#varg answers things

Of all the things Satya could be doing after sucking him off and leaving him utterly spent against a wall down some secluded corridor, the last thing Jamison expects is for her to adjust his suit.

With a methodical grace, she straightens his trousers over his hips and zips them properly, making sure to smooth out the lingering wrinkles (and he cannot help himself; he squirms under her hands, half pleasure, half over-sensitive discomfort). To his continued nonplus, his mussed white dress shirt receives much of the same treatment: she fastens each dainty button one by one, her fingers as swift and precise as always, a fastidious trail up the front of his chest and to the top of his collar, taking pause only to tuck the disheveled ends into his waistband and to tighten his belt. The bright smudge of red lipstick on his jacket’s lapel is a lost cause (and a mistake; his fault, too eager), but that does not stop her from meticulously scrubbing at it with a handkerchief.

It is safe to say that Jamison has never had this happen to him before. Not just the blowjob against the wall in the middle of a very loud, very crowded celebration part—any part of this, really. Prior to Overwatch’s clandestine recall, he would have never been caught dead dressed this way, not if he valued his reputation, especially within Junkertown’s cutthroat walls. Not to mention that in the blur of his previous intimate encounters, no one had seemed particularly concerned about their state of dress post-sex, no less his. It just wasn’t something anyone thought about. Didn’t matter much when they were crawling off of him half-dazed, anyway.

This, though. Oh, this is—this is new.

Countenance perturbed, she frets over the rumples in his shirt, fingers ironing out as many imperfections as she can, putting him back together with the same prompt decorum with which she had taken him apart, and it feels as though his heart is squeezing itself through a vise. While he would much rather be rid of this bloody ridiculous outfit (and it is ridiculous, he thinks, at least in his humble opinion), the fact that she is tending to him with such courtesy and gentleness makes him all too willing to acquiesce to the rest of the night’s droll and stuffy activities just for the sheer chance that this might happen again.

That isn’t to say he expects yet another impromptu iteration of her down on her knees with her mouth around his cock and his hands in her hair, because he doesn’t. Can’t. Shouldn’t? Oh, if she were keen, though, that would be absolutely fucking fantastic and he would not object to it by any means, but—well, he doesn’t know if he has it in him to suffer quite so quietly.

Just… having her do this again would be nice. Fixing his shirt, adjusting his jacket, picking at the top button by his collar because it isn’t where it should be. Perhaps combing some of his unruly blond shocks back into their proper place or rubbing the pad of her thumb by his mouth with the excuse of you missed a cake crumb in a delicate whisper down by his sternum.

It’s a strange kind of tenderness, and he finds himself craving it already.

When Satya finally comes to the loosened wrap of his tie, he forces a swallow and meets her gaze. Her own appearance is almost perfect despite their previous activities—hair kempt, dress pristine, not a single detail out of place—the red of her lipstick in a faded smutch being the only telltale sign. He isn’t sure what he finds hotter: the fact that she still looks fucking ravishing, the fact that she’d swallowed him all in one go, or the fact that she is actively trying to hide the evidence.

He takes a long moment to mull it over as he watches her pluck a golden-colored tube from within the tiny purse slung across her hip, pop off its cap, and then apply a simple coat over her lips. It is slow, painstaking, accomplished with her usual carefulness, and if he is being truly honest, it looks almost—sensual? He never thought he’d say that about someone fixing themselves after something like this, but, well, there’s a first time for everything, right?

Oh, and that smirk. That smirk. That is on purpose. He’s sure of it.

Fuck him dead. He’ll definitely have to go with the last one. He does love a woman who can hide evidence.

Satya stashes the lipstick tube in her purse once more, a pleased curvature shaping her smile. On her tiptoes (because she is still not quite tall enough in her heels), she gives him a brief peck on the mouth before tugging on his lipstick-touched lapel—time to go, it says, we’re needed.

Jamison hasn’t the faintest idea why anyone would possibly need him at an event like this, but he isn’t going to make a fuss. If the sultry look she’d given him had been any indication, it is possible that whatever sort of thing had happened here might somehow happen again, and potentially outside the realm of suits and celebrations—oh, and what he wouldn’t give to have her splayed down upon her bed with his face buried between her thighs.

Sucking in a harsh breath, he swallows down a frustrated groan and tries his very best to focus.

If he does anything at all to jeopardize that chance, he just might flatten the place.

Luckily for you, I love talking about everything and anything concerning the Bloodborne AU! (Thank you so much for asking me about this. I love you. Dearly.) Let’s start with C.

c) Satya treats all interactions with other Yharnamites with extreme caution. She does not trust the Powder Kegs (or any Hunter, for that matter), and rightfully so. When Jamison makes his trips to the Oto Workshop, she prefers to make herself scarce and wait for him rather than voluntarily place herself in the wolf’s den. She does not approve of his little spats with the Kegs (“That makes you suspicious, Jamison.” “No more suspicious than usual!” “You needn’t defend me, you know.” “Yeah, but—” “I mean it. Control yourself, please.”), but she tolerates it because the Workshop is one of three sources of blood available to her, which now includes Jamison himself as a source—the other two being Olivia in the Forbidden Woods and Angela’s clinic.

And while she wouldn’t admit it to anyone even if they’d asked, she does find his defensiveness somewhat endearing, and the look on the man’s face at the Flagon’s desk was quite priceless.

As for A and B, here is the answer in the form of a fic.

When Jamison makes it to the Oto Workshop, a pair of Powder Kegs are waiting for him by the armory wall.

Beside the vast plethora of weaponry, Torbjörn is in the midst of comparing the length of Jesse’s arm to its companion quicksilver mold, a film of sweat coating his brow. His great blond beard is braided in two, and a small swatch of cloth is stretched over his right eye. Parchment rife with scribbled measurements splays across a table to his left, accompanying the thick metal mold. Jesse sits cooperatively upon a vacant workbench, clad in partial Hunter gear, both his good arm and the stump of his left held out so Torbjörn can poke and prod him with calipers and various other tools.

Jamison had endured much the same when he had first been fitted with replacements for his arm and leg. A rather lengthy and time consuming process, he recalls, and one he had not particularly enjoyed.

Both men appear to be quite engrossed in the task—until Jamison knocks over a thick tome of blueprints.

Jesse is the first to notice, and his mouth spreads into an absolutely terrible grin.

“So,” he says, and lets the word hang in the armory’s musty silence—because despite the brevity, Jamison is keenly aware of his meaning.

Gritting his teeth, Jamison scoops up the tome and lobs it back onto the workbench from whence it came. He adjusts the brim of his hat and right stalks past Jesse to appraise the wall. His boom hammer hangs toward the bottom, suspended by its haft upon a pair of hooks between another set of fierce looking rifles, and his cannon has been propped in the corner, the serrated teeth of another Keg’s whirligig saw hooked nearby. The weight of the hammer is a heavy strain through his right arm as he sweeps it up from its rack, but he savors the familiarity and hefts it over his shoulder.

As he goes to reach for his cannon, he can hear Jesse bark with laughter behind him.

“What, not feeling like saying hello? Now, ain’t that something! You’re being mighty rude, you know, especially after that lovely lady friend of yours came and got some new sheets from me at the Flagon. I think that at least warrants a ‘g’day,’ don’t you?”

Jamison pivots on his heel and gives him a seething look. “G’day, mate.”

“Ouch.” Jesse whistles. “Sore spot, huh?”

“Told you to keep your gob shut, McCree,” he says, tightening his grip on the hammer.

“Hey, hey, all right, don’t look at me! Not my fault a couple Kegs were by the fire when she came down. That’s on them, not me.”

“Oi, just what kind of drongo you take me for? I’m not that dim.” Jamison tugs off his hat and gives it a stern shake in Jesse’s direction. “You know just as well as I do that most Kegs don’t come back ‘til the Cathedral bell, so if anybody was downstairs—which there wasn’t, I’d stake me other arm on it—but if there was, it would be Hog, and he hasn’t got the mouth on him for that.”

Jesse scratches his beard with his hand, a smirk shaping his countenance. “Well, well, and here I was thinking your memory weren’t too good. Color me surprised.”

“Not all of me’s bloody addled,” says Jamison.

“Sure, sure. So, what’s her name? I know I’ve never seen her before, and this side of Yharnam gets a hell of lot of foot traffic, especially after a Hunt. She another outsider?”

If Jamison still had hackles, they’d be raised. “What’s it to you?”

“Curiosity, is all,” says Jesse. “Promise, I don’t mean nothing by it.”

“Why you prodding, then? Seems a little more than curiosity, if you ask me.” A part of him wants to say rack off, she’s mine, but he sinks his teeth into his tongue to keep the words swallowed behind his molars.

“Hey, I have the right to be curious. I’ve seen you with plenty ‘round here, but her? She’s different, ain’t she? No way she’s some regular Yharnamite, not with that arm. I saw that blood gem in her hand when she reached out to grab the sheets, too. Real pretty thing. Biggest damn rock I ever seen.” He cracks a wide smile. “Imagine my surprise when I see her skipping down the stairs in your gear.”

“Oh, give it a rest. Don’t go heckling the boy when you’ve done your fair share of fraternizing,” says Torbjörn, brandishing a pair of iron calipers in warning. “And for Oedon’s sake, keep still. I can’t get the proper measurements if you’re wriggling about like one of the Choir’s failed experiments. You want a new arm, don’t you?”

Jesse at least has the sense to look abashed. “Sure do.”

“Arms out, then, and keep ‘em that way.”

“Yeah, yeah, all right,” he grumbles. “I still don’t know why that means I can’t poke fun. First interesting thing that’s happened to me since I got my arm bitten clean off and I can’t even enjoy it.”

“If you want to rile him up, you do that on your own time. Right now you’re on mine, and I’ve got work to do.” Torbjörn gently smacks his elbow with the calipers. “Now keep still, or you’ll be needing me to make you the other arm, too.”

“Oh, you heard our little titan!” says Jamison. “You’d best behave, then, yeah? Hunting with just one arm’s bad enough, you know. Can’t imagine what it’s like minus another. All the mangy beasts prowling about? Might get a little… out of hand.”

Pleased, he flashes Jesse a triumphant grin as he dons his wide-brimmed hat once more.

All he receives in return is a dark glower, and fuck does it ever feel satisfying.

With the cannon’s considerable weight in tow, Jamison shouts short farewells and takes his leave from the armory. Down the Workshop’s halls, he lets a quiet sigh of relief start to dissolve the wringing knot in his chest. While he certainly doesn’t always see eye to eye with the stout weaponsmith, he is very grateful for the intervention. He’ll have to buy him a pint when he’s not up to his eyeball in metalworking.

He takes his time returning to the entrance, a touch too preoccupied. The adjustment to the presence of his weapons isn’t quite as quick as he’d hoped. It might take some time to reacquaint himself properly. Nothing a little hunting couldn’t fix, he supposes.

When he shoves the Oto Workshop’s door open with the blunt head of his hammer, he spies Satya waiting for him at a street corner down below the steep stone stairways. Her cowl remains drawn and her body is hidden beneath stark sable as the star speckled gloam settles around her in twilit curtains, but he recognizes that queenly posture anywhere—even in the muted oil light from Yharnam’s iron lamp posts.

Beautiful.

It… does worry him, to an extent, that the Kegs might show interest in her. He could lie, of course, like he does with everything else, and it would be easy enough to name her as some wandering outsider in search of Yharnam’s miracle panacea, but this is a secret that truly matters. One single slip up could prove far too costly, and its consequences might not be something he could protect her from.

Jamison has slaughtered hordes of beasts. He has cleansed this town more times than he can count, and the woods beyond its reaches far more. But beasts are beasts, Hunters are killers, and Executioners are vicious hangmen.

He steps down to meet her, vials on his belt and heart in his throat.