. As she curled up around herself and gasped for breath he landed on her, grabbing the cable between her wrists and jerking them savagely upward.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said, from an eyelash away, and then said absolutely nothing for a while. But a telltale flare of his nostrils told her he wasn’t going to knock her around for amusement. Nevertheless, he had her, and not the other way around.


The frame on top of her in the dirt was all hard angles, and wiry, too. Prine was gaunt, but very long. It cost him no effort to keep her arms stretched above her tautly. Her belly was a bit tender, but he hadn’t hit hard, depending more upon surprise than brutality to disable her. No, despite the black glitter of her captor’s gaze, he was not one to waste his energy on eliciting wails and moans.

Carefully, surreptitiously, she flexed her fingers to maintain circulation. Her captor remained still, watching her get her breath back, maybe even counting her eye-blinks, quiet as a powered-down machine, only different from a machine in having body heat and an aroma. And he didn’t blink, much.

He gave her time to recover from the gut-punch, long enough that her hands were all prickles and she had begun to squirm under him, and worry that creatures might be crawling into her hair. She could see her own reflection in the black droid’s hovering lens, and it was strange to see the same thing in Prine’s eyes, little Embers turning to right and left, anxious at his very stillness.

Dusk was deepening around them when he eased his weight away off her hips and pulled her up by the manacles he’d tangled around one fist. Back to the wrecked transport he led her briskly, and shackled her hands to a high rung of the utility ladder, facing the still warm metal. The stink of the dead guard he’d shot, and she’d disarmed, rose from the corpse nearby. He left her alone there, and went to build a fire.

When it was burning, when the smell of desert vegetation and native timber began to diffuse that stink and tint the dark with red flickering, he returned.

Very gently, she felt his ungloved, slender fingers brush over the skin of her belly, trace her hip bones. She shivered and gasped. Then, when she was just becoming accustomed to the heat of his touch, the fingers dug in hard, like pincers, and hauled her hips backward.

Soon her hands were holding nothing but air, suspended by the manacles from above. She was bent over, her hair spilling around her face in the half darkness, hot breath hitting the nape of her neck. “This,” he whispered, in a voice that gave her goose-bumps and tightened her nipples into little knobs, “this is what’s going to happen.”

As if he had a year to finish doing it he eased his hot fingertips into the elastic of her leggings and slowly exposed her. Down her bruised thighs, over the ache in her ankle left by the manacle, the fabric glided at the pace he set. One at a time he lifted her feet and the footwear that had left those betraying prints so many klicks away in the past. She felt the whisper of his breath hot upon her bare legs and shivered again, unable to tell what he would do next. She heard the snap of parting fasteners.

“I could beat you, couldn’t I?” he murmured. She whimpered involuntarily; so many clients required that sort of thing, and she’d always made her employees do it, not sullying herself by playing victim. But the thought of it, the threat of it, had her quivering with a guilty sort of excitement. Tables were turned this time, and the mistress was mastered. No—if he did, she’d be obliged to kill him. Much better to writhe impatiently under the gentle stroking he was giving to her exposed flesh.

“Don’t worry, I’m not a monster.” The stroking continued, and she shivered yet again, with relief that he wasn’t going to commit suicide by eliciting her revenge, at least for now. It proceeded up the insides of her thighs, investigated the folds and valleys of her vulva, and a long, hot fingertip began to slide slowly into her hot depths. Another hand made its way up her ribcage and cupped her breast. It squeezed a rigid nipple, pulled at it to make her gasp and clench around the finger inside her. Hot breaths were upon her back; a cooler chin or nose tried to part the tangles in her nape hair. Her arms were aching, though; couldn’t they get on with this?

As if he could sense her impatience directly from her skin, swiftly he took her by the hips and lifted her right off her feet; she nearly lost her shoe. And abruptly she was impaled by his incredibly long, thin, hot maleness. His hands slid in to the insides of her thighs and pulled her bare ass against his clothed legs, and he thrust. Once.

She felt as if she were a juwa fruit he was slicing open. Gently, gingerly, he lowered her down so that her feet rested on top of his own. He was barely moving in her, but so hot, so hard, so deep—

And those long, hard fingers crept up, and up, and up her thighs until they met around her clit. A gentle tickle was all it took, before her bruised belly was grinding and jangling and rocking the orgasm out of her, flashing lights going off in her eyes that were actually full of darkness, and she didn’t know quite when the professional killer got done with her; one moment he was in her and the next he was gone, his feet no longer under hers, as they were doing their involuntary dance of climax.

She wriggled gradually to stillness, there in the desert dark, her face flushed hot and invisible, finally remembering to step forward to ease her arms, seeking the metal skin of the transport and its residual warmth from the sun now set. Her legs felt like jelly. Her toes kept curling inside her shoes, making ridges in the accumulated dust within them.
Liquid ran down her legs toward her knees. There would have been more if he hadn’t been wearing a sheath. Where had he gone? What would he do with her now?

Soon she became aware of the sound of digging. Twisting her shoulders around, she could see by the firelight and by the rising moon that he had a small spade and was excavating near a large beam that had once been part of the transport’s canopy over the human captives. When the hole was deep enough, he tipped the beam in, refilled around it until it was vertical, and then tamped the soil down with his boot.

Only then did he glance over at her. Ember wanted very much to resent him, but something about his complete silence, and the way he simply stood there looking, like the post he’d just erected, outlasted her urge to protest. Eventually she shut her eyes to him, and the post and the professional killer swam behind her lids in reverse, two pillars, white on black.

She’d been in a sort of doze, and suddenly realized her arms were free. Her hands fell like weights, silent shrieks of protest creaking from her shoulder joints. Ember’s eyes snapped open. Prine, her captor, had already stepped back out of arm’s reach. He tossed her leggings and a water bulb at her, which her numb hands struggled not to drop.

“Put these back on,” he said, coiling the restraints economically and stowing them, as she discovered a ration pack inside the leggings. “Let’s keep this professional.”

~end~

Comments:


pronker
pronker at 2012-03-23 15:30 (UTC) (Link)
I am squinching my eye at this until I can get to the comic store and read the latest -- isn't the artwork terrific in these? Shall comment more when I've read the book.
helgaleenas
helgaleenas at 2012-03-23 17:28 (UTC) (Link)
Yes, and the moment that scarecrow of a bounty hunter took off his helmet I was turned on by him. Naughty Hutt.
pronker
pronker at 2012-04-04 23:47 (UTC) (Link)
Okay, read the issue, blinders off -- hoo yeah, hot, much? The whole scenario screamed for something like this and you delivered. I had to smile at Ember's 'now he's safe from my revenge' ... she is a survivor, that gal.
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