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#Like if I wanted to snip something but there’s nothing to pinch so my fingers just all end up touching each other

emmyrosee · 5 months

Text

For Sakusa, lunch is extremely sacred.

He likes his food a certain way, arranged strategically and kept nice and protected in his bento until the time comes to eat it.

And thankfully, you thrive on providing him that protection, giving his lunch a spin on a dish made with love, a sweet for dessert, and a small note with a little flirt or a inspirational message from you.

Depends on the day.

Today seems no different, you pass him his bento with a kiss all over his face, a small bite of his cheeks and a pinch to his side to make him squeak, sending him off and letting him go about his day.

Your texts are feral, you remind him to drink water, nothing seems astray.

Until lunch. He tells you it’s time for lunch, and you tell him to enjoy.

booger 🤢 enjoy baby!!

We’re better when we stick together 🩷

Huh?

“Mind if I steal some sanitizer, Sakusa-San?” Hinata asks, and kiyoomi gives a wave of his hand, pausing his watching.

“Knock yourself out champ.”

He hears the faint squirt of his hand sanitizer being squeezed, but there’s a noise of confusion from Hinata’s lips that quickly follows.

“Uh… Sakusa-san?” Hinata squeaks, chewing his lip nervously. Kiyoomi raises his brow as he finishes washing his hands. “Did… did something happen to your hand sanitizer?”

“What’re you talking about?” He asks, making his way back to the bench. Hinata shows him his palm, but nothing looks wrong. He hums in confusion before squirting a bit of the sanitizer into his own palm, before gagging at the texture.

It’s clear, yes, with small flakes of glitter, and sure it should’ve been a red flag because he hates glitter, and-

Sticky. Why was it sticky?

He gives it a big sniff and scrunches his face in displeasure.

It’s glue. You put goddamned glue in his hand sanitizer.

“Son of a bitch,” he snickers, licking his teeth. “Fuckin’ put glue all over my shit. Little rat.”

Hinata cocks his brow as he plays with the glue, “wait… you’re not mad?”

“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “They’re just a damn troublemaker. Always messing with my stuff.” He grabs a paper towel and nods at Hinata, “you guys go on and eat. I’ve got scolding to do.”

“Be nice,” he chuckles, but he quickly bounces out of the room to be with his teammates just a few feet away.

Kiyoomi wastes no time in taking out his phone, his fingers flying to your contact and immediately pressing call. There’s a part of him that wonders if you think he’ll be mad and won’t answer, or maybe you just don’t want to answer and you know he’ll chase you in playful rage when he gets home.

Thankfully, you do answer. He’s quick to smack on a mad facade.

“Hey, booger-“

“I can’t believe you mess with my things,” he snips, and tries to ignore the way his cheeks heat up as you cackle on your end of the phone. “This isn’t funny! You’re feral, and you’re officially banned from making my bentos!”

“Yeah, okay,” You snort, and he can’t help but smile at your words. “You love my lunches. You just hate to admit you’re a sucker for chivalry.”

“So messing with my lunch routine is chivalrous?”

“It is when you didn’t replace the toilet paper in the bathroom.”

Kiyoomi falls silent, unable to come up with anything to rebuttal your point. On the other side of the line, he practically feels you smirk.

“Oh.”

“Yeah oh,” you tease over the line. “You’re lucky you’re pretty. If I can’t have a clean ass, you don’t get to have clean hands.”

That, has him breaking down into a fit of laughter, starting with a snort and developing into loud cackles that he feels his teammates looking at him for.

“You’re so stupid,” he laughs, looking down at the glitter glue filled sanitizer. “Did you have to put glitter in it?”

“I came to win, Kiyoomi. I play chess, not checkers.”

“Okay, well, you won,” he groans. Then, he’s quiet as a smirk grows on his face, “you know I’m gonna have to get you back for this right?”

“Oh shut up. You love being bothered and you know it.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that I’m going to chase you around the house, pin you down and tickle you until you piss yourself, babe.”

You go quiet, he knows he’s got you flustered now, but you let out an excited squeak and chuckle.

“It’s a date.”

——-

Tagging you 🩵 @reverie-starlight @wolffmaiden @thoreeo @aliensknowmyillusions @tutuwusworld @lavishcherie @sassycheesecake @cheolattes @rrairey @dira333 @unknownspecies

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darklcy · 11 months

Text

𝐚 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐦.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ.───

‣ ellie comes to you with a pair of scissors

‣ ellie williams x reader | the last of us masterlist | 833 words | pure, annoying fluff, so gay

‣ starting off pride month with a cute ellie piece from a couple months ago :)

For the stagnant, routine town that Jackson was, surprisingly there was plenty to do. Maria kept her hands busy, almost a little too much. Maybe that’s why boredom bound your limbs to the confinements of bed sheets this morning.

An off day doesn’t come across frequently. A full twenty four hours to yourself, how were you to spend it, the possibilities were endless, and yet it was the vast variety that kept you from moving out of bed. Doing nothing was always a safe choice. The blanket tucked your body deeper into its embrace, protecting your weariness from duties that could be put off till later. A content sigh hummed through your nose with the flutter of your closed eyelids.

..A burst open of the door disturbed the silence.

You didn’t have to awake to greet the person, you were already aware of who it was. A pinch formed between your brows.

“I know you’re not asleep right now.”

She earned a groan in response. Through the darkness, you could hear her sneakers tread closer to your side of the mattress, a hand gently shaking the lump of your shoulder.

“Hey.”

You peek an eye open. Ellie appeared as tired as you, torso clothed in her gray sweatshirt that still bore the spaghetti stain from the other night.

“...Can you help me with something,”

She almost sounded embarrassed to ask. You inhale as you stretch, exhaling through your nose. “With what?”

Standing up straight, her hand removing itself from you, you watched her fingers release the band holding back her tresses, the ends falling to her chest. She ran through the ends once, shaking out her head.

“I wanna cut my hair.”

You quirked a brow. “Really?”

She shrugged, glancing down at the hair tie dancing between her fingers. “Yeah, why not. I’m bored. Plus I’m tired of trying to maintain it.”

You take a moment to pause, sleep still embellishing you with its presence, before you haul yourself away from the blanket. “Okay, yeah. Let’s do it.”

Ellie was quick to hand over the scissors, seating herself at your bathroom counter, knee bouncing as you wrapped her shoulders with a towel. With a brush, you passed through from roots to split end, finding irony in her comment of maintenance, since her hair was relatively soft and kept in good condition. She gestured with her hand how short she wanted it, and so she lent over the reins, and you took off.

You were by no means a hairdresser, but cutting her hair was somehow easy. Ellie watched you concentrate from the reflection of your mirror, liking the expression your face wore whilst sectioning her hair. You asked if she was tender headed which she found amusing, as if she had to worry about you yanking her head with your gentle touch. To be honest, she liked the feeling.

“How was the patrol this morning?”

Your voice broke her out.

“Good. Yknow, same old same old.”

“You were with Jesse, right?”

Ellie tried not to nod. “Yeah.” You hummed in response, the snip of scissors adding to the conversation.

“He’s fun to work with.”

“I mean, he’s alright.”

You scoffed at her remark. “What do you mean by that?”

She shrugged and laughed. “I mean that he’s alright.”

You shake your head with a chuckle, returning your focus to the task at hand. Ellie decided to prod. “What, you like him or something?”

You meet her sneer through the mirror. “No!”

“Ohh I see.” She took your defense as confirmation, laughing at your growing fluster. You swat her shoulder. “No I don’t!”

Ellie cackled at the redness infiltrating your expression, relishing in your bashfulness. You tug on a strand of locks and threaten the blades.

“You say I like him one more time, I cut.”

Ellie froze, eyes widening. “And you do that, I’ll kill you.”

“Good, so we’re settled then.”

You smiled at her as she sighed, her mouth tightening to a line. The haircut didn’t last for much longer after that, and with a couple touch ups here and there, it was finished. Discarding the towel from her shoulders, you let her admire your handiwork in the reflection, arms leaning over the counter to get a closer look. She inspected both sides of her face with a nod of approval, eyebrows raising.

“Huh, you did a really good job. I like it.”

Turning around to directly face you, she tenderly patted the side of your bicep.

“Thanks, babe.”

The pet name prompted you to stiffen. Ellie carried on as if nothing out of the ordinary occurred, walking to the opposite side of the bed and making herself comfortable.

“You wanna watch a movie or something?”

You blink a few times. “..Sure.”

Revisiting the burrow of your bed, familiar warmth of the blankets encasing your body, Ellie shuffled just a tad closer, her arm brushing up against yours. When you peeked at her, you enjoyed the feeling of your heart speeding up.

──────

#ellie williams #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams tlou #ellie williams the last of us #the last of us #the last of us x reader #tlou #tlou x reader #ellie tlou #ellie tlou x reader #ellie the last of us x reader #ellie the last of us #ellie williams x reader fluff #x reader #fluff #tlou x reader fluff

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luveline · 2 years

Note

please more shy!reader with rockstar remus i’m foaming at the mouth

big scary rockstar gone soft tells u off for neglecting yourself ♡ shy!fem!reader | 1k words

Being a roadie is interesting.

Though roadie can feel generous – you're not a tech, you don't move things, but you're basically the unofficial errand girl. You learn to navigate cities you've never been to before and to mend things in a pinch. You always know where everything is, all the time. If a techie can't find something, they come to you.

You don't learn to talk to people. A year on the road and everybody knows now to just tell you what they need without any small talk. Everybody except Remus.

"Dove," he says as soon as he sees you, an empty room between you, "how are you? You look tired."

You set the guitar strap in your hand onto the desk. The room is a riot of equipment, coats, rucksacks and drinks and food and ashtrays, and you suppose you fit in well – you're a mess, simply put. Wearing the shirt you'd slept in and jeans with a bleach stain up the side, your hair rumpled and pulled back from your face. Of course he'd come to find you now.

"I'm okay," you say.

Remus weaves through mess to sit on the table opposite you, legs so long they don't leave the ground. "Good. Are you sleeping okay?"

You shake your head and hold up Sirius guitar strap. "It's… finicky."

Remus narrows his eyes. "I told him to throw it away."

You nod with a needle held between your lips for a second while you snip a new thread. "He says it's lucky," you murmur, taking the needle back into your hand.

"It's disgusting. You don't have to do that."

"Show's in an hour."

"I know. You look like you haven't slept since the last one."

You haven't. You don't feel very happy that he's noticed it, though, and you frown.

"Is there something you wanted, Remus?" you ask with as little emotion as possible. Silly to be upset. Sillier to show it.

"To see you."

You stab yourself in the hand with your needle and gasp. "Shit."

Remus jumps down from the table and is quick at your side. A fat bead of blood wells and trickles down your finger, further soiling the guitar strap in your lap.

Your eyes go wide at getting blood on Sirius' things and Remus takes it for something else.

"Hey, it's okay. Let me see," Remus says softly.

It's nothing. A pinprick. Remus takes your hand in his, his palms and fingers calloused from years of playing bass. Still, his touch is achingly gentle.

"It's nothing," you say sheepishly.

He hums like he doesn't agree but lets your hand go, sitting on the arm of your big padded chair. He's taller than you to begin with and this new height adds to how intimidating he can be.

Then, like sun peeking through low clouds, the suggestion of a smile. A reluctant one, for sure.

"You have to take care of yourself," he says, a short fall from stern.

"I do."

"No, listen. I'm not kidding around. You need to sleep. You need to rest."

You swallow around a lump in your throat and shrug. "This is my job. I'm on shift right now, so if someone wants me to-"

"Sure, but what about this morning? I know you don't start until two. If you can honestly tell me you were having time to yourself before two, then I'll leave you alone."

You can't honestly tell him that.

Remus works the guitar strap out of your hand and moves it to the end of the desk where you can't reach, looking down at you all homespun and handsome, eyes edged in the tiniest hints of dark stage makeup, his hair tousled and perfect. There's a bemused edge to his telling off that you don't miss.

"Sleep deprivation will make you sick. And then who am I gonna have to talk to before the shows? James?"

"Mean," you say.

"He can handle it."

Remus takes your wrist into his hand and ducks down so you're forced to look at his face. His smell drifts towards you, woodsmoke and something fresh, something a little odd, like parsley, coriander. You take a very deep breath.

"I need you to be good," he says.

Your eyes go wide.

"Are you good?" he asks.

You realise he isn't saying good as in well-behaved, but good as in healthy. The heat is already there, your cheeks flushed, embarrassed to have assumed the wrong meaning. Your pulse jackhammers under your skin.

"I'm fine," you whisper.

He tilts his head, hair falling across his forehead. "We can do better than fine."

When did we become a we? you ask yourself.

He massages your wrist. You gaze up at his expression hoping it might reveal the right answer, what you're supposed to say; he's impassive and you're speechless.

Remus doesn't need any words, apparently. He sidles closer on the chair and tugs your arm slowly over his thigh until your head is pressed to his ribcage. His thumb pushes against your palm, his fingers finally thread through yours.

Maybe you don't need to say anything, either. You close your eyes and let yourself relax against his warm torso. A thousand sounds echo outside of the room – metal scratching and dragging and last minute sound checks. It all fades to white noise as Remus drops the side of his head against your crown.

"Can't believe he had you fixing that thing. It's disgusting," he murmurs.

"It's 'vintage,'" you quote.

"Even if it were, it's a biohazard."

You flex your fingers where they rest between his. "And I was just touching it. You're infected," you whisper teasingly, lethargy loosening your tongue.

Remus laughs a startled laugh and squeezes your hand tighter. "I can deal with that."

#remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x you #remus lupin #remus lupin x y/n #remus lupin drabble #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin fanfic #remus lupin x reader fluff #marauders era #marauders #marauder x reader #x reader #rockstar!au

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randomingoftherandomness · 1 month

Note

I wish i had the power write it myself but, the paralel of them before the minister(li bing’s dad) death, all childhood sweethearts and after it all went down, tied with a ribbon of a sentence. I imagined something like “we could’ve worked together” between them as kid imagining themselves in the future, and them in the future talking abt their current relationship (qiu qingzhi(if im not wrong writing his name) keeps taking li bing’s cases for ‘protection’)

A/N: I’m taking that ribbon bit seriously 😚ྀིྀིྀིྀིྀི

—

“What’s this then?”

Li Bing merely smiles in reply, licking his lips as he one handedly tries to tie the end of a red string around his pinky finger. “Come here,” He instructs, immediately looping the other end of the string around Qiu Qingzhi’s left little finger.

“Are you trying to cut off circulation to my finger? Is this how you succeed in killing me?”

“Oh, hush,” Li Bing grouses, unable to hold a serious face for too long at the way Qiu Qingzhi is wiggling his eyebrows. “We still have to make good on working our way up the Court of Judicial Review. Both of us as Vice Ministers under my father, remember?”

“Of course,” Qiu Qingzhi says agreeably with the tone of someone used to playing along and indulging with whatever his most precious person says. “But it still doesn’t tell me what this is all about?”

“Silly. I’m making rings for the both of us.”

Qiu Qingzhi makes a curious noise, scooting closer to see the neat knot Li Bing used to tie off the string around his finger.

“We could just as easily buy ones from the market? I’m sure there’s a craftsman there who can even shape our rings in whatever designs we want.”

Li Bing clicks his tongue disapprovingly. Putting on an air of ‘I know things that you don’t’, he takes a pair of scissors and snips the loose string between the down so that the threads on their fingers are sitting snug and flat.

“I overheard the matchmaker talk about red strings today. She was saying that fated people have red strings that tie them together,” Li Bing explains. Infinitely patient while he hums in satisfaction at his handiwork. “There. All done.”

Qiu Qingzhi holds his hand out to the sky, examining the red against his pale skin.

“You know that’s not how it works, right? You can’t just make a red string of fate,” He says, hooking his finger around Li Bing’s. “You either have a red string of fate or you don’t at all.”

Li Bing shakes his head. Tightening the hook of their fingers, he sits closer. “I don’t believe that.”

“Stubborn.”

Smiling ruefully, Li Bing shrugs. “Only when it comes to you.”

He finds it threaded into a belt charm. Tucked under all that armour that Qiu Qingzhi wears, it would have looked like nothing to anyone who didn’t know what it was.

But Li Bing wasn’t just anyone and he definitely knew what that was. What it meant and still means to the both of them.

“You kept it,” Li Bing whispers. Awe and guilt seizing tight in his chest.

“I never took it off. Even when…”

Li Bing nods. Understanding what Qiu Qingzhi still can’t say out loud. The hurt is still there and soon they’ll need to address it if they want to keep doing this. And by the heavens above, Li Bing will do it whatever it takes to keep this stupid man with him for forever.

“Don’t move,” He sighs, immediately reaching out to help Qiu Qingzhi sit up in bed. “You’re still healing.”

“I can’t help it. You kidnapped me from my perfectly fine bed—“

“Someone needs to keep an eye on your foolish ass and you’ve got your men too cowed to say a word against you—“

“—practically tied me to your bed—“

“So that I can watch over you—!”

“The Jinwei Guards have perfect access to medical personnel and we have just as good of resources as the Court of Judicial Review.” Qiu Qingzhi raises an eyebrow. “Just admit it. You’re stubborn. It has always been your way or no way at all.”

“Only when it counts. Only when it comes to you,” Li Bing says. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he exhales, shoulders slumping. “Can’t you just… Let me do this?”

If Qiu Qingzhi has anything to say, he keeps it locked away. When Li Bing looks back to him, the man is serenely watching the way the rain is sluicing off the rooftops.

“I can’t lose you. Not when I almost lost you for good.” Li Bing admits, offering the truth uncoloured by any intent other than to be honest.

Reaching out a hand, he hooks their pinky fingers together. “I made a red thread for both of us. I chose you. I’ll choose you, every single time. I made the mistake of not fighting hard enough for you the first time round and I won’t do that again.”

“You…” Qiu Qingzhi huffs. Shaking his head, he slowly smiles, indulging and fond. “I can’t ever win against you.”

Scooting closer to him, Li Bing folds a hand over their joined digits. “It’s only because you always let me win.”

#qiubing #white cat legend #white cat legend fic #gab writes stuff #qiu qingzhi #li bing #qiu qingzhi x li bing #this was sooooo self indulgent to write and I regret nothing #thank you for the prompt Nonnie!

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stevethehairington · 1 year

Text

WIP WORD SEARCH

rules: share snippets of your work containing each of the words the previous poster selected for you (optional addition: if you can't find the word in your WIPs, or you simply don't have any WIPs, you can just write a sentence around the word)

this post might be a long one because i was tagged by @pizzaqueen and @sidekick-hero so i got two sets of words to answer!! thank you both for the tag, this one is SO fun!!

My words were: trip, bag, shirt, sigh, light (from queenie) and help, lips, night, down, hand (from sandy)

TRIP

Steve sees him in the morning. Spends the early hours of the morning drinking him in, holding onto every look, every touch, every word. They go with Robin to the local diner for a pancake breakfast of champions, and Robin insists on paying for Eddie’s meal — her parting gift to him. Steve, on the other hand, gets Eddie an actual gift. Nothing much, just a little basket of his favorite road trip snacks for the bus — Hostess Ding Dongs and those individual mini boxes of cereal, fruit snacks and Doritos, a couple of Whatchamacallits, a box of Milk Duds, a packet of Twizzlers, a six pack of Mountain Dew.

(from a lil something i have dubbed "eddie leaves" 👀)

BAG

Refraining from scoffing and letting a bitchy comment roll off his tongue, Steve just swats her hand away and takes a step back. Robin opens her mouth to say something else about it, maybe crack another joke at its expense, but Steve doesn’t give her the chance. He turns on his heel and starts to head back towards where he parked the car. The handle of her bag is still in his hand, and he takes it with him because even though she’s actively insulting him, he’s still a perfect gentleman. He won’t sink to her level.

(from my mustache steve fic!)

SHIRT

“I smell like an onion,” Eddie laughs, trailing after Steve into his bedroom. He pinches the front of his shirt between two fingers and tugs it away from his chest. Follows up with a showy, dramatic sniff, then wrinkles his nose. “Should’ve made you cut the damn thing,” he laments, shaking his head.

(from my pwp ring fic; "shirt" showed up 5 times so far lol so i picked the first one!)

SIGH

Only Steve had failed to take into account just how central hands were to the art of pizzamaking. And he hadn’t anticipated just how crazy seeing Eddie’s hands in action like that would make him feel. (Which, in hindsight, was a huge oversight on his part — it should have been obvious that his fixation on Eddie’s hands flying over the strings and frets of his precious guitar was more than just an appreciation of his talent and skill.)

(also from my pwp ring fic! i didn't actually have just sigh anywhere yet (which what!! how!!) so have sight (two times!), which is close enough 😂)

LIGHT

Eddie holds his left hand out in front of him, splaying his fingers wide. The lamp light glints off of the silver of his three gaudy rings, and Steve watches, captivated, as Eddie twists them loose from his knuckles and, one by one, guides each up and off of his fingers. He sets them in a neat little row on top of the nightstand, then flexes his bare fingers.

(another pwp ring fic snip!!)

HELP

Eddie kind of sort of wants to bite. Into what? He doesn’t know, he doesn’t care, he’s not picky. Any of it will do. It’s embarrassing, how overwhelming the urge is, but fuck. He can’t help it.

(from my pre-s4 eddie watches steve swim fic!)

LIPS

He gets absolutely lost in the fantasy — Eddie holding himself above Steve, knees on either side of his thighs, with one ringed hand between Steve’s legs and the other gripping onto Steve’s hip, tight enough to leave a mark. A wicked grin on his face as he leans in close, presses his forehead to Steve’s while a string of low encouragements and dirty praises fall from his lips, pushing Steve closer and closer.

(pwp ring snip!)

NIGHT

It’s busy tonight, as it usually is on Friday evenings. Steve has to squeeze his way through the various parties surrounding the bar — people clinking their glasses together, laughing at the stories being shared, splitting classy charcuterie boards and plates of delicious looking curry fries (which Steve has on good authority are to die for. He makes a note to try and order some before he leaves).

(from the wip currently dubbed "of all the gin joints"; this was the closest i got to just "night"!)

DOWN

And, sure, he’s an eccentric boy, but there’s nothin’ wrong with that either. He’s got interests, he’s got hobbies. He’s got worlds he can disappear to when this one gets to be too much. That’s good for him. It’s great. It means even though it’s tried, life hasn’t beaten him down just yet.

(from wayne pov 4!)

HAND

He relishes in the sweet slide of his palm, quick and ruthless now, but wishes that his hand was a little more rugged, a little more callused. Once he lets his eyes slip shut, though, it becomes all too easy to imagine the right hand in his place — Eddie’s hand. His thick fingers wrapped around Steve’s dick, rough palm squeezing, sliding, touching him just so.

(from pwp ring fic! i think this fic was the obvious choice to choose from, considering the hand and finger kink is a HUGE part of it skdfsd and also currently "hand" shows up 44 times 😂😂😂 enjoy 3 of those 44 in this paragraph alone lmaoo)

no pressure tagging: @withacapitalp @toburnup @riality-check @hexiewrites @maxineholtzmann @maxinemaxmayfield @harmonictechnicality @2btheanswertothequestion @fastcardotmp3 @cheatghost and anyone else who wants to do it, consider yourself tagged by me!

your words are: care, freckle, expect, long, and sweet

#mack writes #tag game #this one was so fun!!!#excited to see everyone else's snips!!

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12timetraveler · 2 years

Text

Belt Buckles, Wedding Rings, and Love Bites

Chapter 63 of Campfire Stories

Summary:

Hosea and reader have been together for some time now, but it's very hard to find time for each other without being interrupted

Reader is invited to The Mayors party alongside Hosea and the others. But she is not impressed by Bronte's opinions of love.

Notes:

CW: vaginal sex, semi-public sex, period-typical sexism.

WORD COUNT: 19,975

I've been sitting on this idea for a while and just couldn't get it out of my head recently. I hope y'all enjoy. This should be a fairly light read, emotionally. Nothing too heavy or dramatic. Bronte's a bastard though. What else is new.

As always below is a snip. Read the full thing on AO3

~~~~~~~

"What I wouldn't give to stay here forever," Hosea sighed as he propped himself up on his elbows, sucking some much needed air into his lungs after a long, deep kiss.

You and Hosea had slipped out of camp that morning for some one-on-one time away from the others. The two of you lay in the soft grasses that surround Bolger Glade, tucked between some rubble and trees.

Hosea lay on top of you, hips slotted between your legs, your skits bunched up just enough that he could nestle against you, his body fitting against yours like he was made to exist there. You lay there gasping, unable to resist nuzzling your nose against his neck and pressing tiny kisses to his skin while you caught your breath.

"There is no place better than in your arms, your thighs squeezing my hips," he murmured before ducking his head down to kiss along your neck once more. You held his head, tilting it just enough that you had access to his neck and jaw, giving him the same treatment he was giving you.

His wild rag lay... Somewhere nearby. Well you'd just had to remove it so you could unbutton the first few notches on his shirt. And you'd just had to have those first few undone so you could better kiss his Adams Apple and run your fingers through his chest hair as you kissed. So the wild rag had to go.

"I love you," you sighed against him. You'd never thought you could love someone so strongly, so deeply, with every fiber of your being.

"I love you, too," Hosea mumbled against your neck. The scratch of teeth pinched your skin as his kisses became more aggressive, attacking your neck like a starving man. You couldn't resist the sighs and moans coming from your lips, keening under his affections.

"Would you two cut it out," John's raspy voice called across the meadow, interrupting the moment. Hosea grumbled and lifted his head, looking over his shoulder. You propped yourself up on your elbows to see as well. John slowed his horse as he approached the two of you, squinting suspiciously, trying to determine if you were decent enough for him to come closer. "Why do you two do that?" He huffed.

"You see, John. When a man and a woman love each other..." You teased. John balked and waved you off hurriedly.

"Oh he knows that part, dear," Hosea huffed, pushing himself up off of you and helping you arrange your skirts before sitting next to you in the grass with a disappointed huff. "Else we'd not have young Jack. It's the," he leaned over and stole another quick kiss, "Romance that he struggles with,"

John rolled his eyes, grumpy as always as he pulled Old Boy to a stop in front of you. "Haha. Very funny. Dutch needs both of you back at camp. Something about a party."

"A party?" You asked, furrowing your brow.

"Oh. Dutch did mention that," Hosea said, remembering. "Bronte invited Dutch. He wants you and I to come, as well as Arthur. We can get some information about the area, make some new 'friends,' that sort of thing,"

"Yeah that," John said. You could see he didn't enjoy talking about Bronte. Jack hadn't shut up about the man since he'd been found, and you had an inkling that John was maybe a little jealous. "Just... Get yourselves sorted and come back to camp. Guess y'all gotta go into town and get fitted. It's tomorrow night,"

"Alright. We'll be back soon," Hosea said, waving John off. You both sat there a moment, watching John turn Old Boy around and trot away. Once he was back on the road headed towards Shady Belle, you flopped back in the grass with a frustrated sigh. Hosea flopped next to you on his side, pulling you close.

"So much for some time alone away from camp," you sighed, giggling as Hosea nuzzled his nose against your cheek.

"I'll make sure we get some alone time soon," he vowed, leaning over you and stealing a quick kiss. "I promise,"

His lips found yours again. And again. And again. And...

"We'd better head back before Dutch comes after us himself," you giggled, pushing Hosea off of you, onto his back on the grass. He sighed dramatically, though you caught the way the corners of his eyes pulled upward in mirth.

You pushed yourself up and began the task of making yourself look presentable. You combed blades of grass from your hair and smoothed down your blouse.

Hosea's red wild rag lay at your feet. You picked it up and shifted onto your knees. Hosea knelt next to you, adjusting his gunbelt as well as his 'third gun' beneath his trousers, which was straining against the fabric. You grabbed the collar of his shirt and did up those top buttons before wrapping his wild rag around his neck and tying it into place.

Once the two of you were presentable, Hosea stood up, stretching his arms and shoulders for a moment before reaching out to help pull you to your feet.

You hissed as you stood, just now feeling a slight pinching in your inner thigh. You lifted your skirt to reveal your bare leg - you'd opted out of drawers this morning, in case you and Hosea decided to go a bit further on your outing, though Johns arrival had put an end to that- and revealed a small imprint of a horse on your leg, right where Hosea's belt buckle had been pressing against you.

"Cute," you chuckled, looking between the imprint on your thigh and the design on his belt buckle, comparing the two.

It was then you noticed the straining in Hosea's trousers had returned. You glanced up to see his eyes locked on your thigh. You moved to drop your skirt back into place but he stopped you, crouching down in front of you.

You couldn't suppress the little sigh you let out as his fingers gently traced out the design that was imprinted on your skin.

"You say cute," he murmured, looking up at you, "But I think that's possibly one of the most arousing things I've ever seen,"

You licked your lips, which suddenly felt very dry. Your face began to heat up. God he was right. Knowing that just moments ago his hips had been pressed against your body so firmly that his belt buckle had left an impression on the inside of your thighs... God you wanted him to just toss you back into the grass and throw your skirt up over your ears.

"Stop that," you gasped, shooing him away from where he was still tracing the pattern on your skin. You dropped your skirt back down so it covered you modestly once more. "We need to get back,"

"We do," Hosea sighed, standing up and pulling you in for a quick kiss. "But mark my words, I'm gonna get us out of camp soon, and not tell a soul where we're going. That way no one can interrupt us, and I can love on you properly,"

You sucked in a breath, just barely suppressing the moan that tried to escape your lips. You had to behave. The last thing you wanted was for Dutch to send someone else after you, only to find you both in a more compromising position than John had.

"Let's go," Hosea sighed, taking your hand and draping it in the crook of his arm. The two of you walked back to camp in silence, listening to the peaceful sounds of nature around you and trying desperately to get your longing under control before you reached the front gate of Shady Belle.

#campfire stories #rdr2 fanfiction #hosea/f!reader #hosea mathews #the guilded cage #ao3 fanfic

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icequeen-07 · 2 years

Note

Hello! I Really Hate Your Face, u could say this about a lot of things he does but: Josh wtf, Bestie I just want one fic ONE FIC and 6 kids stuck in a minivan together for who knows how long please?

oooooooooooooooooo boy oh boy this is a lot u ready for this one? (my wips)

I Really Hate Your Face is just an amusing idea I had where Josh and Sam instead of being childhood friends are childhood enemies. They just get off on the wrong foot entirely but learn to tolerate one another because they both love Hannah and Beth. It was just a fun idea I had in a lil drabble/planning stages that makes me giggle thinking about Sam being taller than Josh at the start and then being so tiny at the end and he lords it over her. I dunno, you just don't ever see childhood enemies to lovers!

ooooooooooh my god lmfao u could say this about a lot of things he does but: Josh wtf is the dumbest spicy thing I could ever write. It's nothing smutty but I found something on reddit and HAD to write something short for Josh and Sam, and I do have a snip for this one!

He was watching her with rapt attention as she shifted away from the door, his butt up against his desk as she moved his legs apart to settle between them. His cheeks were pink, hands planted firmly on her hips. She snuggled against his chest, brushing light kisses against his cheek. She kept her voice light and airy, kissing his earlobe. “Do you want to know a secret?” she asked, letting him tilt his face to meet her in another kiss.

“Always,” he whispered, his hands finding their way up her shirt. His fingers were cold as he pressed them against her waist. His tone was excited, his hands even more so.

She tried not to squirm or laugh as her plot slowly started falling into place, piece by piece. Her hands paved a trail up the front of his chest, tangling and untangling his shirt as she led her fingertips up his throat. His head tilted back at her touch as she cupped his chin. His pupils were blown wide now, she had to fight her devious smile as she tilted his face to whisper in his ear again.

“We’ve been trying to reach you about your car’s extended warranty.”

like I said, it's so dumb, but it made me laugh and it's so them that I couldn't resist writing a lil something.

Bestie I just want one fic ONE FIC is a little Jossam + Chrashley holiday fic where the four of them are engaged in a gingerbread house building contest. It's fluffy and dumb and super fun.

“How hard is it to build the base of the house,” she groused, pinching the bridge of her nose as Josh let out a shout as the house, unsurprisingly, yet again, toppled over onto itself. She cracked open an eye in time to watch him bury his face in his hands as he mourned the gingerbread house.

“Don’t mock my pain,” he moaned in response, his voice muffled by his hands.

She shifted to sit on the counter, licking frosting off her fingertips. “I’ll mock your pain all I want, we’ve gone through three bags of frosting and I was the one who had to make more.”

And for the grand finale! 6 kids stuck in a minivan together for who knows how long the roadtrip until dawn au of my dreams. Hannah, Beth, Sam, Josh, Chris, Ashley all in the same car and there's a matchmaking plot hatched by the twins, Sam and Josh to get Chris and Ash to share a bed at the motel, but uh oh! The twins also hatched a plot to get Josh and Sam to share a bed ("*gasp* what do you mean the room keys were mixed up??? Who would do such a thing??") so it's just a lot of shenanigans and insulting Chris' old man music taste (take it out of my cold dead hands). Also fluffy and fun. I really loved plotting Chris and Ashley being dorky and sweet but neither of them wants to give up the chance to share a bed with the other in this context but it turns into sleepy, words-slurred confessions in the early morning.

“God Chris are you like, fifty?”

“Well, Josh, I thought your job as the navigator was to do the navigating! I didn’t think judging my taste in music was part of the job description!”

#until dawn #wips #wip meme #answered #asks #thank you thank you thank you!#I loved revisiting these old things <3 #a lot of them still make me giggle #the josh wtf one esp #its so dorky and fun #its as spicy as I can get without blushing lmao #thank you again <3 #suggestive #suggestive ish

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dilatorywriting · 2 years

Text

How to Survive a Shovel Talk

Pairings: Malleus Draconia/Fem!Reader; A Bit of Reader/Everyone; Azul Ashengrotto/OC Word Count: 9k Rating: Mostly SFW (some NSFW humor towards the end - ie. includes some literal kink shaming, so...)

Summary: It's not your fault that your best friend is hopelessly, obliviously, in love with Azul Ashengrotto. But a horrible pair of moray eels are going to make it your problem.

A/N: A commission for a friend of mine! Pure, unadulterated, insanity

“No.”

“Awwww,” Floyd whined. “I know she’s your best friend and all, but what’s a little gossip between other friends, hah?”

You gawked. “You asked what her weaknesses are. Like a stupid video game character, or—or—”

Floyd threw a too-long-arm across your shoulders. “But we’re all friends here, yeah? And she hasn’t been around as long as you have, Shrimpy! At least, with like, y’know,” he pressed down a bit too firmly, “a ‘corporal form’ or whatever. So sometimes you gotta’ reach outward to ask for someone’s bits and bobs. It’s just kidding around stuff, anyways!”

You twitched. Because, yeah, maybe—maybe—joking around about someone’s metaphorical Achille’s Heel could be gentle banter between friends. Maybe. But this was Floyd, so it was clearly a stick up. Or an attempt to destroy you all. Or something.

“No,” you repeated, firm, and wriggled your way out from under his stupidly strong grip.

“Wahhh, you’re no fun,” he pouted.

“I don’t want to be your kind of fun,” you snipped. Other students were starting to crowd the hallways, and at one point you might have thought that allotted you some kind of safety. But no. Not at this stupid school, with its stupid lack of morality and building codes. And especially not with Floyd of all people shadowing you. Even the foulest faces turned tail when they caught sight of his pointed grin.

And then, just around the corner there was a familiar flash of crimson.

The Heartslabyul Housewarden lifted a hand like he meant to wave to you, but you saw the exact moment he realized just who exactly who was hanging off your back like a literal leech. He froze, fingers half-uncurled, and you saw the panic in is silver eyes. ‘Don’t you dare,’ that look said. ‘I’m so sorry,’ you mouthed before taking a deep breath.

“Wow, would you look at that! Heya, Riddle!”

Riddle immediately went as red as his hair, but Floyd took the bait. The eel-man cooed and clapped his hands together excitedly.

“If it isn’t my long-lost Goldfish!”

“DON’T YOU TOUCH ME!” Riddle roared, already half-spun around as he tried to make a hasty retreat into the depths of the hallway.

“But, Goldy!” Floyd bemoaned, lips spread eerily wide in his trademark leer. “Wahh, if you won’t come over here, I’ll just have to come get you!”

“NO!”

With that, the shark-toothed student bounded along down the hall—prancing through terrified students as Moses had once parted the Red Sea. You crossed yourself, just for good measure, and silently sent Riddle your well wishes. You would have to bribe Trey into making him a dozen apology tarts. You already owed the Vice Housewarden so many favors, but he never seemed too bothered when you came knocking at his door. You would bring him the ingredients of course, and maybe a nice, new, toothbrush set or two. Maybe offer to make him some of those candied violets he loved so much—There was a boom-boom-crash somewhere in the distance, and Riddle’s enraged scream echoed through the halls. You mentally began tallying up the cost for two dozen tarts.

The next time you ran into Floyd, Jade was with him.

Which, of course, was not in itself entirely unusual. The wicked, predatory, grin pinching the former’s cheeks was also nothing out of the ordinary—especially around lunch time. There was a vicious sort of gleam in the eel’s mismatched eyes that set your hackles on edge, and you narrowed your own eyes at the pair suspiciously.

“What do you want?” Grim garbled through a mouth full of tuna casserole.

The pair slid neatly into a set of vacant seats on the opposite side of the cafeteria table.

“Can’t a guy just want to say ‘hiya’ to his favorite Shrimpy in the whole wide world?” Floyd beamed. He slouched forward so he could comfortably prop himself up on one elbow. “Besides, it’s got to be a bit lonely without your little ghosty around to haunt you, huh?”

“She’s taking her lunch in the Mostro Lounge,” you said matter-of-factly. Caterina had excitedly bobbed about all morning, rambling about introducing Azul to the Southern Wonders of fritters, and gravy, and deep-fried butter. ‘It’s about the culture!’ the brunette had declared proudly as she busily stuffed her tote bag with jugs of frying oil. ‘It’s about the pancreatitis,’ you had grumped silently.

“Ahh, we know, we know,” Floyd trilled. “Our great leader kicked us out into the cold, harsh, world all on our own. He’s lucky we like her so much, otherwise a guy might start to get a bit resentful, y’know?”

Jade hummed in affirmation, and took a dainty bite of his risotto.

“It must be nice to have such a lovely confidante,” the more composed twin mused, shooting you one of his patented softly twisting smirks. “You must tell each other everything.”

You poked at your own plate of half-eaten spaghetti—partly to keep your hands busy, but mostly to make sure you had a fork in hand in case you needed to stab one of them in the eye to make a hasty escape.

Grim snorted. “They never shut up, is what they do. You freaks, and your stupid Octo-boss, and his—”

You pushed him off the table and he fell to the floor with a yowl.

“Hey!” Grim whined at the same moment Jade’s smirk curled into something menacing, and you knew you’d already lost.

“She talks about Azul then?” the eel beamed.

You stabbed at your spaghetti harder.

“No answer can be an answer too,” he continued, leaning forward across the table with that same, frozen, smile. His pointed teeth snapped just a bit too close to the skin on your cheek when he spoke. “Would you mind slaking my curiosity about a few things? Purely business of course. We have to look out for Azul’s best interest after all.”

You were going to have to stab him. You were going to have to throw your cold pasta in his newly stabbed face and run faster than you’d ever run before. And then they’d still catch you, because they were fast, and tall, and terrifying and you were short, and stout, and utterly magicless in a world saturated with the stuff. So, no. You should probably keep the fork to stab yourself with. It wouldn’t be a clean death, let alone an honorable one, but—

You were yanked up and out of your seat before you could even think to scream.

“Oi, herbivore, where’s the stupid food you promised me?”

The whiplash almost sent your head spinning right off your neck and straight to the floor. But the hand gripping your arm was not pale and too-slick. It was tanned, and familiar, and wrapped in strands of colorful beads and leathers. You could see Floyd’s grumpy pout in your periphery as you were bodily dragged out of the lunchroom—your abductor loudly complaining about morons and starvation the whole while.

The double doors shut behind you both with a resounding thud and Leona released his death grip on your wrist.

“Jeesh, take a breath, idiot. You look like you’re gonna’ vomit.”

“I think I might,” you slurred.

The lion went pale and took a few hurried steps backwards. “Aim that shit at me, and you die.”

You swayed a few too many times and decided that leaning against the wall would not be too demeaning all things considered.

After taking a moment to slow your breathing and let your mind chew over the last few minutes, you finally had enough wherewithal to look back over at your savior. The grumbly beastman had taken up residence against the wall opposite, seated comfortably on the carpeted floor and tail swishing at his side.

“What the fuck was that?” he snipped. “What’d you do to piss off the Octopunk?”

“Nothing. I mean—Nothing I can think of. Lately. Just. I think…” Your brow furrowed, before your eyes widened and you muttered softly to yourself, “I think they’re shovel talking me. By proxy.”

Leona with his stupid fluffy cat ears and stupid cat hearing that could probably pick up your whispers if you were another hallway over, just nodded—clearly bored—but comprehending. “Ah. The other idiot.”

Your head snapped up and you fought the urge to point at him in accusation. “You knew too?!”

He scoffed. “It’s not like the Octopunk is fucking subtle. Everyone knows.”

“Everyone but Caterina apparently,” you grumbled, burying your head back in your hands. “Oh my god. Are they going to keep this up until she realizes? Because I cannot do this forever, and sooner or later they’re going to just give up and eat me—”

“Relax, herbivore,” Leona cut in with a yawn. “You’ll be fine. You normally have more than enough meat shields lurking around to throw at them. Maybe you’ll even give the freaks food poisoning,” he snickered. “But speaking of, where are tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum?” the big-cat grumped. “Normally all you idiots are fucking connected at the hip. I don’t want to have to do this shit again because those idiots wandered off into a ditch or something.”

“We were making hair dye potions with Crewel this morning,” you mumbled. “And when Deuce wasn’t looking, Ace dyed his hair red, so Deuce dyed Ace’s hair blue, and then they blew up the lab.” You could see Leona’s lip twitching like he was about to start howling obscenities to the wind. “So they had to stay after to scrub the floors.”

“Fucking idiots.”

“I know.”

“That includes you.”

“I know.”

You both sat in silence for another few minutes before Leona stood with a long, lithe, stretch.

“Whatever. They’re not going to actually kill you or anything, so get over it.”

Oh, if only you could be so optimistic. And besides, there were worse things than death. Psychological torture was surely only one bullet point on Jade’s extensive list of misery.

“Besides,” he continued with a drawl, “as much as I hate him, I doubt that fucking horned bastard would let them get away with anything.”

You tilted your head, confused. That certainly seemed to have come out of left field. “Why would Malleus care about that?”

Leona rolled his eyes so far up into his skull that you were almost worried he was about to have a stroke and collapse to the floor. He sighed, clearly long-suffering and far-too-put-upon. “Whatever. You’re all fucking idiots.”

He turned and walked away with a dramatic flick of his tail.

“Thank you!” you hurriedly called after him. He lifted a hand to wave you off, unbothered. “And I didn’t actually forget that chicken dish you asked about! I was just going to bring it to you later when I knew you’d be skipping class!”

Another over-the-shoulder-wave, this one perhaps a smidge less exasperated. “Whatever, herbivore.”

“How was lunch?” you asked.

Caterina had positively floated back into Ramshackle that night. Because of course lunch had turned into afternoon tea and studying, which had turned into dinner, then dessert, and coffee, and late-night snacks—and it was just easier to ask about lunch at that point.

“He loved everything!” the brunette gushed. “And the Lounge cooks are the best, and they made everything taste so good. It was amazing! And I always feel so bad,” she rambled, “because Azul never lets me pay for anything when I’m there, but at the same time, it’s his business? So I feel bad taking advantage of his hospitality like that. But also I don’t want to shove money at him either, because that also feels rude, you know? And I like him a lot, so I don’t want to ruin anything, so I’m just being very cautious, but also myself. If that makes sense. And besides, if books taught me anything, it’s that I should be really careful to be genuine around people like him, you know?”

You did not know.

You weren’t sure you wanted to know. So you just nodded along as Caterina talked about barbecue rubs, and note-taking, and the board game they played once they’d finished putting together dozens of lists of bullet points.

It was past midnight by the time she’d started to wind down. At this point, the brunette was more or less repeating the same beats, fawning over the same highs, for a third or fourth, or fifth time, so you felt it was finally safe to interject a bit.

“So,” you hummed, breaking off the corner of a tortilla chip between your teeth, “Azul is amazing.”

Caterina beamed, all warm and pink, and you took a silent moment to question each and every person who had ever thought to call your friend ‘emotionless’ or ‘stone faced.’ Because the heat coming off the brunette’s cheeks could have melted the icecaps, and her smile was almost so sappy it verged on nauseating to look at. You wanted simultaneously to coax that happiness like a small flame—watching it grow into a roaring bonfire of ridiculous infatuation and joy—but also maybe instead throw her out the window and leave her to pine out on Ramshackle’s crusty ass lawn. Because ew. Emotions.

“What do you think of Floyd and Jade?” you asked instead.

Caterina swallowed her own mouthful of chip chunks and tapped her chin, looking thoughtful. “They’re pretty nice. Or, well. They’re weird, but they’re nice to me at least.”

You waited.

Caterina reached for the bowl of chips.

You waited some more.

Caterina starting meandering over to the fridge to fish around for a soda.

“And…?” you pressed.

“And what?” Caterina repeated, looking perplexed. “They’re pleasant, but creepy. They’re Azul’s friends, and they’re nice to me when I visit the Lounge. What else is there to say?”

You thought of the fork from lunch, still tucked away in a pocket of your backpack because you’d been too embarrassed to return it after bolting from the cafeteria. You thought of twisting grins on mouths full of shark’s teeth, and of that whole ‘scenting blood on the water’ expression that you’d never really thought would be very applicable to your life as long as you stayed in the boat. Then you thought of pink-cheeked smiles and tote bags stuffed full of frying oil.

You sighed and waved your hand. “Nothing. Forget it. What kind of barbecue rub did you say the cook used again?”

“Oh you’ll never believe it,” she immediately starting gushing all over again, “it tasted just like Sonny’s somehow! Which is crazy because I know I described it to him a couple times, but still!—"

As Caterina happily planned out her future lunch dates, you began to plan for funeral expenses. Because by now you owed Trey so much money for all the sympathy tarts he’d had to bake for Riddle that you weren’t really sure you were even going to be able to even afford a coffin at this point.

The third time Floyd and Jade slithered out from the shadows, Ace and Deuce were with you.

“Good morning, Shrimpy!” Floyd beamed, moving to toss a gangly arm across your shoulders. “Your friend is quite the catch, yeah?”

You looked to your companions for help, but they too appeared to have been paralyzed in terror.

Meat shields indeed. You were going to beat Leona with his own tail.

“Is she in good health?” Jade popped in, leaning far too close and smiling far too wide. “No recent brushes with mortality?” He paused, looking amused. “Except for the obvious, of course.”

You gulped.

“Uhm… She’s… fine.”

Jade nodded sagely. “Good, good. That’s good.”

“Of course it’s good!” Floyd grinned, rocking back on his heels and nearly sending you toppling over in the process. “But we gotta’ make sure everything’s in tip top shape, yeah? You get that right?”

Your head spun.

“Uh—”

“Any allergies?” Jade piped in. “Any reactions to medications? Any history of exposure to rabid animals?”

“Uh—”

“You guys are freaking creeps!” Deuce squawked, seeming to finally shake himself out of his panic induced stasis. “You can’t just go around asking for someone’s medical history like that! Think of the confidentiality agreements you’re breaking!”

You wanted to die. “Dude. That’s not the point—”

“Yeah!” Ace shouted, also taking this glorious moment to surge forward. “Why do you sound like the bad guys in a comic movie trying to figure out the hero’s weaknesses?!”

Silence.

You gulped.

The pair of vicious, carnivorous, eels stared on with matching smiles—teeth too white, too sharp, and too, too, close.

Ace and Deuce withered where they stood, flaming confidence seemingly sapped out of them in one go.

After a moment, Jade sighed and his frigid grin melted back into his usual, self-satisfied, smirk. “Well, looks like you’ve caught us out.”

“Awww, you’re never any fun, Shrimpy!” Floyd bemoaned, squishing you so hard against his side, you were a bit worried you might just pop. He grinned down at you and winked. “But you’ll still tell us, yeah?”

You weren’t sure if your tongue was working anymore, so your just shook her head slowly back and forth.

Floyd sighed dramatically. “Wahhh, all you land dwellers are so stupidly loyal. Don’t get me wrong! It’s kinda nice, but right now it’s just frustrating.”

He released his death grip on your shoulders and you spiraled downwards into an inelegant pile in the dirt.

“Apologies for the inconvenience,” Jade smiled. “We’ll be seeing you.”

“Yeah! See you tomorrow, Shrimpy!” Floyd waved, flouncing off merrily alongside his brother. It was like watching a pair of devils returning to Hell after a brief vacation topside.

The trio stared after their antagonists’ retreating forms for far too long. One bell rang, then another. The sun rose high in the sky, too warm and too bright. Finally, you sat up. You pawed uselessly at the patched knees on Deuce’s uniform.

“I feel like we just outpaced the grim reaper.”

He nodded mutely in agreement.

“You should have dropped a cauldron on them,” Ace muttered, still looking far too pale.

Deuce immediately bristled. “Well excuse me for not acting more appropriately while you were over there practically pissing yourself!”

And ah, the color in Ace’s face came back real quick when he lunged at Deuce with a battle cry.

“Hey!” Caterina called, bounding over with a stack of notebooks. She trotted up to the rumbling duo. “What’s going on with them this time?”

You just shook your head. There were no words to politely describe the horrors which you all had just survived. At least, not in any sort of polite way that wouldn’t also indirectly insult a certain octopus mafioso.

Caterina shrugged. “Alright then. I didn’t see you in class. Anything wrong?”

“I just had a religious experience,” you said. A demonic encounter—just short of possession.

Caterina’s brow shot up. “You definitely look shaken.”

“To my core.”

Another shrug. “Good for you I guess. Anyway, I wanted to ask if you all wanted to come to lunch at the Lounge with me! We’re taste testing a bunch of new barbecue recipes, and the more mouths the better.”

Ace and Deuce froze, like a pair of scuffling cats who’d just had a bucket of ice water upended on them. The duo shot to their feet faster than you had ever seen either of them move.

“Thanks! But—”

“—we both have to—to—uh—”

“—go back to the dorm, and—”

“—ah, paint!—”

“—the roses!—”

“—yeah! The roses!—"

“See you!” “Bye!”

They shot off in a cloud of dust and betrayal, and Caterina stared after them with a furrowed brow. Her lips pulled downwards into a consternated frown.

“You know,” she mumbled, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say they were actually scared of going to the Octavinelle dorms.”

You collapsed back into the dirt with a groan.

You always looked forward to your late nights with the Gargoyle Studies Club. Could it actually be called a club if it was only two people? Whatever. You weren’t normally a fan of the dark (read: total wuss who would use a nightlight until the day you died), but with your tall, horned, friend walking at your side, you felt like the darkness was your bitch, rather than the other way around.

But tonight, the normally entrancing architecture was nothing but another shadowed nook hiding who-knew-what. Every snarling, stone, façade just made you think of other snarling faces—of those jagged teeth and smiles, and horribly strange motives that you couldn’t really parse out.

To the left of you, a shadow stretched and grew. Something was in there, hiding, just waiting to jump out and grab her, and—

You squeaked, fingers clutching at your sleeves.

A raven shuffled forward from the darkness, readjusting its wings before settling back in to roost.

You huffed and burrowed further into your jacket with a shiver. This was pathetic. You couldn’t live the rest of your life like this. You were going to have to go to Professor Crewel and ask if he knew of a magical equivalent of Prozac. Or horse tranquilizers.

“Are you cold, Child of Man?”

You looked over at Malleus, feeling guilty. This club meant so much to him, and here you were probably ignoring everything he was saying because you were so caught up in your own head. The dark Fae had his arm held out awkwardly in your direction and immediately you felt more guilty.

“You can walk with me, if you’d like,” he said. “I’m not the warmest creature, but…”

You hurriedly waved him off. “No, no, no! It’s alright! You don’t have to trouble yourself! I’m not cold, just… uhm… distracted.”

He nodded, looking solemn, and slowly lowered his arm back to his side. “What has your mind so tangled this evening then, if I may ask?”

“I don’t want to bother you…” you mumbled. “It’s kind of stupid.”

He smiled that awkwardly small and stiff smile of his that made your stomach do stupid things. “It’s no trouble, I assure you. No matter how insignificant you may think this problem is, if it’s bothering you, it is something worth addressing.”

You nodded, grateful. Right. Of course. He wouldn’t have offered to help if he hadn’t meant it.

“I’m worried that I’m going to be killed and eaten if I don’t spill my best friend’s deepest, darkest, secrets.”

Malleus almost tripped over his own feet.

“What?”

“I… Uhm… I’m worried that I’m going to be killed and eaten if I don’t—”

He waved you off, looking more frazzled than you’d ever seen him. “No, I heard that part. I just… Give me a moment.”

You waited patiently, fighting not to fidget in the silence.

After a moment, Malleus lifted his head, looking gravely serious.

“You believe your life to be in danger?”

“I—Well. A bit.”

“And that you will be killed and eaten?”

“Uhm… Maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration,” you mumbled. It did sound ridiculous when someone else was saying it out loud. “But, well… yes.”

“I’m going to send Sebek to guard you while I look into this,” he said firmly.

“Sebek…?” You repeated, feeling a sudden chill crawling up your spine. The green haired fae had never seemed to like you much. You’d only really interacted him once—during the whole incident surrounding Savanaclaw’s shadiness and the Spelldrive. After that, you’d only really made eye-contact with him from across hallways, or from different corners of the court gardens. Despite saying maybe three sentences to the dude in total, it seemed like each time you both ran into each other he was angrier. Like you’d spit in his cheerios and then dumped the bowl on his head. Oh god. How many people on this campus hated you? Was it everyone? It felt like everyone. How many super powered, magic wielding, demon people wanted your head on a spike? You were probably better off just running off into the woods with a potato sack filled with dried bread to ration and never coming back—

“—Do you understand?”

You blinked. Oh no. You’d been ignoring him. Again.

“Uhm. Yes?”

The fae nodded, stern, and turned back to the stone path. “Good. I’ll get this figured out. I promise you.”

You nodded again, not really having the heart to object.

“How was your date?” Caterina crooned around a spoonful of chocolate tart.

“How’s your octopus boyfriend?” you shot back, toeing off your boots.

Caterina turned back to her tart with a grumble and red cheeks.

Sebek showed up the next morning bright and early, looking as annoyingly constipated as always.

“I am here on the orders of my young master!” he boomed. Loudly. Directly over your head. At the ass end of 8AM.

Caterina looked up from her place sprawled on the couch. First, her glower fell on the vibrating, emerald, monstrosity standing in their living room, then to her flustered friend.

“Will you be here every morning?” the brunette asked.

“For as long as my young master wishes it!”

You swore you could see the windowpanes rattle when he spoke.

Caterina nodded and took a long, long, drag from her coffee. She turned towards you with a smile that promised all kinds of heinous things.

“I’m going to kill your dumbass dragon,” she said, perfectly chipper.

Sebek gasped and immediately began to rattle off every righteously indignant retaliation in his repertoire. There was lots of arm waving, and stomping, and the commotion even had Grim rolling down the stairs a full hour before his usual wakeup call.

“Look at that,” you sighed, taking a sip from your own mug as Sebek continued to screech. “You broke him.”

Caterina scoffed. “Yeah, I wish.”

The next time the twins appeared, there was an actual meat shield standing in the way. A very pointy, very green, meat shield.

“Did you make a new friend, Shrimpy?” Floyd drawled, looking a bit too feral. “Hello again, Little Crocodile.”

“We are acquaintances, by order of my young Lord Malleus!” Sebek thundered, clasping his hands firmly behind his back.

Jade looked entertained in the way that one may look upon a feral animal with some degree of amusement. His mismatched eyes scanned Sebek from top to bottom, and you shuddered on the fae’s behalf. The green haired man stood firm—unbothered by the optical filleting or unaware, you could not tell.

“Well then,” the eel hummed, “we won’t keep you long. Have you thought on our inquiry, Miss Shrimp?”

Oh, so it was Miss Shrimp now, was it?

You puffed up, a bit more emboldened knowing that if one of them tried to bite you, Sebek would at least stand in the way. And Sebek looked like he would be very hard to chew. “The answer is no.”

“No you haven’t thought about it?” Jade asked, a bit too patronizingly. “Or ‘no,’ you still refuse to cooperate?”

“No,” you repeated, firm. “Besides, Caterina doesn’t have any weaknesses.”

Jade’s brow shot upwards. “No? Hmm… That’s interesting.”

And with that, the twins slithered back off from whence they came. Sebek stared after them with cold eyes and a squared jaw, and for a moment he reminded you a bit of a Doberman. Maybe you could forgive his early morning wakeup calls. At least a little. Leona always seemed to rib the guardian of Diasomnia—jabbing cruelly at his hair cut, his emotional intelligence or lack thereof, the very obvious stick wedged up his ass… But maybe Leona’s harsh words had been just words after all. Maybe Sebek wasn’t so bad.

“I think,” the fae said, slow as molasses and just as awkwardly sticky, “that they may have been coming on to you, miss.”

You dropped your head into your hands.

“Let’s just go to class.”

“What did you mean earlier when you said that Caterina has no weaknesses?”

Deuce shot a whole foot in the air and Ace squealed at a pitch fit to shatter glass.

“You can’t—You can’t just do that!” the pair squawked. “Don’t just pop out of nowhere like some kind of freaky ghost!”

Jade smiled. He was flying solo this time around, which somehow made things even more unsettling. Because yes, while Floyd was openly a few fries short of a Happy Meal, Jade hid his crazy. He’d tucked it away behind a perfectly manicured persona constructed with good hygiene and the occasional ‘yes, my lord.’ Outright insanity was one thing, but controlled crazy? The kind of coocoo that you could dole out in specified increments depending on the situation? Now that was terrifying.

You took a shaky bite of your sandwich, silently cursing Caterina for being off on yet another luncheon rendezvous and leaving you to the wolves—er—well, moray eels.

“It means what I said,” you grumped, fighting back the tremor in your voice. “We’re not like you all. It’s not like we’re weak to one elemental magic over another, or like there are ways to dampen our abilities because there aren’t any abilities.” Another bite. “So ergo, no weaknesses. Not how you mean, anyways.”

Jade nodded, looking pensive.

“So there are other things then?” he surmised with a smile.

You narrowed your eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re expecting me to say,” you frowned, “But whatever it is, I’m not going to say it. It’s Caterina’s business, not yours.”

“Of course,” the eel smiled, teeth poking out from under his lip. “If you’ll excuse me.”

And, just as all those times before, the slippery bastard darted from the room as quickly as he’d come. Sebek glared after him with dark eyes. You could see something going on there—some thought or other bouncing around in his skull that he just couldn’t quite make stick. It was sort of like watching a toddler trying to stick the cube into the triangle hole of those wooden block puzzles.

“What is with that guy lately?” Deuce hissed, stabbing angrily into his eggs. “Why won’t he just leave us alone?”

Sebek straightened in his seat, and you could practically see the numbers flying around behind his eyes.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Ace grumped, licking some of the leftover gravy off his fingers. Deuce made a face. “He’s doing that Ashengrotto bastard’s dirty work.”

Deuce turned to you, as if seeking confirmation. You shrugged.

“Maybe. It’s all a bit muddled to me.”

“I see…”

Sebek slammed his hands down against the table and Ace fell face first to the floor.

“Dude!”

“So that’s it!” the fae boomed—green eyes wide and wild. “It all makes sense now! No wonder my young master was so concerned!”

You winced. Uh oh.

“Sebek, I’m not sure what you think you realized, but maybe you should tell us what it is before you do anything rash—"

“I need to report this to Lord Malleus right away!” he spluttered, and was off in a flash.

The trio watched him disappear around the corner, practically skidding into a wall in his rush.

“Why was even here anyways?” Ace asked.

“To make sure I didn’t get dismembered and eaten,” you sighed.

Deuce gaped, horrified, but Ace just started laughing.

“Well. That sucks.”

You nodded in agreement.

Maybe you were a bit too sleepy from eating such a large lunch to pay much attention, maybe it was because Sebek had startled you awake far before you were ready to join the living, so something as simple as recon was lost on you. Or maybe it was just bad luck. But the second you stepped out into the hallway—alone, stupidly, moronically, alone—you felt two sets of hands snag your arms and drag you off into the shadows.

Standing at the precipice of death so many times in so few days was starting to make you a bit numb. Not quite sedate enough to not be terrified, but muted enough that you weren’t putting a hole through the carpet with your vibrating.

A set of identical grins shone down at you from the gloom.

“Hello again, Shrimpy!”

You sighed. This was such a pathetic way to die.

“Hello, Floyd. Hello, Jade.”

The latter inclined his politely. “Good to see you again.”

Your head fell back against the wall with a thunk.

“What could you possibly want now? I told you. I don’t know whatever it is you’re asking.”

“Oh,” Jade hummed, “I think you do.”

“Neh, neh. Tell me, Shrimpy.” There was that smile again—bright, and pointed, and hungry. “We’ve been so nice, haven’t we? And what we want to know? It’s in everyone’s best interest, isn’t it?”

“So—” Jade wedged a finger underneath your chin and craned your head back, and back, and back until you were forced to lock gazes with his left eye. “I’m going to ask one more time, hmm? And you’re going to tell us.”

Your mind blanked. Not in the way you’d become familiar with—the rush of fogginess that accompanied fear and adrenaline. No. This was a full blackout. Like someone had gone in and pulled out whatever plugs and circuits you had going on up there. All that there was, was Jade. His voice, his crooked grin, and his horrid, glowing, golden, eye.

The eel smirked, sickly pale iris flashing as he asked—

“Now. Tell me—What would bring your darling friend to her knees?”

“Azul in that blue suit that’s too tight around the ass and crotch. She talked about it for ages”

Mismatched eyes widened in shock and you rushed to clamp a hand over your mouth in mortification. Floyd made a sound like he was about to start choking.

“What did you just say?” Jade gawked, jaw falling open.

“She thinks his ass is to die for,” your said through your fingers, like some kind of goddamn traitor. “She has a mafia fetish and she wants to boink your boss on his work desk so bad.”

That was it. You deserved death. Dismemberment. To be eaten alive by these goddamn eels and their stupid pointy teeth. You’d broken the bro code, the sacred bond between sisters from other misters. All those late nights drinking spiked cocoa and giggling over, uh, assets—and this was the outcome? This betrayal? No! You would not stand for it!

“You might as well get rid of me now,” you spluttered, horrified. “Because Caterina is going to murder me anyways.”

At that, Jade seemed to shake himself out of the funk he’d fallen into, and he turned to his brother with a smile that was suspiciously soft.

“Not exactly the outcome I was hoping for, but I think Azul will be more than pleased nonetheless. Go inform him, will you?”

You paled. “You can’t tell him that! Oh my god! You’re a monster!”

Another smile, equally as stupidly soft, and you wanted to punch it off his smug face.

“Azul is our friend, no matter what you make of that. And he has his… concerns. His endless fretting over flaws that he sees in himself but which simply are not there. Are you saying I shouldn’t inform him of this new development? He would be ecstatic.”

“I—You—He—That’s not the point! Caterina is going to disembowel me!”

That sugary smile turned sharp once more.

“That would be interesting to see, I’ll give you that.”

You wanted to pull out your hair, to pull out his hair, and then Floyd’s hair, and then—Wait. Where was Floyd? You swiveled back and forth like a woman deranged. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.

He wouldn’t.

“He would,” Jade beamed.

You took off down the hallway like a bat out of Hell, with the eel’s delighted laughter echoing behind you.

You were not a runner, never had been. Outside of a brief swimming career, you were never what anyone would consider athletic, let alone agile. But here you were, tearing through the mirror to the Octavinelle Dormitory at speeds that could put Usain Bolt to shame.

Swoosh through the dank halls of the Academy Campus.

Zoom through the room of Mirrors.

Sprint sprint sprint through the chambers of oceans, and shells, and blue. All the way to the Mostro Lounge.

And there, just slipping in through the front door, was a familiar head of choppy teal.

No. No, no, NO! You were too late!

You bolted through the plush entrance, hurtled over a misplaced chair, and threw open the doors to Azul’s private seating room with a thunderous roar fit to shake the Heavens.

“DON’T YOU DARE SHAME HER FOR HER MAFIA KINK, YOU EEL BASTARD! SO WHAT IF SHE WANTS TO FUCK YOUR BOSS?!”

Inside the room was… not Floyd.

Instead, there sat Caterina and Azul, neatly tucked up against each other on one of the plush couches. Caught in a snapshot of blissful domesticity. Caterina stared back at you in horror—mug frozen half-way to her lips and already starting to tip. Coffee dribbled down the porcelain rim and into her lap. Azul’s eyes were as wide as the saucers scattered across the table. Wider, even. But—But. No. This couldn’t—You had seen him come in here. You were sure of it. And he was going to—Jade had said he was going to—to—

There was a flash of blue and yellow off in the corner, and Floyd slid by like a shadow—tossing you a wink on his way out.

Oh God. Oh God. Oooooh God—

“Oh my God,” Azul whispered, face a startling shade of red that was verging on purple.

Caterina wasn’t looking much better. She turned to her boyfriend lover crush very important person, looking like she’d just been run over by a truck. Everything was moving so slowly, so horribly slowly.

“Azul…?” she croaked, barely able to get the word out past her nervous spluttering.

“I have to—I—You—I have to—” He jumped to his feet and nearly toppled over in the process. “Please excuse me!”

And then he bolted. Poof. Across the room in a split second and slamming the door to his office behind him the next. Caterina stared after him in silent shock—expression flickering back and forth between mortification, rage, a horrible sort of sadness, and more rage.

“I didn’t—I didn’t mean to,” you whispered, horrified.

Caterina stayed silent, but the twitch in her jaw was telling.

“Floyd was going to—He and Jade—They—”

“I don’t want to hear it!” the brunette snarled, lunging forward and off the couch. “What the fuck?! What the FUCK!”

“I didn’t mean to!” you wailed again. “He made me!”

“Oh? He made you run all the way here?” Caterina seethed. “He made you scream out one my deepest, darkest, secrets about the man I love to the man I love?! He made you do all that?! And why would he even know about any of it?!”

“I—I’m so sorry! Please!” you panicked, waving your hands back and forth in a poor show of platitudes. “I—It’s not my fault I told him about your dumb kink! I swear! He put me under mind control! Or persuasion! Or something, and I—”

“MY dumb kink?!” Caterina shrieked. “Wanna’ say that again Miss ‘I Get Off On People Ordering Me Around?!’”

You stared back, slack jawed. Then laughed, and laughed, and laughed. “I’m sorry, want to run that by me again? What was it you said the other day? Oh. That’s right. I didn’t say I’d fuck the tentacles, but I’d totally fuck the tentacles.”

Crack went the plate as it whizzed passed your head, exploding into a mess of shards against the wall behind you.

“Oh, shut the fuck up, you degenerate, bottom!”

Shwoom went the couch pillows as you lobbed them at Caterina’s face.

“Get over yourself, you fucking gold digger! Call your stupid rich boy kink what it is! You money grubbing—”

Wham!

Caterina wielded the silvered serving tray like a baseball bat, and it rang out as metallic and boisterous as a gong as she clocked you over the head.

“Omega wannabee!”

“Yeah, bitch,” syouslurred, shaking your head like a wet dog, “only because you wannabee! Beta hag!”

Slam, went the tray. But this time, you caught it in your shaking fists before Caterina could ring you skull like a bell. And a vicious tug a war for the weapon began.

“Fish fucker!”

“Dragon fucker!”

“We’re just friends, you whore!”

“Oh, deal with your goddamn self-worth issues like an adult like the rest of us!” Caterina seethed, giving one last wrench of her bludgeoning tray before deciding the weapon may be a lost cause. Her eyes caught sight of a pretty vase sitting just off to the side. And it was already teetering so precariously with all the ruckus they were causing.

“Well at least I don’t get off to back rubs!”

“Oh, no, you just get your rocks off to fucking fake, bullshit, wolf anatomy dynamics like any other normal, mentally functional, adult!”

Caterina lunged for the vase, and you teetered backwards with the lost momentum. The lovely, intricate, ceramic creation flew through the air and smashed neatly into your chest. You doubled over, huffing and puffing, before lifting you head with a sneer.

“Well, you know what! Have fun getting yourself off all on your lonesome for the rest of your life! But that should work out just great for you! And you know why?” You leaned in close to hiss. “Octopuses have detachable penises.”

Caterina screamed and lunged. The pair went down in a flurry of splintered furniture and rage.

“I didn’t expect it to go this far,” Jade muttered, brow furrowed in distaste.

“Oh?” Leona sneered. “And what exactly were you expecting?”

“A bit of bloodshed,” he responded with a shrug. “A few colorful insults. A chance for a dashing Prince Charming to rush in and save the day with a proper, contractual, compromise.”

“You’re lucky I don’t beat your goddamn face in, you low-life, bottom feeding, piece of—”

“Enough,” Riddle cut it. “Fighting amongst ourselves won’t do anything to address the problem at hand.”

“It’d make me feel better,” Leona snarled, low in his throat.

The redhead sighed and pushed a hand through his bangs, frustrated.

“Jade, what exactly did you and your godforsaken brother do?”

“We pushed where perhaps we should not have,” the eel mused. “A lesson learned, I suppose.”

Another sigh—this one even more put upon than the last. “Perfect. That doesn’t help us at all in trying to come to a solution.”

“We need to stop this!” Ruggie paced, looking a bit panicked. “Look. I get it. Dominance fights are a thing, but they never end will when they get personal like this and—”

I don’t want either of them to die.

Leona sighed and ran a hand through his mused hair. The sentiment may have remained unsaid, but he couldn’t say he disagreed with it without lying through his teeth. These were his… friends, as much as it pained him to think it. And a premature death in the fighting pit didn’t befit either of them.

“Maybe we should get Malleus,” Riddle muttered. “He’s strong enough to stop this.”

The lion bristled and took a confident step forward.

“We don’t need that horned bastard. Lionesses fight all the time. I can deal with it.”

Riddle looked concerned, for Leona’s sake or for that of the brawling duo destroying the room before them the Beastman couldn’t tell.

“If you’re certain.”

“Of course I’m certain,” he mocked, before pushing forward towards the warzone.

It was only you and Caterina. There was nothing to be concerned about. You were weirdos, freaks, herbivores. Harmless. This was just a little catfight. There was nothing to be—

“Throw one more vase at me bitch, and I swear I’ll—"

“You’ll what? Is Miss Pillow Princess going to put me in my place? Why don’t you go choke on a knot, you alpha-obsessed-whore!”

“Well I would if I could! It’s not my fault my jaw is fucked!”

“Oh fucking please. Put on your big girl panties and practice on a banana like the rest of us!”

“Knots don’t work like that, and you know it!”

Leona swiveled on his heel.

He hardly even remembered the short walk back to the main group. They all looked at him in barely concealed horror as he returned. Leona didn’t know what his face was doing. He didn’t want to know.

“Call Malleus,” he said.

Riddle just nodded in silence.

“—Oh fucking please. Put on your big girl panties and practice on a banana like the rest of us!”

“Knots don’t work like that, and you know it!”

“Well, maybe you’re just a quitter,” Caterina spat. “No wonder you’ve never gotten out of the pining stage.”

“Oh my God, I’m going to kill you!” you snarled, hands wrapping tight around your friend’s neck. “How’s this for choking, you ungrateful, single-minded, no safe-word-having—"

“Oh, yeah?” Caterina gasped, fighting to pull in a breath around your spiked fingernails. “Choke me harder, daddy.”

“AAAH! You can’t just—Don’t say shit like that!” you squawked, rolling over and away in a panic.

Caterina sat up, spluttering through a few fragmented inhalations. “Oh? Why? You gonna’ get off on me giving you orders too?”

“SHUT UP, YOU MONSTER FUCKER!”

“LIKE YOU’RE ONE TO TALK, YOU BIGGER MONSTER FUCKER!” The brunette’s eyes filled with hot tears and she wiped at them furiously. “And I’m never even going to get to fuck my monster because you ruined it! You ruined it,” she wheezed. “Why did you have to ruin it?”

You froze, hand already outstretched before you’d even realized you’d done it. Slowly you lowered it back to your side.

“I’m—I’m sorry, Cat. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—I really didn’t for…” you swallowed, fighting back the lump in your throat, “for any of this,” you gestured around lamely. To the smashed vases, and the torn pillows, and the coffee stains, and the tears.

The brunette rubbed at her cheeks. “Yeah… I… I know.”

You scrubbed at your own salt smeared face. “I did this all wrong.”

Caterina laughed, dry. “Maybe…” She paused, looking more unsure than you had maybe ever seen her. All curled up on the floor in the middle of a furniture tornado. “Do you think…”

“Do I think…?” you prompted.

Caterina snorted humorlessly. “He’s going to hate me after all this, isn’t he?”

“If he does, he’s a fucking idiot and I’ll beat the shit out of him myself.”

Another snort, though this one was accompanied by a soft uptick of her lips. “Yeah. You do have a nasty right hook. I’m gonna’ be feeling that one for weeks.”

“Do I ever,”you laughed, flexing your battered fists. You paused, picking nervously over a few pieces of shattered dishware. “…I’m sorry I called your kink stupid.”

“It’s alright. It’s a little stupid.”

“Mine are worse.”

“Just a little,” Caterina hummed. “I’m not sorry I threw that plate at you,” she said, considering her words. “But I am sorry for all the other things I said.”

“I might have deserved it a little,” you shrugged. “And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier about all the stuff Floyd and Jade were stalking me about.”

“Uhm. Fucking what?”

“He also used his magic thingy to crack open my brain,” you said, wrapping a knuckle against your forehead. “That’s how he found out about your kink.”

“Oh my god, I’m going to kill them,” Caterina seethed.

“I’ll help you.”

“Best friends bury bodies together,” the brunette muttered, settling more heavily against the floor.

“Yeah…”

“God, not to be a wimp, but I am really fucking sore right now,” she winced, pressing a hand against her bruised throat.

“Dude. Same. That vase definitely cracked a rib.”

“Sorry,” she winced.

“Meh. All’s fair in love and war.”

With that, the door opposite creaked open and a pair of bespeckled eyes peered out at them from the darkness.

“Holy—”

The door closed. And then opened again. And closed. And reopened.

“Are you… both alive out there?” a tentative voice called, and Azul’s fluffy head finally poked itself out from behind the threshold.

The pair nodded, to varying degrees of success.

“Sorry about your lounge,” Caterina muttered.

“I will never be able to pay for all this damage on top of the tarts,” you muttered.

Azul took one look at Caterina’s purple-ringed neck and blood caked knuckles and rushed forward.

“Oh Great Seven, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know—I didn’t mean to run away. And now you’re—I mean, you’re both—”

Caterina blearily smushed a finger over his lips.

“Shhhh. Shhhhhhh. No more words. I’m too tired.”

“Uhm… Right. Of course.”

She paused, and looked over him with droopy eyes. You leant forward to poke her knee with the toe of your boot. Caterina sighed. “I’m… sorry if I embarrassed you earlier.”

“What?” Azul backpedaled. “Of course not. I would never be embarrassed of you. I mean, I was just embarrassed for—for—”

“Yourself?” Caterina tried.

“…Yes. That,” he spluttered, looking away.

Caterina sighed, bone deep and weary. “Well. There’s not exactly any point in hiding it now. Azul?”

“…Yes?”

“I like you a lot.”

The octopus man went pink from the butt of his chin to the tips of his ears. “O-Oh! Well. Of course you do. I mean—not in that you should be obligated to. But because I should have been expecting it. And I—”

You, with just enough energy left to perform one last act of kindness, hawked a piece of rubble at the man’s head. Factory reset.

He startled for a moment before clearing his throat. “I care about you very much as well.”

Caterina nodded. “Good.” A brief pause. “I’m really exhausted and I’m worried I might have a concussion. Could you hold me up?”

“Oh. Oh! Yes! Of course!” Azul spluttered, before ducking forward to wrap his arms around her waist and prop her upright. “Is that better?”

Caterina hummed, letting her head flop back against his shoulder. “Yes. You smell great. Have I ever told you that before?”

Azul grumbled, face ducked down to hide his puffy, red, cheeks. “You definitely have a concussion.”

“My bad,” you sighed, flopping down into the dust.

“I am going to have to pay you back eventually,” Caterina mused from her place curled snugly in Azul’s arms. “Just out of principle, you know.”

“Oh, no worries,” you waved her off. “I totally get it. But at least this day can’t get much worse,” you said hopefully.

So, of course, at that moment a field of twisting, black, vines sprung up through the cracks in the front door and curled hastily through the room—filling the lounge with an eerie glow and the scent of packed earth. Malleus stepped through the door, looking like every bit the vengeful fae prince that so many feared.

“Oh no.”

Despite the head trauma no doubt clouding her mind, Caterina still had the wherewithal to smirk.

“Oh yes.”

Malleus rushed forward, and you flicked at the magical thorns twisted up and around your limbs.

“Are you alright?” he fussed, hands trailing over the bloodied gashes, and wincing sympathetically when he brushed against the chicken egg forming at your brow. “What happened?”

“It’s alright,” you sighed, letting him sweep you up. “Really, I’m fine. I got smacked around worse during Leona’s overblot. We just… There was a bit of a, err, misunderstanding.” Malleus’s mouth curled sourly like he was getting ready to argue that glaringly obvious understatement, so you reached out as fast as you could to grip at his sleeve. “But we sorted it out! I promise.”

“…Are you certain?” he muttered, looking incredibly unsure.

You nodded. “Don’t worry. I had it coming.”

Malleus sighed and reached up to rub at his temples in frustration. “Forgive my doubts, but… If you’re certain.”

“Of course. I don’t want you to worry about me, you know? Especially when I end up in a sticky situation because of my own dumb mouth. Or brain. Or lack of foresight. Or just… When it’s all my fault anyways, you know?”

“But then I’d never be allowed to worry about you,” Malleus intoned, bland, and you laughed.

“No. I guess not.”

Caterina observed the scene before her with a soft smirk. She looked up from her place in Azul’s arms—face battered, and bloody, and beaming. ‘Vengeance’ her dark eyes said. ‘Retribution.’ You made eye contact and went pale—beyond pale. ‘Have mercy’ you wanted to shout. But then again… you didn’t really deserve mercy, did you? ‘An eye for an eye’ and all that. Or well, ‘a mortification for a mortification’ in this case.

The brunette’s smile sharpened into something poisonous and she turned to Malleus.

“You know,” she spoke. Loudly. Directly. “Now that we’re out of the danger zone and everyone’s all sorted, there’s something you should know.”

Malleus arched a thin brow. “Oh? And what might that be?”

“Our favorite Ramshackle Prefect really wants to fuck a dragon.”

You squeezed your eyes shut in resigned embarrassment. But there was no horrified gasp, no judgmental glare burning into your back, no instant withdrawal from your person as he backpedaled in horror. Instead, Malleus’s grip on your arm flexed reassuringly and you cracked open a single eye to peek up at him.

He smiled down at you—brilliantly bright green eyes far too soft and far too besotted.

“Well, thank goodness for that.” His lips twisted upwards into something a bit sharper, and you could see the pointed, white, flicker of a fang poking out over his lower lip. “I was really hoping to fuck a human too, you see.”

Azul squawked, mortified, and Caterina made a noise like she’d just taken physical damage. Your cheeks went red, then redder, than nearly puce, and you burrowed your head into Malleus’s chest, hoping his swirling robes would open up and swallow you whole. Instead, he just laughed. Low, and dark, and deep enough that you could feel the rumble of it against your fingers.

Caterina sighed, sounding entirely too resigned.

“Well, damn. Happy endings for everyone I guess.”

“Hmm…Is that so terrible?” Azul hummed, curious.

Another sigh, this one perhaps a bit less put upon. “I suppose not.”

#Malleus Draconia x Reader #Malleus x Reader #Twisted Wonderland #Malleus Draconia/Reader #Malleus x Yuu #Malleus Draconia x Yuu #Azul Ashengrotto #Tweels #Jade Leech #Floyd Leech #Malleus Draconia #Crack #My Writing #Twisted Wonderland Imagines #Twisted Wonderland x Reader

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plutonianrising · 3 years

Text

while the cat’s away a.k/k.k

pairing: akaashi x kenma x f!reader

wc: 4.5k

description: akaashi shouldn’t have left his two brats home alone for so long

a/n: this was v much inspired by that “i think you deserve two boyfriends” tiktok so thank that guy for this

cw: fem!reader, dom!akaashi, switch!reader, switch!kenma, established poly relationship, safe word check-ins, rules, overstimulation, degradation, humiliation, threesome, cum-eating, aftercare implied

MINORS DNI PLS

Sometimes it can get boring when it’s just you and Kenma at home for the day. You know he’s usually busy streaming and it's usually fine since Keiji keeps you entertained. However, this morning Keiji insisted on handling the grocery shopping alone, saying it’d just be a quick in-and-out trip and he didn’t want Kenma to wake up left by himself. It was hours later now and Kenma had kissed you good morning and swiftly turned to his games. Even on his “day off” he’s playing with some of his friends. You’re kicking yourself now for having recently bought his current fixation.

“Kyaaannmaaaa” you whine loudly and flop onto his lap. He doesn’t even acknowledge you as he moves his controller closer to his face. It’s almost like you’re not even there. You wouldn’t even be sure that he noticed you if it weren’t for the faint furrow in his brows and grimace on his lips.

“Kenma you’ve been playing since you woke up. Can’t you take a little break? I don’t even think I’ve seen you eat yet,” you try to command even just a bit of his attention.

“I’m not hungry.” He grumbles. “And can’t you see I’m in the middle of a match? I can’t just leave whenever.”

Your pouting turns to a full-blown scowl as his eyes leave his game for a moment to peek down at you; he realizes how quickly you’re reaching the threshold of your patience.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry. I know you hate when I play on my days off. Just sit in my lap and we’ll go do something else once this round finishes.” He backtracks. You roll your eyes but maneuver yourself so that you're straddling him with his arms around your waist and yours around his shoulders. You lean your head in the crook of his neck, gaining comfort from the smell of his shampoo even while your boyfriend is annoying the shit out of you.

“You said one more match like 3 matches ago. I thought we had a rule about lying.” You say even though you know he really isn’t listening to you. You can faintly hear one of his friends talking in his headset. You thread your fingers through his grown-out hair absent-mindedly and open your phone with your other hand to text Keiji.

Kenma broke a rule. I’m gonna punish him. See you when you get home x

You’ve barely sent the message before you’re pressing down on his lap a little harder. You wiggle your ass as if feigning trying to get comfortable. You shift Kenma’s headset so that he can hear you whisper in his ear.

“Kenmaaa…” You trail off. “What happened to no lying hmm?” He stiffens and a cruel smile creeps its way onto your face. You place a hand on his chest and continue playing with his hair with the other, trying to coax him. You both know he can’t say anything with his friends on the other side and you relish in the fiery glare he shoots you.

You love how easy Kenma is to fluster. A breathy whisper against his neck. A sharp nip at his neck. It takes little to nothing to set him off. Even when you’re being punished and are forced to simply watch Keiji take him relentlessly. Kenma is breathtaking to you. When he’s annoying you. When he’s shyly grabbing your hand or Keiji’s to fall asleep. When he’s fucked out beyond recognition. At this point you’re probably obsessed over even the red that tints his ears when he begins getting overwhelmed.

Sometimes you have to pay for your teasing but you know today at least, you’re fully in command. You know Kenma is too stubborn to shut off his game in the middle of a match with everyone on. After 3 years with him and Keiji, you know he’s a high-risk-high-reward kind of person. He was going to try his hardest to get through whatever you put him through without making a sound. Double or nothing.

“You remember how to tell me to stop, right?” You whisper again and press a kiss to his ear. Kenma nods.

“Hmm I wonder if I should make you say it out loud with everyone on call? Yea they’d think it’s random but better safe than sorry right?” You tease him. He shivers and goosebumps appear on his skin as you lightly drag your nails up his neck. He grunts softly and rolls his hips up to press against you. His eyes are begging you to drop that idea. Your wicked smile grows and you peck his lips.

“You’re right baby. There’s already plenty of time to embarrass you. Don’t forget to talk to your friends on call Kenma. Wouldn’t want them thinking something happened to you.” You chuckle darkly.

You place your hands under his shirt and slowly slide up until you reach his nipples. They’re already hard from the chill of your room paired with his thin t-shirt. You press against one, softly toying with it with the pad of your finger. You watch as he tries to remain stone faced. His ears are a dead giveaway, though. You kiss all over his neck as he responds to someone. They’re feather-soft teases. You want him to have to beg to be marked by you.

“Kenma you’re so greedy..” You growl and pinch his nipple. He startles a bit at the surprise but quickly regains his composure. “You wanted this didn’t you? Too shy to say outright you wanted me to fuck you while you played?”

“Or is it that you just like riling me up?” You tease him by grinding down onto his hardening dick. You roll both his nipples between your fingertips now, occasionally pinching them.

“Wanted the best of both worlds and even while I’m giving it to you, you can’t even be bothered to make those cute sounds you know I like so much.” You sigh, feigning sadness. You grind against him harder as you play with his nipples. You tease him further by kissing up his neck. It’s hard not to relish in his slight trembles when you blow cool air against his ear. While your focus is mostly on pleasuring Kenma, you cannot help the soft sighs that escape you. Seeing him struggle to control the stuttering of his hips only eggs you on.

“How loud do you think I can be before they can all hear me?” You smirk and let out a quiet moan. Kenma’s eyes widen in panic and he slaps a hand over your mouth quickly. You slowly lick his palm while you maintain eye contact. His golden eyes are transfixed on yours, searching for any measure of mercy. He was kidding himself thinking he would find any. Many sessions with Keiji had trained you to follow through when you committed to something.

Kenma slowly pulls his hand away from your face and you lean in closer. Your lips are just barely brushing against his as you mutter “Either you beg for me with everyone on the call. Or I just keep cumming by myself.”

He knows it’s a promise and not a threat. In terms of stamina, you have always had him beat, making over stimulating him a pretty frequent occurrence. At the beginning he and Keiji would switch out when it got to be too much for him but you two quickly learned that even with tears streaming down his face, his one thought is to satisfy you. You grab his face with one hand, squishing his cheeks a little. With the other you cover his mic. “What’s our word so I know you know it?”

“It’s peaches. I’m ok. I want this,” he rushes out quietly, growing even redder. It’s this neediness that you so deeply craved. Kenma was quiet but he wasn’t exactly shy. When he really wanted something, he would push past his reservations to get it. And finally, right now, he wants you more than anything else.

You finally kiss him deeply and Kenma reciprocates eagerly. To your content, his hips roll harder against you when your tongue enters his mouth.

“Kenma? Why aren’t you moving, let’s go!” You hear someone say. You pull away from Kenma so that he can answer and he furrows his brow, obviously not ready for it to be over.

“Lev maybe if you quit worrying about what I’m doing you’d get more kills.” He quietly snips. You wince and giggle at his harsh tone, almost feeling bad about being the reason behind his expression. You lean close so you can speak into Kenma’s mic and as you talk you’re also taking a beat to fully appreciate how flushed and pretty Kenma looks. His mouth is wet and slightly pink and though his eyes are half-lidded he’s looking at you with full expectancy. It’s enough to pierce your heart. You aren’t sure if you’re actually punishing him or spoiling him rotten.

“Sorry about that boys” You giggle into the mic. Kenma’s mouth twitches downward a little when he hears how his friends’ react to your voice on mic. “Please forgive Kenma, I distracted him a little.”

You don’t really pay attention to how they respond, turning your focus to slipping off Kenma’s boxers and your panties. You toss them somewhere across the room. As you slick Kenma’s dick with your wetness, it crosses your mind that Keiji could come home at any moment. You haven’t even looked to see how Keiji responded to your text. You’re probably screwed if he told you to wait until he gets back but you can’t focus on that with Kenma looking at you so eagerly, using every inch of his self-control to not fuck up into you.

Placing him at your entrance, you hold his gaze as you slide onto him. You take him all the way, forcing yourself to be just as quiet as he is. You let him try and focus on his game as you slowly roll your hips, silently screaming at how full he makes you feel. You fixate on the way his brows furrow and his breath quietly hitches. Kenma’s face is fully flushed as you ride him, not willing to give in or lose his game. You smirk and turn around slightly to look at his game. It brings you a weird sense of satisfaction that, even though he’s playing like normal, his dick is already twitching like he’s close.

“Kyanma when’d you get so sensitive?” you tease quietly. “You been secretly touching yourself recently? Huh?”

“I-I” he begins to stutter out indignantly, trying not to pant too loudly. You cover the mic one more time. “I w-wouldn’t dare. J-just feels too good.”

You continue rolling your hips, reaching up with your other hand to palm your own breast. You don’t even try to resist the tightness building inside you. You let out a low moan as you shudder around him, your walls clenching around Kenma’s dick so deliciously that you can see the air choked in his throat as he stifles his own moans. As promised, you fuck him through your orgasm. His trembling makes it so much harder for you to relent. You want him to cum so badly, forcing you to turn off his game and fuck him until he’s a sobbing mess.

He does so almost as soon as the almost obsessive thought crosses your mind. He holds you tight against him and buries his face in your collar, biting down hard in a final act of defiance. You yank Kenma’s head back by his hair and he’s glaring at you like his face and chest aren’t completely flushed and his pupils aren’t blown out. You let go of his hair and simply smirk and your anger makes it so much more fun to force shut down his computer.

You wrap a hand around his neck and squeeze. “Kenma’s been such a naughty fucking kitty today haven’t you?”

You slam down on his dick again and Kenma moans loudly this time. You aren’t sure if it’s from the pain of being overstimulated or simply the fact that he no longer faces the threat of embarrassment. Regardless, you know he’s going to be begging for that feeling again by the time you’re through with him.

You hear the front door of your apartment open and the familiar jangle of Keiji’s keys and soft footsteps. Keiji’s home but he puts the groceries away first. You know this is him giving you both time to collect yourselves and be on your knees somewhere for punishments. You know this but Kenma doesn’t look keen on moving and your heart is already beating in anticipation at how much further you could take this.

You hear Keiji’s footsteps grow louder and in seconds he’s right in front of you, analyzing what he’s seeing: an unplugged computer, Kenma slowly regaining his composure, and you right in his lap, lazily looking over at him with a smug little smile on your face.

“Hey baby.” You can tell from one look what Keiji told you in response to your text. You can't help the way your body shudders in expectancy as he stares at you sternly. You kiss Kenma’s neck gently as you meet Keiji’s gaze, knowing full well you won’t be ready for the punishments he will be handing out.

“You had no intention of listening to me, did you?” Keiji says fondly as he walks over and stands behind you. He slides his hands around you: one pulling your against him, the other guiding your head up. His touch is gentle, his fingers moving you more so as a suggestion than a command. You struggle to keep your eyes open and on his beautiful features. Dark hair that curls in the strangest spots fell slightly forward. The sharpness in his deep blue eyes contrasts the loving way he strokes your cheek.

“Mmm… not really. Mmsorry ‘Kaashi but it’s so… much easier to just ask you for forgiveness. You’re so sweet to us.” Your words slur a bit and you smile up at your other boyfriend. You secretly wonder if you’re making the right call by pushing his buttons further. But oh well.

“Oh it's so much easier is it?” Keiji asks, his voice takes on an icy tone. He finally glances towards Kenma, slightly dazed as he watches you both. “Kenma do you agree?”

You all know that no matter what Kenma says, he’s already in deep shit for going along with you. However, there is still a right and wrong answer. He could either a) agree and punish you with Keiji and receive a lighter punishment or b) side with you. The two of you make eye contact as he weighs his options. Memories of you sandwiched between them, mind hazy as they treated you like little more than a toy flood you. You vividly remember the time Keiji sent you over the edge repeatedly while you choked on Kenma’s dick, tears forming from how desperate for air you were. And the way they gazed down at you with your panties shoved in your mouth, so fully focused on making you scream that you feel like you’d been caught by two beasts.

You would never openly admit how much option A makes your mouth water but you don’t have to. Kenma doesn’t miss the way your thighs try to squeeze together, only to be met by his in between. Or the way your breathing has slightly picked up again. Or how you tightened around his still-sensitive dick the moment the thought crossed your mind.

“Yea ‘Kaashi… you’ve been really nice lately.” Kenma looks between you both and smiles before pressing close and embracing you. He holds onto part of your shirt and nuzzles into your neck. You don’t care if he was saying we’re in this together or I'm not letting you get all the attention after you ruined my game. Regardless, you still get to see Kenma trembling right next to you with puffy lips slightly parted, ready to beg, ready to need, ready to please.

Keiji stifles a laugh behind you, covering it quickly before petting both you and Kenma’s hairs. “I didn’t realize I’d been so gracious to my little brats. I guess that means you think it’s finally my turn for a reward?”

“What do you want us to do Master?” You ask coyly.

“Well for one I want you two properly seated somewhere on the floor.” Keiji says coldly. He moves away and you and Kenma quickly take your places. On your knees. Eyes expectant.

“Kitty you look like she put you through hell” Keiji coos at Kenma, looking down at him while he strokes his cheek. You huff.

“I didn’t even-”

“Did I say you could speak sweetheart?” Keiji cuts off your attempt to explain and you know better to try any further. He doesn’t even need to look towards you to keep you in check “Kenma. Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened.”

“S-she got mad at me for being on my game so long that she rode me while my mic was on and wouldn’t let me c-cum unless I… begged with everyone on the line.” Kenma looks up at Keiji pleadingly.

“And did you?” Keiji prods.

“D-did I?” Kenma splutters in surprise. The red flush on his body seems permanent at this point.

“Well you obviously came. I can still see it leaking out of her all over our floor. So. Did you beg?” Keiji doesn’t let Kenma avoid his gaze, leaning forward with a firm grip on his cheeks.

“N-no.”

“No. Instead you bit her.”

Of course he noticed that.

“So let me see if I got this right. Instead of accepting your punishment like a good boy or conceding… you decided to take advantage of her kindness and my absence. God it’s like you want that pretty ass of yours lashed until you can’t even sit in your gaming chair.”

Kenma takes in a sharp inhale, trembling slightly. You gulp in turn, knowing that even though Kenma was worse, you aren’t safe from reprimand either.

Keiji fixes his sharp gaze on you and finally acknowledges you. “Did I agree to letting you punish Kenma?”

“No Sir.” You answer quietly, trying to keep the shivers threatening to expose your excitement at bay.

“Take off your shirt and lie on the bed.” He sighs and begins unbuttoning his shirt. You do as you’re told, removing your oversized sweater as you climb onto the king-sized mattress.

“It seems that I’ve been too lenient with the both of you so really the fault lies with me. Allow me to take responsibility for that now.” Keiji says. He stands before you and takes in your form, surely noting how much you’re quivering before lifting and spreading your knees, leaving you on full display. He turns back to Kenma.

“Kitty you should take this chance to properly apologize. Come clean up the mess you made.”

Kenma is just as compliant, quick to kneel where Keiji orders him right in front of your dripping pussy. He can’t even attempt a front, immediately capturing your clit in his mouth. You moan and buck a little at the sudden sensation.

“Easy there Kitty. Take your time.” Keiji chides softly. Kenma hums in response and opts to lick a long stripe against you instead. He tries his hardest to pace himself as he mouths you, gently pushing his tongue in between your folds.

Keiji opens your bedside table and grabs a bottle of lube, squirting some on his own hand and onto Kenma’s ass. You feel the shiver that rips through Kenma as the cold gel runs down him. He takes a quick second to let out a shuddering breath but doesn’t dare look back. You, however, fully stare as Keiji gingerly begins fucking Kenma with his middle finger. Kenma quakes at the feeling and Keiji revels at the sight of you two and how your moans and his combine in the air and fill the room.

“Baby you’re so shameless” Keiji mewls “taking so much pleasure from all the chaos you caused.”

You can’t even argue his point. Every thought of disagreeing had left your head the moment Kenma’s lips had touched your throbbing pussy. All you can do is whine in response.

Keiji doesn’t take his eyes off of you when puts his hand on the back of Kenma’s head and presses him down further. “Make sure you get all the way inside. Only bad boys leave someone else to clean up after them.”

Kenma simply whimpers in response and thrusts his tongue inside you, trying his hardest to move his hips to meet Keiji’s pace at the same time. You can tell Keiji’s purposely changing it to make it harder for him. You continue to tense up helplessly and barely contain your writhing with the very last bits of control over yourself. You know better than to cum right now but the waves of pleasure rushing over you and the sight Keiji fingering Kenma open are quickly clouding your brain.

“Please...” you beg, aching for release. Keiji looks up at you and smiles softly, an utter betrayal when his next words leave his lips.

“Kenma, stop now.”

You both whine and turn your attention to Keiji, facial expressions mirroring each other. He pets Kenma’s hair and plants two quick kisses on his wet mouth. You sit up and pout.

“Keiji, Sir, please, I wanna cum so badly.” You beg, head spinning a bit from the sudden loss.

“Oh so now you acknowledge that I’m in charge.” He says and moves to kiss your cheek next, He places feather light kisses against your jaw as you whine and whimper in protest. Drawing close to your ear, he whispers icily “I have half the mind to fuck your pretty little throat so raw you wouldn’t be able to speak for weeks without regretting testing me. But I’m sweet, remember? So listen before I forget that.”

All your dissent dies in your throat and you stiffen.

“Ready to be a good little girl for me now?” He inquires in his normal tone. It’s almost scary how easily he can flip between the two. All you can do is nod and accept the deep kiss he offers as a reward, moaning into his mouth. “Good, now get on the floor next to Kenma. Wanna see you two suck me off.”

You quickly do as you’re told and sit on your knees next to Kenma while Keiji slides off his pants and underwear. With Keiji sitting on the bed in between you, you let a thick glob of spit fall on his dick and work it down with your hand, slowly stroking him. Kenma positions himself and takes Keiji’s head in between his lips, hollowing his cheeks as he sucks him down.

“You two have been so naughty today and now look at you..” Keiji says breathily and pushes your hair back away from your faces. “Sharing my dick so nicely with each other.”

You and Kenma kiss sloppily around the head of his dick, letting your tongues coat Keiji further in spit. Even though you and Kenma bicker more often, the one thing you two agree on without fail is that Keiji looks the hottest when you service him together. It’s how his eyes focus fully on the looks you give him, full of trust and devotion. How he’s always sure to praise equally as he grips whatever or whoever is nearest to gain some kind of grounding.

“Neither of you is getting my dick today... but you can make each other cum. Should be enough, right? Since you two were so impatient you couldn’t even wait for me.” Keiji teases in between his groans. You try to shove down your disappointment as you use your free hand to reach for Kenma’s dick. You pump him in time with the rhythm you manage to form with Keiji’s large dick in your throat. Your eyes burn but you try to keep down your gags and moans as Kenma starts rubbing your clit fervently, wanting instead to clearly hear how he and Keiji sound. His touch is vengeful, a punishment for putting him in this mess and you nearly see stars from the feeling of his sticky fingers circling your most sensitive spots.

“P-please Sir, t-this time I really can’t hold it,” Kenma whimpers, looking utterly destroyed with tears clinging to his lashes and a trail of spit still connecting him to Keiji’s dick.

“If you think you can keep servicing us while you cum then go ahead baby, but you better keep moving.” Keiji permits and it’s all Kenma needs to cry out and shoot out ropes of his cum all over your hand. He continues his ministrations against you and Keiji and soon it’s your own hips that are stuttering. You do not have Kenma’s level of control so you try to shove down your incoming orgasm.

“I need you to cum Sir please, please please. I-I won’t last. Please I want you to cover us with your sticky cum” you beg. You look up at him from under your lashes as you go back to mouthing him and feel him throb in between your lips.

“Yes Sir pleaseee. Want your cum all over.” Kenma adds, his words slurring together. If he couldn’t focus on both speaking and pleasuring his partners he would simply put his all into the latter.

“Want my cum? Want Sir to make a mess all over those pretty little faces?” Keiji groans, bucking his hips into your mouth.

“God yes please.. Please!” Kenma continues and Keiji takes his dick out of his mouth to stroke himself over your faces. Kenma is steadily bringing you to your own edge and you both can’t help but open your mouths in hopes to catch Keiji’s cum on your tongue while you orgasm. With a shout, Keiji begins cumming, spurting all over you and Kenma.

“Go ahead sweetheart, fucking cum right now” Keiji hisses and you convulse as you finally let go, holding onto his leg as your orgasm rips through you. It’s hard to focus on anything besides how easily Keiji and Kenma make you feel like you’re in heaven.

“Now.. have we all learned our lessons?” Keiji utters once he’s down from his high. The sight of Kenma and you leaning against his legs for support makes his heart swell.

“Yes.. Sir.” You two manage to get the words out.

“See I knew my little ones were smart.” He coos gingerly moves to first pick you up and place you onto the bed and then Kenma before grabbing wet wipes. “Now let’s get you all cleaned up.”

#akaashi smut #haikyuu akaashi #akaashi x reader #akaashi x kenma #haikyuu kenma #kenma smut #haikyuu smut #haikyu x reader #hq poly #akaashi fic #kenma fic #micco.fics

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tothemeadow · 3 years

Note

Saw the summer event and immediately came running- ok! Can I order a hotdog with ketchup and hot sauce, with a side of onion rings to share with Sanemi?? Please and thank you!

Glad to hear you're excited! Thank you for joining!

Summer Feelings Event

'love shack' / Shinazugawa S. x Reader

warnings: NSFW, public sex, fingering, dirty talk, slut shaming, impregnation kink

words: 1,249

“Oi, oi, oi! I told you to watch your step, you brats!”

“Screw you, man! It’s not my fault that I got pinched by a crab!”

“Maybe you’ll get lucky and it’ll be a jellyfish next time!”

“Sanemi, knock it off,” you scold as you poke your head out of the lifeguard station. “They’re just kids.”

With a grunt, Sanemi lowers his megaphone. The kids – more like preteens – merely flip Sanemi off and take off running. “And it’s just a crab,” he snips. “They don’t have to scream bloody murder over the fucking thing.”

You scoff in amusement. “Just wait until you have your ownkids.”

At that, Sanemi snaps his head in your direction, his eyes going wide. “Are you… pregnant?” he asks, voice dropping low.

“No,” you say with a snort. You hold back a huff of laughter as his muscles visibly loosen. “Well,” you continue, a mischievous lilt to your tone, “unless you want me to be.” You innocently bat your eyes at him.

Dragging a hand down his face, Sanemi glances to either side of the station, looking for any potential voyeurs. “Didn’t peg you as the type to want to do it during work,” he throws back, his tone nearly matching yours.

“You didn’t peg me yet.”

“…Ah, shit.”

Before you know it, Sanemi is storming around the corner of the station, grabbing onto your forearm and forcibly yanking you out of the public’s sight. You giggle at his burst of excitement and the glare he throws your way. You always know what buttons to push, don’t you? Looking sexy as hell in the little one-piece swimsuit, hair pulled back and away from your neck – fuck, if you don’t drive him crazy on a regular basis.

“Someone’s acting like a needy slut, aren’t they?” Sanemi growls as he backs you into a corner. His tanned skin smells like sand and salt water, warm to the touch and just begging for your hands to drift all over him. Bright red trunks hang from his lithe hips, the waistband low enough to show off his V-line and the light trail of hair underneath his belly button. “Whatcha looking at, sweetheart?” he sneers.

“Something tasty,” you merely say.

A growl slips through Sanemi’s lips as he pushes a muscular thigh between your legs. “Dirty little troublemaker, thinking about cock while you’re on the job.” He clicks his tongue. Reaching around, he promptly slaps your ass, a slight smirk coming to his face when the tiniest noise graces his ears. “What was that? Shit, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you liked that, huh?”

“You like it just as much, buddy,” you taunt.

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

That’s the last fucking straw. Another angry noise rumbles in Sanemi’s chest as he shoots forward, claiming your lips in a fiery kiss. Shit, you don’t even know if it can be called that; it’s nothing but a mess of tongues and bites, and it doesn’t surprise you that Sanemi’s cock stirs to life against your thigh. He’s always liked it rough, after all. He only further proves that point as he steadily rocks you against his thigh, flexing the muscle and smirking whenever you moan into his mouth.

“Stupid fucking thing,” he breathes, pulling away and mouthing at your jaw instead. He means your swimsuit, obviously, especially with the way he keeps snapping the edges digging into your asscheeks. “This ain’t no uniform – this is a tease.”

A surprised noise bursts from your throat as he hanks the straps down your arms, causing your breasts to pop out. Your nipples stand to attention, looking deliciously pert and oh so welcoming. “That’s fucking better,” Sanemi snarls. Dropping his mouth, he eagerly lathers your breasts with attention, sucking in each nipple one at a time while a hand plays with the other.

It doesn’t take long for his other hand to reach down between your legs and push the fabric of your swimsuit to the side. You slap a hand over your mouth as two fingers easily push their way inside your pussy. Sanemi openly groans around a breast, his thumb seeking out your clit and rubbing circles into it.

“Shit, you really are a slut, huh? Feel how fucking wet you are, baby? We’re in public, don’t you know?” A wicked smile blooms on his face. “Think you can keep it down while I fuck you dumb?”

“Sanemi-“ You cut yourself off with a squeal as he slaps your ass again.

“Answer the question.”

With a feeble nod, you reach down and hold your swimsuit away from your quivering pussy. Sanemi sucks a sharp breath in through his teeth, his gaze flickering between your sopping cunt and the desperate look on your face.

“Now that’s a good little slut.”

Shuffling his trunks off, his cock springs to attention, the tip red and oozing precum. A hand drifts down your thigh, clenching onto it in a strong hold before hiking it upwards and settling in on his hip. His cockhead brushes against your slit, gathering your arousal; you groan as he rocks his hips into you, his cock just barely slipping past your folds.

“Sanemi, come on, just fuck me already-“

“You said you wanted me to get you pregnant, right? Maybe I should - you know, pump all my cum into that tight cunt of yours and make your belly swell. You’d like that, huh? Be all fucking swollen with my kid? Lemme make you mine¸ baby, and let everyone else know, too.”

“Oh, Jesus,” you breathe. Sanemi sucks in another breath when a fat drop of slick gushes onto his cock.

“Good slut. I’m gonna fuck you know, got it? Hopefully I don’t break a wall.”

And shit, he does; his cock slips inside you and fucks you good, all nice and deep. You deserve this because you’re a fucking tease, just a little slut wanting a healthy dose of cock and wanting her insides painted white. Oh, and Sanemi is here to deliver. He sucks on your bouncing tits while he ruts into you, groaning whenever your velvety walls refuse to let him go. You cling onto him for dear life, eyes rolling into the back of your head once he focuses on your g-spot and rams his cockhead into it.

“Fuck,” Sanemi seethes, his hand slapping your ass again. “You’re so fucking hot, holy shit.” You can tell he’s getting desperate, that his orgasm is drawing closer. He snarls into your ear like a wild animal, his relentless pace turning sloppy. “I’m gonna cum in you, you little slut. I’m gonna fill your fucking insides and make you all nice and big. You can do that for me, yeah? Be my sexy little mama?”

It shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does, but holy shitdo your insides squeeze around his cock, just as eager to have him shoot his load into you. His fingers play with your clit while he pants into your ear, his hips jerking unevenly as his orgasm finally washes over him.

“Fuck, I’m cumming, I’m cumming,” he grunts. “Cream on my cock, baby. I swear to god if you don’t I’ll make sure you won’t walk-“

His filthy words are enough to do you in; with a hand muffling your shout, you convulse around him. The fingers hanging onto his shoulder dig into the muscle, leaving crescent shapes in their wake.

Hehe, all in a day’s work, you guess.

Tag list @tokito-inosukes-wife @honey-deerling @heyitssonnnyx

#kny #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #kny x reader #kimetsu no yaiba x reader #demon slayer x reader #shinazugawa sanemi x reader #sanemi shinazugawa x reader #summer feelings event

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the-darklings · 3 years

Text

—𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒉 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆;

—PART XVIII. | THE TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE

pairing: john wick x f!reader x santino d’antonio

word count: 36.2k+ (honk, honk, honk x 2)

summary: “You’re just a little tragedy, aren’t you?”

warnings: swearing, strong violence, blood, likely some emotional damage to readers inbound

notes: I waited for this chapter for a very, very long time and been laying the foundation for 250k. Lets begin.

children of ares series: 01 | …. | 16 | 17 | . . | 19 |

Sometimes he genuinely wonders how many poor decisions led him here.

To this exact moment in time. To this exact set of circumstances.

“I wish to see him.”

Winston tilts his head at the cool demand, not letting any outwards reaction slip.

The Adjudicator stares him down like the request should have been fulfilled yesterday. He’s not, admittedly, used to people making such demands. Especially not so brazenly. And inside his own hotel no less.

He gazes at them for a beat before nodding his head stagily.

“Forgive me and my old age,” he begins calmly. “But who exactly do you wish to see? The chef perhaps?”

He knows perfectly well who the Adjudicator wants to see. Judging by the slight, annoyed pinch of their mouth so do they. Charon stands a step behind the High Table’s associate and his expression is as professionally cool as always. In truth, however, they are both wary at best.

“You know of whom I speak,” the Adjudicator snips, their voice that calm, almost robotic cold. “Santino D’Antonio was shot at this hotel, was he not? Mr Wick fired the shot but the bullet failed to kill him. To our knowledge, he is still in your care. Or is that incorrect?”

Keep him safe.

Such a simple request. A request to keep a man he barely tolerates on a good day shielded from other sharks. For once, Winston wishes you cared about yourself as much as you do about others.

You, Santino, John—you’re all I have. I can’t lose anyone else. I can’t.

Sometimes—often—the memory of those words worries him. Truly. Wild, relentless drive and desperation rarely mix well together. The former you have plenty of and the latter has been mounting too rapidly for his liking.

Silencing his thoughts, Winston tilts his head in an accommodating manner. Conjuring an innocent expression, he nods his head for what feels like the hundredth time in the last hour alone.

“Ah, yes, Mr D’Antonio. Tragic, truly, but the Vipress saved his life,” he explains smoothly, watching the individual before him with the same shrewdness the Adjudicator is watching him. “Rather heroically, too. Quite surprising that the Table did not see her actions as such.”

The Adjudicator’s eyes narrow. From their spot on the office chair, the Table’s representative regards him with disinterested, yet vexed expression. Clearly, his approach of talking circles and giving half-answers about your and Johnathan’s whereabouts has not left a good impression.

That’s exactly the point though.

“The woman known to us as the Vipress had plenty of chances to stop Mr Wick,” the Adjudicator answers; an expected explanation, a pitiless one, too. “She failed. Even though she is one of the few individuals realistically capable of such a feat. Therefore, under our assessment, there is nothing here to celebrate.”

Winston turns, lowering his whiskey glass back onto the table. He leans back towards it, completely relaxed, his palms resting against the edges of the smooth wood.

“Loyalty,” he muses lightly, letting the word hang in the air for a bit. “Such rarity nowadays, would you not agree? It is rather difficult to stay neutral when you have an emotional investment in both parties caught in the conflict.”

The Adjudicator stands at that, their willowy frame stretching to their full height. Little sympathy can be found in their stony expression. “Only loyalty to the High Table should matter. The Vipress has shown to have very little of it. Now, Mr D’Antonio?”

He didn’t expect this to be easy. But he doesn’t let so much as a whisper of his exasperation show. Winston considers, calculating what harm could be done versus the gap of time it might buy him, hesitating for only a beat before dipping his head in agreement.

“Of course, follow me,” he says pleasantly, gesturing with his arm. “He came out of surgery several days ago.”

Over the Adjudicator’s shoulder, a faint glint of surprise shows on Charon’s face before the man blinks it away swiftly. The concierge knows better than to question outright. Old and tested loyalty lives between them. The manager always does things for a reason, and the concierge follows graciously every time because he knows as much.

The Adjudicator stalks after him silently, Charon a few steps behind them. The elevator ride down is silent and tense. No need for empty exchanges between them and neither party bothers pretending otherwise.

Only a day left on the clock. Then he’s expected to step back and leave his hotel—his legacy—behind to some stranger the Table deems worthy. The thought alone almost makes him scoff again.

The High Table can take the Continental from his cold, dead hands.

And he imagines there are at least one or two individuals who may have something to say about that.

You have contributed to the chaos, little hatchling, but what now? You can’t win this game by sacrificing your Queen.

The elevator halts with a rumble. Worn metal creaks. Winston reaches out, pulling back the metal partition. The white hallways of the medical wing are silent and undisturbed by the bustle of the front foyer. Heaviness hangs in the air as he strolls down the long stretch of white, his shoes clicking against the spotless flooring. Charon and the Adjudicator are only several steps behind him but he’s in no hurry.

They round the corner and three heads turn in their direction.

The fourth doesn’t move.

Here we go.

Camorra’s Elite Four sit like guard dogs of the most vicious variety at the end of the lengthy hallway. Behind them stands a door. Behind that door, Winston knows, Santino D’Antonio now lays, clinging to his life and healing. Hopefully. He couldn’t care less about the Italian living or dying, but for your sake, he needs the arrogant man to pull through.

The closer they come, the tenser the air becomes.

The tallest and broadest of the guards is leaning against the wall but pushes away from it upon their approach, uncrossing his arms as he stops in their path. The first line of defence.

Another—the sharpshooter, if Winston recalls correctly—rises a second behind that, lowering a gleaming pistol he was fiddling with. Eyes narrowed, distrustful.

The youngest—the smiling nightmare, as you’ve called him once—doesn’t shift from his spot on the floor, a laptop in his lap. A pop of chewing gum fills the silence when he glances up lazily at the commotion over his round sunglasses.

And finally closest to the door—nearest to the Camorra boss, always the most vicious and final deterrent—stands the Devil of Camorra. He doesn’t look at them. He almost appears thoughtful, playing with a lighter in his hand as he leans against the wall.

Click, click, click.

“Can we help you?” the tallest asks politely, his Italian accent faint but still noticeable.

The sharpshooter stands by his side, frowning faintly.

A polite, unspoken warning hangs in the air. The woman—D’Antonio’s bodyguard that you’ve called a good friend on many occasions—appears to be missing. Though Winston doubts she’s far behind. He’s seen her by the Italian side for almost as many years as he’s seen you.

The Adjudicator speaks before he can. “I wish to see the Camorra family head, and the new member of the High Table, Santino D’Antonio.”

“Respectfully, who are you supposed to be?” the sharpshooter demands, his dark eyes narrowing marginally.

Loyal. To a degree at least. Winston had been hopeful they would be. He’s not surprised to see them standing guard, either. He’s betting on them continuing doing so.

“An Adjudicator,” the youngest quips from his spot on the floor, his fingers clicking across the keyboard. Another pop of gum follows. “Sent to adjudicate this hotel, I bet. Bang, bang—not a good look for the sturdy, old table. Seccante.”

The Adjudicator’s head slants; a calculating motion. “The Chameleon of Camorra,” they state flatly, unimpressed. “Former association with an organisation known as Slifer before Giovanni D’Antonio recruited you to Camorra’s ranks, correct?”

The young man in question drops his head back with a gleaming smile. The tattoos across his neck ripple with the gesture, and a gleam of white appears even brighter in the artificial light.

“Oh yeah,” he drawls, amused. “Papi Giovanni welcomed me with open arms.”

There is clearly more to this tale. The implication is blatant even if the words are presented as a joke but Winston can still read it.

“You can’t see him.”

All eyes slide towards the Camorra Devil. His voice is gravelly, uncompromising, and he still doesn’t bother looking at them. Part arrogance, Winston imagines, and part genuine disinterest with them and the situation.

“I have the right—”

“We have orders not to let anyone see Santino until he’s fit enough to take back command.”

At long last, the Devil turns towards them. The look in his icy eyes is a clear, if barely polite, warning. The man called Hector always had a reputation for being Giovanni’s most violent lapdog. Serving Camorra for years without a single falter. That level of loyalty is admittedly rare, especially when Winston knows others have tried to recruit the Devil in the past.

Hector, unlike you, has never been bound by a debt that kept him chained to Camorra. He stays because he wants to. If there are any other reasons for that loyalty, they’re unknown to the manager.

Though Winston has never interacted with the leader of the Elite’s, he’s heard plenty about him, and can understand why his name is spoken with trepidation. Despite it being subtle, the air around the man is still hostile. Brimming with a promise of violence.

“Whose orders?” the Adjudicator interrogates. “The council of Camorra—”

Whatever card they were hoping to play gets crushed in seconds.

“Our current acting boss. The Vipress,” the Devil announces, sounding annoyed, and pockets his lighter before pushing away from the wall. Another pop of gum ripples from the youngest Elite. Hector prowls closer, deliberately slow, and walks past the other two members of the guard. The Devil halts in front of the Adjudicator, appearing utterly bored. “You might be familiar with her. Stubborn, demanding, likes knives a little too much, starts shit wherever she goes. Santino named her his heir. No one is allowed to see him on her orders.”

Winston has to bite back a small smile. Perfect.

The Adjudicator stands completely still, their stare hard while they process the new information.

The manager hangs back, not saying a word, watching the silent face-off with vague amusement. He has to admit that at least the Devil doesn’t lack nerve. The other three don’t appear nearly as intimidated as they should be, either.

Adjudicators are feared for a reason. They have a vast reserve of power bestowed upon them by the highest tiers of the Table. Adjudicators stand even above Continental managers. Something Winston has been rather unpleasantly reminded of with Johnathan’s latest actions.

“The will of the Table stands above the individual order of someone who has been made Excommunicado.”

Mild but icy. Clearly, the not-so-subtle defiance from the Devil of Camorra hasn’t gone down well, either. Behind the tall man, the other two shift in their spots, tense. An exaggerated sigh sounds from behind them, and the chameleon rises to his feet as well. Cracking his neck, he strolls towards his associates, leaning his shoulder against the sharpshooter. The other man doesn’t so much as blink, clearly used to such antics.

“We answer to the will of the Camorra boss only,” Hector informs coolly, his tone just barely passing for polite. “We have since the beginning of Camorra family inception.”

We don’t answer to you, goes unsaid but the double meaning is clear. Winston straightens, a touch surprised. He wasn’t aware that such a divide existed between the highest tier of Camorra members and a top level High Table representative. He wonders if it’s more so the threat to their boss—the last D’Antonio left to carry the bloodline that founded Camorra centuries ago—or simple dislike that is driving such blatant disobedience.

The manager sincerely doubts that this refusal to comply is born out of genuine loyalty towards you or respect for your command. Especially from the Devil who holds no loyalties other than one towards Camorra.

The Adjudicator’s head dips, their short black hair appearing even darker in the bright light.

“There are rules. You are not above them,” they speak briskly, softly. “No one is above them. You are all bound to the will of the Table and exist under it.”

Another obnoxiously loud pop of the gum and the youngest of the Elite’s grins. “Actually we’re part of the Table,” he notes nonchalantly, but there is something icy about the slight edge to his grin. Distantly, Winston recalls you telling him that from all the Elites, it’s the chameleon you won’t want as your enemy the most. “Take one leg out and the whole table wobbles.”

The silence that follows those words is stifling. No one speaks or moves.

“No rules have been broken,” Hector eventually bites out, blunt but controlled. “We’re just guarding our boss. Shouldn’t you be commending our loyalty, huh?”

An unexpected bait but not one the Adjudicator rises to. Their expression remains steely, their eyes dragging over the Camorra Four before they finally turn away.

“Very well,” they intone flatly, their eyes narrowing marginally, and their tone dismissive. “Next time I will return with a direct order to stand down.”

“You do that,” the Devil shoots back without missing a beat.

The Adjudicator pauses, their eyes flickering back towards the man, digging into him for a moment before their attention drops away. Winston remains composed when the Adjudicator’s stare moves to him next, cold as ice, an unspoken burn of anger present in their eyes. Clearly, they’re not very used to not being heeded.

“I will be in my room.”

The Adjudicator doesn’t stick around to see if anyone has anything to say about that. They turn to go without sparing anyone another word, their steps brisk and sharp, betraying the displeasure absent from their frosty expression.

It’s quiet while they all stand, listening to the sound of retreating footsteps and, eventually, the whirl of the elevator going up.

It’s only then that the Elites relax, their guarded demeanours easing a bit.

“So mean spirited,” the chameleon mutters under his breath, unimpressed, and turns to go back to his laptop. “Exhausting.”

“Gentlemen.”

Winston nods his head at the Devil specifically, but Hector only grunts under his breath with a roll of his eyes. Briefly, he glances at Charon, his eyes narrowing before he turns away and stalks back to his previous spot.

Conversation over.

Fine by him.

The other two—the sharpshooter and the strength—return his nod, polite but stiff.

Winston tips his head in their direction one last time, and turns on his heels to go. No one stops him, and Charon trails after the manager a few seconds later.

It’s only when they both step into the elevator, the door closing softly behind them, that Charon finally speaks, “Nicely done, sir.”

Winston sighs, his shoulders dropping.

“It’s only a temporary deterrent, I’m afraid,” he admits and knows he’s right. If the Adjudicator does get that order the Four will not be enough. “The hatchling?”

The concierge straightens, his hands folded behind his back.

“The last sighting was reported as the Moroccan Continental, sir.”

There is a tickle of relief followed by a sting of concern. “Good. Then she as good as made it.”

He’s still not quite sure how he feels about the idea, however.

“If I may, sir,” Charon begins as if sensing the manager’s unease. “You do not look pleased about that.”

There is no point in trying to deny it, so Winston doesn’t.

“Not at all,” he agrees smoothly, feeling the elevator halt and the concierge moves ahead, opening the partition for them. “If it had been up to me, she never would have had to go back there. But she’s been reckless and manoeuvred herself into a corner with only one ace left to play. Herself.”

Seven years in this world. Seven long years of fighting for freedom and now there is a reputation that has been built upon that desperation. A reputation that has attracted all sorts of attention over the years.

Charon both looks and sounds troubled while they walk through the lobby. “Is there a reason for concern, sir?”

All these moving pieces forming an ever-shifting pattern. Something has been brewing for a while now. Winston can’t help but feel like he’s missing and not seeing something crucial. Like all those pieces are put together at a slightly wrong angle, disorientating the whole picture.

What will you do now, little hatchling?

The Elder. That history between you, that story you shared—they all weigh heavily on the manager’s mind. Always have.

He comes to a gradual stop.

“Oh, yes,” he mutters, pensive, shaking his head as he glances at the concierge beside him with open unease. “Most certainly.”

Every breath takes notable effort.

Your instincts pinprick, trying to acclimate to the too-familiar surroundings—count and anticipate any potential threats. Everything about being back here feels so familiar it is its own kind of torture.

Your skin itches. One side of your face and hands—everywhere the scorching sun has managed to touch you the most—stretches uncomfortably with every twitch of your muscles. It’s a discomfort that comes with sunburns often earned in an unforgiving terrain like the desert, and you try to lick your dry lips, lifting your head. Your vision swims immediately, an explosion of vivid spots blinding you, and you careen dangerously to one side, hissing under your breath.

Eyes track every jerk of your body, and you know full well you’re not alone in this tent.

You’re almost afraid to look at him. Then feel idiotic for feeling that way. Maybe it’s because you had hoped that this chapter of your life was shut and laid to rest long ago, and it’s a hard pill to swallow, knowing that he was right after all.

“Drink.”

It’s then that you notice a cup sitting on a small, wooden table to the side. Part of you wants to cackle till you choke when you realise it’s the same green cup you drank from during your first test with him years ago.

Gathering yourself, you reach for the cup despite your dread, your digits folding around it carefully.

The drink inside smells minty and fresh but you don’t find anything amiss with it on the first inspection. A vague recollection of a similar scent tickling your senses when you were coming in and out of consciousness comes crawling back. With that in mind, you finally tip the cup down, taking a purposeful sip.

It empties in three slow gulps and you lower it back onto the table, still silent. It does make you feel better instantly, lifting the dense fog that was previously crushing your mind. A sense of déjà vu nips at your senses but you push it back. Not much point in delaying this. Though it doesn’t surprise you that he gave you time to gather yourself.

Kindness with this man, you have long since learned, comes in the smallest of gestures. Tiniest of moments.

Drawing your knees closer, you sit up slowly, your head lowered.

“Why have you come?”

His words send a shiver down your spine that has little to do with heat. You’ve forgotten how much quiet power always rings through his baritone. His smooth, accented words wash over you like a tidal wave; gentle as they are dangerous. Misleading with their softness.

Swallowing, you force your limbs to obey you—to shift the worn muscles into an appropriate position. One knee digs into the carpet beneath you, your hands lacing over your bent thigh when you reposition yourself into a kneeling position. Your head is still lowered and you realise, then, that it isn’t fear of punishment that’s forcing you to stare at the ground.

It’s him.

He once managed to get under your guard with startling ease and you scrubbed him away. Walked away from him and everything he offered. Tried to forget him despite the cracks. Your choice had made you feel powerful back then. In control. Despite there being a part of you that had longed to stay, you never quite regretted your decision to leave.

Worst, perhaps, is the knowledge that it wasn’t one-sided. You weren’t foolishly pining after the most powerful man in the world. You weren’t naively seeing something that didn’t exist. If anything, his interest in you had been more obvious from the start.

“I—” you mumble, near choking on your suddenly heavy tongue and mangled thoughts. “I came to seek repentance for my actions.”

Silence follows your muffled words and you stare at the ruby ring on your hand intently.

Will he turn you away? Consider you naive and foolish for hoping there’s some semblance of hope?

And where is John? Did he only pick you up and not him? Your weapons—what few you still have—are still on you because you can feel them against your body with every inhale and exhale.

Your empty stomach rolls and you have to bite back the acid welling at the back of your throat the longer you wait. The thrumming of your own heart almost drowns out his voice when the answer does finally come.

“Stand, viper,” the Elder states calmly. “You do not grovel at my feet.”

And just like that your breaths calm. Your dread ebbs like sea waves receding. With his words, you remember that you met as equals and parted as such despite you unearthing his true identity.

He’s right. You don’t grovel at his feet. Or anyone’s.

You stand at once, balancing on your heels, and square your shoulders. The lock of your jaw is a firm one, your stare steady and the steel in your stance returns easily. In that, it feels like no time has passed at all.

Straightening, you look ahead and meet his inquisitive stare evenly.

This time the sight that greets you is befitting the man who rules the High Table. This is how you had expected him to be the first time you met. A golden chair that reminds you more of a throne, and extravagant robes that breathe wealth and showcase his status. Surrounded by his people in a subtle warning though you know he can more than hold his own.

He oozes that unnerving authority but his face is still familiar. Few years have passed since you’ve last seen him, yet he barely looks any different. If it weren’t for several new lines creasing his face, you would have thought that time has simply paused here while you’ve been gone.

The quiet intensity of his heated regard hasn’t changed, either. Nor has the unease or the thrill that comes with having his complete attention on you.

He watches you unblinkingly and you find yourself swallowing again, an immovable knot sitting in your throat.

“Here you are.”

It’s a soft, thoughtful statement and you’re not quite sure what to make of his words or his demeanour, so you settle on a simple, “Here I am.”

He stands at that, his robes rustling in the wake of his sudden movement. His steps are measured and leisurely as he approaches. The Elder’s stare takes every inch of you in and you don’t lower your eyes. He doesn’t look particularly pleased with what he finds and you can’t help but wonder why.

It still kills a small part of you. That you had to come back but only because you need a favour from him. Not because you returned to join him or even visit him, if you even could.

A part of you…

“I thought that maybe…” you mutter when he halts before you—all heat, spice, and that razor-sharp gaze that seems to burn into you—his hands lacing in front of him as he watches you keenly. “That maybe you forgot about me.”

It’s been years after all. You’re just you. One person in a machine so much larger than yourself. If Elder considered Tarasov to be nothing more than a piece in a more elaborate game years ago—at the near height of his power—then you couldn’t have possibly been that important. Or even noteworthy. He might have thought highly of you once but that was then.

His expression, however, gives you an answer before he can verbally do so.

“How could I?” he questions curiously, softly. As if the concept of forgetting you is truly an inconceivable one for him.

You work your tongue, trying to think of something to say, something clever, but nothing comes.

You simply stare up at him mutely, taking him in, and he you, and it does indeed feel like no time has passed between you. Even though so much is different now.

“I almost came back. Once,” you confess in a breathless rush, blinking rapidly because it’s hard to keep a straight expression under that scrutiny. “I got desperate and angry and…”

And Tarasov won’t let you help Camorra with the Albanians. Had treated you like nothing more than a dog, reminding you of your place. Dependant on his goodwill of which he had none. So you had ran like a reckless idiot. Sick and tired of being dependent on his word. Hoping for his mercy or any crumb of kindness.

“I know,” he murmurs in reply, a secret for you alone. “I waited for you.”

Air escapes your lungs at that mild admittance. At the way his eyes drag over your features, savouring but still guarded—always guarded. Everywhere from your eyes, to the dip of your collarbone, and the bow of your lips. There are others scattered around the tent but it feels like you’re the only ones here.

The golden hue of his eyes glints with knowing light at your reaction, and you force your tongue to work, “I wish to explain myself.”

He nods his head once. Prompt as it is anticipatory. You imagine that to him this is all playing out exactly as he’d been expecting it to. You’re back but a part of you is mangled exactly like he predicted it would be. Vengeance has led you here. Tarasov may be dead but you have only dug yourself into a deeper hole.

“You came all this way,” he says knowingly, his head slanting and lips thinning into an enigmatic half-smile. “Speak freely, viper.”

Your eyes, in return, sweep warily over others inside the tent. Some familiar faces. Others are unknown to you. Only pointed stares and blank expressions greet your curiosity. Inscrutable, severe stares that judge your every move and word. Saad is nowhere to be seen. That surprises you but you don’t let it show.

The Elder notes your wariness, not bothering to look away from you when he commands a soft, “Leave us.”

As one, everyone inside the tent rises. They don’t question, nor do they linger. They file out in a neat line, their robes rustling in the breeze, and you stare after them, surprised. You didn’t expect him to dismiss everyone solely because you felt uneasy talking to him with others around. Although seeing the space clear out is, admittedly, a relief.

Now it’s you two alone and it changes the air between you again. This puts you back in time, even if you try to remain unaffected.

But it’s hard not to. A part of you still sees him as Rafik. A man you have spent endless hours talking to about everything and nothing—a man you considered close to you—despite knowing full well that Rafik isn’t even his real name. In fact, you have no idea what his name is. Or who he is. Not really. He’s still just layers upon layers of mystery. Power. Ancient and tangible.

The way he gazes at you makes you think that isn’t the case, however. There is warmth woven into his regard, an almost fondness that despite being muted is clear to you.

The darkness of that stare is arresting when he reaches out, the warmth of his fingertips ghosting over your bandaged ear. You don’t hold back your wince of pain, pulling away from the contact.

The Elder’s mouth slants downwards at that, his eyes narrowing marginally. He looks thoughtful, displeased almost. The shadow across his expression is new to you. You’ve seen him as many things but tense and unhappy is not one of them.

“What have they done to you?”

It’s a quiet question—a collection of sharp, hard syllables—dragging themselves from somewhere deeper, you can tell.

Your lips part, ready to tell him everything but you stop yourself at once. How would he even look at you if you knew what you did? There would be no chance of forgiveness then. If he knew how badly you broke the very rules he enforces upon everyone in their world repeatedly.

With that in mind, you instead settle on a weak, “Guess you were right.”

Do not let that fire consume you.

He was right. He was always going to be right, you were just too blind and proud to admit it.

His expression strains, his touch dropping away, and a glint catches your eye when his hand lowers. You feel a thud against your ribcage, and focus on that golden skin, barely breathing to a point his next words hardly register.

“This is not something I wished to be right about,” he says unhappily.

You swallow. Then again.

“You’re wearing it.”

He pauses. It doesn’t take long for him to figure out what you mean by that. The pad of his index finger brushes over the ring he’s wearing absentmindedly. The golden plate seems to gleam at the touch despite neither of you standing in direct sunlight.

“It was a gift,” he says gently in return, his features guarded once more. “A parting gift from you.”

It doesn’t explain much yet it explains everything.

On your last day together, when you visited Casablanca together, you had gotten it for him after arguing Saad out of some local currency under the guise of buying something for yourself. A souvenir as far as he knew back then. But the ring had caught your eye first. Handmade ring crafted out of pale golden metal. It reminded you of the sun that is his presence and the endless stretches of sand surrounding you.

Grinning, and more than a little unsure, you had presented it to him when you sat on the beach together, calling it a thank you present because you hadn’t worked up the courage to talk to him about leaving just yet. He had accepted it readily, his fingers lingering against yours when he took it, and even back then you couldn’t quite describe the emotion you glimpsed across his face.

You hadn’t dared to assume it was wonder back then, but it had been a close thing.

You certainly didn’t expect him to keep it after you left.

Or to still be wearing it after all these years. But maybe you’re jumping to conclusions and he’s only wearing it today. Specifically for this.

The silence between you changes yet again, morphing. Something more charged. Near oppressive.

Nerves flutter inside your tired body and you allow a soft wisp of breath to escape you, thinking of something to break the tension with.

“Where is John?” you question quietly, your voice thick.

His jaw ticks, and he looks away, staring out towards the horizon.

“Mr Wick is safe,” he answers coolly. “Do not fret for him. He will answer for his wrongdoings in due time.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

The Elder turns to face you again, and it unnerves you because he keeps slipping between the man you lived with for months, and the man who controls the High Table. One is close to you, familiar. The other feels removed, walled off. No longer a sun but a cold, distant star. Unreachable to you.

His expression softens a touch when he notices your startled expression.

“Mr Wick has returned only to unleash havoc,” he informs you calmly, matter of factly. He doesn’t sound or look angry or even displeased, yet something about the piercing gleam in his eyes makes you think that it will not be a confrontation without consequences. “His punishment will reflect that. He made the decisions that led him here,” he fades off, pausing, his stare flickering over your features once more. “As have you,” he adds.

“I’m sorry,” you force out, shaking your head, cringing slightly at the pain that flares through your skin at that. “They’re both important to me and—”

“I am not speaking about Santino D’Antonio getting shot, viper.”

Your head snaps up, your features slacking with confusion. “Then what...”

The Elder lifts his hand, his attention focusing on the ring on his finger instead. He seems to struggle with something internally before sighing softly and dragging his stare away from you once more. You wonder why. It’s almost as if it’s difficult for him to look at you.

“Do not tell me you were so quick to forget my warning to you,” he begins calmly, something aloof lingering in his voice. He walks past you, his fingertips tapping on his ring repeatedly. Your own fingers tighten into a fist when you note the shift in him, the Camorra ring pressing into your skin as a bleak reminder. Your eyes follow him as he goes, watching his broad back when he stops at the edge of the tent, looking out towards the vastness of the desert. “I told you what will happen if anything befalls Viggo Tarasov before your debt is repaid.”

Ice pierces you, burrowing under your skin viciously, and you’re glad that he can’t see your face because for a second your expression comes apart completely.

“I did not—”

“Do you really think I know you so little that lying to me would work?”

Your mouth snaps shut, a bitter tang stinging the inside of your mouth. He’s right. You feel as disappointed in yourself as he sounds. You’ve always prided yourself on being forward and direct. Yet your instinct now had been to lie, to deny, because the idea of him knowing terrifies you.

Because it puts you in so much worse of a position than what you first expected to be in.

How? Why would he even think—

The High Table would have—

“I know why you came here,” he says, at last, turning to face you again. His expression is grim and he watches you closely as he strolls closer. Despite his leisurely gait, his stare is searing. “You came in hopes that I would lift the Excommunicado. You came in hopes that you can clear your name. But your crimes run deeper than you are willing to admit to me.”

“I’ve disappointed you,” you assume blankly. “Is that it?”

He shakes his head once. “No, viper,” he responds placidly, his eyebrows knitting. “You have disappointed yourself. You are so much better than this. Yet your recklessness has led you to this. Did you really think that I would not find out?”

He comes to a stop before you again and you meet his stare.

There is no point in lying, so you don’t.

“If you knew,” you start, choked, forcing down your emotions as you search his face, and try to quieten the pounding of your heart. “Then why was I not declared Excommunicado sooner?”

A long beat of suffocating silence, and then, “Because I shielded you.”

He says it so simply. Like it’s as expected as the sun rising each morning. A faint knell of wind chimes fills the hush between you this time, and you peer at him in disbelief. Shock.

“What?” you exhale shakily.

The Elder shakes his head once, sighing. “I gave you a chance in hopes that you will take it and savour your new freedom,” he explains smoothly, his fingertips still dancing over the ring. His strong profile only accents his handsomeness and you see the conflict there—see the shadows dancing inside the inky pools that are his eyes. “I overlooked your wrongdoing. Because I understood your pain then as I do now. I cautioned the Table to look the other way. But what did you do with this gift, viper? You wasted it. And there is nothing to be done now. Even I cannot shield you from the storm that has been unleashed. The scale has been tipped towards chaos now. You broke the rules in the open, for the whole world to see,” he continues, each word making your heart beat harder inside your chest, his attention returning to you, “And now here you are.”

So that’s why.

Why there was such a long pause between Tarasov’s death and administration contacting you about you being free of your debt. The silence that made you so uneasy back then. The High Table had been suspicious, had assumed you played a part, but the Elder pulled their attention away from you.

Years later, he’s still looking out for you.

You’re too speechless to say much past gaping at him; a thousand thoughts fluttering through your mind, all of them wild and hurtful.

Your attention falls to the carpet beneath your feet, and stays there for some time while you digest what this means.

He knows. He’s known for weeks now.

Just like that the already shaky foundation beneath your feet slips further.

Helplessness closes in and your eyes sting.

Consequences. Everything has a price and it was foolish of you to assume that your luck will continue. You’ve been too quick to celebrate and now...

“What now?”

A whisper of material sounds in your ears and the heat of his palm comes to rest against one side of your face. You feel that warmth sink deep into your skin and it burns. Both a physical ache and something deeper. Your eyes open as he guides your face upwards for him to see.

You lean on the side of caution and say nothing, waiting for him to speak first.

“Now, my viper,” he whispers, a touch forlorn. “You face the consequences of your actions.”

Forcing down your fear, you give him a firm, unyielding, “If you’re going to kill me, at least make it quick.”

His palm pulls back but not all the way. His knuckles trace over the curve of your cheek—so faint you barely register the sensation. “I would never kill you.”

“But?”

He seems to be considering something hard, his regard in a constant flux between warring emotions, “But you cannot be seen as walking away without punishment after what’s happened. It is the way of things,” he finally concludes.

You pull away from his touch, your eyes burning, “So be it,” you mutter, shaky and forcefully casual. “But I don’t regret stepping in. I don’t regret any of it. I would do it all again.”

Even if it meant the pain and the heartache. Sleepless nights and blood.

Because at least they’re all alive. Even if this is the sacrifice for that victory.

You saved them, and you would never regret that.

“Is this love?”

Your attention snaps back to him at the gentle murmur of his question. There is little distance between you—to a point you can feel the heat of his broad build and the phantom sensation of his exhales against your skin.

He didn’t specify who the love is for.

Deep down, you know it’s not so simple to untangle who means what to you anymore. It’s a mess of different emotions and loyalties. Everyone in your life that has made themselves a place in it, you love fiercely. Even if they’re all different kinds of love. All you know—all you need to know—is that you would gladly stand here for any of them. Punishment and consequences be damned.

“Yes.”

You’re not sure why you expect him to be irritated, perhaps even disappointed in your answer, but he only seems to consider your words for a while.

Fierce desert heat rolls across your skin while you wait for a response but he seems to be in no rush to provide you with one. His lips part, his head lowering and he makes a small sound at the back of his throat; half-disbelieving, and half-thoughtful.

“How odd,” he muses faintly, his features drawing into something desolate. “I do not quite recall the last time I felt envy.”

Your eyes flutter shut, trying to push his words and the emotion in them away. He means that genuinely, and you know that. You’ve lived with him for months and have seen a great many sides to him. That loneliness—that drive to be something more, to be understood by someone else—is what drew you together in the first place. Bonded you as deeply as it did.

Despite the nip of sadness you feel for him, you don’t contradict him—don’t say anything at all, in fact.

“What is it that you want from me?”

The Elder appears lost in his head for a while before he finally responds, “You already know, viper,” he says in a knowing murmur. “Otherwise you would not look at me with such sadness in your eyes.”

“You want me to stay.”

“Yes,” he agrees with a slight nod, his previous melancholy receding, and his guard slipping back on. “It is the only way that your life can be spared. Your service to the High Table will be used to absolve you of your crimes.”

You can’t quite help the bitter, brief laugh that slips free from you. “And is love a crime? I’m being punished for caring. For wanting to keep my family safe.”

He doesn’t say anything but you can guess what he’s thinking.

You broke the rules. Killed Tarasov. Interfered when you could have killed John and proven your loyalty to the High Table. Rules apply to all—no exceptions.

You don’t want to think about what would be the outcome if he knew about Chicago as well. Then, you conclude numbly, even his favour won’t save you from death.

“For how long?”

The Elder doesn’t reply. You already know, his expression seems to say though, and your composure fractures. Sucking in a deep breath, you chew on your inner cheek, half-turning away from him.

Because of course you know.

“For life,” you choke out.

“Yes,” he agrees, his voice gentle. “You will become my fourth disciple, and my apprentice, working directly under me,” he explains carefully, watching you just as closely, and you fight to keep a straight expression. “I am sorry, (Name), I wish there had been another way. But we are each masters of our own fate. You gave this life a chance once before and you embraced it effortlessly.”

You know that. You know that compared to what could have happened, this is a mercy. He will treat you fairly, kindly, and you’ve almost made this place, his people, your new life once before. If anything, on the surface alone, this is more of a gift than a punishment, especially with the amount of power you will gain by joining him.

And yet.

This also means that you will rarely, if ever, see your friends and family again.

Everyone you love and care for will be removed from you. People who join the Elder don’t go back to their old lives. Service to the High Table becomes their new life. The tribe, their new family.

No Winston or Charon. Santino or John. No Ares or the Elites. No Sofia or Cassian.

Just no one.

The tear you feel in your heart at that thought nearly makes you choke on a sob. For all the physical agony you’ve been through in these last several weeks, this somehow hurts the most. The notion that you will never see them again, will never get to touch them or laugh with them, is agonising. Somehow it hurts even more than the realisation that you will be bound yet again, unable to be free, unable to live for yourself just like you always dreamt of.

A hand reaches for you but you stumble back a step, still not looking at him.

“You will not be my prisoner, viper,” he tells you seriously. “I would never take that from you. But you—”

“Can never see them again, is that it?” you cut him off sharply.

You know he’s not used to being spoken to like that. You doubt anyone has even tried but when you lift your eyes to his, you notice how his own features smoothen in response to what he sees on your face. The grief and the pain. The raw, suffocating grip of it shackling you and dragging you down, down, down—

He doesn’t deny your words, however, and that’s answer enough.

“I know this is hard,” he says instead, and you think that sympathy you spy in his dark eyes is genuine, well-meant. “But I warned you where this path will lead you. You did not listen.”

It doesn’t help though.

God, it hurts so much. This is somehow worse than when John left. Worse even, is the fact that you have no one to blame. Not even the Elder. You did this yourself. Went into this fully knowing there is a chance it will all blow up in your face.

“Can I at least...say goodbye?” you wonder, your words thin, and inhale deeply despite the dry, hot air giving you little relief. “Spend some time with them before I leave?”

The Elder hesitates. “A week.”

You shake your head, stepping closer towards him. “Six months.”

His head slants; a colder, more authoritative motion. “Are you bargaining with me, viper?”

There is no hesitation in your reply, not this time, “Yes.”

“And what bargaining power do you have?”

It’s a curious question as opposed to condescending. Almost as if he’s trying to gauge how you will react, and you force your emotions back, licking your lips once. Your thumb smoothes against the inside of the metal band on your hand.

“I’m the acting boss of Camorra,” you remind him, straightening your shoulders once more despite the way you can feel your pulse fluttering against the base of your neck. You’re not sure if it betrays you but you certainly don’t let it show. “And I would respectfully ask that you give me six months. It will not change anything in the long run.”

The Elder’s attention drifts towards your hand, and he closes whatever little distance there is between you, reaching for it. You tense despite yourself when he carefully takes your clenched fist into his palm and lifts it between you. His thumb traces over your bruised knuckle—a tender, careful touch as if not to hurt you further—and a pensive hum slips free as he stares at the ring on your hand.

“You wear power beautifully,” he comments idly, and you have to hold back a shiver at the feeling of his thumb continuously journeying over your skin; nothing more than a tickle, a promise of warmth. The touch hurts as much as it soothes. “Three months. Offered to you only because you dare where others don’t. Because I am not unreasonable and while this is a punishment, I do not wish to see you unhappy.”

Too late for that nearly escapes you but you bite your tongue.

Three months. Just three. It will pass in a blink and then…

A lifetime away from everything you love, everything that is home and safety. Everything that’s important to you.

“May...may I have a moment?” you request weakly. “Just to…”

He releases his grip on your hand and it falls to your side heavily. “Of course,” he voices graciously. “I will be back shortly but take the time you need.”

He steps past you once more but this time he heads towards the direction other men had left in earlier. He doesn’t pause and he doesn’t turn back to look at you, his gait slow but self-assured. You wait till his broad back disappears from your sight before you feel your expression crumble completely.

Pressing a hand against your face, you ignore the flare of pain where you dig too hard into your sunburnt skin. Instead, you focus everything inside yourself on controlling your despair and tears. You can’t fall apart now. Not after how far you’ve come and all you’ve been through.

Shuddering breaths wheeze past your mouth and nose, your shoulders quivering. Better to allow yourself this weakness now, alone, than to let the Elder or anyone see this slip.

Your shaking hands drag themselves away from your face and mouth, and your palm pushes against your breastbone. Beneath the material of your jumpsuit and skin, your heart hammers inside your chest like a wild beast desperate to escape. So afraid of the chain once again.

But what can you do? There is no other option. No escape. Nowhere to run, and even if you did, such action would only paint a bigger target on people closest to you. The only thing you would do by running is reassuring their demise.

The heel of your palm presses harsher against your sternum, maybe in some naive hope that you can tear your own heart out and it would be—

Oh.

You still, an unsettling sort of hush falling over you when a dark, insidious whisper slithers into your mind after all. You keep your palm close against the curve of your breast and think.

What would Winston do if he were here right now?

There is only one option, really.

Just the one.

But your mind and instincts go to battle at once. One side arguing for it and other against it. If you succeed...but if you fail…

But what other choice is there? Servitude or death? No.

A frustrated sound tears from the back of your throat and you drop your hand, standing to your full height, your eyes squeezing shut.

No. No, you will not let this pass. You will no longer be controlled. You’ve had enough.

Fuck consequences. You will deal with them as they come. You shouldn’t be punished for killing the man who took everything from you in the first place. You should not be punished for saving someone you care for—for interfering.

Your blunt nails bite into your palms to a point of pain despite that resolve. Because digging through that determination and rage is fear. Very simple human fear but you bottle it and shove it deep down.

No time for that now.

Power is a dangerous thing. You have to be willing to lose everything in order to take it.

And that’s exactly it.

Lose everything.

Just like that your taut limbs relax, the pounding inside your head retreating and dulling into a muffled buzz. You step forward one slow step at the time before dropping heavily onto the very throne you woke up to find the Elder sitting on.

Your eyes flutter close and you mull over the new path you’re about to step on, bowing your head in acceptance. So much for dreams of freedom. Your fingers ghost over your collarbone again and you smile this time; a cold, broken fragment of a smile.

Eyes closed, you listen to the sounds of the desert for a while, calming yourself. Wind against silk and tapestries. Faintest of whooshes caused by wind teasing sand away from the outer surface of dunes surrounding the camp. Sandorms, at least, you have not missed.

Deep down you can’t help but think that you always knew how this was going to end.

People like us don’t get happy endings.

You ignore the ache inside your chest at the memory of Santino’s face, focusing instead on clearing your mind.

It takes at least another ten minutes before muted footsteps sound from ahead of you. You don’t lift your head at his approach, your arms hanging limp between your parted legs.

He pauses when he sees you. You suppose it’s rude, what you’re doing, sitting on his throne like it’s your own.

This time, you’re the one to tilt your head to one side, looking up at him from under your lashes.

The Elder doesn’t appear angry at your nerve to sit on his throne though. No rigidness to be found in his expression or slanting of his full mouth, not even a pinching of his brows; all telltale signs of his discontent usually. In fact, his eyes drag over your figure, lingering everywhere despite the distance.

For a man who doesn’t let others close, rarely lets his guard down in general, his appreciation—dare you say it, desire—is abundantly clear.

Jaw clamped tightly shut, you rise to your feet unhurriedly. Far steadier than you expected yourself to be capable of, and he steps closer towards you as well. Slow, bordering on cautious, and you wonder why. It’s like he’s afraid to blink lest you disappear.

But maybe that’s precisely it. Maybe he’s been hoping to walk into this tent and find you here every day since you’ve been gone. And now that you are here, he’s not quite sure what to do.

“How are you feeling?” he asks curiously, his accented words warming you like the setting sun, and you wonder what it may feel like to hear that voice for the rest of your life.

No turning back now.

Swallowing thickly, you ignore the pulsing numbness locking your throat, and wait for him to halt in front of you before you speak.

“I accept.”

A light sparks in his eyes—something burning and near living in its intensity, an emotion you have only glimpsed once before—as they roam over your features in search of an answer to a question he hasn’t asked.

“Three months,” you begin purposely, rushing your words out in a breathless whisper. He’s so close there’s hardly any distance between you at all—no room to turn away nor do you want to. The turquoise of his turban only seems to bring out the beauty of his dark eyes and golden skin. Draw you closer. He, too, hardly seems to be breathing while he listens to your words intently. “Then I come back here. To you. And stay. I will give this a chance but I can’t promise that it...will not be hard. In return…”

“The Excommunicado will be lifted upon your return to New York,” he reassures, still searching for something in your expression. “You have my word.”

His eyes lower and he breathes another sigh in a rare show of uncertainty.

“What is it?” you can’t help but wonder, confused.

“What proof do I have that you will uphold your word, viper?” he questions mildly, his probing stare digging into you. That challenging, clever stare that first got the warning bells ringing inside your head that this is not a man to be trifled with. “What will you give me in a show of fealty?”

You don’t say anything, peering up at him silently.

Seeing that, the Elder’s eyes slide towards your bare neck, and stop there. A second later, his strong fingers trace over the curve of the silver chain around your neck—

“No,” you choke out desperately, your hand snapping up to grip his own when his fingers slip around the metal. “Please, it’s not mine to give away.”

It’s Santino’s. When he gave it to you, over a year ago now, he asked to guard it for him, keep it safe. Even then, you knew it meant more to him than he would ever admit outright. You’re not quite sure where it comes from or who it belongs to but you have a strong inkling, and the idea of giving it away makes you feel sick to your stomach.

The Elder hesitates at your fragile plea, your eyes locking again, and fingers touching. “Yet it is important to you.”

More than he knows and certainly more than even you realised.

Here, now, faced with the prospect of losing it makes you think that you can’t live without it. That you need it or you will feel aimless and lost forever. It became an anchor slowly, with time, but now you value it above most things.

That realisation leaves you trembling before you conjure up some semblance of composure back.

“Please,” you plead again, soft and frayed. “Not this. I can give you something else. Something more.”

He doesn’t hide his palpable confusion, and that’s when you move closer, your fingers snaking up his neck as you lean forward and kiss him.

His moment of hesitation lasts no more than a split second before he grabs you around the waist, hauling you closer and you slip your arms around him, kissing him as deeply as you can. Your mouth hurts from how hard you kiss him, fervent and demanding, and despite his initial falter, he replies with equal drive and need. Your tongue slips inside his mouth, wet and hot, and you don’t compromise and neither does he. One hand grips the back of his neck where your nails sink into the firm, strong skin there, scratching and claiming. Your other drags across the scruff of his jaw, forcing him closer. Not that you need to, he holds you so close, every curve of your body presses into him.

He fuses you two together, the accessories of his robes wedging painfully into your skin but it only fuels you more. His large, burning hand settles against the back of your neck, holding you to him. Biting back a snarl, you try to wiggle your way free but his fingers dig in. Firm, unyielding, steadying; forcing a small gasp from you despite your best effort to hold it back.

You let everything flow outwards, biting down on his bottom lip greedily, and he groans loudly at the back of his throat—a deep, appreciative sound—that almost makes you purr in delight. All that control, all those guards, and you tore through them like tissue paper.

The taste of him mingles on your tongue, his nose nudging against your cheek when he deepens the kiss again, exploring and searching but with such desperation, it’s like he’s trying to drown himself in the kiss. In you.

Your lips tingle and feel partially numb by the time you finally part, breathing hard. Heat creeps up your neck and simmers in your gut while you continue holding onto him. The chain around your neck lays forgotten, both of the Elder’s arms locked firmly around you instead.

Perhaps this is a kiss you should have shared years ago. That night by the fire you came dangerously close to taking this path. Claiming a lot more than just a kiss from him when he outright admitted that he would have made you his. A kiss that could have started something beautiful. It’s tainted now by the uncertainty of your shared future but you don’t point that out, only waiting for his reaction.

“Ya amar,” he breathes near reverent, his voice throaty, and gaze wild. He tries to leash his desire but you can still taste it, and with how thoroughly you kissed him, you have no doubt that he can say the same for you. “Why?”

“This is what you want,” you tell him, hushed words that brush against his lips as intimately as your lips have moments prior. “It’s what you always wanted.”

He grips one side of your face, reminding you too much of someone you can’t afford to think of right now, and he shakes his head once.

“No,” he murmurs but the way he holds onto you betrays him as do his eyes that keep flickering back towards your lips. “What I always wanted was an equal,” he pauses for a beat, squinting at you like he’s taking you in with new eyes, like you’re a marvel to behold. “And you have become exactly that, haven’t you, my viper?”

Once you would have denied it, shielded away from saying anything on the matter. Once you simply won’t have believed it. But now there is nothing holding you back anymore.

In that freedom, you have unearthed a simple truth.

“Yes.”

His eyes flutter shut at your confirmation, and you hate the subtle glimmer of relief, even wonderment, you see creasing his expression. Like he’s waited his whole life for someone to say that.

“Three months,” he utters quietly like he doesn't want to disturb the moment. “Then you will return to me.”

“I always do.”

His grip on you constricts before loosening, lingering and reluctant to let go but he does eventually, his digits sliding away from the curve of your waist and neck.

You don’t bother asking how many rules you broke with this kiss.

You both got what you wanted.

“Your tent awaits you,” he prompts quietly, still drilling holes into you. “Rest before your journey, viper. We will see each other soon.”

You couldn’t run even if you wanted to or tried—neither of which you do. Too late for that now.

You dip your head in a small bow, but his fingers tap under your chin the moment you do, guiding your face upwards.

“Everyone but you.”

Then he pulls away, his thumb fluttering briefly over your bottom lip, and sits himself down on his throne, folding his arms and legs alike.

The perfect picture of a powerful, controlled ruler. Enigmatic and captivating.

Cruel as he is kind.

The Terrible Sultan, you can’t quite help your fleeting thought. Which makes you wonder if that, then, makes you his Golden Empress.

You don’t linger on that thought though, that connection that lives between you. Pivoting on your heels, you head towards the exit of the tent, feeling his eyes lingering on you the entire way.

Your mouth still burns but you ignore it.

Your expression slackens the moment your back is to him, coldness spreading through you as you step into the blazing desert sun.

E4 E5.

The roar inside your head is overpowering.

So much so that all you can do is sit slumped beside your old cot. You hadn’t quite made to it, instead half-collapsing beside it. Your folded knees partially obscure your sight as you stare blankly ahead but you can’t bring yourself to move.

Instead, you work on glueing together that controlled calm the very man you just talked with taught you.

Your mind doesn’t allow you rest though. Every wall of control and discipline you’ve ever learned from every influential person in your life dissolves in face of the blistering furnace that is your raging heart.

A collection of voices scream at you inside your head, and it takes a while to be able to comprehend what one singular voice that sounds suspiciously like Winston is demanding.

What have you done?

And all you can think in response to that is a tiny and uncertain, What I had to.

Lacing your fingers, you push them between your thighs, sucking in deep, near painful breaths.

You don’t have time for this. No time for self-pity. There’s…

There’s too much to do.

Yet all you want to do is sit here for the rest of your days and never move.

You lick your lips, wetting them, and feel another torrent of emotions batter against your self-control.

The taste of him is still in your mouth.

You haven’t kissed anyone on the lips in five years. Not since that night on your birthday when you kissed John. The last time you ever laid your mouth on someone else in general…

A comforting memory slips through the chaos; wispy and balmy, like an embrace. A memory of heat enveloping you, familiar cologne, and dark curly hair. Santino’s small, drunken smile when you pressed a kiss against his forehead, your fingers cupping his face.

The way he had held you to him around the waist, making you feel unfairly safe, cared for.

You never did tell Santino about his whispered words at Naples. What he confessed to you between the shadowed walls of his bedroom. Back then, a large part of you still refused to believe it—believe him. Had chalked it up to nothing more than a drunken moment of sentimentality. But that’s no longer the case. You know better than that now.

Three months will have to be enough to…

To say goodbye.

Clinging to that memory—and the understanding that you don’t have time to waste—you rise to your feet. For what feels like a thousandth time, teeth gritted and jaw set, you still stand despite the knock.

Your tent hasn’t changed much. Some things are in a different place to where you left them but the knowledge that it’s been waiting for you all this time is like a sledgehammer to the chest.

Soon, if things come to pass, it will be your home permanently.

You start with changing and washing up, followed by applying the salve you found in a small, ceramic pot onto your skin.

For the burns, the note left on your pillow beside the pot read. You didn’t need to ask questions about its origins. You know that penmanship as well as your own after spending endless months studying his research.

The Elder has once again thought of everything.

The salve is like a soothing, cool caress across your burned, dry skin and the relief is, once again, immediate. A part of you wonders if there will ever come a day when his genius doesn’t surprise and intrigue you.

Food is harder. Your stomach still churns, and despite your best attempts to quell the sensation of queasiness, it doesn’t pass.

You force some broth down despite that, chewing everything in front of you on automatic. Made with a loving hand and great care guarantees that the food is delicious yet you taste none of it.

It’s quiet.

The roar inside your mind has quietened.

Now everything feels cold and far away despite the heat dampening the back of your neck already. The shock has worn off, leaving only throbbing absence behind.

A commotion sounds outside your tent and your head snaps to the sound. A second later the flap parts and a familiar, dark spectre of a man walks inside, his eyes already locked onto you.

“John.”

You jump to your feet at the sight of him, moving towards him in hurried steps. Saad slinks inside behind John and you halt at the sight of his looming frame, your eyes narrowing. So that’s where he’s been. No doubt watching over the deadliest assassin alive to make sure he doesn’t cause problems.

John looks relieved to see you, his expression easing as he takes in your new attire. Previously severe contours of his features relax and his chin dips.

“V.”

He always manages to pack so much into so little. It’s like the acknowledgement alone asks a hundred questions.

Are you okay?

Are you hurt?

What happened?

Though you want to ask him those same questions yourself. He looks terrible. His treatment, clearly, while not awful has not been as hospitable as your own.

“Saad,” you address the man, nodding your head towards him. Much like the Elder, he hasn’t changed much. A new scar clips the left side of his chin but the rest of him remains the same. From his critical stare, crooked nose, and dark skin. “It’s good to see you again.”

He doesn’t smile and his expression doesn’t lighten at your words. You didn’t expect it to, either.

“Viper,” he says so bluntly you blink and even John inclines his body towards the man, peering at him from the corner of his eye. “Finally back where you belong.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“I’m going back to New York,” you inform him, jutting your chin. “So I’m afraid this is a brief visit only.”

Those pitch-black eyes study you for several moments and you can’t quite tell what’s going on behind those empty depths.

“You have ten minutes,” he states briskly, his voice still flat and accent gruff. “Then I am to escort Mr Wick to his transport. Your presence has been requested by the Elder before your departure.”

You straighten at that. John is much the same, his shoulders curving backwards. Those words are also when you notice that John is in a fresh, black suit.

“Is there a problem?” you pose coolly, but your old sparring partner only watches you both with palpable distrust.

He glares at you for a beat, still deadly silent, before turning away from you both. “Ten minutes,” he grunts, and then he’s gone, the flap swishing in his wake while you listen to his retreating footsteps.

“V, what happened?” John asks the moment Saad’s footsteps can no longer be heard. “He told me he saw you already.”

He. The Elder.

Dropping your head in a nod, you turn away from the man behind you, glancing briefly at your shaking fingers. You squeeze them painfully, pressing them against your chest instead, and focus.

I can do this.

“We came to an agreement,” you say swiftly, keeping your tone light, and glance at him over your shoulder. Your hand lowers from your chest at the look on his face. John looks confused. Unconvinced. “My Excommunicado will be lifted once I return to New York. You?”

You knew from the moment the deal was made that telling John would not be wise. You know the man inside this tent. His actions with Santino have proven to you that despite what you might say or do, it won’t change his mind. When it comes to push or shove, John will always shove. And he will shove with enough force to crush the opposition completely.

His reaction to learning that you have to go back in three months would only land him in deeper trouble. Usually, you would expect him to maintain his ironlike composure. Very little could ever move John in the first place, especially towards anything rash. But that desperate gleam in his eyes when he told you that he will make up for his mistakes keeps constantly jumping to mind.

You don’t trust John not to do something drastic right now.

He doesn’t respond to your inquiry at first. Which gives you plenty of time to notice the sheen of pain exuding from him. You slant your body back towards him when you do, and take several steps closer.

“What’s wrong?”

Still, he says nothing.

You’re about to demand answers but he simply lifts his hand in the air between you.

And you suck in a deep breath at the sight of his missing ring finger.

The void is glaring and the finger that was once home for a golden wedding band is gone. As is the ring.

“He wanted to see my conviction to the Table and told me to cut my finger in a show of fealty,” he explains lowly, his voice and expression worn. “I will be bound to it and remember through death after I complete my task. That was his will and my price to pay for survival.”

It’s so easy, you think in a dazed rush, to forget exactly what the Elder is capable of. He got the deadliest assassin in the world to mutilate himself as a punishment. You would wager he didn’t even threaten—he didn’t need to.

It makes you painfully aware of what could have happened to you if you didn’t have that history with him. If he didn’t look at you with all that hidden emotion. If you were just a girl who broke his rules. What would have become of you then? Would you have lost a finger as well? Your whole hand?

Would you have been just another casualty to be stomped out? Removed like a tumour because you didn’t abide.

Suddenly you feel sick all over again.

Suddenly all you want—

Your arms wrap around him and you squeeze the powerful frame of John’s body to you. He seems to deflate, unwind and soften, his arms wrapping tightly around you in return.

“I’m sorry.”

Because you’re still angry at him, still bitter about all he’s done, but you care about him despite that, and know how deeply this would have hurt. Physical injury aside, it’s the loss of his ring that would have stung the deepest.

John adores Helen still, loves her deeply.

It’s not something that can fade so easily despite death.

You felt panicked at the mere prospect of the Elder taking the silver chain around your neck. How did John feel having to lose his finger and his final sign of dedication to the woman he loves?

But, it seems, that you have both gotten what you had coming.

He, too, will be bound to the Table now. In a different way than you but bound all the same. This desperate, bloody fight to be free and you are both back exactly where you started.

John’s face presses into you, savouring the contact, and you release him after another minute. It isn’t just him that needed this.

“I have to tell you something,” he says the moment you pull back.

The morose curve of his mouth chills you at once. Comfort, however fleeting, has now left the air between you.

“What is it?”

“It’s...”

John stares at you for a while. An internal war rages behind his dark eyes and your confusion mounts at his hesitancy. Something is stuck behind his teeth and your stomach sinks the longer the battle goes on inside him.

“It’s about Cassian,” he eventually settles on.

Your brows draw together, caught off guard. Analysing his features closely, you wait to see if he will expand on that but as always John limits himself. He only peers at you but the regret you find lingering in the air around him unsettles you further.

“What about him?”

He still looks torn and reluctant when his lips part, “After we parted. He found me,” he says and your shoulders lift with your forceful inhale. Understanding blooms steadily with every word. “He wanted revenge. For Gianna.”

The air inside the tent is blistering but you feel it cool by several degrees at those words.

You had sworn an oath to Gianna that you will make sure her family name survives beyond her. Now you wear the very ring she and Santino have been struggling to earn their entire lives.

Even worse were Cassian’s parting words to you that still haunt you.

But if we ever meet again. I will kill you myself.

Your mentor and friend. A brother you would have loved to have had.

You could drill John about what happened while you were dealing with Lucien. You could accuse him of more wrongdoings and damage. Demand to know why he didn’t tell you sooner. Scorn him. Hate him.

But instead, you turn away, and let only one question slip free, the only one that matters, “Is he still alive?”

He answers you honestly.

“I don’t know.”

His voice is thick with muted remorse and you nod your head in acceptance of that honesty. You don’t say anything in return, still staring at your cot. Focus on the pattern of your old blanket.

You feel it bubbling in the air between you and speak up before he can.

“Don’t apologise,” you order but it’s empty of fury. You just sound weary. So very weary. “I understand. I just…”

Your eyes slip shut. He was only trying to keep himself alive. It’s just survival. But it still hurts. In that moment, the urge to give up is near overpowering. It digs deep between your shoulder blades and straight into your heart but you shake it off.

You’re not getting out of this. There’s no hope for you now. You know how this ends.

You almost recoil at Kishi’s voice filtering from the deepest recesses of your mind.

No. There’s still hope. That’s exactly why you can’t give up. Because there is still hope.

“Wish it didn’t have to be this way?”

John’s soft inquiry makes you flinch, snapping you to the present. Your eyes return to him and you examine him for a moment, digesting his words.

“Yes,” you mumble in agreement, your sadness no doubt palpable. “Yes, I do.”

John lowers his head, a few strands of his raven hair tickling his cheek when he does. “Do you ever wonder…”

He stares at the empty space where his finger should be, flexing the remaining ones experimentally. You wait for him to continue but can tell from one look that he’s lost in his head, thinking hard about something.

“Do I wonder what?”

John’s lips part, then press shut again. His breaths are haggard, slow.

“What might have happened had I never pushed you back? Never left.”

You’re not sure what to do with his curiosity. You’re not even sure how you feel about it.

“I used to. Often,” you admit after several minutes of thought. Because what do you have left to hide? Now, perhaps, you can be as open as you wish to be, say everything because it’s not like— “Then I realised there was no point to it because you weren’t coming back,” you tell him and chuckle weakly, adding an ironic, “We’re each masters of our own fate.”

Shuffling your feet, you venture closer towards him, and lift your face to his, taking his hand into your own. His knuckles, much like your own, are bruised and swollen. His are worse than yours, however, and with that in mind, you lead him towards your cot. You reach into the still open ointment pot and gather some, rubbing your fingers briefly to warm the salve.

Slowly, you drag your fingertips gently over his knuckles. It won’t be as effective as it is for burns but chamomile, echinacea and ginseng inside the salve should still help with healing and soothing the pain.

“You always had the right to choose, John,” you say quietly, frankly, as you work to apply the salve on his other hand as well. He’s so still you’re not sure if he’s breathing. “The right to happiness. I understand that now. It’s always been your right,” you continue, a touch sadder, and your eyes skip upwards to rest on his face. His stare is gentle, his mouth parted while he peers at you. “I’m just sorry that you had to lose it. But to answer your question. No. Not anymore. It’s been a long time. We’re different people now.”

You finish applying the salve and release your grip but his fingers tighten around yours before you can.

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” he says, his words hushed.

Your search his face again. Wonder what the future will hold for you both. “Yeah, maybe it is.”

A rustle sounds behind you and you turn just as Saad steps back into the tent, his features still rigid with displeasure.

“Come with me, Mr Wick,” he instructs sternly and inclines his head in your direction. “The Elder awaits you.”

Grounding your jaw, you offer the assassin beside you a calm, “I’ll see you back at the Continental.”

John turns back towards you. He doesn’t look particularly thrilled at your words, a question hanging in the air around him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you say, unfazed. You pat his arm once as you pass; an old, routine gesture you haven’t done in years. “Tell Winston to get my favourite ready. He’ll know the one.”

You brush past them both, chin slanted at a higher angle. It’s late afternoon by now with the sun starting to dip towards the dunes. The air is still sweltering despite that, and a robed man waiting outside the tent gestures mutely in the direction he wants you to head in.

You find the Elder at the edge of the camp, his presence a beacon that draws attention effortlessly.

You pause at the sight of him, your shoes sinking into the golden sand beneath. He stares out towards the desert like you’ve seen him do a thousand times, and you wonder if he’s thinking about what you asked him years ago. Another ordinary night by the fire over your shared meal.

Why not leave again? Why live in a desert?

It is my duty.

So you’re a prisoner of your own status? That seems lonely.

And with his gaze focused on the fire instead of you, he had given you a simple yet serene response, Not anymore.

Swallowing thickly, you stand there unmoving, watching him for a while. Something tells you that he’s as aware of you as you are of him.

Loneliness is not unfamiliar to you. It’s a close companion. Has been for years.

But you’ve found an escape. People to call your own. A sense of belonging.

He hasn’t.

“It is peaceful here,” he speaks up suddenly, startling you. “Even as a boy, I loved the desert despite its cruelty. I have grown up appreciating its deadly beauty. Have learned to respect it and admire it.”

“Nothing about death is beautiful.”

A brief chuckle flows through the air and he turns to face you, his expression open, his stare narrowed but inquisitive as always. His laced fingers rest against his chest.

“Your mind has been sorely missed, viper.”

The longing in those words brushes against your skin and mouth; an invisible kiss, an appreciation.

You imagine that will change one day soon.

Though it would be a lie to say that you, too, have not missed your discussions. The way you could submerge yourself in conversations with him completely. Lose yourself in his mind and the challenge he constantly posed.

“You wished to see me.”

Your words sound lifeless even to your own ears and his expression drops. He strolls closer while you stand rooted in your spot. Something is different about him now. He’s missing that edge he had when he saw you earlier. That desperation. Desire. Near darkness.

He’s more controlled now. At ease. Back to the man you knew. Earlier he gave into his desire freely, and you suspect it was only due to long years separating you.

“I’m tempted to come with you,” he divulges quietly, like sharing one more secret, and a shiver tears down your spine at those words. He pauses, exhaling, and twists his ring on his finger for seemingly a hundredth time. You didn’t realise earlier how habitual touching it had become for him. “But I do not wish to take this time away from you. So, ya amar, I present you with this.”

From between the folds of his extravagant robes materialises a golden dagger. Your breaths grow shaky before you force them back into a steady rhythm, lifting your eyes to his.

“It’s the same one,” you say weakly, your tone questioning. “From before.”

The Elder nods and holds out the dagger in the palm of his hand. It’s the same one he tried to give to you during your first stay here, after your sparring session.

Same stunning, elegant design laced with gold around the handle. Black sheath edged by crusted golden detail as well.

“Each of my disciples receives a weapon from me personally upon their initiation,” he tells you, his voice soft and melodic, always happy to sate your curiosity. “This one...is special to me,” his voice lowers, a glimmer passing through his eyes that’s gone too soon to decipher. “It is not official yet but I had hoped that one day it will serve you better than it has me.”

He waits for you to take it but you hesitate, staring at it. Your hand hovers over it, outlining the shape of it with your nail.

You can still taste him. Like he’s rooted himself inside you now.

“You told me that you understood me,” you begin cautiously, your voice equally as low. “Understood the vengeance that drove me. How?”

The Elder examines you closely. A pregnant pause stretches between you and you begin to think he will never respond before he finally reaches out. He grasps your hand in his, turning it till your palm faces the sky, and places the dagger deliberately into it. Watching you keenly, he carefully folds your fingers around it, not releasing your hand even when he’s done.

A faint whisper passes his full lips—and you recognise Darija even if you don’t understand it—but it strikes you as…sad. Plagued with some nameless darkness.

“One day,” he starts huskily, now in accented English, and you can’t quite read his expression or tone. But it’s some bizarre mix you’ve never seen before. A strain and a shadow all at once while he looks you over. “If you still wish it, I will tell you everything.”

The weight and the finality behind that word makes you shift, uneasy. You’re not sure if there will even be tomorrow—much less one day.

But before you can voice that, the Elder lifts your joined hands, pressing his mouth gingerly against your skin; a fleeting flutter that warms the flesh.

“Let this be a token of our shared promise to one another.”

He takes one last look at you, his dark gaze inscrutable, and then you’re left alone with only setting sun for company.

The dagger in your hand feels like an anchor, and you tip your head backwards, gazing up at the expanse of the sky above.

The subway doors hiss open and you lift your head, stepping out onto the platform with other passengers. You’ve spent the majority of the journey here staring at the soles of your shoes, your mind splintering in a thousand directions.

There’s too much to do with time so limited.

Your return to New York had been by air. The Elder’s decision, taking into consideration how you felt about water travel.

It’s funny how you didn’t even need to voice such a thing for him to understand it. For him to make sure that the journey back is as painless as possible.

You’re not sure how John travelled but he did leave first, meaning he should be back in New York already. Until you arrive at the Continental, however, you have no way of knowing for sure.

The fierceness with which you’ve missed your home makes your shoulders lock as you cut through the bustling crowd. It should be said that Grand Central is always busy and overflowing with noise. Today is no exception to that. But you’re still a person at the very top of the Wanted list, so you keep your eyes peeled.

Instinctually, you scan the flow of the crowd around you. Strain every sense. Employ everything you’ve learned from some of the best in this world.

Step by step, turn by turn, staircase by staircase.

This time, he doesn’t catch you off guard.

The mob of people flows around you like a coursing river, hiding you both as you jerk to a mutual stop.

The grip on your wrist is unyielding, painful. The sharpened metal between your fingers trembles under the strain of that grip, and your expression mangles with fury. Acidic, poisonous emotion bubbles up to the surface and you don’t bother hiding it.

The man before you smiles at that—a slight but lovely thing—every micro-expression laced with fine malice.

“Hello, Lucien.”

You stand close enough to be touching, his thin frame still managing to cover your own. Your jaw has become a rigid mass as you glare up at him with open hostility.

“There you are, snakey,” he hums pleasantly, his thin mouth transforming into a slow, chilling smile. You try to push the blade you’re holding into his gut but his numbing grip remains. “I’ve been waiting for you to return. Has he missed you much?”

A couple of friends pass right by you, laughing loudly, and you both jerk again; limbs locking and muscle straining further. Neither of you manages to gain more edge on the other though and Lucien’s smile stretches further.

“And I knew you would find me,” you snarl coldly, your eyes narrowing into slits. “I wanted you to find me.”

Knocking his knee with your own, you swipe another blade free and aim it at him. Lucien pushes himself into you in reply, wrapping his arm around yours and halting you in your tracks. The blade scratches against the sleeve of his black jacket, cutting into it, but it doesn’t break skin past that. He yanks you closer, your bodies pressing against each other. You’re both practically embracing. Your limbs a joined, trembling mass from the sheer friction between you.

It’s a deadlock and you’re too evenly matched.

You’ve been waiting for this chance. For the chance to return the slight that was taking you and wasting precious hours for you over a week ago. Now that you know Santino’s choice is you—that you could have avoided this whole mess in the first place had you just had enough time to talk with him—it only makes you more furious.

You’ve been waiting for Lucien to catch up with you.

This time, however, he’s not the hunter, catching unsuspecting prey.

Baring your teeth, you snarl, wrenching yourself back—

And freeze.

Lucien’s coat parts and this close up a blinking red light catches your eye. As does the beeping your ears hadn’t previously picked up with all the noise.

Lucien’s smile turns downright predatory.

“All these sweet little angels...” he remarks in a sing-song voice, pointedly looking around the crowd, his accent just a little more notable. “Ready to watch them all burn?”

A portable bomb.

You should have known.

There’s no doubt enough packed in it to blow half the building, if not more. He would likely delight in the idea of the carnage even he’s not alive to see it himself.

Your features creasing at that thought, you demand an incredulous, “You would kill yourself just to see me die?”

“I’m already dead,” he replies blankly, the tilt of his voice emotionless. “After all I’ve done, it’s not about survival anymore. It’s about me....and you. And one last dance between us.”

You’re not going to play his games. Despite the confusion his words birth, you only allow a chilly, tepid smile to grace your face. Mocking him openly.

“Then catch me if you can.”

You sweep your foot under his legs. Swift and brutal. Lucien doesn’t fall but he does stumble half-a-step back, and you rip yourself out of his grip, dashing through the throng of people.

You’re not running blindly.

He enjoys the chase and you know he will follow but it’s not fear or desperation leading you this time.

People curse and holler as you shove them out of your way, throwing a few purposely in Lucien’s path. You don’t slow down to check if he’s following.

Every trained instinct in your body is screaming at you that he is.

You should have known he would try to use the people at the station against you. Use your close proximity to each other against you too. He’s learned of the dangers you pose at close combat.

But he’s not the only one to have learned something from your previous encounters.

Focused entirely on your rapidly forming plan, you tear out of Grand Central, the cool air of New York greeting you like an old friend.

Streets blur around you and your heart pumps inside your chest as you round the corner, stumbling. Wind beats against your cheeks and you ignore your harsh breaths, leading Lucien deeper into the heart of the city.

And it’s not his city.

You know every nook and cranny of this concrete anthill.

Skidding and stumbling, you throw yourself behind a building wall, pressing your back against it.

Your lungs quiver, heart pumping, and throat aching from the outright sprint you’ve just done.

Lucien should assume the obvious.

That you’re leading him back to the Continental at neck-breaking speed. As you did once before. And you are but not just yet. There’s something you have to handle first.

It takes no longer than ten seconds for the commotion to explode from the direction you just came from. Just as expected.

Lucien’s pounding footsteps reach your ears and your arch your back, readying yourself.

A smear of golden hair enters your vision and you throw yourself at him, slashing at his side.

No wires attached to the bomb that you saw. The Lovers are too sophisticated for anything as inelegant and rudimentary as that. Which makes this bomb either remotely detonatable or Lucien has other means by which to set it off.

Which then means that all you need to do is to rip that portion of his coat off him.

You’re not about to lead him back to your home with a bomb on him.

Lucien crashes onto the concrete sidewalk heavily, you on top of him. His knee drives into your gut and you wince, your fingers tangling into his jacket so he doesn’t slip out of your grip. You manage to hold on, hacking against the coarse material wildly. His features contort, realisation as to what you’re trying to do sinking in.

He throws a punch at you but you duck, ignoring his fingers when they sink into your hair, trying to yank you off him. People around you scream as you roll across the concrete, scattering the moment they realise you’re armed.

You have no intention of killing Lucien outright.

He deserves to reap the consequences of his actions just like the rest of you. If there’s anyone who deserves to be punished for all of this, it’s him. And you will see to it. Lead him back to the Continental and trap him inside like a rat in a maze.

See what the Black Dragon does when you offer their little pet as a sacrificial lamb for the High Table.

He yanks on your hair but you swipe upwards, scratching your blade against his skin and he barks a laugh. Few droplets of blood slide down his porcelain skin and you stumble back, staggering onto your feet.

Lucien’s jacket is in tatters and he grabs it, yanking it off himself, and throws it carelessly to one side. You tense when it hits the ground but nothing happens. You’re not quite sure if it’s just that durable or if it was a fake-out—both seem equally as likely. “You’re no fun,” he pouts, watching his hand curiously. Ruby droplets well where you have torn into his skin, and he swipes his tongue across the skin lazily, unconcerned. “But fair enough.”

“You and me,” you grit out, glaring down at him as you back up, rolling the blade between your digits with expert ease. He stretches to his full height, too, towering, cracking his neck as he does so. “Let’s dance.”

You peel away, him a second behind you. You know how fast he is and pump your legs till the muscles in your thighs burn from exertion.

You’re surprised he’s not trying to shoot you like last time but maybe that’s the point. He doesn’t want a quick death for you just like you don’t want to kill him till he’s been punished.

Night blurs around you and your eyes narrow in concentration, keeping ahead but just barely. You can hear him right behind you, practically breathing down your neck.

Motorcycles suddenly rev behind you but you don’t dare to risk turning around to check. There’s more than one engine. Which doesn’t bode well for you.

Leaping down the stairwell, you cut through an underground pass. The tunnel amplifies every sound and you hear Lucien’s pounding footsteps behind you. He’s gaining on you.

Sweat clings to the back of your neck, your cheeks stinging from heat and the cold alike.

You take three steps at a time, jumping up the staircase on the other side of the tunnel in a manner of seconds. It takes several moments before motorcycles sound from behind you again—they clearly know the route enough to know about the shortcuts—but you don’t let it shatter your concentration.

The staircase of the Continental appears in your vision, so dear and welcoming—

A weight slams into you from behind and you wince as you both roll across the ground; a wild tangle of limbs.

Scrambling, you punch him right across the jaw before he can get a solid grip on you. Your knuckles twinge with pain but it barely registers. Lucien’s head snaps to the side but he manages to grab your wrists, pinning them to the ground, before you can yank a blade loose.

You drive your knee into his ribs. Once, twice.

Lucien takes it like he can hardly feel it. Teeth gleaming, bared. His grip tightens on you again—there will be bruises there tomorrow without a doubt—and you roll in a mangled mess once more. Two animals snapping their teeth at each other. The motorcycles draw closer down the street and you squirm when he tries to pin you down again. For being so thin, his strength is impressive. Worrying.

He wants to play games. But you’re far, far more furious than he is.

Your head cracks against his forehead, momentarily blinding and deafening you. Lucien falls back. Wobbling, you do the same. Everything is static noise—one moment, two, then you force yourself to move. Vision swimming, you kick at his abdomen blindly. There’s contact and rolling onto your stomach, you hurriedly scramble onto your feet.

A roar of engines hums through the night air, closing in, and you leap onto the stone stairs ahead of you, gripping onto the concrete.

Safe haven. Home.

Your head slants to look behind you; a victorious, vicious smile spreading across your face even though your forehead hums with numbing pain.

Lucien approaches slowly, a hunter on a prowl. His slick back hair is in a disarray. Flecks of his own blood splattered across his face.

He looks murderous despite the deformed smile still splintering his mouth.

Motorcycles come to a stop behind him and you recognise those dark uniforms anywhere. Black Dragon’s men—just as you suspected.

You rise to your feet, deliberate but cautious, taking count of the men present. Foot soldiers are hardly a reason for concern. A certain blonde with his raging stare most certainly is though.

“No one interferes,” Lucien orders, directing his words at the men behind him. “This is between me and—”

“Us.”

Your heart stills for a second before exploding in a wild flutter inside your chest.

You don’t turn around but hear the hotel door behind you crack open, followed by footsteps.

Lucien’s expression morphs with cold viciousness in the face of the new company.

Dario and Julian walk past you first, coming to a stop at the foot of the stairs, effectively blocking Lucien’s path. The Sharpshooter has his twin pistols gripped firmly in each hand, his usually friendly demeanour absent. Only the Camorra’s best stares back; focused and grim. Dario is no better with his arms folding over his broad chest the moment he halts, seemingly only amplifying his domineering presence. He reminds you of a growling grizzly bear, waiting for the slightest of provocations.

Step comes to a standstill beside you, nudging you with his elbow, and you dare to momentarily look away from Lucien to see his grinning face. He wiggles his eyebrows, his round sunglasses still on his face before he leaps down the last several steps. He lands noisily just behind Julian, laughing softly under his breath.

“Whatever issue you have with our boss,” Dario speaks solemnly, his usually warm, rumbling voice void of those things. “We would caution you to forget about it.”

“Get out of my way,” Lucien hisses lowly, his lips barely moving. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Julian raises his pistols at blinding speed at those words, pointing them directly at Lucien’s face. The Dragon’s men unholster their weapons in response but despite being outnumbered at least one to two, the Elites don’t appear concerned.

You’re not sure if you’re still breathing.

“We would rather not kill you,” Step chirps happily, leaning his elbow on Julian’s shoulder, before adding a downright chilling, “But we will.”

Lucien’s expression smoothens, growing remote in its emptiness. His hollow stare drags up till it latches onto you—cold and unforgiving, two black holes.

“You know you can’t hide from me, viper,” he whispers yet his low, throaty words carry through the night air all the same. The Elites don’t so much as blink; an impenetrable wall of defence. “We have unfinished business, you and I.”

“Were they not clear enough for you, huh?”

Your eyes nearly close when the final pair of footsteps comes to a stop beside you. Your attention doesn’t waver but you hear the click of a lighter beside you. It’s followed a second later by a soft crinkle of a smouldering cigarette as Hector draws a deep, tobacco-induced breath into his lungs.

“She’s our boss,” he declares roughly and you feel your throat close up at his frank statement. “Which means that you really don’t want to start this,” a pointed pause, and another hard inhale of a cigarette before, “So why don’t you go and blow a load into your girlfriend and stop wasting our damn time.”

The atmosphere thickens with tension at Hector’s crass words but you don’t look away from Lucien.

The blonde slants his head, curious. He regards Hector like a bug; an odd, unusual being that makes no sense to him. Like his words are spoken in a foreign language the assassin doesn’t quite comprehend.

“Boss,” Lucien echoes softly, making a fine mockery of the word, as he takes a few deliberate steps closer. “Is that suppose to mean something to me?”

The threat in his lovely voice snaps Julian’s hand to one side, the barrel of his gleaming silver pistol pressing into Lucien’s temple just as the tall man places his foot on the Continental staircase.

“Julian, don’t!” you warm loudly and the Sharpshooter freezes at your command. “It’s what he wants,” you add bitterly, turning your stare towards the blonde who appears completely unconcerned to have a fully loaded weapon digging into his head.

His smug smile stretches, quivering at the corners, his stare almost playful, goading.

Julian obeys, his arm lowering slightly but his pistol remains trailed on the French assassin. The man in question takes his time, deliberately climbing one step at the time, and Hector lowers his smouldering cigarette. He’s on your right, standing between you and Lucien but the blonde hardly seems to notice that when he comes to a halt, still watching you intently.

“Yeah, it really should,” Hector says deliberately, his voice dipping towards seriousness and warning.

Dario and Step are still watching the Dragon’s men closely while Julian has turned with Lucien, his pistols still locked onto the man. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen the Sharpshooter as anything other than grinning and relaxed.

Lucien drags his gaze away from you at long last, his attention switching to the leader of Elites beside you, and you feel the suffocating tension in the air as they both stare each other down.

“I hold no loyalties to anyone for you to threaten me with fancy titles, dog,” the blonde remarks, his voice light, almost friendly, his attention once again returning to you. “But I’ll see you inside, snakey.”

You don’t answer him, choosing to glare right at him and nothing more than that. The lack of reaction seems to dissatisfy him, his lips pressing into a firm, unhappy line. He reaches for you—

Hector grabs his extended hand with near blinding speed, crushing his wrist in an ironlike grip as he jerks Lucien’s hand backwards, holding him back.

Everyone tenses and Dario pulls his own weapons free when the Dragon’s men try to push closer.

“Let me rephrase that,” Hector hisses quietly, his words thick with warning—no boredom or indifference to be found in his voice now. “She’s ours. You so much as lay a hand on her and I’ll cut it off and feed it to you.”

The French assassin grins in return, chuckling, his fist clenched to a point his knuckles strain beneath his pale skin. Hector’s grip only tightens though, the ink of his tattoos highlighted by the lights above.

“You got that?” he stresses viciously. “Or was I being too obtuse, you bleached French fuck.”

He throws Lucien’s arm back at him and the man’s expression sharpens with a savage sort of rage. Aside from his stormy, narrowed stare, it’s near impossible to tell that Lucien is displeased though. His features might as well be cut from marble.

“You remind me of someone I knew once,” Lucien muses, still grinning though it looks no better than a sharpened blade. “He too was an arrogant, blunt tool to be used.”

The blonde hums mockingly, looking Hector up and down.

“Get lost,” he calls out loudly, slanting his head—something so harsh in the motion you half-expect to hear his neck crack—toward the Dragon’s men. “I don’t need you here.”

Confusion follows those words but Lucien only cuts one last look your way before strolling calmly into the hotel.

You’re not going to stop him because he’s exactly where you need him to be. He will stay to try and wait you out. Which is exactly what you want and need. Time.

Biting back a grin, you briefly glance at Hector who meets your inquisitive stare and turns towards the Dragon’s men who look unsure as to what they should do.

“Are you deaf?” he snaps loudly. “Get lost.”

Step moves first, bouncing up the stairs till he’s right in front of you. He parts his arms, waiting for you to show if you’re in the headspace to be touched and…

You wrap your arms around him—near crushing and strong, squeezing his wiry frame to you with all the strength you possess inside your body. The hacker’s arms lock equally as tightly around you despite Hector’s snort.

“We’ve been worried about you, carina,” he mumbles against your cooling neck, and you watch Dragon’s men clearing the entrance of the hotel over his shoulder. “Everything’s gone to hell.”

“We should take this inside,” Dario speaks up, finally lowering his weapons, and Julian does the same though his grip on them doesn’t loosen. “It’s not safe for you out here, V.”

You release Step from your death grip with a nod and a pat on his shoulder. He flashes you a quick smile but it looks strained. They all look tense, grim-faced, and tired. Still deadly though, and focused as always.

Julian opens the glass doors and steps inside, his pistol raised like he expects Lucien to leap at you from the shadows.

The hour is late and the reception area, for once, feels eerily quiet. No Lucien in sight though.

You haven’t even noticed how they’ve positioned themselves around you. Hector is still on your right, Julian at the front and Dario taking the rear while Step’s arm ghosts on your left.

Your throat aches, something coiling inside your heart.

You feel…

Protected. Safe.

It robs you of speech for a solid minute—that realisation.

You’ve lived with them for a year. Ate, trained and bled with them. But it feels different now for some reason you can’t explain.

You’ve grown so used to fighting your battles alone that having someone on your side feels surreal.

Even more surprising is Hector’s compliance. You hadn’t expected him to fall into the role of your temporary right hand so easily. Or to be as open about your position, and his by extension, at your side. You hadn’t even expected him to stand in defence of you, unlike the other three.

But Hector has always valued Camorra above all else. Personal prejudices aside, he will always do his duty. It is, perhaps, the one thing you’ve always admired the most about him. His unfailing loyalty.

If you died now it would only cause further chaos and headaches for him.

Seeing all of them again, however, fills you with such immense relief you can hardly speak.

“Santino?” is the first thing you manage to wheeze out. “Ares? Roberto? How—how are they?”

With each step, you shed your momentarily lapse reminding yourself that this is no time to feel sentimental.

Hector answers you promptly, as would be expected of him, “Princeling woke up several hours ago,” he states calmly and you notice that he no longer has his cigarette. He must have dropped it outside. Despite that, your sensitive nose still catches a whiff of tobacco every time his lips part. “Ares is with him. Roberto is stable.”

You practically stumble to a stop. “He woke up?” you whisper, your voice breathy with fragile hope.

Hector’s stare is critical but lacking his usual irritating superiority. Surprisingly. “Yeah, asked after you,” he reveals bluntly, and you can feel others monitoring your reaction to those words. “He thought Wick killed you.”

Your heart clenches painfully at that.

He got shot in the head and his first worry when he woke up had been you?

But the knowledge that he has regained consciousness, had been coherent enough to even speak, nearly crumbles your self-control again. Relief churning through your veins is immeasurable. Dizzying.

You want to demand a thousand things but instead push yourself to focus, “We have to move him to the penthouse. Immediately.”

One of Hector’s eyebrows arches at that. But it’s Dario that speaks first, “Why?”

You glance between the four of them silently. No one else seems to be around. In the distance, even the reception desk sits empty, and it’s the first time in seven years that you’ve seen it unmanned.

What’s going on? Where is Charon?

“Because she’s not here,” you tell them, still slightly out of breath due to your earlier sprint, and your words soften with bitterness. “The Female Lover. Divide and conquer seems to be the most logical course for them to follow now.”

It would make sense. Split attacks and lay traps. Force your hand with pitting Lucien against you because they no doubt know that Santino is being kept safe between these walls. Put danger right here on your doorstep so you are forced to act.

The Four exchange wary looks and you note them at once.

“We already moved boss,” Julian informs you before you can ask, his strong eyebrows curving and feet shuffling. You can almost hear the grimace in his voice. “Right after the visit from an Adjudicator earlier. We figured it was no longer safe for him to stay since they demanded to see him.”

“Don’t look so surprised, sweetheart,” Hector mutters under his breath, folding his arms with a slight roll of his eyes. “Some of us are actually good at doing our jobs. Removing him from the Table’s direct jurisdiction was the best thing to do at the time.”

“Then where the hell is he?”

Step winces. “The penthouse,” he tells you and immediately lifts his hand in a pacifying manner while your eyes close. “But Flavio and others are with him. He’s protected. He was moved discreetly. No one saw a thing. I was watching all the cameras myself.”

Biting back a sigh, you mull over his words and huff a breath. “Then why are you not with him?”

“Because once Mr Wick arrived here in a rather…loud manner,” Dario begins and your attentions slides to him. “We knew you will not be far behind. With trouble likely on your heels. We had no way of contacting you and splitting up would have drawn too much attention. Step worked entire day trying to pin the Lovers down to one location but they kept popping up all over the city. They’ve been circling.”

So they stayed here to keep enemy eyes pinned on the hotel, giving them time to move Santino in secret.

Sometimes you forget how brilliant they are.

“They were waiting for me to come back,” you assume.

Dario inclines his head, his stare firm, and strong eyebrows curved. “Our duty is to protect you as well, V.”

Your blink at those resolute words, caught off guard.

Step is grinning cheekily but the other two stand with sombre air surrounding them. Hector’s expression is stony but he doesn’t disagree, either.

Before you can thank them or say anything else, a realisation slices through you like a bolt of lightning. A sickly feeling of quicksand gobbles you up in a matter of seconds, and you battle down the urge to kick something.

“Circling,” you repeat numbly, nearly biting your tongue because you already know the answer before you bother continuing. “Anywhere near the penthouse?”

You direct that question at Step and the latter stills, his grin wilting. “Closest ping I got was four blocks out.”

“Fuck.”

Your head slants backwards and you bite out an even more vicious, “Fuck.”

“V?”

Your head drops back and your expression is no doubt unforgiving. “Get to the penthouse right now,” you order, not even bothering to make it sound like a request. “This is their plan. For me to get here so she has the go-ahead to attack while Santino is alone. They’ve been waiting for you to move him. They knew you did. That’s why the male Lover let it go. Why he’s not here right now.”

Lucien is no doubt putting their plan into motion. Dismissing Dragon’s men was about giving you a false sense of security.

“What about you?” Julian wonders quietly though his tone doesn’t lack urgency. Dario already has his phone pressed to his ear, no doubt calling the security at the penthouse.

You want to go.

You…

“I can’t,” you choke out even though it kills you to admit it. “If I go, I lead Lucien and god knows who else straight back to Santino.”

The Lovers are no doubt hoping for that outcome. But you can keep them separated too. Weaken them. It just means trusting the Elites with Santino’s life completely. They will be taking the brunt of Mika’s and the Black Dragon’s attack.

You look towards Hector but find him already gazing at you, his harsh features drawn into a pensive expression. His eyebrows sit contracted into a tight line and his eyes go to Step.

Dario’s muffled murmurs cease then, and he lifts his head, ending the call with a single touch against the glowing screen. “There’s been nothing so far but…”

“Can you isolate any incoming attacks?” Hector demands and Step pulls out his phone the moment those words leave the leader’s mouth, scrolling and tapping rapidly. “Get to the penthouse. Julian call the rest of the men. The ruse is up. Tell everyone to get their asses there right now or I’ll kill them myself. Go.”

It’s a testament to how much they trust each other that they move as one—not questions asked—only pausing monetarily before you, and it takes you a full second to realise that they’re waiting for your approval.

Right. You’re their boss. Even if only temporarily.

You nod twice; shaky and a touch frantic.

“Capo.”

You’re not even sure which one of them says it, or if it’s all of them in unison, but a shiver tingles down your neck all the same.

Hector hesitates, still standing rooted in his spot, his stare probing but he doesn’t make a sound until the hurried footsteps of the other Elites fade.

“You’re planning to go after him.”

It’s a statement, direct and shrewd, and you see no reason to deny it. “Promise me you will kill her,” you insist sternly, your eyes meeting for a charged moment. “Don’t let her touch him.”

Hector strolls past you, his hands in his pockets. “Consider it done,” he shoots back flatly, pausing beside you once again but doesn’t turn towards you. You simply stand shoulder to shoulder in the empty lobby. “Something else is going on here. The Frenchie isn’t the only one you should watch out for. Some bald asshole followed Wick, and this Adjudicator seems a little rule happy and not in a good way,” he concludes pointedly.

“It doesn’t matter,” you respond mildly, your voice vacant and low, distant. “They can’t touch me. No one can now.”

The dagger against your side feels like it’s scorching into your skin.

Hector turns to face you at that but you don’t do the same. His weighty stare digs into your temple for several moments but you ignore it. Expectation hangs heavy in the air between you but you don’t explain yourself further. There is no point.

He scoffs under his breath, managing to sound as dismissive and derisive as always. The nearby heat of his looming frame disappears, his footsteps echoing against the marble as he saunters away.

But the way he had the foresight to move Santino nags at you, as do his actions outside on that staircase only minutes prior.

And—

“Hector?”

His footsteps fade into a stop, and you turn your face towards him.

“What now, sweetheart?” he calls out impatiently, peering at you over his shoulder as well. “Want a back rub with all of that?”

Normally something like that would have angered you, dug under your skin, pissed you off. Now though…

“Thank you.”

He doesn’t outwardly react to your words, not even a twitch of his facial muscles. He only stares at you for a long minute completely silent. You’re not quite sure what to make of that reaction.

“Whatever.”

His back disappears through the door leading outside and you turn back towards the reception desk.

Time to get some answers.

You hear him before you see him.

The dog leaps at you with a happy bark, his tongue lolling to one side when he lifts his nose eager to give you kisses.

His presence here shocks you but only because you know for a fact that the Continental doesn’t do animal boarding. Everything lately has felt like an avalanche of one thing after another that you haven’t stopped to think about what may or may not have happened to him. Or where he might be staying after John’s home was destroyed.

Despite not seeing him in a few weeks, he seems no less thrilled to see you.

“Hey, Cheeseburger,” you greet with the first genuine smile in a week, your features softening. You bend down to pet him, rubbing behind his ears and he only tries to lick you with more fervour, a happy doggy grin splitting his face. “Have you been good?”

A small bark escapes him, tail wagging so quickly it’s a blur, and your smile grows.

“Miss.”

Your eyes skip ahead, and relief whispers through your chest, an invisible coil loosening when you spot Charon standing ahead of you. As always his posture is bowstring straight, his suit pressed neatly, and eyes watchful over his glasses.

“Charon.”

You’ve missed him. So dearly. Seeing his face is like a much-needed balm against your tattered nerves.

His voice is as low and soothing as always when he offers a cordial, “Welcome back.”

His words might as well be an embrace and your smile wobbles momentarily. There has been a large part of you that was convinced you would never see him or Winston again.

You try not to think about your deal now. About leaving just when you got them back. Right now all that matters is that you’re here.

Still stroking Cheeseburger’s head, you stand back to your feet, ignoring the twinge of discomfort in your muscles when you do.

“It’s good to be back.”

Charon starts approaching you but a voice cuts in before he can say anything else.

“The Vipress.”

Your smile slides off your face when a short, bald man with a fixed smile and a wide-eyed stare appears from behind the concierge.

Hector’s warning springs to mind at once, and your eyes briefly flicker towards Charon whose expression remains impassive. A certain strain—disdain, even—can still be found in his overall bearing, however.

Charon is not one to dislike people often, and certainly not openly. Though to most he would no doubt appear as detached and professional as always you can tell the difference. You’ve known him for years after all.

“Do we know each other?” you wonder neutrally, your palm ghosting over a concealed blade despite the no-business rule. Not a scowl or even a whisper of a frown shows but your voice slides into something apathetic all the same.

The man dressed in all black wanders closer. His stance is relaxed, expression friendly, but you see the assessing gleam in his eyes, the brittle—almost mean—edge to his slight grin. It makes you feel like he’s in on some joke you’re missing out on.

Despite being on the shorter side and his near deceptive demeanour, you don’t fail to take count of the precise way he moves—a trained, likely deadly individual, and your attention settles on him like a sharpened blade against his throat.

Though your body language doesn’t outright change, you know he, too, notes the shift in you in those several seconds that pass between him stopping just a little ahead of you.

Cheeseburger licks your fingers—blissfully ignorant of the uneasy atmosphere—and you drag your fingertips over his head tenderly.

“No,” the man answers shortly, still smiling what he no doubt hopes to be a friendly smile though it hardly is. “But I know of you. Tokyo still remembers your name.”

Your heart stutters for a single second, feeling the slice of those calm, unassuming words. But you can tell from the way his lips flutter just slightly that he chose his words carefully. A deliberate dig and he examines your reaction closely, so you show him nothing.

The man ventures closer yet again, seemingly encouraged by whatever he sees, and extends his gloved hand your way. “But where are my manners? I am Zero.”

His hand hangs in the air between you and Charon’s stare settles on you. He doesn’t interfere though, or comments.

Not taking his hand would be rude but expected. People know of your aversion to touching strangers. However, it would also put you on a backfoot after his previous dig, and the last thing you want is someone that worries even Hector to smell weakness.

With that in mind, you slot your smaller hand into his, your grips equally as constrictive, “Good to meet you,” you say, your voice bland, dropping his hand after another forced twitch of your lips. “Now if you excuse—”

“I was still in training when you killed Kishi of Tokyo,” he declares loudly, freezing you mid-turn, and your eyes meet Charon’s again before you look back at the newcomer. You’re not quite sure what to make of his strange stare or fragmented little smile. “We knew each other. But not much,” he continues, no doubt purposely ignoring your disinterested, borderline hostile stare. “Maybe I should express my gratitude. If it were not for you, I would not be what I am today.”

He even bows his head. Like you’re his comrade. Like you’re one and the same.

Still, you say nothing, and Zero chuckles loudly before it cuts off abruptly. A new gleam glows in his eyes, and it doesn’t surprise you when Charon comes to a stop beside you. The concierge cuts for a silent but foreboding figure all the same.

Zero’s expression twists with amusement upon spotting that silent gesture, and he presses his hand over his chest. “You’ll have to forgive me, I’m a bit—what do they say—a little starstruck,” he apologizes but it feels more like oil on your skin followed by another gleaming smile. “Meeting the John Wick and the Vipress in a span of a single night. Legend of the old and legend of the new. The shadow that hides the snake—that’s what they still say about you two.”

You work hard to not let anything slip. You’ve known about your legacy in Tokyo for some time now—your and John’s both. You did what no one has done before. Escaped. Survived. John slaughtered his way through Kishi’s men to make sure no one ever followed you back.

It didn’t change much in the end. That nightmare of a man—his phantom, at least—still haunts you to this day. It chills the blood in your veins to be standing out here now and be discussing him so openly. Especially with someone who supposedly knew him.

You’re not sure if you’re strong enough to engage with this conversation. There’s only so many ghosts you can handle in such a short span of time.

“I wish to see the manager,” you announce instead, your stare not leaving the assassin before you.

There is a flare of fury at the dismissal but it’s brief, and once it passes, it leaves a man that reminds you of a mannequin—deflated and lacking life, formless like a ghost.

“Sir and Mr Wick are currently meeting in the administrative lounge, Miss,” Charon answers promptly but then adds a deliberate, “The manager, however, has expressed his desire to see you at once upon your return.”

Even if Winston hadn’t, something tells you that Charon would have said that regardless. Like you know him, he knows you. He understands perfectly well how shadows of your past belong there. Rattling them now would be dangerous.

Nodding, you force yourself to keep a polite facade, the assassin receiving a rather forced, “Mr Zero.”

Certainly the best he could hope for. Or should. Still, you feel proud of yourself for managing to contain yourself. For not letting him bait you into action because he no doubt was hoping for a reaction, perhaps even a confrontation. That would be easy, expectant.

Zero doesn’t look pleased about the outcome of the conversation at all. His easy-going, faux adoring demeanour splintering around the edges. The man before you tries to hold the pieces together but you notice the cracks all the same.

Lowering your chin, you raise your palm towards Cheeseburger, “Stay.”

The dog releases a small whine at the order but does as he’s told, sitting back on his hind legs, his ears perked up. That alone almost brings another smile to your face.

Your arm drops back to your side and you offer Charon another look that says a silent keep an eye on him.

Your footsteps echo as you cut through the hallways of the hotel, passing a few faces as you do. Zero doesn’t follow and you’re glad for it—for some reason, a part of you had expected him to.

Throughout your journey, you feel eyes tracking you. No one says anything or moves towards you though. You half expect Lucien to leap at you from every shadowed corner but he’s nowhere to be seen. You want to worry that maybe he truly did leave the hotel and hightailed it for the penthouse but it won’t be logical for him to miss out on this chance.

Lucien’s interest—fixation—with you has always felt deeply personal. More than a simple job or a hit. It never felt like he took as much interest in Santino as he did in you. Certainly surprising considering that from you two, it’s Santino with the biggest power reserve behind him. Enough to crush the Lovers if he came into his power as he now has. You’ve thought about this once before but maybe then you had things wrong.

Despite you being the bigger physical threat, removing Santino first would have been more logical. It would have isolated you. Left you without support.

Lucien never showed much eagerness in Santino’s removal aside from making an occasional threat to rile you up from the start.

Why?

Is it truly just conviction that you are alike? An obsessive there can only be one mentality?

With that thought lodged like a splinter inside your mind, you step into the elevator, shoving the partition roughly with a metallic click.

The elevator jolts when you press the appropriate floor button, falling back against the metal wall on your journey.

Everything is so loud it’s somehow quiet. Or maybe you’ve just gotten better at ignoring it.

It’s a short trip and when the elevator halts you pull the metal partition slowly this time, perking your ears for any unusual sounds.

There’s nothing.

You’ve never liked the administrative lounge much. Unlike the rest of the hotel that’s always oozed an old, rustic charm, this space has always felt cold and clinical on the few, rare occasions you visited Winston up here. Frankly, it’s never been the type of place you enjoyed visiting then, and you don’t suspect that will change any time soon.

The neon laser lights and glass as far as the eye can see. Visually it’s a masterpiece of architecture but it always made you feel uneasy. Like a rat caught in a crystal maze. Being back here now reminds you eerily of the gallery you had to chase John through, nearly losing everyone dear to you in the process.

Grabbing a blade from a secure sown-in compartment inside your coat, you move up the staircase soundlessly.

It doesn’t take long for faint, muffled voices to reach you. Slowing down further, you approach one step at a time. With each step, Winston’s calm baritone becomes clearer. You stop abruptly when his words start registering properly.

“—but you’re having doubts?” he calls out, sounding knowing and in control like usual. “Because you know that she will never forgive you if you do this. Will never let you into her heart again. She’s the only thing you still have left to lose,” he goes on, and your eyes widen when you realise who exactly he’s discussing. What the hell is going on? You know he’s talking to John but… “This is all assuming she can find it in herself to forgive you for your actions in regards to one Santino D’Antonio in the first place.”

You can’t see them from here. You’re above them by at least an entire flight of see-through glass stairs. Shifting your weigh, you move closer, holding your breath and sinking lower towards the ground to not alert them of your presence.

“I understand perfectly well, Johnathan, this is nothing personal,” Winston continues and for once you truly find yourself hating how calm he sounds. You’ve never seen the manager caught off guard. It’s everyone else he outmanoeuvres with expert ease. But personal? What’s personal? “If you feel like you must. Put a bullet through my heart. The High Table has asked me to step down one way or another.”

You almost stumble.

What?

It’s then that a memory springs forward. Of the tent. John’s conflicted expression and his words.

Elder gave you time to say goodbye but you had to make a deal. What if John had to make one too? He mentioned a task; a task he never got time to explain further. Only a vague mention of one.

But he had wanted to, you realise with sinking dread, the moment he saw you, he wanted to.

John’s punishment—his true punishment—is sacrificing his oldest friend in a show of fealty to the Table and killing him.

The lukewarm metal between your digits nearly falls to the ground at that realisation.

But why—

“The hour?” John’s gruff voice speaks at long last.

A distracted hum, then confirmation, “The hour.”

“You should have killed me when you had the chance,” John says bluntly. “Killed us both.”

You gnash your teeth together, feeling the grind of bone inside your skull as you slink closer, taking it one stair at a time. Unhurried and precise. Just how John himself taught you.

Distantly, you hear Winston agree followed by muted footsteps against the gleaming floor. Is he moving away from John or towards him?

“In the years you’ve been away, Johnathan, I have come to learn that loyalty is a peculiar thing,” the manager muses, his voice thoughtful, but you hear the deliberateness he puts into each word he speaks. There is an odd quietness to his voice though—the type of you’ve only heard a handful of times. “Hard to earn, quick to break,” a long pause supersede those words and you come to a standstill as well, straining your ears. “But not always. It can sometimes be obtained by the most unlikely of individuals during the most unlikely of times.”

You’re not quite sure what exactly John gleans from those words but he does seem to take away something you miss. “You’re not stepping down, are you?”

“No,” Winston states evenly. “I don’t think I am.”

“So it’s war,” John declares, sounding just as bewildered as you feel, and you know it’s a rarity for him to let his emotions slip so easily. But this is… “You’re going to war with the High Table.”

Once you had joked about it. You were left cranky after yet another job for Tarasov, and had come back to the Continental worn after days of dealing with less than hospitable conditions. Winston had listened to your rant like usual.

What if I just killed Tarasov now?

Newspaper and brandy in hand, Winston’s reply had been unamused, You get killed.

Not if you help me. You and I, I bet we could take the Table on.

It was a joke back then. Nothing more than a throwaway, snarky remark you had made as a way to alleviate some pent up stress. A momentarily reprieve from the helplessness you’ve always felt in the face of your circumstances. It’s one of the few things that has helped you stay sane over the years.

It was long before you met the Elder and learned you could kill Tarasov without consequences once the debt was repaid.

It’s only now that you realise that Winston never did give you a response to that offhand statement. Joke or otherwise.

It’s only now that you stupidly realise that the idea of war shouldn’t surprise you at all. That perhaps deep in your bones you always knew there was a possibility of one.

Maybe Winston’s dedication to upholding rules and order always blinded you to the fact that despite that obedience he wasn’t afraid of them.

That which terrifies others—everyone, even you and John—has never affected the manager in the same manner.

He’s not afraid of the High Table. Or to move against them if he sees fit.

“I’ve made my decision. A long time ago now,” Winston remarks, and you edge closer, catching the first glimpse of him through the crack in the stairwell. “Back when I had to watch Charon carry a dying girl through the very halls of this fine establishment. A girl that you left behind. And now, it’s time for you to choose as well.”

Oh.

You’ve always privately considered Winston and Charon to be your family. One you weren’t quite allowed to have but chose for yourself despite how foolishly sentimental it was. A bond that was forged through years of knowing each other. Struggling together. Practically living together.

It never once crossed your mind that it was a feeling returned at least to some degree.

That alone makes you look at the entire conversation you’ve just heard in a new light.

“Choose what?”

Winston stands in front of John, his hand extended towards the assassin. In the manager’s weathered hand—a fine mockery of a week ago when he first declared you both Excommunicado, and even worse, of the Elder offering you the golden dagger at your side—sits a pistol.

The older man gives John a shrewd stare, and if you didn’t know any better you would say that he’s disappointed John is not catching on quicker.

“Oh, but you already know,” he states flatly, moving his hand in a vague motion. “It’s the same choice you’ve been struggling for the last five years now. Between who you are and who you wish to be. You kill me, you sell your soul to the Table.”

All you can see is the back of John’s head, his crop of black hair standing out like a dark spot against the glossy, blue tint of the lounge.

He thinks about Winston’s words for a bit.

“But I also live and remember Helen.”

Once those words might have caused a burn of pain but now all you feel is a nudge of sadness and a joyless sort of understanding. You’ve accepted the fact that there will always be a part of John that will always love Helen.

You’ve just hoped…

“Helen loved you, John. She truly did,” the manager agrees, something just a touch warmer to be heard in his intonation. “And you love her. You only came back because she was taken from you. But she’s also gone and she’s not coming back. You go ahead with this and you lose V forever, and I know that alone is stopping you.”

There is a scathing sort of finality to the last part and John’s slightly lowered head lifts.

“So I guess my question to you, then, is who do you wish to die as?” Winston asks though it does sound like a fine line between an inquiry of genuine curiosity and an authoritative demand. “Baba Yaga. The living nightmare and the last thing so many have seen. The servant of the High Table. Or as a man who was—and likely still is—loved by two wonderful women.”

John doesn’t move or say anything. That heaviness hangs across his shoulders, burdening him with yet another choice.

The problem is the fact that what you told him back at the desert still applies.

You don’t trust his word. You’ve been burned too harshly by recent events to do so.

With that in mind, you drop your guise, walking the remainder of the stairs with deliberate heaviness. Purpose.

Both men turn at the sound of your advancing footsteps. The former’s expression lightens, a clever gleam catching your eye. John looks weary, almost like he’s readying himself for another battle, another storm that is your raging fury.

You have little appetite for that though.

Too much is going on right now. The Elites could be battling against the Female Lover and the Black Dragon’s men right now. You need to find Lucien and figure out a way to keep him here. Inform the High Table. Find out who started this hunt in the first place. Who knows about Chicago.

“Winston.”

A slight smile ghosts over the manager’s face. “Welcome home.”

It hurts.

Because it feels so good to hear him say that. To feel welcome and missed. Even if you know it’s as much about drawing that line in the sand for John—an unspoken You vs Us.

John doesn’t fail to take count of the blade in your hand, neither does Winston.

A suspended kind of silence shrouds you three. If John really thinks that you will let him—

Footsteps.

You all turn in the direction of a tall, graceful figure clad in all black moving briskly down the steps.

The icy blue stare and black, short-cropped hair are all unfamiliar to you.

“Mr Wick and Miss Vipress,” the newcomer greets in a cool and collected manner, gripping a pair of leather gloves in one hand. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you both. I’m an Adjudicator.”

Shit. Of course they are. It makes sense for one to come and adjudicate the hotel after John shot Santino at practically point-blank range inside these very walls.

The hour.

Winston overstepped his position by offering you that hour. By helping you and John out.

Now he’s paying for it.

When neither you nor John say anything in return, their head slants in Winston’s direction, unperturbed. “Have you decided to step down?”

You would think they’re asking if the cookies are ready to come out of the oven. Their voice is as empty as their stare despite the gravity of their question. But the Adjudicators are often cold and distant. Dedicated to upholding the rules of the High Table even more so than the hotel managers are. To expect pity or mercy from one never bodes well.

Winston greets that indifference by no less bored, “I don’t think I will.”

A quick tilt of their chin—offended, critical—and they turn towards John instead.

“And you?” they demand, a notable sharpening to their tone. “Will you be pulling a bullet in his head?”

You tense at those words, your body instinctively moving in front of the manager.

John’s ponderous scrutiny falls on you but you don’t take your attention away from the Adjudicator. Is what Winston said true? Are you really the only thing John still has left to lose?

You’re not sure if—

“No,” he says, quiet but resolute. “I don’t think I will.”

The High Table representative examines you three with a flicker of disbelief as well as irritation. You can’t help but wonder if this is the first time they encountered such blatant dismissal of their authority.

“So be it.”

They turn on their heels creating at least several meters in distance between you. A phone appears in their hand and they dial, bringing the phone to their ear with an effortless air of superiority.

All you manage to catch from where you stand is the very end of the conversation. “The Continental Hotel, New York,” an imposing proclamation followed by swift damnation. “Deconsecrated.”

The Adjudicator spins towards them, approaching leisurely as they gave each of you a measured, speculative look.

“This institution has hereby been deconsecrated,” they state flatly, appraising you all with aloof, disinterested air. Like you have just become less than human in their eyes and nothing more than trash to be taken out. “As such business may now be conducted on Continental grounds. Since you are refusing to step down,” they continue, their tone icy and pointed glaring digging into Winston, then John, “And you are refusing a direct order, your lives are now forfeited.”

Much to your surprise, the Adjudicator’s bright eyes come to rest on you next. “It is my advice to you Miss Vipress that you vacate the premises immediately,” they warn but the words lack much care aside from mild impartiality. “The High Table emissaries will be joining you shortly to see to the removal of your souls from the property,” they add to the two men on either side of you.

The Black Dragon men.

With that, the Adjudicator turns to go but your voice halts them before they take further than a step, “This hotel is my home,” you profess tightly, something slippery and raw in that string of words. An old ache; a new longing. Ironlike, unshakeable conviction shines the brightest though. “If you want it, you will have to take it over my cold, dead body.”

Another tilt of chin that makes you think reptile; coldblooded and dispassionate. “That can be arranged.”

A snarl pulls your lips back. “Can it?” you wonder, your words soft but deliberate. “You may wish to double-check that.”

The Adjudicator visibly pauses at that, and it’s the first sign of uncertainty you glimpse in their armour. The first time it takes them a moment to settle on their next course of action. Faint sourness lines their dignified features while they study you, considering your words no doubt.

“Good evening to you.”

Your glare is hot enough that you’re surprised the Adjudicator doesn’t catch on fire the moment their back is turned to you—and rather bold of them to turn their back on two master assassins after what they’ve just done—and your fingers itch.

John’s fingers snap around your wrist, holding firm and stilling your rising hand. “Don’t.”

The red haze lifts and you relax your jaw. It’s only after he sees your posture loosen that he releases his grip, his fingertips lingering against your inner wrist as if savouring the contact.

On your right, Winston heaves a weary sigh. “This haven is safe no more.”

Your eyes lower and you try to process what’s just happened.

Continental is the only sanctuary you’ve ever known—the only one you’ve ever needed—and something in your gut churns. It’s a deadly, potent mix that makes you force a calming breath.

John breaks the silence first—a rarity, but you suppose this week has been full of those. “Are the services still off-limits to us?”

Winston looks to you first, taking you in, and you wonder what he finds in your no doubt murderous expression and blazing glare. Every muscle coiled tight and ready to spring.

Destruction hums in your blood, screaming for retribution and you want to indulge in it.

They should be terrified of you, the Elder’s voice reminds you.

“Considering the fact that V’s Excommunicado was lifted minutes prior and this interesting change in circumstances…”

He fades off for a moment, giving you both another thoughtful look that tells you he’s fully appreciating who exactly is about to stand in defence of his hotel. “What do you need?”

NF3 NC6.

You’re a statue rooted at Winston’s side.

The four of you—John, you, Winston and Charon—wait for the elevator to grind to a halt, Cheeseburger sitting patiently between you and John. Ever the loyal companion.

“We have another problem,” you declare with a subdued sigh, dragging your eyes over the metal cubicle you’re trapped in. Even years later the fear of being a trapped animal unable to escape hasn’t quite faded from memory.

The manager clicks his tongue in reply, leading you all out of the elevator and towards the massive vault door sitting at the end of a short hallway. Guards—what few cemented their loyalty to the hotel and Winston himself—dot the length of it, watchful and awaiting their orders.

“Splendid,” the man shoots back dryly. “Not like we have plenty of those already.”

“The Male Lover is here,” you inform him, ignoring his snark. “He followed me.”

Winston’s mouth curves downwards at that. He places his hand on a palm scanner, waiting. “As expected,” he offers in return, his tone challenging. “Your next move?”

“He knows something that he shouldn’t,” you answer promptly, fiddling with your fingers. John and Charon are silent behind you but you know they’re also missing a lot of context behind the conflict, especially the former. “About Chicago. I intend to find out how and from whom. Then…”

Well.

Your plan till about ten minutes ago was to capture him and keep him here. Feed him to the High Table. Exact your justice by other means.

Now though...

It’s war.

The hotel has been stripped of its immunity. People are on the way to kill Winston and John. Charon by default. Even the staff if they get in the way, though the order to evacuate has been sounded already.

If you stand with them you, too, become an enemy.

The choice is simple. Easier than most things in your life have been, and it sits right in your gut.

If the High Table wants the manager standing in front of you, they will have to go through you first. And you’re capable of unleashing a lot of damage before they ever manage to get close enough to touch him.

But this also means that there will be no divine justice at the end. By the decree of the Adjudicator, people can now spill blood freely between these walls. There’s nothing stopping Lucien from attacking you anymore. Nor will he miss such an opportunity.

A confrontation between you two can only end one way now.

“Then I deal with him,” you finally mutter, your jaw locking with resolute firmness.

An eyebrow quirked, Winston gestures inside, going straight for the drinks cabinet. You head right without prompting, going for a very special compartment safe built into one of the wall’s inside the vault.

You’ve had it installed years ago gradually filling it full with the passage of months and then years.

Not wasting time, your palm settles on the scanner, ignoring the code pad entirely. A beep sounds and a muted green light bathes your skin a second later. A hiss follows and then—

“That’s…impressive.”

John’s voice behind you should not surprise you—and it doesn’t—but it does make you tense. Shrugging, you risk a glance in his direction to see what he makes of your collection. The quiet, impressed way his eyes drag over each shelf betrays both his surprise, and even a shade of wariness.

Vials upon vials all line the massive cabinet of three separate compartments folding outwards—custom made just for this. Labels hug each vial neatly, all of them lined up in an orderly fashion based on use and colour. The rest of the cabinet houses some of your rarest and most expensive ingredients. Carefully hidden in the most secure location you can think of—or it was till about fifteen minutes ago.

“It took me a while,” you admit though the tension in your tone and body don’t ebb away. “A lot of trial and error. And throwing up.”

You’ve been your own best guinea pig over the years, and have suffered a great deal for it. But it has also given you something no one before has been able to achieve: immunity. To most of these dark, dangerous creations of yours.

Your prized collection of at least a hundred vials makes even Baba Yaga pause and consider. See you differently no doubt.

The truth is that the sheer magnitude of the horrors and devastation this collection could unleash is unprecedented. Unrivalled by all with the exception of but one man.

And no one knows it exists apart from the people in this room and Santino. The High Table suspects something of this nature exists, you know that. Hence their insistence on you being unable to remove anything from the hotel after your Excommunicado.

“I should have told you,” John speaks up, his lips parted and tone deep, tired. “About my task. I just…”

“Knew that if you told me neither of us would have left that desert?” you guess. “Yeah, I kinda figured that.”

You understand his angle. His reason for not saying anything too. There’s just one thing that’s been bothering you since you learned about it.

“Did...did the Elder forbid you from telling me?”

John’s expression creases. “No,” he admits slowly. “But he reminded me that your forgiveness is rarer than water in the desert, and rage fiercer than the sun.”

You can almost hear that echoed in the Elder’s gentle, accented voice. Staring at the vials, you force some of them out, rolling them in your palm experimentally as you start assembling your weapons swiftly.

The task makes sense. Winston did something he shouldn’t have. Punishing him would be expected like it was with you and John. Manager or no, he’s not all-powerful.

But the thought that the Elder still knowingly told John to remove Winston stings. Deeply. He knows full well what the older man means to you.

Realising that you have nothing else to say, John steps away but you hear the reluctance in his steps when he walks away.

But all this can wait. The looming threat is the first order of business. You can’t afford any distractions, so this, too, gets shoved behind a wall. Locked tight. You can catch a moment later. Process everything that’s happened in this last week.

Charon’s lulling voice describes the change in the Black Dragon ranks to John—armour improvements, weapon improvements, more robust training. You listen with half an ear. They’ve gotten better with years, deadlier. They will not be an easy target but staring at all the vials out in the open fully and at your disposal makes your mouth twist into a cold, cruel smile.

Let them come.

You will make corpses of them all.

With that thought in mind, you arm yourself to the teeth, locking a belt around the curve of your hips. Blades slot easily against your body, vials of poison and canisters of gas following. Next, come pistols with spare clips and enough bullets to take down a small army. Fitting, considering that’s most likely what you are likely to face. You thoroughly check each pistol, removing the magazines, and making sure safety is on all of them. Double-checking there’s no jamming, either.

Once you’re comfortably armed you pull out two small needles, filling both with a small dosage of different colour solutions. You prepare more but focus on the two first.

Charon and John are still getting prepped, arming themselves just as intently while Winston sits calmly on a luxurious leather sofa observing them. Cheeseburger lays beside him on the sofa, his ears slightly perked as he watches everyone in the room.

Charon is closer so you hand him the needle wordlessly, knowing that he’s more than aware of what it is. Moving closer to John, you note the concentration with which he adds each spare magazine into his own utility belt, a deep pinch between his brows. This lethal focus means that you’re about to lose the John you know. Once Baba Yaga arrives there will be nothing but destruction left behind.

Something in your chest is ready to do the same. You almost crave it. Like everything has been building too quickly and now you feel at a breaking point ready to unleash.

Moving swiftly, you stab a needle into John’s neck, feeling him jerk and snap his fingers around your arm just like he did earlier. His grip is harsher, his fighter instincts kicking in. This time he’s not trying to stop you from attacking anyone but himself.

Rising an unimpressed eyebrow, you remove the needle from his neck, and John sways, scowling in your direction.

“Ow. What was that?” he demands quietly, no doubt recalling the last time he had a run-in with your creations.

“A little concoction that will, hopefully, give you immunity from most things in my arsenal temporarily,” you tell him calmly, near monotonous. “Unless you prefer dissolving into an immobile puddle the moment my paralyser comes out?”

John’s brows hitch, his eyes narrowing marginally, and his chin slants. “You enjoyed that,” he states dryly.

Blinking, you feel your lips quirk in an infinitesimal smile, blinking innocently up at him. “No idea what you’re talking about,” you demure pleasantly. John stares at you blankly and your small smile quivers, widening. “Okay, fine. I totally enjoyed that.”

A tiny quirk of his own mouth follows and it feels strangely nostalgic, near bittersweet, because it’s like years ago again. Just you two getting ready for yet another job together, you teasing him or firing questions at him. He’s always been patient with you. It was a kindness you never once took for granted. You were so alone, so lost, and he’d been the only harbour you had.

Despite his flaws, despite his mistakes, in many ways, John will always be that. It’s the one thing you never see changing.

You still miss that ease you once shared. Sometimes remnants of it appear, like now, and it just makes it harder.

But reminiscing now is a fool's errand.

Instead, you reach for another blade mounted on the wall behind him and bend your knee, slotting it against the special opening in your boot. He doesn’t take his gaze away from you as you do that, and you straighten, waiting to see if he will say anything else. He doesn’t. That almost makes you smile again. Typical.

Nodding at him, you look towards Charon instead, pulling out several vials, “For the guards,” you state seriously, your ease evaporating, and he takes them without a word. “Make sure they inject themselves at least five minutes before heading out just in case. It’s going to be a nasty toxic cocktail one way or another. You already know what to do.”

A firm nod. “Certainly, Miss.”

Satisfied, you walk past them heading towards the manager who watches you curiously as you approach. Cheeseburger raises his head at once, his tail wagging at your proximity. Your fingers brush over his head, petting him, and you hold another vial for Winston to take.

Nothing to do with protection and everything to do with arming him. Which, you suppose, is its own type of protection.

He stares at you blankly, a glass of what you only assume is brandy gripped securely in his hand.

“Oh, I sincerely hope you’re joking.”

He sounds completely incredulous and you roll your eyes.

“Precautions,” you shoot back, twisting the poison vial between your fingers and holding the entire length of it out to him. “Your wisdom, remember?”

“And you think that if they somehow manage to get through you, Jonathan, Charon and the guard, as well as at least two tons of metal, that will stop them?”

“No,” you answer honestly. “But it will make me feel better if you have it.”

Winston heaves a sigh, shaking his head but takes the vial all the same, leaning back in his seat. A single eyebrow lifts as if to say satisfied? and you fight back a groan. Why can no one in your life make things easy for you? Just once?

You part your lips, a playful remark on your tongue, only for distinct thudding to sound from above. It’s faint, barely audible, but you all freeze at the sound of it.

Your eyes drag towards the ceiling, just as Winston’s voice sounds, “Charon, would you be so kind as to welcome our new guests?”

The concierge strolls briskly towards the fuse control box, pushing one of the levers down with a deafening click.

Upstairs, you know the hotel has been plunged into darkness before emergency lights come into operation.

“Let's go.”

You reach for the last few things you can get your hands on, your focus narrowing down to tunnel vision.

“You will do the Continental proud,” Winston states, sounding so sure you can’t help but lift your head in his direction from your last minute prep. “Both of you.”

Your heart jolts painfully but you nod in acknowledgement all the same. Charon returns the gesture as well.

“And Johnathan?”

The assassin halts at his name, looking towards the manager in an unspoken question. “Do what you do best. Hunt.”

The four of you share a long, leaden moment before John moves first, followed by you. The vault door whirls close behind you, securing Winston and Cheeseburger inside, but you refuse to look back.

You will see them both soon.

Splitting at the mouth of the hallway, you watch Charon lead the guards down a different path while you and John take the elevator. Divide and attack on two fronts. John will be their main target first, then you.

The man beside you is as still as death, his body relaxed but senses alert. John doesn’t fidget, hardly blinks, everything about him is steady and tranquil. Just standing near him feels electric.

“Just like old times.”

His faint words startle you. A large machine gun in his hands, the black suit, an unforgiving stare—he looks near godly, as always, and you blink in his direction. Your tongue drags over your lower lip, pensive, and when you glance back at him you see John’s eyes jump up from your mouth.

“Just like old times,” you agree softly.

You’re not sure what he sees when he looks at you. You would like to think he sees someone who exceeded his expectations for you all those years ago. Strong and unyielding.

You hope he sees an equal.

The lounge is painted with sickly green when the elevator crawls to a stop, and you both move like an extension of one another. Falling into a routine is easy because it’s instinct. The lounge is submerged in smoke, obscuring your vision so you both move silently through it, gauging the situation.

Raising your hand, you feel John slow beside you, his gun raised, covering you. Your eyes journey over the lounge, spotting blurry figures creeping through the space, trying to discover you no doubt. The black uniforms make anger simmer in your gut, gnawing on your self-control.

A hiss joins the fray of noise as you lightly roll your own gas canisters across the marble floor, your paralyser joining the smoke seamlessly.

You should really thank them. They just made this easier.

Now it’s just a matter of—

A gunshot booms behind you and you pivot on your knees, watching John tackle two men who have taken a route from behind, hidden from sight by large stone pillars.

Each man takes several bullets to take down and you frown at that. Through the darkness, you spot the heavy armour—heavier than you’ve seen them wear—as well as goddamn gas helmets on their heads.

Rising, you jog towards the bodies. John throws himself at the other approaching men and you yank on the helmet on the dead soldier’s head. It slips off relatively easily and you curse under your breath when you note what filters have been installed at the base of it.

They’re significantly better than the last time you faced off against them. This paralyser will be nothing more than an irritant at this rate.

They’ve come more than prepared.

They’ve come ready to skin the snake and hang her by that skin.

Snarling, you hurl the helmet at another uniformed figure that rounds the column, his rifle raised, watching it crash against his head.

Two shots follow from your Glock but the man only stumbles back, and you leap at him, slotting the nozzle under his collar before firing again. A bullet slices clean through his neck, finally killing him. You slide a blade in your other hand, spinning it once. Scanning your surroundings, you take the other side so you and John work back to back even at the distance.

Gunshots explode ahead and you know that Charon has joined in the fray as well.

Your displeasure morphs into anger and then outright fury with each dead body. It doesn’t take you long to realise that your weapons are too weak to handle this onslaught. The calibre too low. The helmets make the paralyser nothing more than a tickle down their throats and an ache in their eyes.

While that slows them somewhat, their armour is too good for a simple pistol fire. No matter how many bullets you may have at your disposal.

Slamming a knee into one man’s gut, you yank his body to one side. His body soaks up bullets his friends try to shoot at you and you pull back. A blade buries deep in his neck, you jerk the deadman again, feeling a splatter of hot liquid on your face when the blade cuts deeper into his skin.

Duck, yank, slice.

You tear through the throng of incoming soldiers but you’re slowed by the fact that each person takes too much effort to kill unless you get up close and personal. That in itself is tempting faith.

One bullet, one falter, that’s all it would take.

A man charges at you when his gun clicks empty, and you block his punch, pistol-whipping him across the head. The contact rattles through your bones and you bare your teeth.

A slice so quick he doesn’t even register it follows before his throat opens.

Nothing but a wet gurgle slips free and gravity does the rest.

Another follows after that, and another and another. It’s chaos and darkness. The floor is slippery with blood but you push ahead your expression contorted with pure wrath.

They want to kill you, do they?

Rules have drowned you for years now.

But right now—right this second—you’re still free of your chain.

And they have no idea what you can do.

Let me give you something to be afraid of.

With that thought racing through your mind, you turn and dash towards the elevator, slamming your hand against the button. It takes long—too long—but you know it will be worth it. Throwing yourself inside, you press the basement button over and over again, practically beating it.

The ride down seems to last an eternity as well.

You prowl inside the cubicle like a wild animal ready to spring free. So much so that the partition nearly breaks with the amount of strength you use to yank it backwards with.

“Winston!” you shout from the top of your lungs, slamming your palm repeatedly against the vault. “Let me in!”

There’s a reverberating click only moments later but you don’t wait for the hefty metal to open fully before you push inside, breathing harshly as you do.

Winston blinks slowly at the sight of you. “V?”

There is a question and a sharpness to his regard, and the wariness with which he takes you in should probably worry you. But you don’t answer him. Instead, you head straight for the cabinet. Your pulse pounding and a clamour inside your head leaving you partially deaf. To a point, both John’s and Charon’s returned presence back inside the vault scarcely registers.

A red haze clings to everything around you.

“V.”

Your knuckles are starting to swell again but after this, it won’t matter—

“V.”

“What do you want?” you hiss, each syllable acidic to a point it catches John off guard.

He mutely offers you a shotgun and something at the back of your brain recollects mentions of “armour piercing shells” but you shake your head.

“There’s still some left alive at the back, and they’re regrouping,” you say instead, trying to quell your temper. “I have something else for the second wave.”

He reads between the lines of your plan.

“I’m not leaving you alone to face them.”

Your head snaps in his direction, and you hold out a vial—smaller than others, rounder, filled with liquid that seems to be caught in a perpetual state of half-brown and half-red—in front of his face.

“This,” you begin tightly, your vocal cords straining from how hard you’re working to hold yourself back. “Is something that will kill them helmet or not. They should know better than to think that some cheap plastic will save them from me.”

You pull out two canisters of gas, shaking both as you look towards the air system. “Air filtering still on?”

“Minimal,” Winston returns, his voice dull, stare watchful. “Don’t let it consume you,” he reminds quietly after a pause.

Your grip momentarily falters at those words but that’s the only reaction he receives.

“Then I’ll do it the hard way.”

John intercepts you before you can take so much as a step, his minute unease now gone. “Why didn’t we open with that?”

You’re not sure why the hell he’s stalling now to ask you questions but you answer him despite that. “This is a diluted version of something I created a long time ago,” you tell them. “It wasn’t created to be used as a vapour. This is also the only vial I have, and it will take at least a month to create more. I was saving this for the eleventh hour because no matter how many are out there, they’re about all about to experience a quick but very painful death.”

You’re not quite sure what to make of what you glimpse across his features. Some turbulent mix of emotions he doesn’t seem to wish and explain. Day by day he learns the full extent of how you’re no longer that girl that walked away from him with tears streaming down her face.

This is what you are now. What you had to become.

You wait for a reaction, judgement, but John only steps aside, his voice a low rasp, “Be careful.”

You soften somewhat at the muted worry you hear in his voice. “You too,” you say with a sigh. “Go ahead. I’m grabbing one more canister of gas just in case. Don’t go anywhere near the lounge for the next ten minutes at least.”

Both men indicate their understanding, not bothering to question you further. And there is comfort in that, in their easy understanding and trust. They both can more than handle themselves but a distinct worry still gnaws on your entrails as you watch them leave. Lack of presence from the other guards no doubt means they’re all dead already.

So that leaves only you three.

Three vs a small army of highly trained fighters.

But not for long.

“V.”

“A little busy, Winston,” you stress while rummaging through different compartments. “Can it wait?”

Silence greets your words. Then, “If I asked for your trust. Your complete trust,” he begins purposely, his voice deceptively serene. “Would you give it to me?”

Your hands still and you stare blankly at your collection for a beat.

Straightening unhurriedly, you try to digest his words, and tilt your head in the manager’s direction.

It’s only when you note his expression that you realise something is very, very wrong.

The lobby is a graveyard.

Both literal and figurative.

Bodies lay in heaps across the usually gleaming flooring, and you wait patiently while leaning against one of many marble columns.

Waiting you’ve gotten rather good at.

The poison sits in your hands, warmed by your palms, but still brimming that ugly dark shade despite now being transformed into a vapour. You’ve recreated two versions of The Drowning and haven’t used either since Chicago. That thought makes you glare at the ceiling above because the recollection of Rafael and Boutin still wounds.

The grandeur of the Continental never fails to impress you though. Not even years later. There is always something new to discover and admire.

You’ve been waiting for at least five minutes now so when a creak sounds you don’t move at first. Muffled footsteps echo across the eerily quiet lobby, moving towards you.

But not from the direction of the entrance.

The louder the steps become the more obvious a secondary sound becomes as well.

Whistling.

Faint but melodic.

The familiarity of the tune causes you to stands straighter, focus on the melody.

Mr Sandman drifts through the air as a peculiar sort of goad; purposeful and sly.

“Oh, snakey,” a voice coos playfully, pausing the tune for a moment. “I know you’re hiding somewhere out here.”

Lucien.

Of course.

You’ve been expecting him to show up sooner rather than later. It’s good to know that you were right about him though. He wasn’t going to let you slip by him again. This time, you don’t want to, either. This time, you’re going to finish this.

You contemplate throwing the poison in his face but the High Table would not give up so easily. John and Charon might be cleaning up the remainder of the first wave one shotgun shell at the time but a second wave is guaranteed and soon. Logically they would want to try and overwhelm you. They’re hoping to wear you out.

“Come out, come out wherever you are,” Lucien calls out in a sing-song drawl, his footsteps slowing to a point they fade entirely. “Don’t make me find you. You’re not going to enjoy that scenario.”

“Who says I’m hiding?”

You round the column, finding his thin, solitary figure in the middle of the lobby immediately. The dark green light seems to only emphasize his gaunt frame and you take a step closer, then another.

How clever of him to wait until your paralyser is fully dispelled from the air before he came seeking you out.

His head lowers, deepening the shadows under his eyes. “Did your guard dogs run away?” he wonders mockingly, his voice carrying. “Good, they were getting in the way.”

“Of what?”

“Our dance, of course,” he retorts, a shade angry like you should know better. “One last dance and the truth. Oh, if only you knew but you don’t. No point in secrets now though.”

You scoff, both of you watching each other as you draw nearer. “You like hearing yourself talk, don’t you, Lucien?”

The blonde assassin bares his teeth at the sound of his name—dangerous and macabre, dripping with heinous amusement—and he gazes at you for a moment. Something flickers over his shoulder—

“Not at all actually,” he states overly calm. “But you’re not the only one to have your life stolen. Maybe it’s about time you realised that,” he divulges, his voice softening into something as hateful as it is eager. Like whatever he thought he knew, he couldn’t wait to impart on you. “I’ll be waiting for you, viper.”

You aim the poison at his head, hurling it through the air with every fibre of your strength.

Lucien ducks, sliding across the floor at near blinding speed, and disappearing behind the armchairs and from your sight.

It’s at that moment that the Black Dragon’s men burst through the lobby door, their guns raised.

Following his example, you dash behind the column, an explosion of bullets following a split second later.

Rubble splinters under the abuse and you turn, avoiding the crumbling stone.

One, two, three…

This time your poison doesn’t escape in an unassuming tickle of vapour. No, this time it’s an impact of a small explosive going off, and it’s a matter of one, two, three before muffled screams and groans replace the gunfire.

Arching your back against the ruined stone, you allow your head to tip back, watching the ceiling thoughtfully. You wait till gunfire completely cuts out before moving. Then, you stride from behind the column studying the effects with a mix of cold detachment.

Your own nose and lungs ache uncomfortably—just a show of how potent the formula really is—but you don’t take your attention away from the dying soldiers. They’re more of a heap at this point, their gas masks that they no doubt were so sure would keep them safe now virtually useless.

It’s a quick but brutal affair.

Wet sounds and sobs of pain. Then, like dominoes falling, the men still one by one.

They might be only obeying orders, but they came to kill the only family you have and take your home, and you find yourself feeling little to no pity for them.

The haze is gone now, leaving the lobby even more chillingly silent than earlier.

Lucien is nowhere in sight.

You would have preferred if the poison got him but didn’t hold out much hope that it would. He’s too good and far too fast.

I’ll be waiting for you.

He will grow to regret those words.

Stepping over the bodies, you approach the spot you saw the blonde last, heading in the direction of the only corridor he could have gone down.

Glock aimed ahead, your movements are utterly silent, deadly. No matter how deep into the hotel you head, he seems to be nowhere in sight, however. This time, clearly, he wants you to look for him.

Corridor by corridor you find nothing. Then floor by floor. You know this hotel far better than Lucien does. If he really assumes he can hide from you here he’s sorely mistaken.

Gunfire rips through the air and you pause, tightening your grip on the pistol. Little by little, you decrease the distance just as a hush falls up ahead.

John’s dark hair is what you glimpse first and instinctively relax seeing that it’s him.

“John.”

The man turns towards the call of his name, and you squint at him, approaching cautiously. “Why are you wet?”

John breaths are laboured, rattling from his lungs in shallow pants, making his chest expand with each inhale. “Zero’s men.”

“The Male Lover found me too,” you tell him and you both fall into step. “Missed out on the poison party, unfortunately.”

The man at your side glances you over once—a completely wordless but attentive examination—and you huff a small breath, amused.

“I’m fine.”

You’ve forgotten how much of a mother hen he could be without saying a single word.

At least you’re a little calmer now after your previous display of explosive fury.

He seems to accept your words, and you both step into the elevator for what feels like the hundredth time in a span of only several hours.

You know what logic John is following though. Both Lucien and Zero have likely hidden up on the higher levels for two reasons.

More places to hide.

And they’re less likely to encounter any poison on the higher floors.

Leaning your shoulder heavily against the cool metal, you peer at the man only arm’s length away. Baba Yaga stands with his shoulders slumped and expression enervated. Yet he’s standing despite that. His gaze still burns with a fierce sort of determination.

That might have been one of the first things you’ve fallen in love with—that determination and will. Followed by his often unspoken kindness.

What won’t you give for things to be different.

Going up the floors proves to be the right of course action the moment the elevator stops.

John throws himself against one side of the metal cubicle, and you do the same when a bullet whistles through the partition, piercing the metal where John’s head just was.

Pushing your hand out, you fire blindly, hearing shuffling in response, and use the distraction to peek your head over the edge. John does the exact same thing and you both fire simultaneously, hitting two men. John in the head. You in the chest. Neither moves.

Shoulders hunched and tense, you move in unison, and you conclude instantaneously that this is clearly a trap to draw you in deeper. Laying a path for you to follow until the trap springs shut.

Eyeing each other, you both move ahead despite that shared conclusion.

It doesn’t matter much now. You may only have the single magazine, and one vial of paralyser left on you after butchering your way through an entire hoard of soldiers, but it won’t matter.

There is a nagging thought at the back of your mind that you should ask about Charon but now isn’t the time for that, either. The concierge is likely back with Winston by now.

There is a ruthless strategy to how you remove Zero’s men. One by one, shoulder to shoulder, and know that these men are afraid. That they know deep in their heart of hearts that they won’t survive the fight before it even begins but they still try. They’re strong and fast. A legacy of hard training and cruel discipline no doubt. But John is stronger and you are faster.

In many ways, they remind you of those soldiers from years ago who ambushed you in that freezing Tokyo alleyway.

Your bullets run out by the time you return to the administrative lounge. All you have on you now are two blades, paralyser, and Elder’s dagger, tucked away and out of sight. Both blades have been christened with blood two floors ago, and John is down to his bare hands.

It would put most at a disadvantage but not him. If anything, his ruthlessness only seems to grow.

But something is different this time.

Three main differences, really.

First, a jovial whistle of Mr Sandman floating through the air.

Second, three dead men that you recognise as Zero’s and finally…

Lucien leans again a glass case housing an old relic, his hands covered in blood and the tip of his blade scratching at his nail. There’s at least a few dozen of these glass cases littering the room, an old passion of Winston’s, and quite the point of pride for him. Some artifacts locked away here are worth a lot of money. Frowning deeply, you stall, drilling holes into his figure.

Lucien knows you’re here but doesn’t acknowledge you right away. He continues humming, seemingly set on finishing the tune before his head dips lazily in your direction.

“Run along, Mr Wick,” he says bluntly, his face splattered with blood. “This is between me and the viper.”

The man beside you makes a small sound at the back of his throat, near disbelieving, but you cut him off before he can speak, still staring at Lucien, “Go, John,” you say calmly. “He’s right. We have unfinished business, as do you.”

John’s stare burns into the side of your head but you don’t explain further than that. This is not his fight. You’re no longer in need of his shadow and in need of his protection.

Still, he doesn’t move right away, and you hear him audibly inhale as if he needs to say something but can’t force the words out.

You’re about to repeat yourself but he finally steps to the side, taking a path around Lucien and the dead guards. His gait is slow. He’s practically staggering because you can sense his reluctance but the fact that he listens does make you feel a tinge of satisfaction.

A part of you wants to look towards him as he disappears down the hall but you don’t.

Lucien peers at you with a strange little smile on his face all the while, waiting till John’s footsteps fully retreat until his limbs shift. He’s still smiling faintly but you’re in no urge to finish this, so you’re fine with letting him play his games, waiting and watching.

“Had your fun?” you wonder, bored, gesturing towards the dead men at his feet.

Lucien cranes his neck, pushing away from the glass with a swiftness that makes you tense. He chuckles at your reaction, stepping over them like they’re nothing more than dirt under his boot.

“Oh, that was just a little warm-up,” he says brightly that faint, unsettling smile still lingering, and you can’t help but wonder what his deal is. He seems awfully cheery. It makes for a strange contrast to your last few run-ins. And his previous words, implying his own looming demise. “You kept me waiting. Don’t tell me you’re getting slow.”

Smiling, you too move in his direction, limbs relaxed, a peaceful hush over your body. “Are you hoping to talk me to death?”

“Now, now,” he mutters icily. “No need to be quite so rude. I just want a dance.”

Your smile splits into something bleaker, more cold-blooded, and you circle each other. Pale blue light dances across Lucien’s sharp features. A snap of jaws, a growl—there is something animalistic about the wordless exchange between you. Something brittle, a string being yanked upon repeatedly until one of you finally gives in.

Lucien leaps first.

Your knives are short, certainly not created for duelling but the clank of metal pierces the air as you both meet in the middle. Your exhausted muscles snap, tensing, coiling.

He swipes his elbow in your direction but you duck just in time, a whistle of wind tickling your temple.

Arms twisting, you both ignore the screech of metal, you punching him in the jaw while he gets you in the ribs. Gasping, you stagger back, ignoring the numbing pain. Time has dulled the memory of how hard he manages to hit if the hits land.

Lucien springs towards you again, his face contorted, lips stretched back. This time your arms are tucked at your sides and you greet his attack. Your knees knock but you manage to push him back. A swipe of your blade is your reply but he careens out of the way and you kick at him instead. He catches your knee, staggering back from the impact, and he grins at you wildly. A slight cut against the corner of his mouth bubbles up, spilling blood over his front teeth. It paints the white bone canvas with diluted scarlet.

“You didn’t answer my question earlier,” he says conversationally, and you try to sink your knife into his chest but he shoves you back. You stumble but stay upright, exhaling shakily at the pain across your ribs. “If he missed you.”

Ignoring him, you roll the blades between your fingers, drooping lower as you unleash one quick swipe after another.

Lucien lurches backwards, his expression tightening in concentration. He manages to stay out of the way, just barely. So you push him backwards till you’re back by the bodies, and the man drops to the floor so suddenly you’re left staring at empty air until your mind catches up.

He rolls across the floor, a blur of his golden hair and dark clothes the only visible thing, and you realise a second too late as to why.

A blade lays by one of the dead men covered in blood as well. You have no idea how he managed to take down three men with a minimum of two katanas at their disposal. But there’s no time to contemplate that because this time you’re the one throwing yourself backwards.

Lucien swipes the katana in a deadly arc.

His hair mused, face bloodied and a grin on his face, he gazes at you for a second. Your grip on your blades constricts.

“I wondered for years what was so special about you,” he reveals mildly, tipping his chin upwards, pulling the blade closer towards his body as he stands. “I fucking hated you, viper. Viper. I suppose that’s one of many titles for you, isn’t it? John Wick’s protege, the Vipress, the Italian’s whore, the Russian’s Viper, Lady Camorra. Honestly doesn’t your head…hurt from it all? Or does it add to your ego?”

He spins the katana in the air, rolling his wrist—experienced and at ease, the blade like an extension of his arm. Your senses pinprick at that assessment, knowing he just made this much harder for you.

“Did the way he used to call you his desert viper make you feel powerful?” he wonders suddenly, tracing his index finger up the curve of the metal. “Gave you a sense of importance? It must have felt thrilling to be such an exception to the most powerful man in the world.”

Something inside your chest stills.

Lucien drags his eyes in your direction, watching you closely over the edge of the blade.

“My, you really do have no idea, do you?” he continues slyly, his expression slackening with amusement; malicious, wild kind that causes you to bristle. “None. Your life is, ah, what is the expression again? A hot mess, non? Oh, snakey, I thought you could be the one to teach me a lesson I failed to learn all those years ago, but your ignorance is truly disappointing.”

He cuts the air with the blade, lowering it back to his side, and you bite out a chilly, “What the hell are you talking about?”

He tuts, wagging his index finger in your direction, his grin fluttering like he’s trying to contain a laugh bubbling inside his chest.

“I kept telling you but you just don’t listen, do you?” he wonders with a click of his tongue. “I told you we were the same. Forged by the same violence. Alike in ways you failed to understand. Now, why do you think I would say that?”

You don’t respond, instead, you push yourself backwards, launching your full mass at him. Lucien greets you with a chuckle—a cold, hollow sound, teetering on manic just like the rest of him—his katana managing to absorb the impact of your shorter dual blades.

“Tokyo, Chicago, Prague, the Albanians, the summit, us—did you really think it was all, what exactly, one funny coincidence?” he asks jovially, and a distinct chill sinks into your bones at his words, forcing you to pull yourself backwards, and dive for the other blade on the ground.

He lets you. Doesn’t bother trying to stop you, and you grip the handle in a knuckle tight grip, creating some distance between you once more. Again, he lets you, examining you with a dark but curious light gleaming in his eyes. Like you’re a lab rat he’s conducting a study on. His question rattles through your head and you squint at him.

“You never even questioned it, did you?” he continues, his voice airy with disbelief, a joke that seems to entertain him endlessly. He’s lost interest in the fight between you for a moment, prowling across the gleaming floor but in no hurry to attack. This, clearly is more important to him. “The water, the tunnels, the darkness. A repeating pattern. All carefully put together to test you. Over and over and over again. And you exceeded his every expectation. Every challenge thrown at you, you triumphed. And even if you did wonder at the back of your mind, you never once were made to believe that someone else was pulling the strings all along. Think, snake. Think.”

You’re not sure if you’re still breathing.

What…

No…

No, it doesn’t…

It’s not possible. It…can’t…

Your head is empty and you gasp for breath but your lungs feel blocked, your throat locked.

Lucien attacks in a blur.

You just barely manage to muster up the speed to block him, a piercing screech of metal against metal. Your arms buckle under his strength and he kicks you, catching you in the gut. One, two—

A muffled curse slips free, everything spinning, and he grabs the spare blade in your hand, throwing it away.

Parrying for control, you attempt a punch at his head but it’s too slow and sloppy. He catches your fist, bending your arm at a sharp angle. You relax it as per your old training to avoid broken tendons or bones. The katana slips from your hand and you growl under your breath, your free hand managing to form a fist.

A punch to his gut hits him quicker than a snake bite. Brutally efficient, impacting the exact same spot you gutted him only weeks prior.

Lucien grunts. Swears. His teeth gleam, still tinged by blood and you feel his hot breath on your face. Death and decay and—

You’re too misbalanced that you don’t notice it fast enough.

Lucien kicks you in the stomach with enough strength to send you flying.

A second of weightlessness enfolds you and then comes the crash.

Glass shatters upon contact and you muffle a cry of pain, feeling glass explode and rain down around you. Hitting the floor with a deafening thud, you stay there for a while, everything ringing and blurred around you.

A feeble moan escapes you, pained and strangled.

You attempt to shake your head, your fingers twitching against the glass covered floor.

“Tokyo was just the beginning,” Lucien’s muffled voice sounds like you’re underwater and you groan, weakly tilting your head to spot his approaching legs. Glass crunches under his boots and you try to desperately block out his words. “He’s always been on the lookout for new members to join his inner circle. Best of the best. And he’s always paid close attention to poisoners like you. Tokyo was just a nudge to see what you were made of. But you didn’t break and it escalated too far. Do you know what the Elder did after you escaped? Why you never heard from Kishi’s little group again? It wasn’t because of Wick. It was because the Elder had the entire clan killed. Just that easily. Because they disobeyed him.”

“No, no…”

It can’t be true.

It can’t.

He has to be lying. It doesn’t make any sense…

Except…it does.

“Did you never ask yourself why Tarasov didn’t simply turn you into another whore or sell you?” he demands harshly. “Later, I imagine, it was a certain degree of fear of you. But initially, it was because of the Elder’s will. Even if all Viggo Tarasov knew back then was that the Table willed it so.”

You focus on your core, trying to get yourself to move but Lucien speeds up his approach, kicking you in the stomach.

Pain blinds you and you roll across the floor. Your forehead connects with the glass, your left eyebrow splitting on impact. You don’t realise it at first—not till numbness is replaced by a sensation of something wet trailing down your face.

Droplets of fresh blood hit the crushed glass beneath you, and you crawl ahead with a pained gasp.

“Next—and my personal favourite—Chicago,” Lucien narrates loudly, his voice echoing through the large space. You hear him behind you but utter shock wins out, locking your limbs, leaving you a frail mess on the ground for him to prey upon. A part of you wants to roar, another wants to cry. Your training battles against the yawning abyss you keep slipping down with each horrifying word. “Who do you think fed the father-son wonder duo their information? Why do you think you were taken to an underground facility that was spitting image of Tokyo? Why not just kill you and D’Antonio outright? Boutin thought he was getting a special task but the truth was that he had long since outlived his use. The Elder fed both Boutin and his son to you to see what you would do. Black Dragon and D’Antonio were just pawns to hide the real test.”

The highway. The way they just kept attacking but not trying to kill you. It was to see how long you will last.

You want to be sick, a dry heave bubbling past your lips, every word crushing you harder, harder, harder—

“And, once again, you did perfectly but not without a loose end,” he sneers, venturing closer, step by step, as is savouring your reaction. “He also knew that the fear of being found out will make you more compliant. Wasn’t it peculiar that he summoned you right after you returned to New York? It’s almost like he…knew. Well, he did. He always has.”

Biting your tongue, you try to push yourself up on your elbows.

Ignore him, don’t listen, don’t—

“Prague. Again. Poison that made you struggle,” he reveals, his voice pitching towards impatience now. “The syndicate that took your Italian had no prior conflicts with Camorra and for a reason. Another test and punishment. More pieces for you to remove.”

Santino was taken for no reason. Right after your return from the desert. Cognitionis had no former alterations with Camorra up until that point. They were far too small to ever risk the wrath of a powerhouse like Camorra. They hadn’t even made demands which struck you as so odd back then but you had chalked it up to them wanting to prove a point.

A poison the heir was poisoned with was sophisticated and took some time to reverse-engineer. So long, in fact, that Santino nearly died.

“Albanians. Same thing,” Lucien voices harshly, punctuating every word. He’s gotten so close that when the second kick comes the pain is distant, muted. Because what he’s betraying is so, so much worse. “It wasn’t Camorra that started the conflict. It was made to seem that way. Tarasov was cautioned to keep a close eye on you. To a point he forbade you from helping Camorra, right? And what did you do after that, snakey?” he demands, bending down and yanking you upwards by the back of your neck.

He pulls you towards him and more blood trails down your face. Lucien’s narrowed eyes search for something in your expression, and he smiles faintly when he spots it. “That’s right. It’s all starting to click, isn’t it?”

Tarasov forbade you from helping Camorra, from helping Santino. It was the first time you ever talked back to him. First time you ever conjured up enough courage to do so.

And then, furious and upset, you ran. Straight to Casablanca. And nearly back to the man who always expected—knew, he fucking knew, planned for it—for you to come back to him.

It’s what he wanted from the start and it would have been your choice.

No forced loyalty.

You will always lose, and it will always lead you back to me.

Oh God.

If Santino had come just half a day later you won’t even be here right now. You would be with him, at his side, and none the wiser to this truth.

The terrible, dark truth of what loneliness can do to someone.

“I even told you it was him,” the man holding you whispers, his head dipping to one side when he drags his fingers over your face, wetting them with your blood. “You just don’t remember, do you?”

His disappointment is once again palpable.

Except while you’re staring at the cutting lines of his face, a recollection does come.

The warehouse. You tied to a chair. A needle stuck in your neck as Lucien leaned his body over you. The scathing bewilderment at the fact that he has managed to find something powerful enough to knock you out for hours. Those thin, pink lips shaping words while whatever he injected you with coursed through your veins, and a name you didn’t catch.

The Elder sends his regards.

Lucien’s fingers sink deep into the skin of your neck, his expression clouding with rage the longer he gazes at you.

“You were his favourite,” he seethes bitterly, ripping you upwards and on your knees so quickly you’re left scrambling. Your legs drag across the glass shards and your hands lock shakily around his, trying to rip out of his grip. “No one after you was good enough! We trained until our bones broke. We could bleed ourselves dry, and it still wasn’t enough!”

Shódigan.

That’s why he asked if you knew about it.

You thought you did but—

He flings you ahead and your body slides across the gleaming flooring, leaving a trail of blood behind. Lucien follows, stalking closer, and squats beside you, this time yanking you upwards by the collar of your shirt. “He adored you,” he adds with a hiss, his fury scalding your skin; an old, festering resentment. “And now you’re paying the price for that adoration.”

He exhales with great difficulty, taking several moments to reign in his temper.

Now, you understand his obsession with you perfectly.

He is like you.

He was a candidate too.

He must have been.

Another face in a long line of candidates for the coveted disciple position.

This time when Lucien speaks, his voice sounds contemplative, “Though I suppose you should thank him too,” he states forcefully light. “One day you will be remembered as a legend, just like your Baba Yaga. He helped to forge you into what you are today.”

You’re too numb to feel anything else.

There is just a hushed sort of silence ringing through your head.

Undeterred by your lack of response, Lucien goes on, wiping at the blood on his face, “You know there is an old French saying: qui se resemble, s'assemble. Can you guess what it means?” he doesn’t wait for your answer this time, either. “Every man loves well what is like to himself. You are each other’s dark mirror. His counterpart.”

He giggles this time, grabbing your face, his fingers cutting into the flesh of your cheeks, and for the first time since he started his speech, something sparks in your gut.

Shock or not, your body is failing to respond but you battle against it, silencing your mind.

Hurt and betrayal slam like an overloading flood against your composure despite your best attempts to stay afloat.

You’re such a fool.

Such a lonely, naive fool.

So desperate to believe.

Hope.

Just like he was.

Lucien is right.

You and Elder are two broken halves of a mangled whole.

The same man you once saw as a chance for redemption, belonging, is the architect of the majority of the pain in your life.

One day, if you still wish it, I will tell you everything.

Everything. This is what he had meant by everything.

He ordered Winston’s death not because the manager broke the rules but because he wanted to remove your main tie to New York—the very tie that made you choose to leave him in the first place.

And John would have been the one to fire the bullet.

You would have hated him for the rest of your days for taking the manager away from you.

Santino is still weak and so very easy for the Elder to dispose of right now.

The Lovers. Their mission to hunt you both down.

Another test for you, another tie cut if they succeed in killing Santino.

And you would have crawled to him on your hands and knees, hoping for his kindness once again. Heartbroken and alone with no one to turn to.

He would have won and you would have made it easy for him.

So very easy.

Lucien drinks in your tiny, wet breaths and glassy stare. Blood continues dripping from the cut against your eyebrow and you shiver in his hold.

A tear trails down your cheek and you can’t process a single thought. It’s too much, it’s…

“He always feared you would find out,” this time his voice is softer, emptier, and the hollows that make up his eyes examine you shrewdly. “But it’s a fitting punishment. To care for someone so deeply, to desire them, only to live with the burden of knowing that you are the reason for their suffering.”

His fingers tremble, sunken deep into your cheeks, and another off-tilter laugh tickles from the back of his throat.

“I really did hate you, your shadow, for years. Until those tunnels,” he murmurs, his faint accent just a little more notable then, his grip easing, loosening. “Until I saw how much darkness lurks under that mask of calm. How much hate festers inside you but directed at the wrong people. I told you we were one and the same. You should have listened.”

He shakes his head, blonde strands brushing over his forehead, his mouth stretching into another beaming smile, all teeth.

Lucien lets you go and you drop the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

That’s all you are—comes the sinking, gutting realisation—a puppet for others to use and play with.

“He will kill me for what I’ve done to you,” Lucien announces, sounding like he’s made peace with that grim fact long ago. “But you know it’s funny, snakey. I always thought I would enjoy this more. Getting back at them by betraying his secrets. Seeing that realisation on your face. That crumbling hope and despair as your world unravels and crashes around you,” he says softly, near lovingly.

It must have taken him years to gain this level of trust, to learn this information.

You don’t move a muscle. All you can see are Lucien’s legs but you can feel him staring down at you.

The blonde tsks under his breath, nudging you with the tip of his boot but you don’t react. “You want to deny it, I know you do,” he begins purposely, and you suppose he would know, won’t he? “But you can’t. Because I bet every single thing that’s never made sense about your life before now suddenly does. Am I right, snakey?”

Your fingers tremble and you press them closer to your body.

“Looking at you now, I almost pity you,” he muses and there is a distinct note of uncomfortable surprise in his low voice. It almost makes you ponder just how large the line between this lucid Lucien and his insanity really is. “You’re just a little tragedy, aren’t you?” he adds thoughtfully.

Little tragedy. Little tragedy. Little tragedy.

It echoes.

You wonder, then, what you would have become had you been allowed to stay a girl. If you didn’t have to become a monster. Even though the monster kept you alive, kept you breathing and fighting.

What would you have become if you hadn’t been robbed of a future you could have had?

“Your life is not your own, it never was.”

Deafening, hollow silence follows that statement. Your heart thuds so painfully inside your chest, a part of you waits for it to stop on its own.

Lucien’s boot settles against your waist again, pushing you onto your back.

You stare up at the ceiling above you and count the beats of your heart.

The assassin straddles you unhurriedly as if expecting you to fight back but all you do is blink slowly.

Everything is rushing through your head right now. Every moment over the last seven years.

His fingers brush over the curve of your neck and he stares down at you with an almost rueful expression on his face.

“What a waste,” he starts tightly, followed by a long pause and he mutters something in French under his breath. His fingers settle around your throat—not squeezing, simply gazing down at you. “I knew it would crush you. But I hoped for that rage. For the abyss. For you to show me once and for all what I lacked that you had. Your lesson.”

So that’s what that was about.

“We might have been friends had we met sooner, serpent girl.”

His fingers constrict—

“My—”

Your voice cracks and Lucien’s grip relaxes instantly. The thin line of his eyebrows knits in confusion. “Quoi?”

Gulping a painful breath, you part your lips, “My…lesson,” you croak out, tasting blood on your tongue and how fitting that you should. “My lesson…I have the answer.”

A certain light devours his gaze, and although his features drop with surprise, his eagerness is tangible.

He leans closer, and over you, his fingers still around your throat, “Tell me.”

Your tongue feels heavy and dry inside your mouth, an acrid aftertaste coating it, and Lucien jerks his fingers harder around the fragile column. He presses closer, his body weight pinning you down—

You jerk your body, a blur of your arm, a gleam of a dagger in the artificial, cold light. The Elder’s dagger in your hand trembles but gushing scarlet coats it still.

“I’m faster.”

Lucien gapes, his mouth parted. He convulses, his grip on your neck slipping, and you lurch your hips upwards, throwing him off you.

He drops to the side, right beside you, unmoving but the heat of his body still warming you—and you clutch the dagger tighter between your blood-stained fingers. You press it to your chest and lay there till time becomes nothing.

BC4 BC5.

Years ago when you escaped to Casablanca, eager to start your life over and join the Elder once again, Sofia told you something that has stuck with you ever since.

Sometimes you have to kill what you love.

You’ve thought about that a lot over the years. What exactly she had to sacrifice to have the power she now possesses—her daughter, flesh and blood, and good.

What you may have to sacrifice one day to earn your freedom.

Now, you suppose, none of that matters anymore.

Not really.

You’ve almost won your pyrrhic victory, Kishi purrs happily at your side, and you hear the subdued rumble of Tarasov’s laugh too, soon you can savour the rotting, sweet taste of it on your tongue.

The rooftop terrace door slams open, and you step onto the patio, halting the heated conversation with your arrival. There is an unsteady sway to your limbs that doesn’t escape anyone’s attention—John’s shoulder’s slump, Winston’s eyes narrow, the Adjudicator simply arches an eyebrow—but your expression remains steely.

The fire roars behind Winston and Charon—and it is, admittedly, a massive relief to see them both safe and unharmed—even if it makes you think how close you came…

No.

None of that now.

You’ve lived through worse (have you? liar, liar, liar, Kishi coos) and you give them a forced, fragmented smile.

“Mornin’.”

The Adjudicator grimaces subtly, and you know it’s likely because your injuries leave your smile bloody. Good.

“The Vipress,” the Adjudicator greets, standing to their feet. “I must express my apologies on behalf of the High Table. It does, indeed, seem like the general order in regards to you has...changed.”

They don’t look particularly happy to admit that but this is no time to goad, if you even could muster up the strength for it.

Instead, you stare blankly in their direction for a beat. “Excuse me,” you say, your voice a grating whisper, as you push past them. “Killing your lackies has made me thirsty.”

You shoulder past them, avoiding contact, your eyes momentarily jumping to Winston who stands right behind the Adjudicator, his stare cautious. Your eye contact lasts no more than a scant few seconds but it’s enough.

It’s a split second in which you grab a glass of champagne, ignoring the other snacks on the table.

You turn to face them, finding them all in differing states of confusion or uncertainty but offer no explanation as you drown three large gulps.

“Let’s get on with it, then,” you phrase bitingly, not bothering to hide the impatience, the sting of bubbling acid and, and… “I would like to have breakfast and take a shower. It exhausts a girl, having to take down armies. Hope you can appreciate that at least most of mine are in one piece. Less blood for you to wipe,” you comment idly, directing your words at the Adjudicator.

Coldness lurks in their regard, and you can tell that their opinion of you is less than savoury.

You don’t give a shit what they might think of you.

Every word slips past your lips on automatic; mindless, void syllables that feel drained of life. It’s an effort to register anything around you.

The blood, the champagne, the bubbles tickling your nose.

“While you have been pardoned of your crimes,” the Adjudicator resumes smoothly, clearly eager to get the conversation back on track and out of the way. “I’m afraid no such thing has happened with Mr Wick. A man who has shown no loyalty, no regard for the rules. It is by that logic the Table’s decrees that the punishment should fit the crime.”

Winston hums loudly, his head tilting as he nods in absentminded agreement.

You take another sip of your drink, frowning at the taste of blood in your mouth. Fitting, somehow.

You might have scrubbed yourself clean of blood before coming up here but it still stains the cracks of your skin. Cuticles stained with red, mouth stained with red.

Red, red, red…

John straightens at those words. He looks beat from his own fight but remains quiet. Yet, he can no doubt sense that something’s wrong.

“You’re correct,” Winston states, no affliction to be found in his voice and he steps closer, pulling something from behind his jacket. “Sorry, Jonathan.”

BANG

The gunshot is like a thunderclap through the too still morning.

John’s body jerks with the impact, a gasp sounding a second later, and you look at him while Winston steps closer.

BANG

John scrambles backwards, his bulletproof clothing absorbing the impacts but it won’t get him far.

“(Name)!” he calls out desperately, pained, his eyes seeking your form out, his voice cracking and splintering.

You can’t help and wonder if he’s scared. He sounds scared. There is something ironic—downright hilarious—in the knowledge that he’s facing death yet calling out your name like it may prove to be a salvation.

It’s the first time since you asked him not to use your real name that he uses it. But you don’t move. Don’t respond to the plea for help. Mercy.

You just stare at him, indifferent and cold, knowing that even if you tried you couldn’t muster up any emotional response right now.

Winston fires again, and again, and John veers towards the building edge, his knees shaking.

The manager’s expression remains vacant, cold, and he shoots again, no hesitation in his aim. Not a single falter. It’s one of the most well carried out executions you’ve ever witnessed.

John’s back hits the ledge and you watch in near slow motion as he tips over the edge falling at least twenty floors down and towards the concrete below.

You hear the metallic bangs as he hits a few fire escapes on his way down but still don’t move.

Then, impact so loud it splits the air.

Then, stillness.

The typical buzz of New York City waking up resumes. Time restarts and goes back to its natural flow once again.

Throwing your glass back, you drown the remainder of the champagne, licking your lips twice, yet blood still lingers.

Winston lowers his arm, approaching the edge but the Adjudicator gets there first. Charon is only a step behind them, and you force yourself to move after them as well.

The Adjudicator gazes down for a long, assessing moment, silent. Their head turns towards the manager who meets their probing stare flatly.

“I assume we’re done here?” he questions.

The Adjudicator inclines their head and, predictably, switches their attention to you. “You did not help him.”

A fact, not a question, yet it demands an explanation all the same. Your tongue moves on automatic, forming words that taste brittle.

Everything feels brittle.

“Why would I?” you wonder dully. “He betrayed me not so long ago, and nearly killed the majority of my friends less than a week ago. I learned my lesson.”

Chuckling, you turn your back to them, walking away leisurely. The glass clangs back onto the coffee table, a shriek of a sound. “I have served. I will be of service,” you echo the mantra pleasantly, faint with scorn.

Every word bleeds venom through your heart.

You don’t face them again, and no one stops you. The terrace doors slam shut behind you, and it’s a deafening bang that reverberates. You force yourself to put one foot in front of another. Keep walking, keep walking, keep—

It’s a blur, your feet dragging behind you. You’ve stopped bleeding but still have to halt at one point, leaning your palm against the corridor wall to rest.

You’re teetering and—

Your life is not your own, it never was.

Your room sits untouched. The door opens with a click that’s like a kiss against your hair—so soothing and loving, comforting in ways that you could never quite explain.

The table is still an organised mess; notes half-unfinished, empty vials, dried ingredients—all littering the wooden surface, and you approach it slowly.

Exactly as you left it before you departed for Rome.

It seems like a lifetime ago now.

Everything is the same here, frozen in time.

Except nothing is the same.

Your fingertips trace over your notebook; a new formula, a collection of improvements on old ideas, scribbles that don’t make much sense to anyone but you.

Your legacy. Your work.

This room is a testament to who you are. What you have become.

A tragedy.

Not a legend, or a fighter, just a tragedy of a girl.

A sound escapes you at that, strangely wounded, and you lean the heels of your palms against the table edge, your vision blurring.

Tragedy, tragedy, tragedy.

A puppet stitched together by different hands, influenced by different people.

You’re a product of someone else.

Every victory from your past sours and cracks with that realisation. You must have made him so proud.

You hate this room, this table, these plants, yourself.

This time a scream rips from the back of your throat. A brutal sweep of your hands wipes the table clean, everything plummeting to the floor with a booming crash.

You destroy everything in your path. Glass explodes, paper rips, liquids spills. You’re panting, sweating, and shaking by the time you come back to yourself. The floor is a mess, the whole room is.

A glint catches your notice when you spin on your heels, and your head snaps to the floor-length mirror across the room.

You don’t recognise anything about the bloodied, tear-stained, wild reflection that glares back at you. A monster is all that stands there. Alone and devoid of everything.

Distance evaporates between you, and you slam the hilt of the only weapon you still have left into the glass. The Elder’s dagger shatters the mirror upon contact. Cracks fracture your face before the mess crashes at your feet with another ear-splitting echo.

That uses the last tendril of strength left in your body—perhaps your very soul.

Your knees fold under you—and it’s almost soft, your crumbling.

Weightless and empty you settle on the floor.

Tears stream down your cheeks, hitting the crushed glass in front of you but you don’t wipe them away, don’t make a single sound. You can’t.

Your forehead lowers between your knees, your hushed sobs the only noise permeating through the peaceful room.

You don't get back up.

B4.

. . .

AN:

well.

now you know.

not sure how many of you are even around to read this but a fun game to play now that you're done:

- reread COA from start to finish, noting every use of "honoured guest" in relation to V spoken by her enemies throughout the years, even the elder himself.

#john wick #john wick x reader #santino d'antonio x reader #santino d'antonio #keanu reeves #riccardo scamarcio #john wick fic #john wick imagine #santino d'antonio imagine #fanfiction #fic: children of ares

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sinfulcider · 3 years

Text

Let me cut your hair

Parings: Bucky x Fem!reader

Summary: Bucky has neglected getting his hair cut for a few months and when his friend (who he has feelings for, but he somehow always forgets to mention that part) and him have some time off in the midst of a mission, waiting for a breakthrough, she offers to cut his hair for him.

Warnings: implied smut! Some fluff, I think that’s all.

Bucky grimaced a bit as he looked in the mirror, he hadn’t really noticed how long his hair had gotten. Of course, bucky’s hair was still much shorter than it used to be, but with how busy he’d been in the past months his hair grew out into a bit of an awkward state. He didn’t have much going on today though, him and Y/n were staying in waiting for a breakthrough and Sam was visiting with Sarah while he had the time.

Y/n knew how to cut hair, he had seen her cut her own many tims in the years he’d known her. Though she had skill, and he trusted her with his own life, let alone his hair, but he could never bring himself to ask her for a haircut.

With a heavy sigh he brushed it of and figured he’d get a haircut after they were done with everything. He flicked of the light and set his destination to the coffee pot in the kitchen, leaving the bathroom and swiftly moving to his desired area. “Hello.” Y/n greeting him with a warm smile, the soft kind of smile that made his heart melt in an instant. She could turn Bucky into a puddle of a man with one look and he loved it, but he hated it because he couldn’t tell her. He was terrified of the power she had over him and how much he was absolutely, overwhelmingly overcome with adoration and admiration for her.

Bucky gulped, pulling himself from the fuzzy warm feeling in his head that made his want to watch her face for the next five hours. “Hi,” his voice came out quieter than he’d expected, it was a bit timid, worried. His voice calmed Y/n though, grounding her in the foggy morning that made her head pound in worry for how the day might play out. Seeing him in front of hr and hearing him acknowledge her made her feel hope for a good experience.

Y/n sipped her coffee in content as her eyes followed the tall man before her, she watched him pour his coffee and rub the sleep from his eyes. Her smile never left her lips and she nearly felt giddy at seeing his beautiful face this early, despite having been near him in the mornings before the feeling never withered away. His eyes met hers once he’d gulped down a swig of coffee, the bright blue becoming fully visible and brightened as his eyes widened a bit “What?” She shrugged, “nothing.” He tilted his head like a curious puppy, making her heart flip. “You’re just pretty.” She chuckled, watching the light rose color dust his cheeks.

Bucky cleared his throat, suddenly feeling flustered at the compliment. Y/n’s eyes wandered to his messy hair that had grown over his ear a bit too much, dark tufts of hair sticking up her and there. She craved to run her hands through the soft locks and maybe even have the privilege of cutting it, feeling it wet as she washed it in preparation and ran her fingers over his scalp, snipping at the end just enough to bring it back to it’s cleaner style, and watching his face scrunch as she dried it.

“Hey- Bucky..” she used a curious tone, grabbing his attention once again. His heart raced a bit every time she asked him a question, out of excitement, fear, worry, wonder, he wasn’t sure. “Hm?” He nearly trembled in his voice, he couldn’t understand why he was so affected. “Can I cut your hair? If you want of course I don’t know if you wanted to keep growing it out or..”

Could Y/n read his mind? It’s like she always knew when h needed or wanted something. She always appeared to be on the same wavelength as him and it baffled him at how connected she seemed to be to him. “Uh- um.” he stammered trying to find his response, “Yeah I was actually just thinking about needing a haircut.” “Ah, we’re in sync.” She hopped off of her sat, mug in hand. He chuckled at her playful tone watching her move around to the living room that the kitchen opened up to.

Placing a seat onto a towel and grabbing her supplies sh patted the cushion, inviting Bucky to sit down. Once seated she draped a second towel over his shoulders, ruffling his hair before turning away again. “Hey now.” he laughed, “Oh hush.” She spritzed his hair, wetting it enough for it to drip and began working.

Her wishes had come true, it was almost a dream the way she got to feel through his hair, pulling it gently and snipping the ends. Ruffling the areas she worked on to let it fall correctly. Although it was going well, she had an issue in the front with getting at a good angle, unable to comfortably hold her hands to cut. “What’s wrong?” Bucky could see her struggle a bit, worry setting in more as seconds passed. “Nothing I just, can’t get close enough comfortably.” A nervous half laugh fell from her lips, he felt the air his his face softly. He blushed enough as it was everytime she grabbed his face gently to move his head and look at his hair, and his heartrate rose everytime she leaned in close enough for her scent to flood his senses, But when the thought that just formed passed his mind it was almost too much for him to handle.

He tried to think of the words to use to invite her onto his lap in an appropriate way, not wanting to make her uncomfortable but he simply opened his arms in an inviting way with a shrug. He could she Y/n think about it and almost heard her say “Fuck it, why not?” in her head before placing herself over his legs. Her legs were on both sides of his own and his hands rested on her thighs in attempt to keep her balanced.

Bucky’s breathing was shallow and shaky, his heart felt like it was about to break out of his chest and lap into her own, his hands shook in their place a little and his eyes searched every inch of every other area away from Y/n.

In finishing the haircut Y/n pulled away a bit to look over him one last time, searching for any imperfections that needed fixing in her work. She gulped when her eyes met his, nearly falling into them and their stl blue beauty. She flashed a smiled to him, setting the scissors on a table next to them,”I can hear you hear beating out of your chest.” A light chuckle danced on her tongue. He inhaled deeply through his mouth, no words breaking past the lump in his throat. Bringing the towel off of his shoulders, Y/n shook it off onto the towel beneath them and ruffled his hair dry. His nose scrunched up and his eyes squeezed shut in a way that made Y/n melt all over again.

Y/n pinched his chin a bit, warm smile still playing at her lips “I’m done. You still look pretty.” a closed mouth grin flashed across his face and his eyes flicked to her lips. “You are too.” Her grin grew and before Bucky could process his own actions he leaned forward, crashing his lips to hers. Y/n immediately kissed back, their mouths moving together perfectly.

The kiss was passionate and gre hungrier with every passing second. Bucky’s flesh hand rose to hold her face and his metal hand pulled her closer by the small of her back while she wrapped her arms around his neck. Once the kiss broke for much needed air and her hands moved to his still slightly damp hair, he moved down her neck to her collar bone, biting gently. The sensation shot hat straight to Y/n’s core, making her gasp. With a roll of her hips she elicated a small moan from Bucky, she could feel him growing hard against her heat and it made her yearn for more.

“Barnes I think it’d be wise if we moved this to my bedroom.” He grinned devilishly, placing o more kiss to Y/n’s lips before picking her up and bringing her towards the room.

#bucky x y/n #bucky x female reader #bucky barns x reader #bucky barns x y/n #bucky fanfic #bucky barns fanfiction #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fluff

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silhouetteofacedar · 3 years

Text

Pearl, Ch. 4: Sea Legs on 7th

Previous Chapter - AO3 - MSR, rated E

It’s only a ten minute walk from the bureau to the courthouse, but Mulder is starting to regret not insisting they drive.

Scully’s having a rough day, if her sallow face and pursed lips are any indication. She’s uncomfortably quiet.

“You alright?” Mulder asks, hovering over her as they walk.

“M’fine,” she answers, because that’s all she ever says. “Just queasy today.”

“Let me know if you need to sit down for a minute,” he says, and she bristles.

“We have an appointment to make, Mulder,” she reminds him. “We’re almost there anyway.”

Mulder’s stomach is unsteady too; not from chemotherapy, but from nerves. They’re applying for their marriage license today.

It’s happening, it’s all happening, and all he can do is shorten his steps to match Scully’s pace as they walk. She senses this and starts walking faster in response. Scully has an incredible talent for pushing Mulder away in the smallest ways possible, telegraphing with her body that she doesn’t need his help or his pity or his accommodation.

And yet they’re heading to the DC Marriage Bureau. Funny, that.

Scully’s face is clammy by the time they enter the Moultrie Courthouse.

“Hey,” Mulder says softly, drawing her aside, “Scully, you don’t look too good.”

“Thanks,” she says stiffly, digging around in her purse and pressing a tissue to her lips.

“I mean… I-I think you should go home. We can do this another time.”

She shakes her head carefully, taking a deep breath. “We’d have to walk back to the office either way, Mulder. I’ll be fine. Do you have any gum or a mint, by the way? Something I can suck on. It… it helps with the nausea sometimes.”

Mulder rummages through his jacket pocket. “Just sunflower seeds,” he admits, “And… a nickel.”

Scully holds out a hand, and he places a few seeds into her palm.

“Thank you,” she says tightly, placing the seeds in her mouth.

In sickness and in health, Mulder thinks, giving her shoulder a squeeze. Her body feels rigid beneath his hand.

They file their license request without incident or fanfare, and Scully’s stride is clipped as they head back to the office.

Halfway up 7th Street, she stops walking abruptly and steadies herself with a hand against the rough brick of a building.

“Don’t ask me if I’m fine,” she whispers before he can say anything. “Just give me a moment.”

She takes a few slow, deep breaths. “Okay,” she says huskily.

“Shall we walk? If you need to lean on me, you can,” Mulder says gently.

“Despite how I feel right now, the world isn’t actually tilting sideways,” she replies. “I can walk on my own.”

He feels like a kicked puppy trailing after her, but dammit, she’s sick and being stubborn and his heart is turning to pulp beneath her low-heeled pumps and their names are next to each other on a piece of paper a quarter mile behind.

And Dana Scully, doctor and scientist and meticulous planner, manages make it all the way into the little basement bathroom before being sick.

Sometimes Mulder waits outside the restroom for her, to hand her a cup of water and make sure she’s alright; but today she’s spiky and tense and radiating that she doesn’t want him near. So he waits in their office, loitering by the filing cabinet, flicking through folders and pretending not to worry about her.

She walks into the room a few minutes later, and Mulder takes one look at her face before dropping the act.

“Scully,” he sighs. “Please. Go home.”

She looks up at him with watery eyes. “It’s just the chemo,” she rasps.

“Dana,” Mulder says, crossing the room and clasping her shoulders. “You need to rest. I can manage alone for the afternoon, I promise. You finished your report, our license application is in, things are stable.” He changes tack, infusing his words with forced levity. “Go sleep it off, have some tea, watch shitty TV. Play hooky for me, okay?”

She’s silent, then he feels her deflate under his palms. “Fine, I’ll go,” she says hoarsely. She clears her throat. “But I’m going make arrangements with an officiant when I get home, because-”

She abandons her sentence, and Mulder drops his hands to his sides. Because time is ticking, he thinks. He can read it on her wan, pinched face.

“I’ll stop in at a jewelry store on my way home, get us some rings,” he offers, wandering behind his desk and nudging his chair awkwardly with a knee.

Scully ducks her chin in an abridged nod. “I doubt we’ll have much need to wear them outside the ceremony, so they don’t have to be anything special. Plain bands are fine.”

Mulder nods. “I’m on it. What’s, uh, what's your ring size?”

She looks up at him, blinking. “I- I don’t know,” she admits. “I’ve never had occasion to find out.”

Mulder purses his lips in thought before leaning down and opening one of his desk draws. He digs through a clutter of office supplies before finding a ball of string. “C’mere,” he says, beckoning her over. “Give me your hand.”

She holds her left hand out, and he loops the end of the string around her ring finger, pinching the cord where it overlaps.

“Do me a favor and cut it right there,” he says.

She grabs a pair of scissors out of the pencil cup on the desk and snips the string, leaving him with a short piece the circumference of her finger.

“Good enough?” he asks.

“It’ll have to do,” she replies.

Mulder hadn’t put ‘shopping for wedding bands’ on his bingo card for 1997, and he’s admittedly out of his depth. The guy behind the counter at the little jewelry store on Prince Street in Alexandria isn’t helping his confidence.

“You want a wedding band?” he says, sizing Mulder up with a once-over. His eyes pause on Mulder’s tie for an uncomfortable two seconds too long, and his nostril flare with what could be disgust.

“Yeah, uh, one for me and one for my partner- fiancé,” Mulder stumbles, correcting himself unnecessarily. “Nothing flashy.”

Picking out his own ring is as easy as pointing at a plain gold band and slipping it on his finger. It fits well enough, and the jeweler packs it away into a tiny box.

Mulder feels somewhat ridiculous handing a jeweler a tiny piece of string and saying ‘this is how big my fiancé’s finger is’. The look the man gives him doesn’t ease the feeling.

“I can’t guarantee correct sizing with this,” the jeweler cautions, gingerly holding the string between two pinched fingers as though it’s a live, writhing worm.

Mulder shrugs. “I’m, uh, sorry, but that’s all I have to go on.”

The jeweler huffily wraps the string around a ring-sizing mandrel, and Mulder thinks he catches the man rolling his eyes. What a dick.

“Alright, so according to this highly sophisticated piece of string, she’s a size six,” the jeweler says flatly. “That’s the average size we carry for women. We can resize most ring styles for you later if it’s the wrong fit.”

“Right, thanks,” Mulder mumbles, scanning the glass case for a suitable ring.

His eyes wander over to slightly higher-end territory, and he immediately sees It.

It’s a simple ring, a thin gold band with a single pearl bracketed by a trio of tiny diamonds on each side.

He has a sudden vision of Scully tucking her hair behind one ear, wearing those delicate pearl stud earrings he secretly loves, and he feels a slosh behind his kneecaps at the image.

Fuck it. She deserves something pretty.

“I’d like that one,” Mulder says, pointing to the pearl ring in the case.

“That’s a promise ring,” the jeweler informs him. “A bit subdued for an engagement.”

“We’re a subdued couple,” Mulder replies, pulling out his wallet.

We.

Scully gave him no budget; and besides, this was his gift for her. That’s how tradition goes, right? Man buys woman ring. And from the sour look on the jeweler’s face, this ring isn’t even that expensive.

The man snaps the little velvet ring box shut and puts it into a crisp bag with the other box. “Will that be all?” he drones.

Mulder holds out his debit card. “I’ve done enough damage for one day.”

#my fic #pearl #msr #txf fic #xfiles #cancer arc #secret marriage #marriage of convenience #in which scully gets sick and mulder buys rings #tw nausea #check out my twitter if you wanna see The Ring #or maybe i'll post it here too

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peterrparrkerr · 3 years

Text

Moodboard for the series (don't judge me I usually do gifs, this was something new. Also, I could not get the collar to look right)

So I meant to upload this yesterday but I lost control of it and then got busy, so here's a little over 3k for you!

Also, tagging @snowstark because this is our baby. Ao3 version here!

Idk what to tag this. Dark themes, spanking, forced to choose a punishment, uuuh, not sure what else. Enjoy!

*-*

Bucky knows when Peter is going to have a hard time adjusting to Tony being gone. It had been close to a year since Bucky started working for Tony, and he's gotten familiar with all of Peter's little quirks.

And he knows the slight pout Peter sports as he waits beside Bucky for Tony to come to the door, means Peter's going to be a slight handful.

But Bucky can handle the teenager. He's been in charge of Peter's safety for long enough. Aside from Tony, Bucky knows how to get Peter to do as he's told.

Tony comes down the stairs, suit tailored and travel bag in hand. "What a sight," he grins. "My pets waiting for me."

Bucky clenches his jaw at that, but he doesnt say anything. Peter though, steps up to the Superior nuzzling into Tony's chest.

"Don't go," Peter whined. Bucky watched with a familiar jealous rock in his gut, but he stays still.

"I'll be back in five days," Tony sighed, kissing the top of Peter's curly hair.

Peter's in a pair of soft blue jean shorts and a faded Yankees sweater, the bottom cut off to show off his midriff.

Tony pushes Peter back a little and smiles fondly down at him, fingers fixing the collar around his puppy's neck, little bell tinkling.

"You be good," Tony orders, leaning down to kiss Peter's pouty lips.

Peter sulks as Tony steps away, towards the door and closer to Bucky.

"I'll be back late," Tony hums, patting Bucky on the cheek. "I'll see you both when I get back."

And with that, Tony's gone. Bucky rubs at his cheek with a slight scowl. Its a new thing, Tony touching him. And Bucky doesn't like it.

Peter spins on his heels the moment the door is shut and storms off, making Bucky sigh explosively before making his way after him.

Alpine slows him down by weaving between his legs, meowing needily.

"Damn cat, go away," he snaps, nearly kicking the thing before remembering she's Peter's.

The door to Peter and Tony's bedroom slams and Bucky sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

So it's going to be like this then. Bucky decides to let Peter wallow on his own. Sooner or later his emotions would get the best of him and he'd come out for comfort. Bucky wouldn't force him to before then.

Its the same song and dance. Peter cries when Tony's gone, he doesn't eat much, and just kind of sulks around the house.

If he were a real puppy, Bucky could just imagine him crying at the door with his tail tucked between his legs, looking extra pathetic.

It was during these days when Tony wasn't around that Peter got a little less obedient.

Most incidents Bucky kept to himself. Little scenes of Peter acting out of his emotions. Tony didn't need to be informed of everything.

The bigger incidences though was definitely taken to Tony. They hadn't had an incident in a while -not since Peter ran out and Bucky got shot.

Peter had been terrified after that, refused to leave the tower even with Buck and Tony there with him.

Tony had punished him good and hard for that -it still makes Bucky's stomach roll at the thought of Tony hitting Peter. Bucky still remembers how small he looked when Tony had guided him back into the penthouse.

His eyes all red, tear tracks down blushed cheeks. He had been trembling slightly. It had made Bucky sick to his stomach.

But Peter hadnt done it again. When Tony left, Peter stayed put.

"Peter, time to eat," Bucky called after knocking on the bedroom door. Peter had been locked in there for most of the two days so far Tony's been gone.

He sulks under his covers, and when he does come out, its with a pout. Something Bucky is used to.

"M'not hungry," comes Peter's petulant response through the door.

"Yes you are, pup," Bucky sighed. "Come on, out with you before I come in there."

"Said I wasn't hungry," Peter spoke, voice raising a little. Bucky cocks an eyebrow, then tries the handle of the door. Its locked.

"Peter, open this door."

"No," Peter said.

"You open this door or I'll kick it down," Bucky threatened. Peter's never locked his door before.

"Do it!" Peter snapped. "Then Tony'll be mad at you and send you to the basement!"

"Oh for fuck's sake," Bucky muttered under his breath.

"F.R.I.D.A.Y, override the lock for Peter's door," he says, looking up at the ceiling.

"I am sorry, but the lock is manual, it will have to be unlocked by Peter, Mr. Barnes."

Bucky growls, clenching his teeth.

"Open the door, Peter," he tries again.

"No."

"C'mon, pup, open up," Bucky sighed. He really didn't want to break down the door. What has gotten into Peter? He's never like this.

"Nuh-uh," Peter said. "Leave me alone."

"You know I can't do that, Pete," Bucky huffed.

"I don't need a babysitter," Peter called out. "I can take care of myself. Tony doesn't need you anymore."

"You've got five seconds and then I'm breaking the door down," Bucky said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Peter says nothing. Bucky begins to count. He thinks Peter will crack when he reaches two, but the boy doesn't make a sound.

"Alright, last chance."

Nothing.

Bucky tries the handle once more before stepping back. He lowers his shoulder, ready to drive it into the wood before slamming into the door.

The frame splinters and the door slams into the wall with a deafening crack.

Peter jumps from his spot on the bed, eyes wide and mouth gaping in shock.

"What is going on with you, Peter?" Bucky demands, a little fed up with his behavior. "You've never acted like this before."

Peter's shock falls away to anger, eyebrows furrowing and arms crossing.

"Get out."

"No, you need to tell me why you're acting like a brat," Bucky demanded, crossing his own arms.

"M'not a brat," Peter snipped, little bell sounding as Peter turned his head away from Bucky, glaring at the wall.

"No? 'Cause you seem pretty bratty to me," Bucky challenged.

That gets Peter standing from the bed. "I'm not!"

"I'm not going to fight with a fucking child," Bucky muttered to himself. "Go into the dining room and eat your lunch."

Peter sets his jaw. Its cute. Little thing trying to be tough.

"I said I'm not hungry."

"Well, Tony wants you to eat," Bucky tries. Usually talking about what Tony wants would get Peter to do as he's told. But it doesn't work today.

So Bucky grabs Peter by the upper arm and pulls him out of the room. Peter grunts, digging his heels in, but he's small and doesn't have much muscle.

"Eat," Bucky demands, gesturing to the food he sits Peter down in front of.

Peter glares up at him, though its not as effective as he thinks with his pastel blue tshirt and matching collar.

"I hate you," Peter bites out.

"Good for you, now eat your God damn lunch before I force feed you."

To say the next three days is difficult is an understatement. Bucky has no idea why Peter's acting out the way he is, but he's had enough.

On the fourth day, Bucky actually swatted him! Peter looked up at him with wide eyes, mouth clicking shut. Bucky instantly felt sick, but he forced himself to stand his ground even as hurt and anger filtered through Peter's features.

"You hit me," Peter said. It made Bucky feel even worse, but he didnt back down.

"You're being bad," Bucky said. More anger filtered in, and Peter reached forward to try and shove him.

Bucky caught him by the wrists and Peter yelled loudly, beginning to flail.

"Peter, stop it!" Bucky snapped, pulling the pup in close and pinning him against his chest. He doesn't have room to thrash now.

"I hate you! I hate you!" Peter yelled. Bucky can hear the beginnings of tears in his voice. "I don't want you here! I want- I want Tony!"

Bucky holds Peter as he chokes on his tears, forcing Bucky to carry his weight when Peter stops holding himself up.

Bucky let's him cry it out, walking him to his bedroom. The door still wasn't fixed -Bucky didn't have time, what with Peter acting out.

He deposited Peter onto the bed. "You can come out when you're done being a brat," Bucky said shortly. Peter just fell to his side, wrapping his arms around a pillow and drawing up his legs.

Bucky walked out and flopped onto the couch, leaning his head back and staring up at the ceiling.

Maybe Tony would know what Peter's problem was. Just because he's never acted like this since Bucky moved in doesn't mean its never happened before.

Bucky's never been more glad when Tony arrives the next morning. He's exhausted. Tony -the perceptive bastard- notices right away when Bucky greets him at the elevator.

"What happened," Tony demanded. Bucky let out a sigh, shoulders slumping just a bit. He didnt like feeling like a whiner, and explaining to Tony what the past five days have been like definitely makes him feel it.

"I don't know whats gotten into him," he finishes with. He just wants to sleep for a couple days. He's never felt more like a babysitter than he does now.

"Oh, I do," Tony huffed. Bucky raised an eyebrow inquisitively. "He's jealous."

That throws Bucky for a loop. "Jealous? Of what?" He can't help but demand incredulously.

Tony smiles knowingly and lifts his hand, brushing his fingers over Bucky's jaw, pinching his chin and giving a little shake.

"Of you, pet," Tony hums, looking amused. "He's used to getting my full attention. I think he's feeling a bit misplaced."

Bucky lifts his head, pulling his chin free from Tony's grasp and taking a small step back.

"He's got no reason to be jealous of me," Bucky grunted.

"No?" Tony asked. "Lets go see our puppy then, hmm?"

Bucky frowns as Tony walks past him into the penthouse. Our puppy?

He quickly spins on his heels and follows after Tony. Theres a disapproved hum when Tony notices the door leaning against the door.

"Tony!"

Peter scrambles from the bed, rushing over to Tony and crashing into his chest. Bucky keeps his distance, hands clasped behind his back.

"I missed you."

"I'm sure," Tony hummed. "Bucky told me about your behavior while I was gone."

Bucky winces in sympathy at the tone Tony uses with Peter. The pup steps back from him, brows furrowing.

"I-"

"I don't want any excuses," Tony interrupted. Bucky watched as Peter's demeanor shifted. He knew he was in trouble, he could see it in the way Peter's shoulders slumped.

"Go wait for me in your room," Tony continued. "And when we're gone, we're going to have a talk."

"But, Tony‐" Peter began. Tony grabs him by the arm and yanks him towards the elevator that leads to the basement.

"Go," he snaps, features twisting into a look of anger. Bucky holds his ground, but he wants to rush back out of Tony's line of fire.

Peter shrinks at the tone. He doesn't try again, just makes his way to the elevator, like a dog scurrying out of trouble with his tail between his legs.

"Are you really going to punish him?" Bucky asked, following Tony towards the elevator Peter had just disappeared through. "If he's just acting out of jealousy-"

"His acting out got me a broken door and a puppy with an attitude problem," Tony said. "I brought you here to take care of him while I'm away. His behavior hindered that and that won't do."

Bucky follows Tony into the elevator. He doesn't say anything, just stands beside Tony, watching the floors pass in glowing numbers above the doors.

When they reach the basement floor, the doors open and Tony steps out, already heading for the door that leads to Peter's room.

"Come on, pet," Tony calls over his shoulder. Bucky's legs work without him, taking him out of the elevator and into the main room.

"I'm not a pet," Bucky grunted. Tony glances over his shoulder, smirking. His blue eyes shining with amusement.

"I beg to differ," Tony hummed, before reaching a hand out and clasping Bucky by the back of the neck.

Bucky allows the Superior to pull him closer as they make their way to the door.

Buck decides not to argue the issue. Better to keep on Tony's good side.

Tony opens the door, and Bucky's eyes widen at the sight of Peter on the bed, naked. Hes on his elbows and knees, pert little ass up in the air.

He's hidden his face in his arms, and doesn't realize Bucky is here with Tony.

"He does paint a pretty picture, doesn't he?" Tony murmurs lowly, arm still wrapped around Bucky's shoulders, nosing at Bucky's jaw.

"I can leave," Bucky says lowly, glancing from Peter to Tony.

"No, I want you here," Tony decides, shutting the door. Bucky chews on his inner cheek, staying close to the door as Tony walks over to the wall of -Bucky feels his stomach drop. He doesn't know if he can watch this.

"M'sorry," Peter whines, turning his head to see Tony at the wall.

"I know you are," Tony said, looking over the items hanging on the wall. Bucky's never seen so many switches and floggers before.

"But that doesn't change the fact that you were a bad puppy."

Peter's breath hitches and he hides his face again. Bucky watches Tony pick out a flat leather paddle from the wall. One of the less intimidating items hanging on the wall.

"How many hits do you think he deserves?" Tony says, catching both Peter and Bucky off guard. Peter's head turns, wide eyes locking onto him before he seems to shrink, hiding his face away again, but not leaving the position Tony most likely trained him to be in.

It takes Bucky a moment to realize Tony was talking to him, and he blinks, looking over at the Superior. "What?"

"You had to deal with his poor behavior for five days, so you decide his punishment," Tony said.

Bucky looks wide eyed at Peter, pale and naked except for the baby blue collar around his neck. He shakes his head.

"Come on, pet," Tony goads. "What does he deserve?"

Bucky hears Peter whimper at that and he feels his skin crawl. He shakes his head again, feeling sick. "I can't."

Tony's mouth drops in a frown, looking disappointed. Bucky doesn't care. He can't.

"Fine," he hums. "Then fifty hits."

Peter lifts his head, breath hitching and tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Ten for each day."

Bucky feels his throat closing up.

"N-no," Peter sobbed. "No, please, Tony!"

Tony looks at Bucky, challenging glint in his Extremis blue eyes. "Bucky doesn't want to choose, so I'm chosing for him, puppy."

Peter turns to look at Bucky, pleasing with a trembling breath.

Bucky digs his nails into his palms. He looks from Peter to Tony, then back to Peter.

If Bucky chooses a lower number, Tony may not agree to it. But Bucky doesn't want Peter being hit -especially in front of him.

"Twenty," he manages to say, unsticking his throat. His voice is tense, body rigid and hands clasped behind him. Outwardly, he looks calm and collected, but inside he wants to do nothing but run out of the basement.

Tony doesn't say anything for a moment, and Bucky's sure its just as long for Peter as it is for him.

"Alright, twenty it is," Tony agrees. Bucky feels the muscles in his shoulders unwind a little at that.

"Count them out, pup."

Its the worst few minutes of Bucky's life. He served tours over seas. He's killed people with his bear hands and lost an arm, and he'd go through all of that ten times if it meant he didn't have to be in the same room as Tony and Peter right now.

Each smack has Bucky's pulse spiking, each sobbed out count down like agony. Its a punishment all its own to be forced to stand by while Peter cries, the loud smack of leather on skin filling the room.

The worst thing is Bucky is the reason he's got twenty spanks in the first place. Sure, its less than fifty, but he's still the one who offered a number.

Bucky doesn't even care anymore about Peter's behavior. He just wants Tony to stop.

Peter's ass is just as red as his face, and his breath hitches on cries, but the boy doesn't move. Bucky has no doubt if he had, the punishment would be far worse.

"Twen-twen'y," Peter finally gasps out wetly, dropping onto the bed.

Bucky restrains himself from rushing over there and scooping the boy up. His nails dig painfully into his palms.

He watches Tony do it instead. Watches as Tony's hand turns soft, scooping Peter up and settling him onto his lap, careful of his poor bottom.

Tony smooths Peter's curls from his forehead, muttering lowly against Peter's cheek as the boy cries, arms lifting to wrap around Tony's shoulders.

Tony glances up at Bucky and nods. "Come here, pet."

Bucky's too concerned with Peter to argue the pet name. He makes his way over to the bed in three long strides and sits down beside Tony and Peter.

Peter peeks out from Tony's neck, eye red rimmed. His breath hitches.

"M'sorry, Bucky," he cries, voice reedy and wobbling with tears.

"Thats alright, Pete," Bucky said softly.

Peter tucks himself back into Tony's neck, allowing the Superior to smooth his hands up and down Peter's bare back.

"Go with with Bucky, pup," Tony says a moment later, once Peter's tears have tapered off a little. Bucky's eyes widen at that, but he can't do much else, because Peter's crawling out of Tony's lap and settling into his own.

Bucky doesn't know what to do. He's wearing cargo pants, and he can't help but worry they're too rough for Peter.

And then he's stuck on the fact that he's got a very naked Peter in his lap. The boy leans into Bucky's chest, head resting on his shoulder.

Bucky settles a hand on Peter's lower back -as low as he dares- and rubs circles into his skin.

"I think its time we had a little talk," Tony said, looking first at Peter, then at Bucky.

#marvel #tony stark #peter parker #bucky barnes #sim!tony #my writing #ao3 #human puppy #starker #winterironspider

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puredivinity · 3 years

Text

—fix-up; eren jaeger

❣︎ whew look at me, sending this unedited fic off into the void. emphasis on unedited because it’s probably bad, but you’re gonna get it anyway. i’m probably overreacting as usual, but here you are until i can complete those reqs from sunday!

❣︎ this was originally gonna be saran’s writing challenge entry but i think i deviated from the prompt quite a bit so that didn’t happen lmao. hope u enjoy! gif is from google!

❣︎ warnings: mentions/descriptions of blood and injuries. mentions and usage of a needle (reader sewing up a wound on eren’s back) and explicit language/suggestive themes (flirting at the end)

❣︎ word count: 1.2k

Eren yanks his arm away from you, spitting out blood on the dirty concrete. His hands are at his knees, cut up and bruised, gashes and slashes littering the surface. His face is the same. His long, brown hair that you’ve grown accustomed to seeing in a bun is now draping freely over his shoulders, covering his face as if to hide it from you. His shame.

“I don’t want your help,” He spoke through pants, blazing eyes glaring at your towering form.

“Well I don’t want blood on my shoes either, but here we are,” Your reply was snarky, words filled with pointed annoyance. To him, it sounded malicious; like he’d gotten underneath your skin for the umpteenth time. You’d slid his arm over your shoulder, despite his protests, and allowed him to lean on you as the two of you headed back to your place, which thankfully wasn’t far away.

Every step you took, he hissed in discomfort and a pained groan released from his mouth. He tried to stifle it but you still heard, given that he was right next to your ear. Despite how much Eren tried to act like a tough guy—he wasn’t one.

You wished he’d stop acting this way. But after some thought, you realized who you were referring to: Eren Jaeger.

He wouldn’t.

You fiddled with your keys for a moment, finally managing to pull out the right one and twist it into the lock, hurrying inside so you could tend to his wounds immediately. The light flicked on and illuminated your living room, causing Eren to hiss in response. He mumbled something about the light being “too damn bright,” to which you ignored.

“Don’t get blood on my cushions,” you cautioned him, taking careful steps toward the plush couch, carefully setting him on it. You tucked a pillow behind his back, adjusting it and taking care to ensure that he was comfortable before you fetched your supplies. Eren grunted lowly, resting his head against the back of the couch. “I’m serious,” You called.

“Yeah yeah,” he rolled his eyes and shifted slightly to the left, wincing at the discomfort.

Heading to the bathroom on your left, you pulled open your medicine cabinet to grab a Tylenol tablet, gauze, and a few bandaids before pulling open your bottom drawer to get the rest of your first-aid kit. The light flipped off and you padded back to your living room, arms full. Carefully setting them down on your coffee table, you flicked open the plastic kit and then nodded in Eren’s direction. “Take off your shirt for me, will you?”

His reply came instantly, “Why? You wanna look at something?”

“No dumbass,” you sighed. “I have to dress your wounds.”

“Oh, right,” he opened his eyes, curling his fingers around the hem of his shirt and pulled it off his body. He went slow, careful not to irritate his wounds any further. The dirtied fabric was peeled from his skin, covered in both dried and fresh blood, combined with dirt from the ground. The garment was set next to him and his arms relaxed, falling to his side while he let out a sigh of relief.

You internally grimaced at the dirty shirt touching your pristine couch but pushed the thought to the back of your mind, instead focusing on the task at hand. Settling on your knees in front of him, you plucked the bottle of peroxide from the table, popping the cap open and pouring some on a pad of gauze before taking a glance at Eren, who’d grit his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the stinging sensation to come. A labored sigh fell from your lips as you quietly counted down from three to one, a gentle warning before disinfecting wound number one.

Now that all the blood surrounding it was gone, it didn’t look too deep. It just needed a band-aid and you happily pulled a bigger one off the table, peeling off the paper and pressing it to his skin. Majority of the cuts were superficial, requiring nothing but a small cleanup and a band-aid. This allowed you to move quickly (well, quicker than usual) as you tended to the man, tossing the dirtied tissues and paper into the plastic bin you’d set next to your couch.

However, there was one in particular on his shoulder that wasn’t superficial; it was deep. Deep enough to require stitches.

Eren remained quiet throughout your examination, carefully observing with curious eyes how you’d gently touched him up, softly touching his wounds with a look of determination in your eyes. You were focused, he could tell by the way you nibbled on your bottom lip while determining the severity of his gashes. You were always like this whenever you’d take care of him; secretly fussing over his health and tendency to get into fights after running his mouth.

He never knew why you kept allowing him in your home, where he’d dirty your freshly cleaned couch and fuck up things. He never knew why you were so nice to him. Why you, despite adding a snappy comment beside it, constantly offered a helping hand and took him in without him asking. Not that he would, of course, he was stubborn — you knew that very well. Too well.

You’d always been someone that could read him like a book; calling his bluff before anyone else could. It came too easy to you. He’d only known you for a couple of years but for a reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on, you felt like home. Familiar.

You’d never called him weak, unlike the others. Unlike everyone he’d known before. to you, he was strong. Stronger than he’d ever know.

He’d spent his entire life trying to prove himself to everyone, to show that he wasn’t some kid. He had one hell of a hard head, but had guts like no other. Determination like no other.

Eren Jaeger was a forever flame.

He wasn’t aware he was staring until your voice rang in his ears, breaking his thought. “What’re you looking at?” You murmured, carefully snipping the remaining bit of thread away from his stitched-up gash. You tenderly brushed your thumb over it, wrapping it in a thin layer of gauze.

“Nothing,” Eren mumbled. “Nothing at all.”

“You sure?” You teased, a playful glint in your eyes. Eren rolled his eyes and sighed. You chuckled, giving him a quick once-over before pulling away and placing your supplies back on the coffee table.

You’d disinfect them later; you wanted to quickly take care of the mess on your couch. Standing up from your kneeled spot on the floor, you held his dirty, dark green shirt between your index and thumb finger and scurried over to your washing machine to toss it inside.

Eren snorted at this, shaking his head at your antics. Of course that’s the first thing you’re worried about.

Of course.

“Pants off,” You returned back to where he was, holding your hand out expectantly.

“Wow, you just took care of me and now you want to give me a—“

“Not that,” You interrupted him, pinching the bridge of your nose in irritation. “I’m gonna wash them. They’re dirty.”

“Uh huh,” The mischievous smirk returned to Eren’s face, reminding you of the boy you’d always known. His light was back and of course he had to be a little shit.

“You’re annoying.” You narrowed your eyes at him, taking his jeans and put them wash too, adjusting the load size to small and pouring some detergent in. This earned a laugh from him that made a tiny smile creep onto your face. You’d missed that laugh.

tagging: @levilaughlove69, @may8344, @proseofpandemonium, @starstruckkittensweets, @rainteslerrrr, @alrightberries, @redhairedace

#eren jaeger #eren #eren jaeger x reader #eren x reader #reader insert

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