#genuinely very impressive it's giving frame and hang on wall!
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Shelby my love, how are you? I hope you’ve been good.
I had a thought for you about our man Rhett, going ice skating with him, and Rhett’s actually good at it. He’s skating circles around you the whole time before he finally just take one of your hands in his and places a hand in your waist to guide you on the ice
BELLA MY LOVE!!! i’m doing ok!!! i hope you’re doing well🥺 i’m currently screaming and crying over this thought oh my goodness!!!
When you suggested to go ice skating for a date you didn’t expect Rhett to be a pro at it. You had only been a couple of times, not really that great but you enjoyed it nonetheless. Rhett did not give you any impression that he even liked ice skating, but once he got out on the ice, he was a completely different person.
You helped each other to the entrance, waddling in your skates to the cool arena. Rhett took off immediately, meanwhile, you were clinging on to the wall. You felt like a baby horse, legs nearly giving out from underneath you. Rhett was already on his second lap by the time you made it halfway around the rink. Hell, even little kids were skating better than you. You couldn’t help but let out a huff of frustration when Rhett made his way back to you, stopping at the wall beside you.
“You need some help, honey?” Rhett asked, his tone genuine. You nodded defeatedly, reaching your hand out towards him. “I’ve got you.”
He held you close, keeping you both steady on the slippery surface. He spoke words of encouragement and praise as you started to gain more confidence. You were starting to get the hang of it, gliding across the ice with Rhett by your side. That was until a little kid sped past you, causing your ankle to roll out from under you and you went down on the ice, pulling Rhett with you. You both laid there belly laughing, clothes soaking through.
“I think I broke my fuckin’ tailbone,” Rhett grumbled, pushing himself up and grabbing your hand to pull you up with him. “Let’s go, Bambi. Before you break a bone.”
You lightly shoved him, skating away to the exit. You returned your skates and retrieved your things, holding hands the entire way back to the truck. Rhett opened your door for you and kissed you soundly before helping you in. He cranked the heat and held your hand the entire way home. You loved pulling in to see the Christmas tree lit up and the lights that framed your new house beautifully. You ended the night on the couch snuggled up with the fire going, two cups of hot cocoa to keep you warm.
“I had fun tonight, baby. Thank you for helping me,” you spoke softly, looking up at Rhett with loving eyes. He kissed your forehead and pulled you closer.
“I love you, sweetheart. You looked pretty cute, wobbly knees and all. Kind of reminds me when I-“
“Alright, you dog. Don’t ruin the moment,” you said, giggling as he rubbed his stubble against your neck. You couldn’t be any happier than you were at that very moment. Your first Christmas in your new home was going to be nothing short of perfect, you were sure of it.
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Undercover- Mob! Steve Rogers Part 2
Okay here is the highly requested part two to my Mob! Steve post! I had some technical difficulties posting it but hopefully you guys see it in the tags now :)
Warnings: swearing and smut
Word count: 2.8k
“When I said go undercover, I didn’t mean under his covers, Agent.” Director Fury slammed his hand down on his desk. It had now officially been twenty-four hours since your encounter with the mob boss and you had been waiting anxiously all day to talk with Nick Fury. The rumor around the office all day was that he wasn’t too pleased with how things went down.
“I did what I had to do, sir.” You stated boldly.
Fury scoffed but didn’t respond.
He was quiet for a moment, his eye scanning over the piece of paper in his hand. You fidgeted uncomfortably as your legs were still sore from your romp last night and you tried to hold it together as Fury gave you a weird look.
“Just sit down, Y/N.”
You muttered a thank you as you took a seat.
“Listen, this is all good and fine but I want more. This,” He waved the note in his hand. “Is just a drug felony. I want this bastard put away for life.”
“But what about Stark?”
“A slippery politician, nothing more. I want insight on just more than this. I want it all.”
You sat back in the chair. You understood where he was coming from, but he was also acting like you hadn’t just uncovered a huge piece of information.
“Sir-”
“Which is why you’re going to continue...seeing Rogers. Your undercover assignment has just been extended until further notice.”
“But, sir!” You stood up in protest.
“But nothing, Agent. You’ve made your bed and you’ve already lied in it. Now do it again.” He snapped.
“Are you pimping me out, sir?”
“You did that yourself, Y/N.” Fury snarked. “Anyway, as we speak I have other agents creating an entire new identity for you on the internet so when Roger’s does eventually look you up he’ll find everything we want him to find.”
You felt yourself sinking back down into the chair. He was being completely serious. You suddenly felt very hot as you processed all the information coming at you.
“And what exactly is it going to say?”
“That you are Y/N Monroe. You are the same age as you are now and a barista at the coffee shop just below your apartment. You went to the University of Minnesota and graduated with a business degree, but currently can’t find any jobs. Pity. Your parents died when you were young and you have no siblings-no need to wrap anyone else up in this. We’ve made an Instagram account since that seems to be the most popular app among adults your age. I pushed for no socials but apparently it’s weirder if you don’t have one.”
“Okay...but I don’t have a coffee shop below my apartment.”
“You do now. Your stuff is being moved into a safe house apartment on the other side of town. That’s where you’ll be staying for now. Don’t worry, I have Parker holed up in the apartment two doors down.”
You bit the inside of your cheek to try to calm down. There was nothing else you could do. Fury was right, you had made your bed. You reached over and grabbed the file that Fury had pushed towards the front of the desk. Your new life all put together in a Manila folder.
Damn you, Ma and your slutty advice.
“You can go now.” Fury waved you away, now totally focused on whatever file he had in front of him. You hesitated, wanting to say something but nothing came so you left.
“Y/N!” Peter ran up beside you as you stormed down the hallway. “Heard we’re gonna be neighbors.”
You smiled at how excited he was. “It’s only temporary, Parker. Don’t wet your pants.”
Peter blushed and gently shoved you to the side as you both continued walking. “I know that. But doesn’t mean it won’t be fun. We could have movie nights or something.”
“I suppose we could find some time.” You nudged him back.
“Oh here, before I forget.” Peter shoved a brand new iPhone into your hand. “Fury had me add some tweaks to the geo location so it’s more precise than what Apple has. My burner number is already programmed in there too.”
You studied the burner phone, impressed that they didn’t just give you another shitty tracfone like you were used to.
“Thanks, kid.”
“I’m not that much younger than you.” Peter grumbled as the two of you finally made it to the parking structure.
You smirked over your shoulder as you walked up to your Jeep Wrangler. “Young enough. ‘Night, kid!”
Peter flipped you off but was smiling the whole time as you drove off.
You punched in your new address in the GPS and followed along as it brought you to the older part of town. You had always loved this part of the city but never thought to move out here. Even though it wasn’t the new upcoming neighborhood, the rent prices had been driven up by the young kids moving in who just “adored the old time aesthetic” and the lofted buildings.
Your building was one of those you noted as you parked your car outside of your new address. The old brick building was tall, maybe six stories and had fire escapes littered across the front of it. The front door was a rusted green that you had to yank to budge to get open.
Extra security, I suppose. You laughed to yourself.
Your apartment was on the third floor and right off the freight elevator. You weren’t expecting much when you opened the door but you made a noise of pleasant surprise when you did.
The inside was warm and inviting. A plush gray sofa that resembled a cloud was center in your living room that you saw right away from the small entry hallway. As you stepped in further you saw a decent size tv mounted against the wall and two bookshelves on either side of it, filled with books and records that went along with the record player that was right underneath the television. To the left the living room was the kitchen. Nothing big, which you didn’t mind-you weren’t the best cook in the world. There was a small bar-like counter that had two barstools perched underneath. Down the small hallway you found your bedroom. A king sized bed covered in an off white comforter set with matching sheets. Small potted plants hung from the corner near the window and an array of makeup and perfumes littered the top of the wooden dresser.
Tentatively you opened the dressers to find a whole new wardrobe waiting for you. There were basics: such as t-shirts, jeans, bras and panties but there was also a whole drawer dedicated to skimpy lingerie that you knew was expensive. The walk-in closet was filled with dresses, some formal and some you wouldn’t let your grandmother even see hanging off the rack.
“Well done, Fury.” You mumbled to yourself as your fingers ran down the silk fabric of a long evening gown.
You were settling on to your couch, sweats on and a glass of wine in your hand when you heard a knock on the door. Slowly you got up, grabbing your gun from the plant next to the door. You looked through the peephole and let out a curse when you saw none other than Steve Rogers standing outside your apartment.
You shoved the gun back into the plant and ran your fingers through your hair before opening the door, but leaving the chain attached.
“Mr. Rogers, how can I help you?” Your eyes twinkled as the man in front of you rested his arm on the top of the door frame and leaned close to the opening you had created.
“You said I would see you soon, princess. Looks like soon is now.” The nickname again caused your stomach to flutter.
“I was just getting ready for bed. You’ll have to come by another time.” You feigned a yawn. Steve’s eyes blared as he stood up straight.
“It’s rude to keep your guests waiting, Miss Monroe.” Your heart jumped at the use of your alias. Thank god your team worked fast.
“And it’s rude to show up to people’s apartments unannounced, Mr. Rogers.”
“Open the door, sweetheart.” He hissed, but his eyes held anything but anger. He was intrigued. He never found a woman before who wasn’t afraid to dish back his sass. He wasn’t sure if he liked it or not.
“Say please.” You teased through the opening.
“Please.” He said through gritted teeth.
Chuckling you closed the door gently and undid the chain. Before you could reopen it though, Steve pushed his way through scooping you up in his arms as he did. You naturally wrapped your legs around his waist and your arms held tight around him as you squealed against his neck.
He walked you back into the living room and plopped down on the couch, holding you so you were still straddling him.
You pulled away but kept your arms hanging loosely around him. He smirked up at you as his fingers toyed with the hem of the tank top you had on. His eyes fell to the wine that was only half drank on your coffee table.
“Heading off to bed soon, huh?”
“My bedtime snack.”
There was a part of your brain that recognized him for who he was: evil. But another part of your brain saw him as the man who made your body feel things that it had never felt before and that had your heart racing like a schoolgirl with a crush. The part that recognized that he was so easy to talk and joke with. The great sex wasn’t a bummer either.
His smirk was replaced by a genuine smile as he pulled you down and gave you a kiss that had your toes curling. He moaned into your mouth as you slowly ground your hips against his, your fingers tugging at the hair by his neck. His tongue massaged yours, letting you know exactly who was in charge at this moment. His hands ran underneath your tank top, fingers tracing up your spine before reaching the front and giving your nipples a slight twist.
He moved his mouth from yours and peppered kisses along the side of your neck as he lifted the tank top over your head. He threw it to the side as his mouth attached to your protruding bud while his fingers pinched and toyed with the other one. Skillfully, and with his mouth still attached to you, Steve flipped you over so your back was on the couch and he was on top of you. He lifted his head, his blue eyes clouded with lust as he started kissing down from the center of your chest, down your stomach and down your legs as he pulled your sweats along with him.
He hummed as he spread your bottom lips apart with his fingers, licking a stripe from your hole to your clit. You wiggled your hips against his face but he responded with a smack against your core.
“Honey, you gotta learn who’s in charge here and who’s-“ he kissed your clit ever so slightly, teasing you. “Just a little cock slut.”
His tongue circled over your bundle of nerves while fingers toyed with your slick. Gently he pushed two fingers into your pussy. Your eyes fluttered closed as his steady rhythm and flick of his tongue brought your orgasm to the forefront.
“Shit, Steve…” you whimpered, gripping his hair and pulling him close. “Oh fuck, I’m close!”
“Let me taste you, princess.” Steve growled. You nearly lost it at the sigh of your juices dripping from his chin. “Give it to me like the good girl you are.”
“Oh god!” You called out as he hit that spongy spot that caused your thighs to tighten around his head. Your body spasmed as it rode out your orgasm. Your chest heaving and your legs shaking as he slowly pulled his fingers from you. A moan was caught in your throat as you watched him put his soaked fingers between his lips, a look of pure satisfaction covering his perfect face.
Steve leaned his body over yours but careful not to let his full weight fall on you. He ran his nose up the side of your neck, along your cheek before letting it rub against your own. You grabbed his neck, pulling him into a deep kiss. There was something so erotic about tasting yourself when your tongues met.
“Show me your bedroom?” Steve pulled away. You gave a weak nod. Steve stood up and hoisted you up, your legs weak beneath you.
“Poor baby.” He cooed in your ear. “Only one orgasm down and already can’t walk. I can’t imagine how you’ll be when I’m done with you.”
With that he lifted you and walked down your short hallway to the bedroom. In your hazy, post orgasm mind you hoped the mattress was comfy. You hadn’t even tested out beforehand.
Steve threw you on the bed and you sighed as you fell into the cloud. You leaned back on your elbows and watched as Steve unbuttoned the new shirt and trousers he had on. You stifled your laughter thinking about the wine stained ones back at his house.
“Something amusing to you, sweetheart?” He grabbed your ankle and pulled you towards the end of the bed. He lifted your foot up, setting it over his shoulder as he kissed the inside of your calf.
“No, sir.” You teased.
“You’re a bad liar.” He nipped at your knee.
Not as bad as you might think.
Steve made you come at least four more times that night. Your body completely spent when he finally rolled over and laid next to you, yours and his body covered in a thin sheen of sweat.
You rolled over and threw your leg and arm over his body, nuzzling your head into the crook of his neck. Steve’s fingers toyed with yours as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.
“Spend the night?” You asked into the darkness. It was nearly three in the morning and your eyes were slowly closing no matter how much you willed them to stay open.
“I have some business things that I have to take care of early in the morning.” He answered, his fingers running up and down your arm.
“Oh, okay.” You said sadly. Steve’s chest rumbled with light laughter as he brought your hand that was in his up to his lips and gave it a kiss. You were soon realizing that he was actually a very affectionate person.
“But I want you to come back to the house tomorrow. I’ll send one of my guys for you in the afternoon.”
“Really?” You sat up. Steve blindly reached for your nightstand and turned on the lamp that was on it. His hair was tousled from the numerous times you had run your fingers through it and his lips were red and swollen. He looked like the epitome of sex and it was fucking hot.
“Yes, really.” He chuckled. He grabbed your phone that was on the nightstand and held it out for you to unlock. You did quickly and he took it back and started typing. “I don’t give out my personal number to a lot of people.”
“So I’m special.” You wiggled in your spot, a grin covering your face.
“Yes. You are.” Steve looked back at you and you were taken aback by the sincerity in his tone. He handed your phone back to you and you laughed at the name he had for his contact: Steve Rogers and an eggplant emoji.
“You’re a child.” You giggled.
Steve rolled his eyes and got out of bed and you took the time to appreciate his bum as he walked over to get his pants.
You gathered the soft sheets in your hand and brought them up to your chest. Although you weren’t sure what you were trying to hide, he had seen it all.
Once he was dressed and you slipped on a robe that you found hanging behind the door, you walked him out. He stood in your doorframe, his large figure making the space seem very small. He smiled as he tucked a loose piece of hair behind your head and leaned down and gave you a kiss.
“Make sure to lock all the doors behind me. And text me when you wake up tomorrow.” He demanded softly.
“Mmmkay, I will.” You said hazily.
“Go get some sleep, princess.” He laughed as he pushed away from the door and walked to the elevator. You watched as he got in and gave you a quick wave before whipping out his phone to make a call.
Once he was out of sight you closed the door softly, making sure to bolt everything before heading back to your bed. You were too tired to even clean up before you passed out.
#chris evans imagine#chris evans x reader#chris evans fanfiction#mob steve rogers#steve rogers imagine#steve rogers x reader#mob! steve x reader
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Hello!! I just wanna say that your blog aesthetic is a 🌠 v i b e ! 🌠 Anyway! I was wondering if I could request Thranduil, Thorin, Legolas, and Elrond with a s/o who loves to paint/draw them? I really just wanna paint the pretty bois jfhfbf - 🥀🥀🥀
OMG ty so much that’s what i was going for 😂💕 and ghfsdhd me too tbh 😭💕
also sorry for taking forever 😂 i don’t know where my motivation went but it’s back now!💕
Legolas
Legolas would be very surprised and borderline flattered when he finds you drew him 💖
he knows elves are generally beautiful, but he never thought himself worthy of being painted or drawn by such a great artist 🥲💕
he’s a super tender lover and honestly wouldn’t know what to say when you show him even a simple sketch of him. he might say something like, “that’s what you perceive me as?” not in an offended way, he’s just so impressed that he can’t believe something this good could be based off of him 🥺💕💕
he is generally very impressed and touched by you, and will smile tenderly at you before going on and on about how his lover is such a gifted artist, and how he’s honored to be the object of your inspiration 😭💕💕 someone get this kid a medal
if you made an actual painting of him, (he’s like always out and about i don’t see him having a permanent residence but let’s just say he did) he would like it to be a very personal item, maybe in his room or above his desk 💕 if it’s smaller he’d absolutely adore to have it in his pack or something to take out and admire (ur work, not his face 😂). he’d prefer to have a painting of you so if he doesn’t see you for a while he won’t forget your face 🥺💕💕💕
Thorin
as queen of Erebor (go with it), the wealthiest place in middle earth, you would have all the art supplies of your desire. 💕
Thorin would be the one not to be too flattered, but rather be proud of your skill. Your paintings would be absolutely everywhere. in your chambers at least. Thorin won’t allow all the paintings to be of him, of course, but demands as long as you create art of him, you must make some of you as well 💖💕
if in The Company on their journey to the Misty Mountains, Thorin would be often curious if you’ve drawn more of him and will be drawn to your side, flipping through your sketchbook admiring all of your work 💕 “what else have you been working on?” he’ll murmur next to you, as he studies the works, admiring them all.
Thranduil
Thranduil wouldn’t be surprised you sketch him, he’s pretty damn handsome and he knows it 😂💕
he would be one to softly critic your work, but not in a mean or judgmental way, but more like positive, affirmative criticism 😂 he doesn’t say it but he loves to keep your sketches in his drawers💕 he has a little chest of them that remind him of you🥺💕
if you were to full on paint him, thranduil would ask if you would prefer one of his own artists to paint both of you together ☺️💖💕✨ (he really wants a hanging of you both together in regal clothes so he can show you off uwu💕)
if/when you refuse and want to paint him yourself, he would smile and chuckle, thinking about how much you love and worship him, before settling down and letting you paint him. he will stay there for days if you say so he is so disciplined 😭💕💕💕
he would always always ALWAYS give positive affirmation on your art 🥺💕 he loves your skill and often proclaims it and boasts about it to whoever will listen 💖💖 “My Lady Y/n, would paint the earth, seas and skies if she so desired.” yes he’s very poetic about it too 🥺💕💕
Elrond
He is so surprised tbh 😂 I can’t see him ever have had his painting done~~ he’s like the least vain of all the characters here 💕xD
if you were to show him a simple sketch of him out of the blue~~ say you two were reading together and you sketched him absentmindedly~~ he would smile fondly and out of surprise🌷💕😖
he would ask as to what inspired you to sketch something so nicely, and plays dumb like “OFC YOU BITCH 😭😭💕💕” he acts like a proud dad, holding it out in front of him with a genuine smile, while looking back at you to comment on it generously 😊🌷✨
he frames it to the wall almost immediately, probably tacking it above his desk or something. he would straight up refuse if you offered to paint him. straight up REFUSE. “no, my dear Y/n that’s not necessary” he’s not even flattered he’s like “why would you do that y/n we have painters who’s job is exactly that. 💕💕😂
i feel like he’s really busy anyway so he cherishes his time with you~~ he might think it would take too long and would rather you do something else with your precious time 🥺💖💕 but once you voice that you really want to, his heart would eventually melt for you and he would do whatever you wanted 🥰🥺💕💕
#lotr#lotr headcanons#lotr imagines#legolas headcanons#legolas x reader#thranduil#thranduil headcanons#thranduil x reader#thorin#thorin oakenshield#thorin x reader#thorin oakenshield x reader#the hobbit#the silmarilion#i made a thing
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—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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Daffodil dreams✾yandere!kth
| RP with 🍁anon | Header by:🍁anon ♡ | CLICK ME FOR PART TWO
✾ 18+
✾ xtremity; 7
✾ pairing: Murder suspect!Yandere!Taehyung x Therapist!F
✾ word count: 16.8k
✾ warnings: mental illness, mentions of murder, hand fetish, oral, forceful facefucking, dubcon themes, sadistic/manipulative/possessive!Tae, masochistic!therapist, mentions of medication for mental illness, cursing, degrading dirtytalk, rough smut, unprotected sex.
‘’Taehyung, you didn't lose control. You chose to control me instead..."
And he damn well took sick pleasure from the crazed look in his eyes.
“I’m not bad.” He convinced himself of this. He wasn’t a bad person.
He wasn’t the person in the case files. That was somebody else inside of him.
Flashing her access card to open the door of the secured interrogation room, the doctor nods at the guard outside before stepping in. If things were to turn sour at any point, he'd step in as intervention.
Once the door closes, she takes a moment to assess her latest patient— accused of double murder, yet to be proven guilty even if circumstantial evidences were against him, Kim Taehyung. Her report on his mental state will be the determinant in his case at this rate. Moving closer towards him, she greets him by introducing herself.
"Hello, Taehyung!"
Taehyung sat with his hands clasped together, eyes in his lap as someone walks in. As soon as he hears their greeting though, he slowly gazes up at her, a cautious look on his face.
‘‘Hello.’‘
Placing her tiny folder of contents and her notepad on the table, she takes the chair across from him with a formal smile.
"I'll be your therapist till the case gets resolved in the court which can be anywhere between a few days to many months! We're together in this until then." She tells him in an honest voice.
It would be better to ease him into the sessions and gain his trust before she could delve deeper into his mind. Deciding to keep it simple, "How are you feeling today? Did you sleep well?"
Taehyung fiddled with his fingers, avoiding eye contact, but he’s responsive enough, “I’m good.. I slept okay.” He nodded, as if confirming his own words.
"I'm glad you're feeling good. We'll see what we can do about the sleep issues you have..." She says, observing how he avoided her eyes and takes her note to record it in.
But before she does, "You don't mind if I take notes, do you?" She asks to confirm. Some of her patients hated it when she paid more attention to her notebook than them. She'd switch to a taping device in that case.
"Have you seen any other therapists before me, Taehyung— it's okay if I called you by your name, right?"
It took Taehyung a long moment before he responded, eyes moving back up to look at her, this time more observing, “You’re my first...” he keeps his eyes on her, an unreadable expression on his face as he nods, confirming the usage of his name.
She flashes him a genuine smile when she finds his eyes upon her. That was rather a very quick improvement in her books. Nodding her head at him, she notes it all down, from his words to his gestures— everything. So no one even suspected he might have been mentally disturbed until the incident itself. Interesting.
"In that case, I'm going to make sure I'm helping you the best way I can!" She promises him with a look before going for her next question. "Tell me more about yourself, Taehyung... It can be anything?" She'd get to know him from his own point of view before making her judgement.
Taehyung looked around the room, as if in thought, leaning back in his chair as his eyes finally land on the painting hanging behind her. He stares at it for a long moment, zoning out as he’s looking at it.
She patiently waits for him to speak up, silently taking in his features. He looked rather young, just about her age or even younger. Lucious curls, sharp jaws, almond eyes framed by full lashes— he was nothing short of gorgeous. And then there was this innocence in his eyes that makes her pause. Could he have really murdered two people in cold blood?
Noticing his attention elsewhere, she turns behind her to see the painting on the wall. "So... You like art? Do you paint often?" If he wouldn't talk, then she just had to ask more questions to keep him speaking.
Taehyung rocked back and forth, a very vague movement, barely noticeable unless anyone paid attention. He nodded, his eyes flickering to her before focusing on the painting once more, a short but clear response rolling off his lips, “Sometimes..”
Her eyes keenly track each of his movements, including how he seemed to not stay as still as he had when their session began. She hums at his words. Maybe she could bring some art supplies to one of their future sessions? But for now, "I'm a fan of surrealism. It feels like there's something about the unexpectedness it brings to everyday subjects... Dali is one of my favourite artists!" She comments, her eyes lighting up brightly as she speaks about something she likes.
"Do you prefer someone's art works in particular?"
Taehyung kept rocking back and forth, he was slowly starting to become a little bit more responsive, taking a few seconds less to answer this time, “Van Gogh.” His lips twitched ever so slightly at the thought of his art, his gaze focusing back down at his lap.
"Van Gogh?" There's a flare of recognition in her gaze, that is more than just knowing the famous artist's name. She was well versed in his life history too— especially his mental illness that made him take his own life. Taehyung taking less time than before to respond with his name was mildly alarming. But she keeps her cool, and her smile intact.
"I have a copy of his Almond Blossom in my home." She mentions as she makes more notes, "What is it about Gogh that impresses you, Taehyung?"
Taehyungs eyebrows raise vaguely when she mentions that she owns such a piece of art. His eyes now travells down to focus on the notepad in her lap. But this time he didn’t respond.
She gives him a whole minute before looking up at him, only to find his gaze focused on her lap. "Would you like to write... Or maybe sketch instead?"
She tears off the page she had been writing in and passes the notepad to him with another pen.
"Is there a particular painting of Van Gogh that you like so much?" She tries again hoping he'd feel motivated enough to answer her or even write it down.
He moved slowly when he grabbed the pen and notepad, putting it in his lap as he quietly scribbled something down. When he finished, he put it back on the table along with the pen, pushing it over the table towards her so she could take a look at what he had written down.
“Through his pain, came beauty. His art.” Along with a smaller note, “irises," which was a painting by the artist.
It was a painting of Irises that suggests cautious optimism. The bouquet of blue irises, shadowed in violet in an ocher vase against a yellow background, reveals his continuing pursuit of what he called 'the color question' and nature always offered the true revelation.
When he leaves the pad back on the table, she peeks over to see what he had written. "Irises?" She whispers under her breath.
There were two paintings of Gogh's with the said flowers. One, speaking of a life without tragedies and the other, a still life painting of the flowers in a vase he used for studying colours, both of them he did in the asylum. Tracing his words about the artist himself with her eyes she asks in a softer tone, "Did you know there's two different paintings of irises?"
Taehyung nods, however not clarifying his answer. His mind seemed to drift away after the mention of the paintings, but his body seemed slightly more relaxed as he was no longer rocking himself back and forth.
She leans back on her chair and keeps talking when he doesn't respond more than a nod. "I prefer the first one, the painting with the irises he did in the garden. There is this sense of hope about it..." As if he had hoped to get better in the hospital.
Taking one more look at his note, she presses an elbow to the table and props her chin upon her palm as she tries to get his attention back on her. "Does his pain inspire you, Taehyung?"
His lips part as if he’s about to speak, but he closes his mouth again, one hand moving up to brush his curls away from his eyes, that were now back on the doctor. He made eye contact, and gave her a vague nod, a quiet whisper rolling off his lips as he quoted the artist, “Art is to console those who are broken.”
She blinks, the motion of his hand breaking her transfixed gaze upon him. But soon he reels her back with his eyes, that now rested upon hers with a sense of ease. She leans a little further across the table to catch his whisper, which gives her a pause.
As much as she wanted to go on track and ask more about the artist he seemed to idolise, she chooses a personal question instead. "Do you consider yourself broken then?" It comes out equally quiet, her eyes focused unblinkingly upon him.
Taehyung shrugged, then broke into a soft smile before countering her question with one of his own, “Aren’t we all broken in one way or another?”
Her eyes soften at the first sign of his smile, her own lips quirking up to mirror it. Moving back with a mellowed laughter at his question, "True, we all are! You got me there." She admits, pushing a strand of her hair behind her ear.
"So, what is your story then? Why do you think you're broken?" With her head tilted to the side, she might resemble a curious cat. There's an urge to get to know him more now that goes beyond the need for this case. But she brushes it off to analyse it later when she wasn't on the clock.
Taehyung observes her for a moment, he’s starting to feel a little more comfortable with his therapist. Her smile made him feel something, but he couldn’t quite place it as of yet. For the first time in a long time, he’s enjoyed somebody’s company. He didn’t want the session to end.
“My story... isn’t very unique. I had a happy life... simple.” He presses his lips together as he nodded, confirming his own words before looking at her again, hands clasped together in his lap, “What about you?”
"Had?" She notes the past tense of his words before blinking back in surprise when he asks her about her story.
"I'm... still writing my story. Everyday, as it goes. My story is about finding a purpose for your life to be happy again!" She reiterates gently, her notes laying long forgotten on her lap with her attention completely on him now and their conversation.
"Everyone's story is different from each other, Taehyung. But why would you think your happy life ended? What about your life now?"
Taehyung stares at her as he takes in her words. Her purpose was for him to find happiness? That sounded crazy... it sounded almost... like she cared about him. He leaned forward, as if he's trying to get a closer look at her.
"Well, I am held in custody... and will be for a while it seems. Wouldn't you feel unhappy in my situation?" Once again, he counters her questions with his own, as if it was a little game. But it was obvious that he was starting to enjoy this, becoming more responsive to her, whether it gives her clear answers or not.
"Which is 'where' I come in." She air quotes in response to his question. "Anyone would he unhappy in this situation. You'll be held here until they can find a solution to this case. Don't you want to be happy again, Taehyung?"
Her tone is beseeching as she hides her surprise at how easy it was to get him to talk when his previous interrogators claimed otherwise.
"I can help you with that! But you'll have to help me in return. I want you to be completely honest with me. Can you do that?"
Taehyung leaned back into his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, eyes still fixed on the woman as if he's observing her. He doesnt answer, but he nods.
Even without his verbal confirmation, she still considers it a minor victory when he agrees to be truthful. Giving him another one of her genuine smiles as if in reward, "We can take this one step at a time. And if you're uncomfortable with anything I say or ask, feel free to stop me immediately, okay?"
She bends her head slightly, looking up at him through her lashes to see if he understood her before proceeding. "You're aware that you're kept in custody. But do you know why you're here?"
Taehyung's gaze travels to look down once again, a soft sigh escaping his lips. However another nod was the only response she got. He wasn't feeling very verbally responsive for this topic, knowing all words can and would be used against him, whether he was guilty or not.
When he breaks their eye contact, she withdraws back with a deep exhale. She knew she was pushing him beyond his comfort zone. But from every information she gathered from him so far, her gut feeling told her he was innocent. Even the devil was an angel before he fell though.
"Taehyung," She calls his name out softly. "We're almost at the end of our session today. I have one last question for you before I leave. Do you think you deserve to be kept here for whatever the reason you're in here for?"
His gaze slowly moved to look at her hands, keeping his arms wrapped over his chest as if he's hugging himself. It takes a long minute before he shrugs. He knows he's been vague, but he wasn't sure. And he felt a little disappointed that the session was over already, he was beginning to enjoy her company. She was the first person since he was taken in to actually talk to him as a person, and not simply pinpoint him as a murderer.
Clicking her tongue quietly at his shrug, she slumps back into her chair when he gives her no clear answer once again. There was a prompt knock on the metal door, signaling the end of their session.
"You did so good, Taehyung." She tells him with a soft smile as she stands up to gather her things, including the notepad. "I'll be back tomorrow. And I'll see if I can request for an additional hour. If we work well together like today, I'll soon be able to help you find your happiness again, hm?"
He feels his chest flutter at the doctor's praise, another foreign feeling to him. As she stand up, his eyes follow her with the utmost observation of her every movement and word. His lips curl up in a small smile as he nods, "Okay." He didn't want the session to end, but he was already looking forward to tomorrow. Now, as soon as he was no longer alone with her, his expressions fade back into being a blank canvas— no expression at all.
Now more than ever, she believes he was being framed for the murders. And even if he was guilty, she'd help him get his Not Criminally Responsible verdict if it ever came to that, she decides. He definitely had underlying mental health issues for certain, she just needed more medical proof.
Sending an email out to his defence attorney and the institution, she rests easy that night when they approve her request for extended sessions.
Taehyung had barely slept that night, staring at the ceiling of his isolated room as he processes everything she said. She'd asked him questions about art, and the way her knowledge surprised him made him curious about her. The way she told him that her purpose was to find his happiness, made him happy... no one's ever said that to him before, and he started to feel a small infatuation with his therapist.
He reminded himself to be cautious, however, it had only been one session after all. But his heart fluttered at the thought of seeing her again. Would her hair look different? Would she wear something pretty? All these things whirled through his mind until he managed to get a fractured amount of sleep before the guards woke him up for his next session. He slowly sauntered over, hair a curly mess, bags under his eyes.
The next day, she's back in the room before him for their new session. She had forgone her coat, favouring a simple blouse and skirt as it was summer. The door opens and she stands up with a bright smile.
"Hello, Taehyung!" One look at his cuffed arms and she sends a pointed glare at the guard who takes it off with a roll of his eyes. Once the guard leaves, she takes a step towards Taehyung, almost as if to push his hair back, but drops her hands halfway and goes back to the table. "Did you sleep well last night?" She asks him, her smile simmered down as he takes his seat.
Taehyung rubs his wrists when the cuffs are removed, nodding uncomittedly at her question as he slowly strolls over to his seat, ‘’Somewhat,’’ He didn’t lie, but also didn’t want to tell her he barely slept, but the doctor's eyes were sharp, and the dark circles under his eyes were prominent even if they were half hidden underneath his bangs. He ran his hands through his hair as if to calm down the bedhead he was rocking, lifting up his grey hoodie over his curls.
Nodding at his reply, "Well, I have news for you. Our sessions are going to be two hours long from now. So hopefully we can solve this case quicker!" She says with a smile, looking up from her notes only for her lips to turn down in a frown at his red eyes and visible dark circles beneath them despite his attempt to hide it all behind his bangs.
"Is there a particular reason you didn't sleep well last night?" She asks him in a crisp tone, giving no room for anymore vague answers. "If something's bothering you, you can tell me, you know?"
Taehyung felt a rush of joy, reminding him of butterflies fluttering in his stomach at the mention of longer sessions. Does that mean she wants to spend more time with him? That’s how he interpreted it, a small smile pulling on his lips. It made him more responsive, more open to answer her questions. However, it didn’t mean he couldn’t ask some back, ‘’I had a lot on my mind after we spoke,’’ He confesses, tilting his head to the side as his eyes landed on her skirt, slowly roaming up your outfit. She looked so pretty, ‘’I like your clothes.’’ He squinted, observing the small floral patterns adorning her blouse. He was curious about the brand, he did enjoy fashion.
"Oh?" She glances down at herself, giving him another smile at his compliment. "Thank you! It's getting warmer out there. Had to give up my winter clothing." Subtly noting the spark of interest in his eyes at her clothing style, she decides to dig into it later. They had something important to discuss before that.
"You said you had lot in your mind last night. May I ask what?" She pulls up a fresh page on her notepad, beginning to write down everything she noticed about him today.
He smiled, arms going back to his default position across his chest, “You.” His eyes moved back to her face, observing her reaction. This could’ve been a bad idea, maybe he should’ve stayed quiet, closed down. But he had to say it. She was special, not just his therapist.
Her writing comes to a sharp halt, and she glances up at him to find him watching her already. Dropping her pen between the pages, she closes the notepad and leaves it on the table before focusing all her attention on him with an unsure smile curling on her lips.
"Me? Do you mean you were thinking about the things we spoke about yesterday, Taehyung?" Getting involved with a patient at any emotional level was frowned upon. She hopes he means the latter, for both of their sakes.
Taehyung hesitates, considering whether he should answer with honesty. Will the truth scare her away? Will she stop seeing him? He didn’t want to take the chance, not until he was sure. He internally scolded himself for even telling her, but if he plays his cards right, he could deflect this quickly, continuing with the normal questions. He squints his eyes in a smile, nodding once more as he straightens his posture, ‘’Of course, that’s what I meant.’’
There's a faint sagging of her shoulders in relief despite the niggling feeling of uneasiness pricking at the back of her head. "That's great! But please don't let out conversations disturb your sleep patterns. I like seeing you in better health." She smiles, purposefully adding the last part to see if it'd change his behaviour that night.
Sitting a little more relaxed in her chair, "What is it about yesterday that left you sleepless, Taehyung?" Technically, she should begin from where they left off but this could work too.
Taehyung considers her words carefully, and how she kept saying things that seemed so earnest. She would like to see him in better health. Not because a script told her so, but because she cared. He started to believe it, and he couldn’t control the way his feelings slowly grew for her.
He crossed one leg over the other, leaning back as he put his hands in his pockets into a more relaxed position, eyes staring at the table as he chewed on his lower lip in a moment of thought, ‘’I thought a lot about... Art.. It was a refreshing conversation compared to all the surface level interrogations they’ve put me through so far. I felt like I was talking to an actual person, and it was... Nice.’’ This was the longest sentence he’s ever given her, even if it didn’t conclude much other than his appreciation for her knowledge.
"I'm glad our talk was thought provoking for you. And I want you to feel normal. I know interrogations here can get bitter. But I'm here to help you find and face the truth, no matter what it is!" Placing both her hands on the table, she presses on it to lean forward and let him see the honesty of her words reflected in her eyes.
"We can talk about art again, if you want? Or anything else of your interest? I'm sure we can spare some time before beginning from where we left off yesterday."
Taehyung’s eyes lit up, he finally had an opportunity to know more about her, rather than talk about himself. That’s all he’s done, and he would, for her. But first, he wanted something back, something new to learn. He fiddled with his fingers before clasping them together, ‘’What’s your favourite type of flower?’’ It was an odd question to some, but to him, it mattered. He always loved flowers, and the meanings behind them.
She doesn't miss out on any reactions of his, including how his entire face lights up when she says they could talk about anything other than the case. Little sacrifices, she tells herself with a smile as she leans back in her chair only to pause at his question. "My favourite flower?" She asks again with surprise in her tone to confirm if she heard it right. As he continues to gaze at her with that little excited look of his, she gives in. "Lily of the valley. I love those little bells!"
‘‘Return to happiness.’‘ He states, eyes still fixed on her. Everything really pointed back towards the one thing you keep telling him, to find happiness. To be happy. That she wanted him to be happy. This couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? If it was, it surely was fate.
‘‘The flower is beautiful, attractive... But poisonous.’‘ He continued, as if his statement could have an underlying meaning to it. He stretches his back a little, before returning to a comfortable position, his hands delicately placed in his lap, ‘‘I like daffodils.’‘
"When something is too beautiful to behold, it always comes with a way of protecting itself, doesn't it? Like how roses have thorns, the lilies are poisonous. I only think it's fair." She shrugs, not really worried about how he'd interpret that. By now, she's made up her mind to enjoy the unexpectedness of their conversations until it lasts. "Daffodils? What do they mean?" She might have a little knowledge about art, but not so much about flowers.
Taehyung hums, nodding as he speaks, ‘’Rebirth... New beginnings...’’ He tilts his head to the side, keeping his eyes in his lap as if he’s in thought, ‘’They are the first flower to bloom when the cold, dark winter has passed, as a sign of spring.’’ He pauses to lick his lips, looking up at her with a small smile, ‘’And they smell nice.’’
She nods her head slowly, taking in the meaning of his favourite flowers a little deeper than she should. "New beginnings..." Letting the word roll around her tongue for a moment, she glances up to meet his eyes with an understanding smile. "Is that what you crave right now? A new beginning once this darkness," her gaze flickers to his case file on the table before meeting his again, "—passes, Taehyung? Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong. I tend to overthink sometimes."
He felt butterflies burst in his gut when she said his first name so casually, as if they were already close. He enjoyed it, feeling a warmth simmer over him. Taehyung shrugs, ‘’I guess you could say that.’’
"Hm..." She hums, moving forward once again to lean over the table. These chairs weren't exactly comfy, she was sure to get a back pain if she were to sit in it much longer. "And how do you envision this new beginning? Is it going to be similar to the life you lived before? Or maybe you want to move away to a new place and start afresh? I'd do that if I were you, to be honest..."
Letting her eyes trace his features carefully, "How different do you want your new life to be from your old?"
Her words seemed to have hit a small trigger, his eyes squinting in thought, the corner of his mouth twitching once, twice. He stared to his left, at nothing, just staring, as if he’s deep within himself for the moment, and his leg starts to bounce restlessly, ‘’It’s already different... But, I don’t know..’’
It was the first time she catches him struggling to express his thoughts that day, immediately knowing his answers would be as vague as their previous session. No, that wouldn't do.
"Different because of any thing in particular?" Maybe his guilt? He was yet to answer her last question from yesterday. Seeing how his attention seemed to be elsewhere, she opens her palm on the table. "You can hold my hand if you need something to ground yourself, Taehyung!" She offers without thinking twice.
His eyebrows are drawn together in confusion at her words, until he looks down at her open palm on the table. He didn’t hear everything she said, he only caught when she called his name, and then suddenly, her hand was offered to him. What is this? She wanted him to hold her hand? Was this a test?... Did she like him?
Taehyung’s fingers twitched, he slowly raised his hand as if considering to actually hold hers, but he hesitates, looking up at her, ‘‘I can...?’‘
She looks at him with her head slightly bent, urging him on silently with her eyes. "Yes, of course! I want you to hold my hand so you can ground yourself..." She states calmly, curling her fingers in a come hither motion as she smiles at him.
It was clear he was lost in his head and if this would help, she was willing to do it for him. "We'll continue our conversation only when you're certain you're back here with me, okay?" Her voice is soft, as if soothing him back into reality.
He shuffles closer to sit on the edge, his large hand slowly wrapping around hers. She felt so delicate in his hand, and his heart skipped a beat. He exhaled through his nose, eyes fixed on the way his long fingers gently closed around her hand.
Carefully, she watches him place his hand upon hers before wrapping it around her dainty one, her gaze flashing up to his face to note his reaction. He seemed... content, for the lack of accurate words to explain the emotion in his eyes.
She sits there in silence with his hand in hers, for how long, neither of them care. Smiling again, she softly squeezes the reassuring weight of his hand upon hers. "Feeling better, Taehyung?" She asks him once his eyes move back to rest upon her.
His eyes softened when he felt her squeeze his palm, and he wished this moment could last forever, not ready to ever let go of her. ‘’Can I look at your hand? Closer, I mean...’’
She flexes her fingers in his, knowing what she was doing wasn't exactly ethical in her practice. But he seemed like he needed someone to hold him, and all she could offer was her hand for now.
Blinking back at the unexpectedness of his question, she hesitates a brief moment before nodding. "Sure you can... as long as you promise not to bite!" She jests in good nature, even if a part of her wonders why he was asking to look closer.
Taehyung smiles playfully, an eyebrow crooked up at her words. ‘’Deal,’’ he leans forward a little further, both of his hands holding hers. He treats her hands like they are fragile, delicately examining her flat palm facing him before the pads of his fingers trace the lines in her hand, his eyes focused on how soft her skin feels in his hand. To some, it might look like he’s doing some kind of palm reading, but in reality he just... really likes hands. And hers, they were an exquisite sight, and they felt even better.
She laughs faintly at his playfulness, brushing off the little voice in her head questioning her sanity in that very situation. He was only being curious, she told herself— almost like a child. Indulging him would cause no harm!
Unless he really was guilty…
Sighing at her own internal monologue, she wriggles her fingers again as she smiles up at him. "What are you looking for in my hand, Taehyung? Did you lose something there?"
He doesn’t look up at her, eyes still observing as he grabs her fingers between his index finger and thumb, bending it delicately back and forth, as if he’s fascinated with the way her flesh moves and bends beneath the skin. But to others, it looks like he’s just playing around.
He nods before grabbing her hand inbetween both of his large palms, ‘’I just liked how fragile- I mean... I like the way your hand feels. It’s soft.’’
Her eyes still locked on all of his movements, she thinks he might not have heard her from the way he looks lost in examining the workings of her fingers. When he begins speaking again, the word fragile stands out, reminding her of his case file.
A cold shiver passes down her spine, but she manages to school her expression before it shows. "It feels so soft because I don't do any of my household chores." Turning one of his hand over, she runs her fingers over it. "See, even yours is soft!"
Her touch ignites a fire beneath his skin, that travels further like a domino effect throughout his entire body. He recognized this feeling, and he wondered whether he should stop this. Stop, and not let this feeling grow.
But then, the way her fingers smooth over his skin was almost erotic to him, and he didn’t want her to stop. His mouth parted slightly, a quiet exhale pushing through his lips at the feeling, nodding, ‘’Again.’’
She looks up at him with a stricken expression when he asks to be touched again. But the intensity behind his eyes reels her in without her even being aware of it and she begins tracing his palm longer this time, her touch nothing more than feather soft. "Like this?" Even as she asks, she runs the tip of her nails over each of the lines that crisscross along his palms with little pressure. At the feel of him shuddering, she slowly glances up at him with her lower lip caught between her teeth. "More, Taehyung?"
Taehyung closes his eyes, his chest heaving up and down slowly, but heavily. He licks his lips, focusing so hard on the feeling of your nails across his skin, this fire that he knew too well already taking over his body, as his next words just slip out like a sultry growl, ‘’I want more, you drive me mad...’’
Her breathing is equally hard, the sight of him coming undone at her mere touch all too sensual for her to handle. The entire purpose of her presence there slips from her mind somewhere between them getting lost in each other's hands.
She gulps at the sound of raw need behind his growl and slowly loops her fingers through his while her other hand is still mindlessly drawing patterns over the sensitive skin of his palm. "How do you want me, Taehyung?" She dares to ask at last in a softer tone.
His eyes open, an intense gaze meeting hers as he drags his lower lip between his teeth, “I want you... on your knees, right here...” His eyes look down between his now spread apart legs, the obvious bulge leaving little to the imagination through the soft fabric of his sweatpants, “I want your soft hands on me.”
Trapped within his gaze and nowhere to run in the room that was locked from outside, she slowly stands up on trembling feet, throwing a cautious look over her shoulders at the door. This was wrong. So wrong. She keeps thinking despite sinking to her knees between his spread legs. Moving one of her hands to the prominent bulge in his pants, she squeezes it softly while looking up at him through her thick lashes.
"Like this?" She squeezes harder again and then rubs over it, repeating her motions.
He gazes down at her with heavy eyes, a small smirk playing on his face as he crooks an eyebrow, licking his teeth, “Yes, just like that,” he nods, keeping his hands on his thighs, curling up his fists as he grasps the fabric of his pants, trying to keep his fingers to himself. He knows once he starts touching her , it could go any direction. It was too early.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t indulge in the pleasures of having her willingly touch him, “More...” he repeats the same word once more, his possessive affection for her blooming faster than ever.
The situation had escalated way too quickly for her to even grasp it, but she pushes it to the back of her mind. For now, his heavy gaze upon her as she palmed him through his pants was enough to make her shirt stick to her skin from the raising heat around them. She pops a button open on her blouse before sneaking her hand into his pants at his needy demand, feeling his velvety length between her fingers. Her gaze moves up to hold his as she runs a nail from his base to the tip, to catch his reaction.
His burning gaze followed the movements of her unbuttoning her blouse just enough for him to let out a long exhale through his nose. He then focused his attention back down, feeling her nail scrape delicately across the skin of his length, his thighs almost vibrate underneath her, his cock twitches in anticipation, “Take it out...” It sounded more like a demand rather than begging, but it was laced with need.
Looking into his eyes that seemed like it wanted to devour her whole, she drags his throbbing length out of his pants at his needy whine. Even from the feel of him, she knows she'll be able to feel his curved tip all the way into her womb if she were ever to sink down on his pretty length.
Shuddering at that thought, she runs her nail over his slit, gathering his precum as she goes before smearing it down his cock, slowly beginning to pump him between her soft hands. "Want more, Taehyung?"
Taehyung struggles to keep his hands to himself, but he’s mustering all his strength, clawing at his thighs as he moans quietly beneath her touch, ‘’Please,’’ His eyes are beginning to have a slightly crazed look to them as he watches how pretty and small her hands look compared to the size of his generous length, ‘’Put it in your mouth, please..’’
As much as she wants to tease and edge him on until he was writhing for her with nothing but her name on his lips, she knew they didn't have enough time. His pleas will have to do for today.
Giving his throbbing length a few more drawn out pumps, she kisses the slit, moaning softly at his taste as she lets the tip of her tongue graze it. Opening her mouth wider, she locks her gaze with his while lowering her mouth to swallow him in painfully slow, swirling her tongue as she went along.
Taehyung’s jaw fell open, breathing out heavy, low vibrating groans as he watches his cock disappear between her lips, ‘’So pretty... Prettier than anybody-y ah..’’ His sentence broke into a whimper. He’s had his cock sucked before, but with her, it felt new and foreign, his hyper responsive senses causing his hips to twitch. He wanted to fuck her mouth so badly, but the torture of holding himself back from grasping her hair was another turn on in itself.
If you are patient, and wait for something good, the wait will always be worth it.
A part of her feels smug as he is reduced to broken whimpers from her mere touch, such a breathtaking mess to watch despite his immense self control. She wanted to see him lose it though, and touch her the same way she was worshipping him.
Stopping when she feels his cock hit the back of her throat, she gives herself a minute to breathe through her nose. Pulling him out halfway, she pushes the skin around his head down until she could suck on it sharply and repeats it till she feels him twitch.
Taehyung was struggling to keep himself collected, his hips starting to buck into her mouth, hands moving an inch closer to her body, but he harshly grips his pants too hard he almost rips through the fabric, ‘’I want to touch you so badly....’’ He breathes out darkly, ‘’But if I do, I can’t control--’’ He breaks into another moan and throws his head back, continuing to move his hips.
When he begins to buck into her mouth, she sucks him in until her cheeks hollow out making obscene noise. At his stuttering words, she unwillingly pulls him out of her mouth.
"What if..." She pants deeply, trying to form the right words as her hands pump him steadily. "I want to see you lose it Tae— your carefully constructed control. Don't hold back!" Diving back instantly, she swallows him once again, her other hand moving to toy with his balls as she waits to see if he'd follow her words.
Taehyung screws his eyes shut for a moment, gritting his teeth to muffle the curses that slip through his lips. She wanted it, she wanted it... Could he really give in to his true self? Last time he did, it put him in here.
With her as his therapist.
Maybe it was fate, he was always supposed to find her, who actually wanted him to show himself for who he was. She cared. He felt like he could trust her, and he really didn’t want to hurt her... Not that much.
‘‘You’re so— shit..’‘ His eyes fly open, his pupils dilated with lust until they were almost blackened, his stare that of a possessive man as he gives in to his desires. His hands travelling to caress her hair, the hair he’s been admiring, and it felt just the way he imagined it, so silky and soft between his fingers. ‘‘You’re everything.’‘ He inhales deeply, his grasp in her hair tightening, pulling at her scalp until it almost burns as he forces her to take his cock deeper.
At his muffled mewls, she rubs her thighs together feeling her own arousal swell. But she ignores it in favour of watching his lust blown eyes focus solely upon her, as if she was the only thing he needed to exist and ruin in the same breath.
His reverent touches does nothing to fool her, she knows a madman's eyes when she sees one. Bracing herself on his thighs, she sucks in deeply before he painfully tugs at her hair, thrusting himself back in all the way until her eyes tear up from the stretch.
‘‘Choke on it,’‘ He growls quietly. He didn’t want to be too loud, knowing there were guards outside of the room. His fingers curled around her hair as he starts to control her movements, using her mouth like a toy to fuck his cock into as he wishes.
He takes notice of the tears welling up in her eyes, a tint of red in the whites of them from the lack of oxygen, and it sends him one step closer into his madness. He fucking loves the submissive look on her face.
An instant flush travels down her body from his growl, making her core clench. But that wasn't where her trained mind was. When she had asked him to lose it, he had merely found an object, her instead, to control, which begins a series of alarm bells in her head.
As she loses her ability to breathe, she suddenly knows why those victims of his ended up dead. In her desperation, she sinks her nails into his thighs, hoping he'd let her go before she faints or worse, add on to his list.
Her nails digging into his thighs only adds to his pleasure, his grip in her hair like iron as he forces her back down on his cock, tears and spit everywhere. His gaze was like ice, eyebrows tightly drawn together as he feels his orgasm creep up on him quickly.
‘’Just— a little more. A little more...Your nose, breathe through your nose.’’ He reminds her while a voice in the back of his mind tells him to stop. It was too much, she was going to pass out if he didn’t stop, or worse, kill her, but it felt too good.
At the feel of his cock twitching inside her mouth, she knows he's deriving pleasure from both his and her pain, making her tears flow freely seeing no escape. A hand claws it's way up, digging itself into his hand as she struggles to breathe through her nose like he instructs.
Little more... she fights to hold on to her slipping conscious, sensing his muscles go taut beneath her touch, she instantly moves her other hand to seize his balls. The sooner he got his release, the better for her.
A low, guttural moan vibrated in Taehyung’s chest as the familiar heat pooling in his lower abdomen reaches him, his hips stilling beneath her as he cums,
‘’F-fuck, ye-ees...’’ He growls, his cock pulsating in her mouth as the sticky warmth shoots down her throat. His grip in her hair almost instantly loosens, his body relaxing against the couch as he slouches, chest heaving up and down heavily.
If she could sigh in relief, she would. As soon as she feels his cum shooting down her throat, she greedily swallows it all along with a few desperate inhales of air through her nose.
The moment his grip goes lax, she pushes herself off his thighs and falls back on the floor, gasping loudly as her cheeks slowly regain their colour. Her throat feels raw and her chest hurts badly every time she breathes in, but she forces her way up from the floor carefully turned away from his panting form.
As if a switch flipped, Taehyung came back to reality. He pulled his pants back up as he got off his seat, taking one step closer to her form on the ground. “Hey,” he whispers, eyebrows drawn together in concern. Guilt. He didn’t want to lose control, but she asked him to... begged him to.
Hearing the chair squeak as he stands up, she quickly scrambles to her feet to put more distance between them. Wiping her face with the back of her hands, she slowly begins inching towards her bag that was resting next to the table. Raising a hand at his whisper though, she stops him in his tracks.
"Don't—" She croaks through her abused throat. "Don't you dare... come any closer!" Her eyes stay on the ground, not willing to meet his after seeing him go insane as she stumbles towards the table.
Taehyung stops, his hand falling down to his side, still keeping his eyes on her, ‘’I... I--’’ He grew frustrated, ‘’You asked me to do it...I shouldn’t have.’’
Grabbing her bag, she pulls her bottle out of it before desperately chugging half of it down to soothe her throat. Once done, she braces herself against the chair still wheezing as her eyes snap up to meet his, forgetting her earlier woes.
"I asked you to fuck yourself. Not fucking kill me!" Her words were crude and harsh, but she feels little to no care. Her eyes flicker down to his case file still laying untouched on the table. "Is that— is this what happened to them, Taehyung? Is this why they're dead?"
Taehyung’s expression was sombre, eyes following her gaze to look at the casefile. He sits back down in the couch, leaning forward with his hands clasped together. The very same position he was in the first time they met, ‘’It’s...’’ The way she threw her words at him made him flinch, ‘’I didn’t want to hurt you.’’
Her eyes follow each of his movements, not understanding why her heart aches when he collapses down on the chair after what he did to her. As much as the sane part of her tells her to run while she still can, her medically trained brain fails to see its rationality. He was still her patient who needs her help. Right now, he wasn't the man who tried to hurt her.
Sighing miserably, she steps closer to him. "Hey... I know you didn't mean to— it's... okay!" It wasn't. But that was not what he needed to hear right now.
Taehyung looks up at her, keeping his hands tightly clasped together, as if he’s holding his own hand to keep himself grounded. ‘’Did you... want to do it? Why did you ask me to lose control?’’
Her gaze swivels between his clasped hands to hers, remembering how they'd started it all innocently. Pressing a palm to the table, she slumps down into the chair still keeping her distance from him. "I did... Of course, I wanted to do it!" She pauses briefly before glancing up at him with her puffy eyes.
"I didn't know you'd... Taehyung, you didn't lose control. You chose to control me instead..." And he damn well took sick pleasure from the crazed look in his eyes. "There's a difference!"
Taehyung started rocking back and forth again, eyes flickering between hers, “I’m not bad.” He convinced himself of this. He wasn’t a bad person. He wasn’t the person in the case files. That was somebody else inside of him.
Right there, her first real evidence of his mental illness— his split personality. Without breaking their eye contact, she stands up on unsteady feet taking slow steps towards him, as if approaching a caged animal.
"No, you're not bad..." She repeats after him in as much a soothing voice she could manage despite her tender throat. "That wasn't you." She hesitates to kneel before him, fearing it'd be a trigger. "Remember? This is just a dark cloud. It will pass soon and the daffodils will bloom!"
Taehyung intertwines his fingers, as if holding himself tightly, eyes following her every movement. He didnt want to startle her, but oh did he want to hold her. "Are you going to tell them? Are you gonna... stop seeing me?" He didnt care whether or not he was gonna end up free or caged. He just wanted to see her. He didnt want her to leave.
Her heart constricts at the distress in his tone and she moves even closer, letting her shaky fingers reach his hair to soothe it down in reassurance. "I'll tell them in my own way..." She couldn't write down what happened in her report, but she could always omit it out now that she had a diagnosis.
Pushing his messy locks out of his eyes, her other hand goes to tilt his chin up to face her. "And who will treat you if I stop coming here? I'm not going anywhere until those flowers of yours bloom."
He genuinely smiles at her words, his hands relaxed in his lap. He dared to let his fingers reach up to gently caress the back of her hand that held his chin, “Thank you.”
A knock on the door insinuated that time was up for today’s session, and Taehyungs smile fell. He didn’t want her to leave. She was his daffodil. And not knowing what she was going to do about what happened today made him feel anxious.
Maybe she'd keep seeing him, maybe she was just lying to keep him satisfied, then telling them he’s guilty? Or would she deem him as mentally insane, and throw him away to the doctors? The next step was in her hands.
She returns his smile with an unsettled one of her own, that disappears the moment there's another loud knock on the metal door. Shuffling back from him, she smoothes her hair down and runs a hand over her face, looking down at Taehyung. "Do I look okay?"
She cannot step out there looking like a mess, making anyone question what happened in there or even suspect a thing. Buttoning her blouse back up as she keeps her eyes on him, "Tae— no one can know what happened here today. Promise me?"
‘‘I promise, if you promise to come back.’‘ Taehyung ran his hand through his hair, a small smile on his lips as he eyes her up and down, ‘‘You look beautiful.’‘
Tsking her tongue at his need to bargain, "I won't be allowed to come back ever if you tell them the truth." She turns to grab her bag, realizing a second later how blunt her words might have sounded. He didn't need that right now, especially not from her.
Forcing a smile upon her lips, "Thank you! I promise I'll be back. I might have a way to help you, but I need to discuss the legalities of it with your lawyer. I'll see you tomorrow." She casts one last look at him before leaving promptly.
Taehyung didn’t answer, and quietly observed as she left. Shortly after, the guards came in and cuffed him before leading him to his cell.
That night, Taehyung couldn’t stop thinking about her, even moreso difficult than the previous night. He now knew what she felt like, what she smelled like... The way her tears streamed down her face mixed with drool, struggling for air while choking on his cock—
‘‘Fuck,’‘ He hissed through gritted teeth, one arm placed over his eyes as he laid on his back in the bed, the other occupied with touching himself, thinking of his doctor.
Paraphilia.
There was no other easy way to put this down on his report. It wasn't just his split personality, but his sadistic approach to intercourse that bordered on getting off from his partner's pain which led to the murders— she felt sick to even type it down.
She can only imagine how he must've felt. The police had found him at the scene of the crime after all. After a long winded discussion with his lawyer, it was decided they'd plead guilty without any criminal charges.
She'd suggest a combined treatment of drugs and behavioural therapy at the facility she worked at so she'd be able to treat him herself for however long they sentenced him into rehabilitation. Content with her work, she found herself making her way back to the prison the next day to share the news with Taehyung.
Seeing how the guard was already at his post outside, looking bored, she knew he'd be waiting for her. It was time to keep her promise. She steps in with a smile, "Hi Taehyung!"
Taehyung was anxiously waiting for her to arrive, biting the skin of his fingers. As she finally walks in through the door, chiming his name out with a smile, he straightens up his posture, unable to stop the boxy smile of his own to curl on his lips, ‘‘You came!’‘
"Of course, I did." Leaving her bag on the floor, she turns to him still standing. "I don't break my promises, and I might have found a way to help you!" She finishes, with her gaze intently watching every emotion flickering across his eyes while edging into her chair sideways as she continues.
"But before that, I need to know how you're feeling after uh— yesterday?" It was the first time she refuses to meet his eyes in all of their interactions, her eyes lowered as if in shyness but not quite.
Taehyung takes a deep breath, leaning back against the couch as he tries to meet her eyes, but she was purposefully averting them. However he felt a small sense of pride in this, feeling like he’s got a small amount of power of her since yesterday, ‘‘I’m okay. Hm... what about you?’‘
Busying herself with pulling the report and her faithful notepad out, she hums evasively. "Been good... Any problems with sleeping again?"
It wasn't fear or any need to be submissive. But seeing his eyes spark with life on many occasions, she'd gotten so used to them that it truly shook her when she witnessed their lifeless dark depths rivetted upon her during whatever it was that happened between them. This was her own way stopping herself before it gets any worse. He was just her patient.
Taehyung shrugged, he wasn’t sure if he ever slept well these days, maybe he was just used to it, so he just didn’t know. ‘’I guess so... I don’t sleep much in general.’’
As much as she wanted to continue on with the trajectory he provided, there was an elephant in the room that she needed to address first. Letting her eyes trail over his form, she finally meets his gaze with regret filling hers.
"Taehyung, about yesterday, I owe you an apology for behaving so... unprofessionally and compelling you to do something you clearly didn't want to. I don't know what got into me. I've never— I just wanted you to know I'm genuinely sorry and it'll never happen again!"
Taehyung crossed his arms over his chest, the default position of holding himself, eyes flickering between hers as his head tilted vaguely, ‘’It won’t..?’’ In this case, he meant the situation at all. Did she regret getting down on him? Or did she regret triggering him? He wasn’t sure, and at this point he didn’t want to dig too deeply into it, anxious that he’d scare her off. He couldn’t afford to, especially not when there’s news of him possibly getting out of prison.
When she catches him crossing his arms, she sighs knowing the tell tale signs of suppressing ones true emotions. "It won't." She repeats firmly as if looking down upon a petulant child, her frustrations growing from the amount of whiplash this one man was giving her.
"In your own best interest and mine, it's only proper that I remain as your therapist and nothing more, ever." Pushing a new file towards him, "It contains my diagnosis on you. You're welcome to read it if you want or I could summarize it for you."
Taehyung squinted, his gaze lingering on her as if he’s trying to find the lie. No, she was serious. She meant it.
He hummed noncomittedly as he grabbed the file, flipping through the pages with his eyebrows drawn together. He didn’t look at her, keeping his eyes on the words on the paper, that apparently were about him,‘‘Yeah, if you could... summarize, that’d be great.’‘
Leaning back in her chair at his request, she hides her surprise at his nonchalance about the nature of their relationship. Wasn't this exactly what she wanted though?
"You've been diagnosed with split personality and paraphilia, which is something like sexual sadism but to the extreme. Your lawyer, Jim—Mr. Park," she corrects herself, "—thinks this report would be enough to plead guilty without any criminal charges. I have detailed your treatment in there too. You'll be under my care in the hospital."
Taehyung’s eyebrow twitches when she almost mentions his lawyer by first name. Were they two close? He didn’t like that at all. But that was for another time
‘‘Hospital...?’‘ He squints at the words on his paper, looking at the treatment section, ‘‘That’s a lot of medication... Do I have to take it? Isn’t therapy enough?’‘
Wondering if the flash of anger on his face was due to the mention of hospital, she quickly seeks to appease him. "Yes, its the facility I work at. They're not going to completely release you until I find the underlying reason for your illness and treat you back to sound mental health..."
Peeking over at the long list of medication he was looking at, she winces apologetically. "We treat certain cases with a combination of drugs and behavioural therapy. I'd reduce the dosage as time goes on. But for now, I'm afraid you need it, Taehyung!"
Taehyung puts the file back on the table, his eyes now back on her as he leans forward with his hands clasped together, ‘’Okay. I’ll do it.’’ He figured this was the best way for now, better than prison.
He had to be there for himself to be able to plan out what he has to do, but he’s sure he can reduce the time there quickly, if he’s on his best behavior, and if the nurses were not as strict as he expects them to be... Skipping those meds would be a piece of cake.
Casting him a mildly suspicious look at his all too quick acceptance, she leans forward in his chair. "It's not a matter of your willingness, but the court's verdict in your next hearing. Until then, we continue with our therapy here."
As much as she was positive it'd all work out in the end, she didn't want to feed him too much hope. "And Taehyung, I'll be your doctor there! Don't even think you can trick me or my assistants when you're under our care." She warns, taking the file back from him.
‘‘Of course... You can trust me, doctor.’‘ He smiled, but in the back of his head he was cursing. He’d have to figure this out as time went on. But for now, he had to lay low and cooperate. He remained silent leaning back to get comfortable, hands neatly clasped in his lap.
"I dearly hope I can." She mutters under her breath with a slight curve of her lips. Stacking the papers together, she clips it all back in the file as she speaks. "I'll leave it to Jimin to fill you in on the rest of the details about your next hearing. I'll be there before, to give my word as well."
Putting everything away, she finally faces him ready to begin their session. "So, we can start from where we left off yesterday. Wh—" She realizes a minute too late, what that'd imply, her face instantly flushing at the memory.
Taehyung's eye twitches at the first name basis she calls his lawyer by once more. This time she didn’t even tries to stop herself. His jaw clenches, but he wills himself to relax once more.
He crooked an eyebrow at her last words, and her reaction only made him feel a stir in his lower abdomen at the memory.
Behave, Taehyung.
“Let’s... where did we leave this at? Remind me.” He wanted to pressure her a bit. It’s the least he could do to get rid of his slowly building jealousy of Jimin.
Her gaze snaps up to meet his at the not so subtle demand, only to find the familiar darkness swirling around its depths. This weird affliction of hers with Taehyung will be the death of her, she decides.
Sliding forward in her seat, she speaks in a softer tone, her earlier embarrassment forgotten. "Oh? You'd like that wouldn't you? For me to remind you..."
Her voice turns into a whisper with her eyes tracing over his features. "Then how about a reminder of today morning when I told you it's never happening again, Taehyung?"
His lips curl up in a wolfish grin, he was trying so hard to behave. He was going to mess this up again if she kept spurring him on like this. First, she calls his lawyer by his first name. Second, she dares to whisper to him in that manner and within the same moment, reject him?
Behave, Taehyung.
“I don’t believe you.” Fuck, shut up, he told himself. But the darker part of him didn’t give a rats ass.
Wrong move.
At the sight of his predatory grin, she admonishes herself for feeding into his desires when she's supposed to be doing the opposite as his therapist. She's about to pull away and apologize again, but his words bring her to a standstill.
Blinking at the obvious challenge in his gaze, she resists the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. "Fine. What should I do to prove it to you?" She just had to show it to him she wasn't as affected by him as she really was, and then they can put this entire thing behind them.
His devilish smile grew, the boxy shape of his lips more prominent now. Taehyung slumped down on the couch more comfortably, resting his head back, his eyes were growing colder, piercing through her as his gaze drank her in like she was a fine meal.
‘’Watch me,’’ He smirked, licking his upper teeth in a teasing manner, his hand slowly trailing down his chest towards the hem of his pants, ‘’If you watch me touch myself, and you remain unaffected throughout... If you don’t want me at all while watching me, I'll believe you.’’
The satisfaction in his eyes makes it clear that he had her exactly where he wanted her, slyly caught in his web. Furrowing her brows in confusion, she's about to demand what he meant when she sees his hand inch towards his pant. Her eyes flicker between his hand and his burning gaze, nodding once firmly at his words. She'd just have to pretend to be unaffected.
Sighing deeply, she drives her own bargain. "Okay. And if I remain unaffected, swear to me you'll never bring this up again?"
Taehyung chuckles breathily, his hand sneaking beneath his pants to directly touch himself, “Promise. And, if you really want me to stop, just say the word...” He moaned lowly, getting harder underneath the fabrics.
Her mouth parts slightly at his breathy words, his moan affecting her almost instantly making some wetness trickle against her underwear. "No. Go ahead!" She replies in a calm voice, her eyes fixed on him and each of his actions, appearing nonchalant despite the havoc he was beginning to cause in her body.
He sees the way she looks at him, even if her words speak differently. And this way, he could engage with her in the way he so much craved, but didn’t want to risk anything by actually touching her. Not yet. So, this will do.
Her eyes will be enough for his inner exhibitionist to thrive off of the audience. All he needs is to get her hot and bothered, without laying a single finger on her.
She can feel the heat raise between her legs, but she resolutely keeps them apart, denying herself any kind of friction by crossing them and giving him the gratification of seeing her lose.
Taehyung lets a breathy moan push through his lips once more, using his other hand to pull his pants down further, taking his length out for her to see. He ran his thumb over his slit, spreading his clear juices down his tip before slowly stroking his cock for her, eyes never once leaving hers.
“I love feeling your eyes on me, doctor.” His voice was growing needy, teeth clamping down on his lower lip to put on a show.
Her breath almost seizes when he pulls his rock hard length out. She can still feel the phantom weight of it between her fingers; still remember how deep he went when he used her throat so carelessly.
Her core clenches around nothing at the mere memory, a muted gasp leaving her lips when he drawls her name out in his deep voice, causing more slick to pool between her thighs. Her fingers clasp on to the edge of her chair trying not to show how affected she was, despite knowing she has already lost.
“See what you to do me?” Taehyung squeezes his shaft firmly within his grasp. His red, swollen tip leaking with precum, he smooths his hand over his thick length, gathering the juices to spread it down his cock until it was glistening with a layer of his arousal.
“Fuck, what I’d do to have you sit on it...” He was slow, but deliberate with his motions, aiming to tease her with visuals that’ll be burned into her memory.
She visibly gulps at his question, no longer worried about hiding how the fire in his gaze burns in her own while he was edging her on without even a single touch or graze of skin.
Grinding her teeth together, she bites into the insides of her cheek as he strokes his swollen length when she wants nothing but to sink down on it instead and clinch hard until he can barely move inside her. Her breath leaves her in a whoosh and she opens her mouth before she can stop herself. "Ask for it... beg."
Taehyung groans lowly at her words, his hips gently bucking up into his hand. This felt too fucking good. He knows she was entranced by him, he fucking knows that she wants nothing else than to do as he says.
But she was holding back, the sexual tension in the room making it hard to breathe, “Please, doctor,” his pleas were interrupted by a moan escaping his lips when he squeezed his shaft, “I want you... please, sit on my cock, fuck me.”
Some semblance of clarity returns to her at his pleading voice. It might not seem like it, but she knew she had a significant amount of power over him—at least in that instance.
Shaking her head without taking her eyes off him, she slides off her chair and moves closer, toying with the hem of her skirt tauntingly but still staying out of his grasping range. "Three more strides and I could be on your lap, fucking you deep and hard. But why should I, Taehyung? Why should I after what happened yesterday?"
Taehyung almost whines at her words, his eyes never once wavering from the way she was playing with the hem of her skirt. He keeps stroking himself to the view, his eyebrows drawn together in sexual frustration.
If she wouldn’t give in to him soon, he would almost consider whether or not he cares if he ends up in prison for simply taking her right then and there. And it was all too tempting. ‘‘I didn’t mean to... please fuck me, you’re driving me crazy...’‘
Physically feeling it when the darkness begins creeping into the molten heat of his eyes, she hastens to remedy the situation.
Taking a step closer to Taehyung, "You cannot touch me unless I ask you to." Another step, "You don't get to come until I say you can." One last step, she tilts his head up with a finger beneath his chin. "Promise me you won't hurt me again and I'll fuck you?"
Her gaze alternates between his scorching eyes and throbbing length, anticipating his reply with bated breath.
Taehyung licks his lips, ceasing to touch himself to let his hands fall limp to his sides, ‘’Yes, yes, I promise,’’ He felt desperate for her, his entire body burning with need to feel her slick heat.
Her mouth was already his favourite thing, so he couldn’t even begin to imagine how good her cunt would feel. Now, he promised her he'd not to hurt her. But the little voice in the back of his mind laughed, fingers crossed. He wanted to be good, to show her he’s good. This was a true battle within his mind.
Feeling satisfied with his vocal promise, she reaches beneath her skirt giving him a full view of what lay there, and tugs her ruined underwear off her legs before climbing over his lap. Bracing her knees on either side of his thighs, she picks his hot length in her hand and rubs his swollen head against her dripping folds.
"Feel that? See how wet you make me without even touching me, Taehyung?" She breathes against his mouth, her other hand tracing his cheek as she pins him with her eyes.
He’s speechless, his eyes dimmed with lust as they are completely fixated on hers. He nods once, to confirm that she was indeed so fucking wet for him.
The familiar fire that spreads throughout his body is ignited, and he curls his fists tightly as he grasps the couch.
Do not touch her, Taehyung. Do not touch her.. Touch her, touch...
No, she’s in control.
"Use your words!" She reminds him in a whisper, with her lips grazing his and her breathing labored as her eyes roam over his features this close for the first time ever. He looked exquisite with his scorching gaze transfixed upon her.
Her thumb traces his lower lip teasingly, wondering how different his mouth would taste from his cock. Giving in to the temptation, she presses her lips against his and sinks down on him at the same time, the sudden stretch making her gasp aloud into his mouth.
Taehyung’s lips part, mirroring her gasp, ‘’Oh my God...’’ He groaned out lowly, a quiet growl vibrating in his chest. This was overwhelming for his senses, how deeply she affected him and awoke every single fibre of his being.
It felt like he was on fire beneath his skin, desperately clawing at the fabric of the couch, knuckles turning white. He wanted to flip her over and fuck her dumb with her face pressed down against the couch so so badly... But he promised her.
Just fuck her raw, you know you want to.
He shook his head, his eyes screwing shut, ‘’I’m good. I’m good.’’ He wasn’t talking to her, but to the voice in his head.
Trailing her lips across his cheek and down to his neck, she whimpers burying her face in there. She was right. She could feel his length easily hit her crevix in this angle, stretching her slick walls more than anyone ever had before. It felt like she was made just for him.
Once the initial pain subsides, she raises herself on her knees and sinks down again, welcoming the delicious burn with a throaty moan. "Yes... God! You're good. You're so good to me, Taehyung." She mumbles into his neck, slowly rocking her hips over his, getting used to being filled to the brim.
Threading her fingers into his messy hair, she tugs it back to expose his neck to her greedy lips, nipping and licking along the skin until she reaches his parted mouth. Backing away to look down at him, she hides her disappointment at his closed eyes, choosing to test his restraint instead. "Taehyung... Kiss me."
His eyes slowly open, and the expression on her face was something he could only dream of. Taehyung's head was screaming at him once more, to just fucking take over, and it was probably the most restraint he's ever held against the temptations. As long as she didn't push him further, he would be fine. He wouldn't hurt her... but God, did he want to?
He obliged to her wishes, craning his neck to chase her lips with his own, the soft warmth of her lips drawing groans and moans from him, mixed with the feeling of her moving up and down his fat length.
Normally, he would be the one to dirty talk a whole lot more, but he kept his mouth busy with hers, focusing his entire self on keeping himself restrained, his nails almost digging holes into the couch at this point.
She moans against his lips, licking into his mouth as she deepens their kiss, groaning as his taste floods her senses. She could feel his potent hunger for her, so intense bordering on insanity and the masochist in her found it all too tempting to just give in.
Increasing her pace, she bounces on his lap in a wild frenzy, clenching down on his girth hard every time she plunged down on his cock. She could almost feel her high. Almost. Yet, not quite.
Something was missing. Whining in frustration, she pulls away from his mouth and cups his cheeks to make him look at her. She needed his touch to cum even if she knew it was a dangerous thing to even think about. "God... I want your touch so badly. You want it too, don't you?" Laying open mouthed kisses on his jaw, she whispers into his skin. "Make me cum, Tae... Please."
Right there and then, it was like the switch inside of him flipped, the little strength he had left to resist his greedy desires completely washed away from her words. She asked for it, she truly did.
The voice in the back of his head suddenly grew louder, needier. ''Yeah? You need me to make you cum, huh?'' His low, vibrating voice growled out, his hands wasting no time in grabbing her ass, and squeezing the flesh between his fingers so hard, his blunt nails would definitely leave marks,
''Shit, I've wanted you to say that since the very second you came in that door,'' He moaned out in pleasure, using his strength to lift her from his cock just to roughly slam her back down, his hips bucking up to meet her hips, the impact so hard that his bulbous tip is kissing her cervix with every snap.
''Fuck! You feel so fucking good, so fucking gooood...'' His eyes were dimmed in lust and his growing craze for her, the lifeless yet lustful stare blackened out. He wasn't gonna stop, whether she was too sensitive or not, whether she came several times or not. No, he wouldn't stop until he was satisfied.
Her body shudders violently at the sound of his growl, a terrified squeak leaving her lips regardless of the excitement she feels at the brutal press of his fingers against her flesh. "Yes, God... yes!" She whimpers, her pleasure edging on pain once he begins pounding up into her in his relentless pursuit of bliss— more his than hers, she realizes as her eyes tear up from his harsh pace.
Loosening her legs around him, she completely surrenders into his unforgiving touch, mewling lowly when he hits so deep that she could feel him in her womb.
"Don't... don't stop please... Fuck!" She bends forward, burrowing her face into his neck, nipping at the soft skin before latching on to it with her teeth, determined to give him equal pain as her fingers work through his shirt buttons to feel his hot skin beneath her palms.
One more ruthless thrust of his hips against hers, his pelvis digging hard into her swollen clit and she cums, her body almost seizing at the intensity of her orgasm as she begins almost sobbing his name aloud when he doesn't stop.
“Came already?” He smiles wickedly, but quickly that smile morphs into gritted teeth as he keeps grunting and growling, her fleshy walls spasming around his fat length so perfectly.
He had stamina for days, he could fuck her forever if he had the ability to choose, but he knows that with the way she whimpers and sobs his name, he wouldn’t last much longer either.
He roughly throws her body down against the couch head first, one hand on the back of her neck pushing her pretty face against the fabrics of the cushion and the other lifting her ass up for him as he gets on his knees behind her, mercilessly advancing his hips back into her clenching hole, skin slapping skin loudly.
She removes her teeth from his neck, her breasts heaving harshly, trying to get some air into her lungs when he unexpectedly pushes her onto the couch. She knew she'd awakened the beast when she asked to be touched, but this— he thrusts back into her without warning, making her sob loudly at the unwelcome intrusion
“You’re a fucking whore for my fat cock, aren’t you?!” His voice was low, almost mocking yet laced with his animalistic greed for her body, utterly lost in his madness, pistoning his cock into her like it was his mission to tear her cunt apart, “You wanted this, you begged for this, fuck— it feels so good, Shit!”.
Her core, still ultra sensitive from her previous orgasm, aches painfully when his still hard as rock length rips through her insides. She digs her nails into the couch, her jaws wide open in a silent scream as he rams his cock in over and over again, taking her like a savage. He was right. She was a whore for his cock. A masochist, addicted to this dark side of him— her own personal piece of hell for the sins she was committing. Soon, a trickle of pleasure begins winding its way from her wrecked womb even through the agony and she grips her walls harder against his cock, hoping he'd spill inside her before actually tearing her apart.
Taehyung kept up a brutal phase, relishing in the choked sobs and silent screams. If a soul could be on fire, his was melting inside of him, the heat pooling in his lower abdomen in the form of an upcoming orgasm. He was gonna cum so fucking hard, all because of her. In his own mind, it feels like he’s claiming her body as his own,
“You are mine, you hear that?!” He snarls as he grew bored of the current position, desperate to see her face. With a swift movement of his strong hands, he once more flips her over like a ragdoll until she was laying on her back, pressing her legs up so far that her knees are adjacent to her head, still plunging his cock into her cunt. This new angle feels even better, abusing her tight insides like his life depended on it,
Right when she believed there would be relief, Taehyung once again proves her wrong by tossing her around and forcing himself inside her violated cunt without any mercy. She feels him go even deeper in this angle, as if it were even possible. She presses the back of her hand to her lips, to keep from sobbing aloud and drawing attention from anyone outside.
“Tell me, doctor”, he moans out with a voice just as strained, his eyes heavy as he stares down at her fucked out state, rocking his hips back and forth with long, firm strokes, “Tell me you’re mine!”
Each time he slams into her, it's as if he wants to infuse himself within her; as if he wants to ruin her for anyone else— her other hand digs painfully onto his arms that holds her down, her toes curling as she feels another orgasm approaching.
"Y—yes Taehyung, yes..." She gives into his demand immediately, her voice unwavering. "All yours! I'm yours... only yours." She mumbles over and over again, pushing the side of her face against the couch when it all gets too much to hold back and she cums again, which hurts more than the pleasure she feels as her abused insides grip him tight.
''Y/N,'' Taehyung moans out her name, his hips rocketing into her, phase quickening as he feels like he's gonna go fucking crazy at the wet, squelching noises he draws from her cunt with every stroke driving him insane with how good it feels. When she cums once more on his cock with the squeezing spasms of her walls, the orgasm he's been dying to reach finally reaches him, ''I'm gonna cum! Fuck yes—''
He thrusts into her rapidly clenching pussy a few more times before he grunts, falling forward on top of her body with his elbows placed on each side of her head, letting her legs fall freely to his sides. He hovers with his face above hers, sweat causing his overgrown fringe to stick to his face, eyes closed as he holds their spasming bodies tightly together, savouring the feeling of his throbbing cock spilling his cum deep inside of her.
At the first spurt of his thick cum into her tortured core, a wave of relief washes over her knowing he was done with her for now. Her limbs fall lifelessly on to the couch, despite wanting to push him off her and tell him not to cum inside her. Knowing him, he might not react well to it and she didn't wish to stoke the beast when it seemed satiated at long last. She was probably going to be sore for days, and maybe that had been his plan along.
Finally, she pries open her eyes and blinks up at him through her tears, her body still shaking with occasional tremors every time his warm seed squirts into her womb as if he hasn't filled her up enough. As much as she was upset with him for reducing her to this sobbing mess, she knew she had it coming from the very moment she allowed him to touch her, well aware that she was feeding into his obsession with her.
Taehyung felt himself come back down to reality, in a sense, when the loud monster within him seemed to retreat back into the corners of his soul, satiated for the moment. His gaze traces her features, a glorious mess, knowing he did this to her. But only because she begged him to, she taunted him to. He had absolutely loved it, her submissive sounds, her small body underneath his own, all for him to use. He loved her.
Lifting her slightly trembling hands up to his face, she pushes his sweaty locks off his eyes, content to see the life shining in there once again as opposed to the darkness they were shrouded with not minutes ago. Tracing a thumb under his eyes, "Are you happy?" She breathes out, still struggling to get proper air flow into her lungs. "I lied… I want you just as much as you want me, Tae."
His eyes flickered between hers at her words, as if trying to find the lie. But he couldn’t see it. He wasn’t sure. So he chose to believe her, and a small smile inched his lips upwards, he took the opportunity to kiss her softly on her lips, this one so gentle and affectionate in contrast to what he’d just done to her.
“I love you.” He slipped out, merely a raspy whisper, but it was his truth. He slowly got off her body, pulling her along with him as he sat down, wrapping his arms around her in a hug, gently stroking her hair, “You’re my flower, my Daffodil!"
She observes him carefully in this quiet between them, his eyes gliding down her exhausted form still pinned beneath under his body. The wickedness was long gone from his gaze, replaced with uncertainty at her words which soon morphs into undeniable trust weakening her own resolve against giving in to him.
And so, she lets him kiss her, the soft caress of his smiling lips against hers a complete contradiction of his treatment earlier, making her heart tighten in an unnamed emotion. It is only when he utters those three little words, the very last thing she ever expected to hear from him, her entire body freezes up with a muted gasp slipping past her lips.
She lets him pick her off the couch, embrace her lovingly, and even go as far as calling her his flower while the panic slowly sets in her tensed form. It was only his obsession that he was mistaking for love, she was convinced. But how to explain it to him after everything she let him do to her.
Squirming in his hold, she pulls back slightly to look up at him with her bewildered eyes. "Taehyung... No! You— you barely know me for three days. This is not love..." It was merely their carnal desires, making them indulge in each other. "And I'm just your therapist. Not your flower... no..." She whispers softly as if to a wounded animal that could strike her at any moment if she made one wrong move.
His smile faded, eyebrows drawn together at her words, as if hes trying to process the meaning behind them, "You're not just my therapist." He sits up properly, helping her to do the same next to him, "You're mine. You said it yourself.. " he leaned closer to her face, eyes squinting, "I dont understand you...." his jaw clenched, as if trying to stay calm, but he feels the small frustration building inside.
He couldnt understand why she would keep giving in to him physically, but withdraw when he brings his emotions into the picture. He loved her, so what? He had already made his decision. And there's nothing that could change his mind.
She winces when he moves her upright, her skirt rubbing uncomfortably against her swollen cunt. Taking a deep breath and willing the pain away, she glances up to see his unhappy face. "Taehyung..." She tries again in the same placating tone she used before. "I said that in the heat of the moment." Because that's exactly what he wanted to hear from her even if she didn't mean it. Although, she decides not to say it outloud and incense him further.
"This thing between us is not love. We had needs. You wanted me. I did too, I wanted you. But that's just it! Consider this like uh... a kind of behavioural therapy to help you." She tries not to cringe at her own words. None of what she's saying makes sense to her either. She was usually better than this at explaining things, emotions or the lack of it to people. But her brain struggles to cooperate as she trails her eyes over his tense form in concern.
Maybe she should've just let him say it without saying anything back— only, that would be akin to leading him on which would've been worse. Sighing heavily, she tries to pull away from him completely. "There's nothing left here to understand. I shouldn't have let any of this happen from the start! It's all my fault..."
Taehyung grabs her wrist as she pulls away, his rich stare growing more frustrated with her, “You’re lying.” He scoffed, “I know what I’m feeling, don’t tell me what is real and what isn’t!”
"I have no reason to lie to you about this!" She cryes, struggling to pry her wrist away from his grip, her voice no longer gentle when he seems to not hear her reasons. "Look... I'm not trying to call your feelings fake. But be realistic about this, Taehyung. You know me for less than two hours in the past three days. Maybe it's infatuation... or lust— let's not label it fancifully as love because it's not!" Placing her other hand over his, she doubles her efforts to wrest his fingers off her arm as she looks at him pleadingly.
Taehyung sighs, but he lets go of her wrist, fumbling to button up his shirt and pull his pants on properly, ''Let's call it lust, then.'' He runs his fingers through his hair, his face stoic as he's in thought. His brain was swirling once more, she was right. They had only known eachother for a mere few hours... But, he knows this feeling. This must be love. Right?
''Question....'' He looks at her while straightening the collar of his shirt, ''Do you seek to trigger my, so called...para...'' He hums as he tries to recall the diagnosis.
She rolls away with a barely concealed grimace once he frees her from his grasp, glad he was finally seeing things clearly. Rubbing a hand over where he held her wrist, she tries to guage how many bruises she might wake up with in the morning and will have to cover up in order not raise anyone's suspicion when his question leaves her shaken.
"What—" Her face falls as she presses her lips together, and hurriedly shakes her head. "God, no! Never, Taehyung. I'd never..." She begins reaching for him with her hand, but thinks against it at the last minute and drops it to her lap. "I want to cure you off your Paraphilia. Not trigger it..." A small part of her might have taken advantage of his weakness for her to try stopping him from doing anything extreme. But he didn't have to know that. "I told you, I only want to help you get better."
“Okay,” he nods, eyes suddenly averting from hers to look at the casefile on the table. He sits back down, looking as if he didn’t just fuck her with all his strength. Well, apart from the marks she left on his arms with her nails, which he didn’t seem to even notice. He rubbed his nape as he kept staring at the file on the table, lips falling open as if he wants to say something, but they close back together just as fast.
He had a lot on his mind to process, from his feelings, to everything they both just did, the way she suddenly rejected him, and now the future. Then once more, the voice smirking in the back of his mind wasn’t worried, it knew exactly what it wanted, and it was her. Nothing else mattered, everything else can be thrown to the side. Fuck the short amount of time together, it was enough. And she wanted him, he’s sure of it. She was just saying this because he was her patient. And one day, he won’t be— and they can be together. Yes... that’s what he believes.
She stands up on unsteady feet, her insides still quivering, and smoothens down her wrinkled skirt. But it turns out to be a mistake when she feels his cum dribble out of her abused cunt, prompting her to quickly tug on her underwear before she dripped everywhere. And that's when she notices Taehyung's eyes fixed on his file on the table but his gaze far away, his mouth opening and closing as if he had questions but didn't want to hear any replies from her.
Calmly, she shuffles back towards him, her mind already formulating a proposition that he might not approve of. "Taehyung, if you don't trust me anymore, I understand. I have been anything but professional to you..." She drums her fingers against the table when he doesn't look up at her or even appears to have acknowledged her. "I can ask someone else to replace me as your therapist. They'll take care of you from now on... You don't have to see me ever again if this all makes you feel awkward?"
His lip quivered at the very mention of her being replaced, eyes darting over to her form.
“No. I don’t want anyone else.” He responded coldly. He truly didn’t. If it wasn’t her, he wouldn’t say shit. He wouldn’t cooperate. And by now, he knows she had grown attached too; whether it be out of lust or out of pity. It should be enough to keep her around, he hoped.
“It has to be you.” His eyes softened, glossing over with a layer of tears. He did feel sad, however, this was also gaslighting. He didn’t need to cry. He just wanted to squeeze her heart a little bit for him.
His reaction to her suggestion, just like she expected, didn't phase her much. Every single behaviour of his validating her earlier claim of how she was just his new obsession that he fantasized as love.
Normally, this is when she should throw the towel and withdraw completely from him before either of them posed a real threat to the other. But she genuinely wanted to be the one that cures him. And despite knowing how his glazed eyes were nothing but a device of manipulation, she moves even closer to him and places a hand on his shoulder and rubs it down, cooing at him softly. "Alright... I won't leave you. But then, you need to genuinely cooperate with me and work towards getting better. Promise me, Taehyung?" Her profound need to fix anything broken very well might be the death of her one of these days.
He melts under he touch, feeling accomplished. She wouldn't leave, and that's all he needed.
"Okay, I promise," he nodded, and as if he wasnt about to cry in the first place, his eyes were dried up, a small smile on his lips. He glanced over at the clock, completely unaware of how much time had passed. "How much time is left for today?"
As doubtful as she was about his promise, she didn't let it show on her face choosing to return his smile. Glancing down at her watch, "We have about less than twenty minutes left." She contemplates whether to sit down, but chooses not to knowing it'd be harder to get up and out of the chair again. "I won't be seeing you until after your hearing tomorrow, if I can manage. Or it's gonna be only the day after..."
Moving her hand down his arm, she wraps it around his hand and squeezes it comfortingly. It might not have been very sensible to touch him again, but the line between them was so blurry by now that she didn't mind it. "Are you nervous about the hearing?"
Taehyung gently wraps his long fingers around hers, squeezing back as a response, a small sigh pushing through his lips, "Yeah, kind of." She wouldn't be there, so he would feel empty. But for her sake, he'd do well. And hope that things go the way she tells him it would.
She strokes the back of his hand softly with her thumb taking one more step closer and wraps her other hand around his shoulders before bringing him to rest against her body. A hug won't hurt when they've done much more than that. "Don't let it rob you off your sleep tonight. Whichever way it goes, let's hope for the best. And please listen well to Jimin, okay?" Her fingers move into his hair to stroke it gently while she stands holding him close.
Taehyung melts into her hug, sinking his face into the crook of her neck by instinct. He sighed softly, until she mentions Jimin's name. She kept addressing him by his first name so casually, and it was kind of stepping on his nerves. Maybe, he was overthinking it though, but... He still felt jealous. He wanted to be the only one with a casual first name basis. Then again, he has to be nice. Jimin is his lawyer after all.
Taehyung stands still, savouring her embrace for a long as she'd will let him, a soft whisper pushing through his lips,
''Okay. I'll do well.''
She had to raise herself on to her toes and tilt her head all the way back due to their difference in height when he decides to burrow himself into their hug. Despite knowing well how her actions could be considered as her bring irresponsible again and showing her fondness for him openly, especially after his confession, she brushes it all off and holds him close while running her fingers through his hair constantly. He needed her, for now. Just until he got better.
"That's good! Hopefully I'll get to see you at the facility next time and not here." She whispers back, trying not to shiver from his words spoken into her neck. Reluctantly, she tries pulling away only to meet with some resistance from him. "Taehyung, I should be going soon..."
“Just a little longer...” he murmurs into her neck, his arms dare to snake around her waist to hold her tighter, urging her to stay. His heart was beating hard in his chest, the quiet sound of the way he inhales her scent, the only sound heard for the moment. She truly smelled like a flower. If he could choose, he wouldn’t ever let go of her soft body, so small in his embrace. She was like a drug to his senses, both easing his mind & driving him mad.
She lets him hold her for a few extra minutes at his request, her senses hyper aware of how snugly he was embracing her and her heart thumping equally hard in her chest that was flushed against his. Her fingers begin drawing senseless patterns on the back of his neck, on the little exposed skin over the collar of his shirt as she keeps her eyes open and fixed on the ceiling, knowing very well she couldn't afford to get lost in the way he held her. Because she knew his arms weren't always this tender. The strength in them, as cherishing as they may feel right then, could easily snap her in two if he lost his mind to the beast again.
One more look at the clock on the wall and she sighs seeing their time was almost up. "Tae..." Her fingers sink into his hair and tug them back, trying to move his head away from her sensitive neck. "They're gonna come in here if I don't step out now."
Taehyung sighs deeply, a quiet groan rumbling in annoyance vibrates in his throat when she tugs at his hair. He hesitates for a moment, but eventually, he releases his grip around her, letting his hands fall to his sides,
''I just... I'll miss you.''
She moves away, breathing in relief when his arms finally stop caging her in his hold. Something small tugs her heart at his genuine voice, but she stomps it down harshly before looking up at him again.
"You'll see me in two days at the facility... keep holding on to that thought, hm?" Slowly, she collects her stuff up trying not to limp too much as she moves around him.
Right before she's about to open the door though, she turns to cast him a longing look unintentionally. "I..." She begins, her eyes tracing over his features and a little lost in whatever she was about to say, until she decides not to. "—take care, Tae!" She leaves him with a smile. Between her statement and Jimin's tenacity, she was quite confident she'll see him at her facility soon.
And when he was there, nothing could stop her from trying to get him better.
CLICK ME FOR PART TWO
This is the roleplay with 🍁anon turned into part one of this fiction! I hope you love it as much as I do. A big thank you to 🍁 for creating the amazing header, saving the rp, hence why I was even able to repost this in the first place. AND for helping me edit this, I am so so grateful for this. Now, I even think it is even better than the previous version!
© sombreboy 2020. Do not repost, edit or translate.
#yandere bts#yandere taehyung#yandere kim taehyung#bts smut#taehyung smut#kim taehyung smut#taehyung scenario#taehyung imagine#dom taehyung#fic: daffodil dreams
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An Artful Revenge Pt. 1
First part of The Archeron Damnation series.
~Rhysand~
Have you ever had everything you’ve ever wanted dropped in your lap like a present?
It makes it so easy you almost don’t even want it anymore.
Before today, this had never happened to me. For over thirty years, I’ve worked and fought and killed for everything I’ve wanted. Nothing about my life has been easy.
Until today.
Until a young, beautiful woman paused to look at a piece of art, oblivious to the monster who stood behind her.
As soon as I looked up and saw her, I felt like an anvil fell on my chest and robbed me of air. I couldn’t fucking breathe.
For the first time in my long, miserable life, I was utterly speechless as Feyre Archeron tilted her head contemplatively, as if the slab of paint was something that required great concentration.
Her focus was so singular it gave me more than enough time to figure out what I wanted to do.
But I couldn’t concentrate enough to even do that. Not yet. For now, I just took her in. Photos didn’t do her justice, honestly. Sandy blonde hair, a slight frame more than pleasing to look at from the back, defined cheekbones, full lips. Beautiful.
It was almost unfair for someone like her to be so beautiful.
She had a hand on her chest and was completely still as she looked at the work in front of her, like she almost couldn’t stand the rush of emotions it gave her.
I understood the feeling.
My friends often tell me I should go on the road as a mind reader or fortune teller or some other bullshit. The point is, I’m pretty decent at reading people.
And just from the way the woman in front of me is looking at an overpriced, ugly piece of art, I know she’s innocent.
She has no idea who she used to share a bed with, no idea what kind of evil she invited into her life with a smile.
I also know I can’t let it change things in the slightest. Innocent or not, beautiful or not, I’ve been trying to find the perfect moment to worm my way into her life and turn it fucking upside down.
And she’s just handed it to me on a silver platter.
I’ve been looking for her, and I’ve finally found her.
She’s mine.
~Feyre~
“You like it?”
Gasping and pressing my hand harder against my chest to calm my racing heart, I spin around to face whoever just asked such an obvious question.
And the first thing I can think is, He’s more beautiful than the painting.
The stranger’s casually leaning against the opposite wall, hands in his pockets, confidence and wealth and class draped over him like a very impressive, very handsome mask.
He’s concealed in a jet black suit, but somehow I can tell he’s impressively built; it’s like strength and power are radiating off of him. His face probably took the gods years to craft, the sharp angles of his jaw and slash of his brows perfectly creating the most alluring thing I’ve ever seen.
Dark hair, piercing violet eyes that scan me head to toe, and smirking, sensual lips complete his features.
He’s the most attractive male I’ve ever seen. And I’m an art major who frequently finds herself painting models, so that’s saying something.
“You like it,” he states, whatever he finds on my face taking away the need for a question mark.
“I do,” I confirm, forcing myself to turn back to the painting and stop gawking like an idiot.
He surprises me by asking openly, “Why?”
The painting in question is one of the most revered paintings in the world: Dancers in Blue by Degas. But he’s asking in a way that makes it clear he genuinely doesn’t know why people pay to look at it.
Running my hand through my hair, I try and put it into words. “There’s just so much... energy in it. The background’s nothing but a bunch of paint splatters, and yet you can feel it almost. The dancer’s excitement, the energy of the crowd. It’s breathtaking.”
There’s a beat of silence, and I cringe inwardly, thinking of how weird that probably sounded.
Then, “Would you like it?”
Only four words and they almost knock me on my ass. I spin back around so fast he chuckles, eyes wide, and sputter, “Would I what?”
I mean, it’s clear he’s rich, but there’s rich, and then there’s buying a Degas rich.
“I was planning on buying it anyway. It should belong to someone who loves it as much as you obviously do.”
“What?” I repeat, still not understanding why he would offer something like that to a total stranger.
“I presumed you to be intelligent, but if you keep asking that question, I might have to amend that.”
I narrow my eyes, somehow intelligent enough to pick up on the insult. “I’m just confused. I mean, you look rich and all, but that painting’s worth $45 million dollars. And you just asked...”
“If you want it.”
Putting my hands on my hips, I regard him speculatively. “Which psych ward did you break out of, exactly?”
He smiles, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “The way I see it, you have two options. You can accept the painting and stare at it from home, or I can buy it and hang it with the other one and never give it a second thought.”
My mind can’t stop running, and I think if I wasn’t determined to not completely embarrass myself, I’d collapse to the ground and sob at the impobability of this situation. “What do you mean the other one? You already have a Degas?”
“The pink one,” he confirms casually, flicking a nonexistent fleck of dust off his jacket.
“You have Dancers in Pink?” He nods, lips twitching at the look on my face. “And why, exactly, are you buying priceless pieces of art if you don’t like them?”
“It’s not priceless. You just told me it’s worth $45 million.” I scowl at the non-answer, and he shrugs. “Someone I don’t care for likes them.”
I connect the dots slowly. “So you buy them so he can’t.”
He nods.
My mouth falls open, making him smile again. It’s dangerously attractive and distracting, but I still demand, “Who the fuck are you?”
The stranger laughs outright at that, strolling forward and offering me a tan, tattooed hand with practiced ease. I notice there’s a platinum, engraved ring on his pointer finger, and I stare at it for a moment because it looks strangely familiar.
He seems to pause as I look at it, holding his breath. I’m probably acting like a total weirdo, so I snap out of it and take his hand.
Because he’s rich and confident and beautiful, he feels entitled to drag his calloused thumb across the back of my hand.
And because I’m poor and stupid and at the end of the day, just a woman, I blush. Which only gets worse as he notices and smirks.
“My name is Rhysand.”
“Rhysand what, exactly? Rockefeller? Vanderbilt? Carnegie?” I run out of rich families and fall silent, and he gives me a look like I’m the most amusing thing he’s ever come across.
“Rhysand Azara. When you google me, you won’t find anything of consequence, I’m afraid.”
The way he says when instead of if makes me blush again, because I’d been waiting for him to leave so I could pull out my cracked, struggling little phone and do exactly that.
He looks at me expectantly, and I realize I haven’t said a word, just held onto his hand like a toddler being led across the street. “Oh, I’m Feyre.”
Rhysand just raises an eyebrow.
“Feyre Archeron.”
“And what would I find if I were going to google your name?”
I notice his statement has an if, but I answer anyway, stating facts nervously like an army cadet reporting for duty. “I’m an art major at UChicago. From Missouri.”
“What else?”
“There’s really not much else.”
He tsks, telling me this answer is unacceptable, but doesn’t press it. Instead he shocks the hell out of me once again. “Have dinner with me tonight.”
It isn’t a question, but it isn’t quite a demand, either. It’s a statement, and it’s said like he already knows what my response is going to be.
But like I just told him, I’m a college student.
Which means for the past three years, I’ve been dealing with college boys.
I’ve been asked to “hang,” “smash,” and even to go to coffee on a few rare, wonderful instances. But never, in my entire life, have I been asked---or told--to go to dinner by someone like him.
I realize it’s because I’ve never met anyone like him.
Even my ex-boyfriend, who’d been well off and older, was nothing like him. Compared to the man in front of me, everyone else seemed... juvenile.
They were boys, toddlers even, compared to the man still gripping my hand.
It prompts me to ask, “How old are you?”
He smiles. “Too old for you, I’m sure. Have dinner with me anyway. For the sake of the painting.”
I’m halfway sure I’m in the middle of a fever dream, about to wake up covered in sweat and wondering what the hell just happened, because this cannot be real.
“You’re... are you actually... you’re offering to give me a $45 million painting if I have dinner with you?” I sound incredulous and wheezy to my own ears, but I don’t even care.
Who the hell is this guy?
“You’ll be my second most expensive date.”
“You’re insane.” I look down to where he still holds my hand, entire focus narrowing on the strength in his grip. How would it feel to have him grip me somewhere else? Rhysand gives me a look like he knows what I’m thinking, so I look at the ceiling. Then declare, “I can’t have dinner with you.”
It almost hurt to say it, honestly, because I really love that painting.
He waits until I look back down at his face before asking, “Why not?”
Blushing to high hell, I murmur, “It feels a little like... prostitution.”
Rhysand throws his head back and laughs, a full, wonderful sound I hadn’t been expecting. It’s easy and contagious, and I find myself grinning, even though what I said was true.
“Dinner, gorgeous, was the deal.” He leans in close and whispers, “You coming home with me won’t have anything to do with it.”
I push him away, mind set on giving myself a few feet away from him to compose myself, but I’m so dizzy and confused and strangely turned on I almost fall. His hands shoot out, landing on the bare skin of my shoulders, and I pause.
And really, really contemplate my life.
Yesterday I was sitting on the floor of my dusty apartment in my underwear, eating Ramen and struggling to figure out what the fuck to put in the background of my painting. Today I’m being asked to dinner by a probable-billionaire. On the condition I accept a very expensive form of bribery.
“I’m not going home with you, but I’ll have dinner with you.” He starts to smile, so I cut him off, “Only if you promise to not buy the painting.”
His brows narrow, a silent demand for information.
“I come here almost every day to see it anyway,” I explain. “Besides, there’s no way I can accept it. It’ll get stolen or damaged or... I just can’t accept it. And the thought of you putting it in some forgotten hallway depresses me.”
He sighs dramatically and re-puts his hand out. “No painting. Just dinner.”
“And no sex.”
A very male look crosses his features. “We’ll discuss that later, I think.”
I roll my eyes but shake hands with him, a strange sense of finality settling over me. I shake it off, telling myself the bare mention of having sex with him is why I’m so nervous.
~
Four hours later, I stand at the door, purse clutched in one hand, keys in the other. I’m staring at the door, practically foaming at the mouth, waiting for a knock on the other side to hopefully shock me out of my crazed state.
I’ve been like this for ten minutes already, for some reason not wanting him to wait for a second after he got here. Or maybe I just don’t think he’s actually coming.
Maybe I’ve been on some horrible practical jokes show, and Rhysand Azara isn’t even a real person. I’ll probably end up on television, blushing and beyond naïve, having been convinced a man who looked like a male model wanted to buy me a Degas.
I snort, shaking my head at myself. And then almost fall down when a soft yet somehow insistent knock sounds through my small apartment.
“Holy fuck, he’s here.”
I have no idea why I state it aloud, to myself no less, but I feel like it should be said. Hell, it should be written down in history books. If I kept a diary, I’d write in bold, underlined letters: I HAVE A DATE WITH A VERY STRANGE, VERY HANDSOME MAN.
After fluffing my hair and checking my makeup in a mirror, I stop stalling and open the door.
He, of course, looks like sex on a goddamn spoon. And for a split second--just a moment, I swear--I debate grabbing him by his expensive lapels, dragging him backward into my apartment, and finding out what his mouth feels like against mine.
“Feyre,” he greets, snapping me out of my perverted daydream. “You look beautiful.”
I know it’s dumb to be flattered, because it’s fairly standard to tell a girl she looks nice when you pick her up for a date, but it does my ego no harm because how I look right now took some fucking work.
I shaved from the eyebrows down, exfoliated, scrubbed, cleansed, plucked, and spent thirty minutes deciding what to wear.
I’d taken a gamble he’d wear a suit and dressed to match in a black dress, unremarkable save for the very low back, and simple heels.
I step outside with him, grateful for the warm weather, and turn to lock the door.
Rhysand makes a humming sound, and I freeze as I feel a finger drag down my spine, stopping right at the edge of the fabric. Which happens to be very, very close to something indecent.
“Beautiful,” he states again, and hell if I don’t feel like it.
I finally manage to get the lock closed, then spin around to face him. Up close, there’s silver flecks in his eyes, like starlight. Oh, and he smells amazing. Something manly and wintery and not sold in a bottle.
I. Am in. So much. Trouble.
I have no idea why this man has taken an interest in me, but I know it can only end in one way: me in love, him long gone.
But even though I know it, I’m ready. Five minutes with him makes me feel more alive than I ever have, and even though it’s a disaster in the making, I can’t bring myself to care.
He offers his hand and pulls me towards a--surprise--black car, one that looks expensive. After depositing me in the passenger seat, he goes around and climbs in beside me.
“Where are we going?”
“I’m making a guess about something.”
I glance over at him. “Have you ever realized you don’t give actual answers?”
"Yes,” he responds with a grin, turning the stereo on.
Twenty minutes later, I’m practically bursting at the seems to know where he’s taking me.
What kind of guess is he making? Also, what does that even mean?
He pulls up in front of a nice looking place I’ve never been to--again, surprise--and comes around to open my door. Despite the crowd, as soon as the hostess sees the man leading me through the restaurant, we’re ushered into the back.
Turns out the place has private rooms. It’s quiet and cozy, and I’m pretty sure only the president gets this kind of treatment.
Once I’m seated across from him, menu in hand, I have to ask, “Was your guess correct?”
“I don’t know, do you like French food?”
I smile because j’adore French food, and he grins back because he somehow knew that already.
The waiter comes to ask for our drink order, and I gesture at Rhysand for him to order mine. I know nothing about wine, and he obviously does, because he orders something fancy and expensive sounding.
There’s soft music playing in the background, candles in the corner, and a handsome man sitting across from me. It’s the most romantic situation I’ve ever been in, hands down.
He braces an arm on the table, watching as I take a small sip of the wine. Trying to maintain some sort of maturity, I say, “You have good taste.”
“I do,” he replies, but his eyes are on me, not the wine. “Are you almost done with school?”
“One more year,” I answer, trying not to cheer as I say it. Four years of education for an art major is kind of ridiculous to me, but it would’ve been stupid to turn down a full scholarship.
Rhysand hums, nodding. Even though he asked, I somehow feel like he already knew that. Weird.
“Did you go to college?”
He gives me a strange look. “My formal education stopped around seventh grade.”
It’s an effort to keep my jaw off the table, and I’m proud of myself when I say mildly, “Impressive.”
“Being uneducated impresses you?”
I scowl. “No, but having everything you do despite not being handed anything is.”
His face stays impassive, but there’s a twinkle of respect in his eyes. The waiter comes back and asks what we want to eat, and because the menu I’ve barely even looked at is in French, I get the same thing as Rhysand.
When we’re alone again, I ask, “Okay, spill. How’d you know I love French food?”
Rhysand shrugs. “I’m good at reading people.”
I wave a hand, because that wasn’t answer enough, and he continues on a sigh. “You’re kind of... easy to read. No offense.”
“Interesting you say ‘No offense’ after calling a woman easy,” I note.
He laughs, but points out, “You’re not easy. I offer to buy you a Degas and you won’t even come home with me.”
It’s my turn to shrug. “Once again, you haven’t answered my question.”
There’s a long beat of silence. “You like French food because you like Impressionist art, and both Degas and Monet were French. Your dream vacation also happens to be Paris, and eating French food makes you feel closer to that goal.”
My mouth drops open, and he laughs soundly at the blatant display of shock, but before I can ask how the hell he knew that, the waiter comes with our food. Identical displays of delicious-smelling pasta are set in front of us.
I reach for my fork, but he grabs our plates and switches them.
When I raise a brow, he shrugs and says, “In case you were thinking about poisoning me.”
I snort in a very ladylike manner, tucking into my food. A soft moan escapes me, and he looks up at me, bite halfway between his plate and mouth.
“Uh, sorry,” I murmur, blushing down the neckline of my dress.
Rhysand just smiles, making me feel young once again. “Don’t be. I quite enjoy the sound of a pleasured woman.”
Rolling my eyes, I take another bite, managing to refrain from sounding too pleasured. “So, Paris. How’d you know?”
He doesn’t really give me an answer, just says, “I bet you have a little Eifel Tower trinket on your desk and everything.”
An embarrassed laugh bubbles out of me, because I do. I totally do. I’ve had it for three years and look at it every time I’m tempted to drop out.
“What do you do for a living?” I ask, trying to get us back on even ground. I feel like he somehow knows everything about me, and even though I’ll have to ask questions, I’m finding out at least one thing about him.
“I’m in real estate.”
I nod, ready to just accept that answer. Then I look around us, remembering how crowded the restaurant was, and start giggling. “You own this restaurant, don’t you?”
A sigh. Busted. “Yes, I do.”
I tsk and give him a judgmental look. “You can’t take me somewhere you own for a date. That’s cheating.”
He takes a sip of his wine. “How so?”
“It just is.” I sigh, just to tease him. “Shame. I was feeling so romanticized, maybe enough so to go home with you. Not anymore, though.”
He rolls his eyes, the gesture making him younger. “Eat your food.”
I do, and by the end, I’m so full I probably look pregnant. “Holy fuck, that was good.”
Rhysand smiles, like it’s adorable that I cursed, and pushes back his empty plate. “Dessert?” I shake my head. “Coffee?”
“I’m so full I might die.”
Rising with fluid grace, he extends a hand. “Then come with me.”
Not bothering to ask questions at this point, I just take his hand and follow him out, noticing the city has a slight chill now that the sun’s gone down.
“Why is it women can never plan for the sun going down?” he ponders, wrapping me in his suit jacket.
“It’s a test to see if you’ll let us freeze to death.”
Rhysand chuckles and slides his hand into mine, so casually and simply it seems like a mundane thing we do every day.
I know I’ve known him for a total of five hours, but everything about today has been... easy. Natural. It’s like we just click, and I’m not stupid enough to question it right now.
“You’re quite the gentleman,” I remark, bringing up our intertwined fingers to look at the tattoos on his skin. He’s silent for a minute, and when I glance over, he’s looking at the ground as we walk, a strange look on his face. “What?”
“You’re probably the only person in this entire world who believes that.”
I scoff, because the idea that the man next to me, holding my hand and running his thumb across my fingers, is anything but a gentleman is absurd.
“What other paintings do you have?”
It’s a question I’ve been dying to ask since he mention his other Degas.
“It’s a shame you’re determined to not go home with me. You could see them yourself.”
I drop his hand and shove his shoulder, my lips twitching as he laughs. “You asshole. You’re leveraging access to a private collection for sex? Men are horrible.”
Rhysand chuckles, throwing an arm around me and pulling me close. “I have a Monet,” he whispers in my ear, placing a featherlight kiss to my temple. “And a Rembrandt.”
“I hate you.”
He releases me and grabs my hand again, then pulls me toward a dark alley I hadn’t noticed he’d been guiding me toward. “Um... where are you taking me?”
He, of course, doesn’t tell me. No, he shushes me.
“I will not be quiet while you drag me down some seedy alley!” I’m beginning to panic a bit, because besides spending way too much time alone, I like to watch Law and Order, and this is turning into the beginning of a familiar episode.
“Is this because I said I won’t have sex with you tonight?” Before he can respond, I blurt, “Because I probably will at some point, I’m just kind of nervous-”
“I’m not going to murder you, Feyre darling.”
“Promise?”
“Yes. Now shut up.”
Pouting like a sullen child, I shut my mouth and accept my fate. He tugs me further down the black alley, and eventually I can’t even see. Can he? Is he some sort of vampire? Am I really asking myself that?
The glow of his phone illuminates the dark for a second, and I catch the time 11:59. “One more minute.”
“Until...?”
He’s silent for thirty-eight seconds, then he says, “Until this.”
Suddenly, the space above us lights up, colors shooting all around us in a kaleidoscope of reds and blues and greens.
Gasping, I look up to see the air above us full of glass lanterns, the surfaces painted with swirling black paint. The alley is covered wall to wall, and the end result gives the walls around us beautiful designs and dimension.
I laugh in surprise, twirling around to take in the entire place. “What is this?”
“We’re in the artist’s quadrant of the city. I don’t know why, but they do this every night, exactly at midnight.”
I spin around in a circle, arms out, smiling from ear to ear. He watches with a grin, leaning against one of the walls casually. I walk down the alley, eyes up, taking in everything.
It’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.
The lanterns are each unique, like they were done by different people. Some are solid colors, others are mixtures.
I look back over at Rhysand, beams of red and blue and pink bouncing off his face, a smile playing at his full lips. It’s obvious he took me here because he knew I’d love it, and it makes me feel insanely special.
Still giddy with happiness, I bound over to him, put my hands on either side of his face, and press my lips to his.
For a second, we probably look like idiots, just standing there pressing our smiles together.
Then, like we’re in synch, the smiles fall away and we start to actually kiss.
His hands slip inside the jacket, linking at the small of my back and pulling me closer to him. He’s still leaning against the wall, back against the brick, and I put my hands on his chest, fingers digging into the corded muscle I find there.
Rhysand pulls back for a minute, traces his fingers over my face lightly. He looks so surprised and confused, I’m tempted to ask what’s wrong. But then his mouth is back on mine, moving more fervently, and I forget all about it.
His hands cup my jaw, tilting my face to where he wants it, then slide in my hair.
He tastes like honey and citrus, and I slide my tongue in his mouth, desperate for more. I moan at the taste of him, and he suddenly moves, like the sound unleashed something in him.
One hand grabs the back of my thigh, the other wrapping around my waist, and then I’m the one against the wall. The brick digs into my shoulder blades, but I hardly even notice, because he wraps my leg around his hips and presses us together.
His mouth is sliding down my jaw, sucking on the spot between my neck and shoulder softly. I make a low sound, slip my hands in his hair, and prepare to eat him alive.
And then the world goes dark.
The lanterns above us turn off, casting us in darkness, but we don’t stop for a few minutes. When we’re both breathless, he pulls away with a low chuckle and releases my leg.
I slide down him slowly, leaning against the wall for support.
What the hell was that?
Did I really just make out with a complete stranger in an alley?
The answer to that question--and the one of if I’d do it again--is hell yes.
He runs a hand over his lips, almost in disbelief, then takes a healthy step back and holds out a hand. “Come on. I’ll walk you home.”
I take another look at the disheveled hair, swollen lips, rumpled shirt. And I know without a doubt that if he were on my doorstep, looking at me with those bedroom eyes, I’d pull him inside without a thought.
“I think I should take a cab.”
Rhysand smiles, knowing exactly why. “I’m flattered.”
“Shut up,” I laugh, pushing him away and starting back toward the busier street.
Even though the street’s deserted, he manages to hail a cab easily, the bright yellow car slowing to a stop next to us. I open the back door, kiss his cheek, and slip inside. “Thank you for dinner. Even though you cheated.”
He rolls his eyes and shuts the door behind me. “I’ll call you.”
I nod, feeling a little ridiculous for how happy that statement makes me. Tonight was... like nothing I’ve ever experienced. It was just dinner, I remind myself, but it doesn’t do any good.
It feels like the beginning of something.
The cab driver glances at me in the rearview mirror and laughs. “That good, huh?”
I don’t even respond because yeah. That good.
I’m halfway home before I realize I never even gave him my number. And I honestly wonder if I’ll ever see Rhysand Azara again.
_________________________________________________
Part 2
@elorcan-trash @perseusannabeth @cursebreaker29 @a-bit-of-a-cactus @elriel4life @girl-who-reads-the-books @shinya-hiiragi @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @ireallyshouldsleeprn @highqueenofelfhame @nahthanks @ghostlyrose2 @claralady @tswaney17 @rowanisahunk @superspiritfestival @thegoddessofyou @jlinez @studyliketate @over300books @bamchickawowow @justgiu12 @maastrash @aesthetics-11 @b00kworm @sleeping-and-books @musicmaam @hizqueen4life @maybekindasortaace
#feysand#acotar#acomaf#acowar#a court of thorns and roses#a court of mist and fury#a court of wings and ruin#a court of frost and starlight#acotar fanfiction#feysand fanfiction#rhysand
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The Boyfriend Introduction
George Weasley x Reader
This is an entry for @wonderful-writer ‘s Ficmas Writing Challenge
Prompts: “Exactly how many people did you invite over for Christmas dinner?”
Tropes No.6. There’s only one bed
Trope No.8. Snowed in
BG: Will George make a good first impression on your strict parents over Christmas Dinner? What happens when prying muggle relatives are added to the mix? No magic is allowed, and a heavy snowstorm trapped everyone inside. What was supposed to last a couple of hours had stretched overnight. Will your family approve of George? Or will he be trapped with people who dislike him for the night?
A/N: This took almost a month to write. Started this with my writing motivation streak on high. Then the burnout came, I could write nor even read. Now I’m slowly trying to get back into the mood. Yea I realized that it’s not super Christmasy. But I hope that you enjoy it all the same.
WC:3352
>>>MASTERLIST<<<
‘Okay, you remember everything?’ You had just finish debriefing George on the what to expect when you arrive home later. What your parents likes and dislikes, what the home dynamic is, etcetera, brownie points to note to make sure he lands on your parent’s good side-you want your boyfriend’s first impression to be perfect!
‘Yes love, EVERYTHING. We’ve gone over this 3 times already, trust me it’s all up here’ George said, tapping a finger against his temple. ‘At this rate, I am more scared for them as it would be a total stranger knew everything about them!’ He pointed out.
‘Hey, you’re not a total stranger, they’ve met you before!’ You countered.
‘For only a couple of minutes, plus Fred was with us that time, I doubt they could have differentiated between us from that short time alone.’
Recalling back to the end of the summer holidays when your family had bumped into the Weasleys and Harry while school supplies shopping at Diagon Alley. You were just leaving of Flourish and Blotts while they were headed in. You had dropped your brand-new books and the twins had helped you pick them up. You had exchanged a quick thank you before hurried leaving to catch the bus back to muggle London.
Your parents had gratefully allowed you to spend the holidays at The Burrow, but only after they had met the boyfriend who you could never stop talking about. Majority of your letters back home consisted of gushing about how wonderful and sweet George is, so naturally your parents were curious and intrigued to finally meet this handsome fellow.
They had arranged for a Christmas Eve Dinner at home before you depart for The Burrow later in the evening.
‘You know, you still haven’t told me how you got your parents to let you spend the Christmas holiday with us.’ Quipped George. ‘I thought your dad was pretty strict.’ The Hogwarts Express had started slowing down, nearing its destination of Platform 9 ¾.
‘Yea but I guess it the real gamechanger was Mr.Weasley. The last I heard was that they started hanging out during breaks in the Ministry. It started out as a reconnaissance of some sort-the basic background check if the boy dating my daughter is good enough. Which then blossomed into friendship.’ You lean back against the train compartment window, giving him more space to reach up to the luggage rack overhead.
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘George! Y/n! Over here!’ Ginny yelled. She was standing near the trolleys, surrounded with a group of redheads.
Once you reached her, she wrapped you in a tight embrace. ‘I’m going to miss you.’
You chuckled, patting the girl’s shoulder. ‘Gin, I’m only be gone for a couple hours, we’ll be back by midnight.’
‘Yea, but til then I’ll be stuck with these dofusses.’ She winced, nodding towards the direction of her brothers.
‘Hey!’ exclaimed Ron.
Ignoring him, Ginny continued. ‘You know how time drags with these idiots. Why couldn’t I just come with?’
‘No you aren’t young lady.’ Stated Mrs.Weasley, making her way pass her children. ‘This is a very important occasion, meeting the parents. George has to make a good impression to y/n parents.’ She turned to the younger twin, hands on her waist. ‘So. NO funny business okay? I expect you to be on your best behaviour.’ She warned.
George raised 3 fingers up. ‘Yes ma’am. I promise.’
Mrs Weasley knew that despite George’s playful response, would keep this promise. Afterall she knew her children at heart. Recognises George’s coping tactics for nerves is through humour.
‘Alright then. I’ll see you later.’ Hugging you then her son. ‘Oh before I forget, we’ll take your luggage back with us so that it’ll be easier for you to get home. Fred! Percy! Come help me with these!’
‘Thank you Mrs.Weasley for-‘
‘Molly dear, call me Molly. I’ve known you for years now, you’re basically part of the family.’
You can feel your face warm up. ‘Thanks…Mrs…. I mean Molly for everything.’
‘No worries dear. Just be careful, I heard that it’ll snow more later.’
‘We will Mum.’ Replied George, placing a kiss on her check. ‘Don’t worry.’
You held your hand out to George. ‘Ready for your first ever ride on a muggle double decker bus?’
‘Oh yes.’ He nodded, interlocking his hands with yours.
~
‘Mum! I’m home!’ You shake off the snow that had stuck onto your boots before entering.
‘In here Dumpling!’ said a distant voice.
‘Dumpling huh?’ George teased; a smirk plastered on his face.
You were glad to see him calm down. ‘yea yea.’
‘Care to tell me why?’
‘Nope. Now get your butt in here.’
The house though small is full of life. Walls are lined with picture frames of the family together and along the hallway are frames of each member throughout the years.
You follow the fragrant smell of citrus in the air coming from the kitchen.
You head towards the opened refrigerator. ‘Merry Christmas Eve Mum!’ You greeted but were surprised to see someone else. ‘Dad! What are you doing here?’
‘What do you mean? It’s MY house!’ He resorted, taken aback.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘They let us off early in the Ministry.’
‘He means he left early’ Chimed your mother.
‘Perks of being the head of the department.’ He says nonchalantly, releasing you from a airtight embrace.
Your eyes light up. ‘You got the promotion?’ You asked, your father standing proud with a dazzling smile. ‘Congratulations Dad!’
‘Now now, this evening is not about me.’ His eyes dart to the tall boy behind you. The boy whose face showed apparent awkwardness during the mini intimate family catch up. ‘I don’t believe we’ve formally met. y/f/n yf/l/n.’ Extending his hand.
‘george..’ George cleared his throat. ‘George Weasley ,Sir. Pleasure to meet you Sir.’ George wondered if his hand had sweat more, feeling that your father was gripping his tight. Before his mind were to go down that rabbithole, he turned to your mother. ‘M’am..’
‘No please, call me y/m/n.’ Your mother insisted. ‘It’s nice to finally meet you George, we’ve heard so much about you.’ She leaned in close, whispering. ‘Between you and me, most of our dumpling’s letters here are about you!’ She looks over her shoulder to make sure, they aren’t overheard. Thankful you are preoccupied with dad. ‘It’s great to finally have a face to the name!’ Taking a more solemn tone she continued. ‘Listen you take good care of her okay, she doesn’t let anyone in her emotions easily, so you must be special.’
Just as fast as it came, she was back to normal. George would have thought that he imagined that whole exchange if it weren’t from the gleam in your mother’s eyes.
‘Right then.’ She clapped her hands together. ‘y/f/n, my love. Why don’t you give George here a tour of the house. Then help y/n and I when you’re done.’
‘On it my love.’ Your father replied, pecking your mother’s cheek. ‘George! I’m told you love inventing, so why don’t we start on with my study, I bet there’s a lot of things you’d find interesting.’ Said your father, leading George up the kitchen and up the stairs.
Once they rounded out the corner, your mother was instantly at your side, bumping your hips. ‘He seems like a nice boy. Quieter than I expected.’
‘Yea, He’ll get into the zone later.’ You noted. ‘Give him time and when he’s comfortable, he’ll be more like himself. He’ll really nervous, that’s all.’
‘I know.’
That made curious. ‘You know?’
‘Oh yess.’ Your mother sighed. ‘Your father had that exact same face when he first went to meet Grannie and Grandpops.’
‘Really?’ How had she never shared this story before?
‘umm hmm’ She reminisced. ‘It’s good that his reaction is like that. It shows that one’s scared and anxious, wanting to impress and give a good first impression.’
When she saw how lost you look, she held your chin up, elaborating. ‘It means that he cares. That it’s a big important deal, meeting the parents.’
~
It’s been a hour already since your father had dragged George off, to what you believe as a house tour disguised as a boyfriend interrogation. Truth be told you were scared out of your mind, you never had brought home a boy before so you didn’t know what to expect, this is unknown territory.
The growing sounds of footsteps and…laughter? Surely that was a good sign.
‘Woah that is a lot of food. Exactly how many people did you invite over for Christmas dinner?’ George had come up behind you, with a hand on your lower back- touchy as if warming up and testing the waters on how much physical touch he could get away with, with your parents in the room.
‘A lot.’ You replied, angling up to poke his cheek. ‘You’re not the only one with a big family, Weasley’
‘I thought you were only 4 of you?’
‘well, my mom’s side of the family is coming.’ You explained, counting them on your fingers. ‘So that’s includes my grandparents, aunts and uncles and their family-my cousins.’
‘why only your mom’s side?’ George was genuinely confused, isn’t Christmas all about getting together with family?
You chuckled. ‘oh it’s a funny story actually…’
‘More like an almost disastrous story.’ Cut in your father. ‘See my brother is a lightweight but every Christmas he tries to outdrink himself. And one Christmas, things…..got out of hand.’
When your father didn’t explain more, your mother further clarified, taking pity on George’s ever more puzzled look. ‘Long story short, he end up doing magic infront of my family specifically changed into his Animagus form it would be easy to say he just disappeared behind the couch if his animal form was small but his was a tiger- so harder to cover up.’
‘Dad ultimately had to obliviate 7 people’s memories of the past hour. From then on, for long holidays we separate the family into magic vs muggles.’
‘SO remember NO magic!’ Announced your dad. ‘Tonight, we act as Muggles, no magic at all cost. We won’t wanna risk Ministry intervention.’
~
The early Christmas dinner had gone in a blur, the food was quickly devoured by the table of 15. Yes that’s right, 15. Normally the dinner table could expand to accommodate 6 people, but thanks to transfiguration, your father had lengthen it to fit the then arriving guest.
In addition to enjoying the food, your relatives had seized the time to pry into your love life in between bites. The previous years’ answer of “I don’t have a boyfriend” followed by their unwanted input about what you’re doing wrong, was obviously not applicable.
So you ended up being interrogated by your aunt on your right, while George, who was sitting on your left was being questioned by your grandfather.
‘Gee is that the time! We better get going, maw come on dear we don’t want to be caught out of the road by the snowstorm.’ Your grandfather said, helping your grandmother up from her seat. ‘Get the car ready, Finn.’
At that, everyone began to get pack up. Usually you would all stay up for more talks, but under the threat of a looming snowstorm, it was better to be safe than sorry.
~
‘Alright dumpling, got everything?’ Your mother wondered, straightening up your coat.
‘Yup’ You replied, all snuggled up. You didn’t bother telling her that the coat wasn’t necessary as you would be apparating back to the Burrow- you knew how much she hated the tension apparition causes to one’s temples.
‘George..’ She said, now moving towards the quiet young man who had once again caught himself a bit out of place in such an intimate family moment. ‘It was really nice to meet you; I do hope that we would get to see you most often now that y/n has formally introduce us.’ She pulled him into a motherly hug. ‘You take care of my dumpling, or else… you’d find out what muggle parents do to those who hurt their children, and I warn you, you magic folks don’t know what’s coming.’
The final warning came and went, and George managed to utter. ‘I promise.’ Before your father came into view, looking more unreadable and stricter than their introductions earlier in the day.
George was terrified, he had thought that things had gone well, surely they had bonded over the guide house tour. Might had he said something wrong during dinner, Grandpa y/l/n sure did ask a lot of questions. George mentally recalled the past couple of hours, where could this all gone sideways.
To his surprise he was greeted with an outstretched hand. ‘You’re a good lad, George.’ Remarked your father, ‘Oh and you can call me y/f/n.’
Both your and George’s eyes go wide.
‘Thank you, sir! I mean…’ George was still nervous, a part of him thinking that this was a secret test. ‘y/f/n, sir. Thank you’ Tried George, the tips of his ears red.
Your father chuckled at the hesitant boy, ‘In time you will get the hang of that’ He turned to you. ‘That is.. if y/n is willing to for us to join you two in the future. The dinner might have frightened you off, sorry for that.’ Your father wrapped an arm around your mother, ‘Perhaps the next time could be with MY side of the family…’
At that moment the doorbell rang.
‘Now who could that be?’ Voiced your mother. ‘Mum, Dad!’
‘Bad News dearie, Roads and Highways are closed for the night-Too much snow.’ Explained your grandfather, barging into the warm house. ‘We’ll have to stay the night.’
‘Uh! George my boy, you are still here! Great! Pa look who it is!’ Cheered your grandfather, pinching his arm (His cheeks were too high up to reach). Leaving George’s right sleeve with specks of melting snow. ‘Though I am afraid we would get to chatting in the morning, sleep is calling me.’
But before George would reply that he wouldn’t be here in the morning, your father interjected. ‘Yes yes of course, the guestroom is ready as always. Have a good night’s rest nannie.’ Looking past her to the doorway he shouted. ‘Finn you can take the couch, we’ll give you some blankets in a sec.’
He gestured for you both to follow him into the dinning room. You quickly followed suit, panicking as to how in the world could you apparate to the burrow while presenting a valid reason to your grandparents in 2 young person’s disappearance overnight when the is a heavy snowstorm raging on.
‘I wouldn’t suggest apparating tonight’ He huffed. ‘Unless of course if you don’t mind popping back in again tomorrow morning.’
You shook your head. You were not an earlier riser, besides spending the night in the burrow when had to be back home first thing would be wise, you would be just exhausting yourself.
‘Good. I’ll notify Arthur of our situation. Now unto the other thing….’ He raised a brow at George. ‘Since that the spare room and the couch are taken, it would be rude to ask a guest to rest in a more comfortable place..’
You internally groaned, you kinda had an idea where this conversation was headed to but gosh was it in the parents handbook to deliver to so awkwardly?
‘…you are bot old enough and trust both of you. So, George if you don’t mind, you would be spending the night in y/n’s room.’
You dared risked a quick glance at your boyfriend and you could tell that he was trying not to smirk.
George in fact was trying his best not to smile, biting the insides of his cheek to stop himself.
‘So no funny business.’
‘Yes Sir.’ George didn’t dare call him, y/f/n. Not at this moment, even if he was granted the permission.
~
‘So….This is me.’ Presenting your room. ‘It’s not much, but-‘
‘It’s beautiful.’ George cut you off. There wasn’t much going on, seeing that you spend majority of the year in Hogwarts and only a month or two at home. A single bed next to the window overlooking the road, a small desk, a wardrobe with a mirrored door and 2 bookshelves. Plain white walls decorated with a small makeshift photo wall of your most cherished memories.
Spotting the photos next to your bookshelf, he chortled. ‘It’s really sweet of you, I feel honoured.’ He turned to you. ‘But this one? Seriously??!!?’ Pointing at the photograph.
It was of the yule ball. The relationship wasn’t official yet, it was still teetering on the side of best friends but with something more or so Fred calls ‘Y/n and George’s Era of Mutual Pining’.
The shot was of you in your gown, not so elegantly piggybacking on George, who was mid fall. Despite it all, you were both laughing your heads off. Ginny had taken that picture with your muggle camera. Something about it being developed as a standstill compared to the moving wizard photos adds charm to it, further highlighting such a moment.
‘I for one love it.’ You declared, leaning your head on his shoulder.
‘We do look nice together.’ He teased. ‘But gosh that is a bit unflattering, don’t you think? It looks like we’re drunk!’
‘Drunk on love you mean.’ Nudging his side. ‘Though we haven’t admitted it then.’
George squinted closer, ‘Wait a minute! It’s not moving!’
‘Yup, don’t want any muggle walking in a moving photo. But more importantly, it’s forever captures the moment of ‘I am in love with my best friend, a person who would never let me fall.’
‘Expect to fall in love, with your truly.’
‘Exactly.’ In moments like these, where no one else in the room, does George lets his sappy cheesy side on full blast and you love it. It’s as if a top-secret surprise that is for your eyes only.
‘Now come to bed with me.’ You reach for his hand, dragging him to your tiny bed. ‘I’m tired’
‘Love as much as I want to, I don’t think we’d fit.’ Eyeing the bed. ‘One of us will fall off- most probably me.’
Taking one of you pillows he said ‘ I’ll just lay down here.’
‘Nuh uh, not in my house. You are my boyfriend and my guest! No way am I letting you sleep on the floor!’ You argued. ‘Come cuddle with me, pleaseeeeeeee’ Giving him your best pout. ‘We have had any alone time, the whole day! Pleaseeeee babe! ’
George shook his head, knowing that the was no way that he could ever say ‘NO’ to you. He did miss his girl and after an exhaustive day practically being interrogated by multiple family member, he was grateful to finally spend time with you. ‘Alright.’ Giving into your request. ‘Scoot over and let me engulf you into a world of softness.’
Your head was resting on George’s chest, bopping along with his each intake of breath. The snow outside is still pouring but the all the noise is silenced as you focus in his heartbeat. Tilting up slightly you pipped. ‘You comfortable Georgie?’
George wrapped his arms around you tighter. ‘I’m good anywhere with you.’ He placed a final kiss on your forehead before exhaustion take you both away to dreamland.
~
Bonus:
The sun had come up, casting a warm glow onto the white blanked pavement.
Still drained from the day before, neither of you had woken up to your bedroom door opening.
‘Merry Christmas Y/n dearie! Nannie has bought you your favourite hot choco—’ Your grandmother stopped in her tracks upon seeing 2 angels tangled together with smiles etched on their sleeping faces. Reminding her of own younger days.
She leaves the mug on your desk, quietly shut the door. Once out on the hallway, she quickly makes her way to her husband, eager to tell him what he just saw and excited to come up with more questions they could interrogate George with-only the best for their granddaughter!
--
Taglist [All/General]: @gruffle1
#hailey’s ficmas wc#george weasley x reader#george weasley fluff#george weasley#george weasley imagine#weasley x reader#fandomscombine writes#harry potter imagine
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[So, @cinlat has been dabbling in a Sith au for her Fynta, with cameo slots available for various other characters to come hang out. And just the little bit of contemplation we had about where Ahuska might slot into this particular version of events, I wound up inspired enough to dabble with a scene! So welcome to an Ahuska who still wound up adopted into Mandalorian life, but has not forgotten/repressed her early years. Rather than their usual easy friendship, she and Fynta wind up butting heads more often than not and bumping into one another more than either would like. Apologies if I’ve gotten Fynta totally wrong, I will put up a disclaimer that I’m throwing this out here without any sort of proofing from Cinlat so she gets the final call as to the authenticity of this scene! I’ve also borrowed @askshivanulegacy’s Blakk for the ride, I think I needed a little cathartic fluff to counterbalance all the fluff-gone-wrong happening elsewhere hahahaha.]
‘Not on My Watch’
“I don’t know why you won’t just let me take a speeder…”
Ahuska lifted a hand to cut him off, raising a finger and shaking her head with a smile. It was no secret that the young bothan was soft for this particular Imperial Agent, even if her clanmates were quick to remind her that no self respecting human Kaas citizen would pursue anything more than a functional work relationship with her, a rudderless, stable-working alien.
She chose not to listen to what her clanmates had to say.
“Because a speeder won’t pull back when it feels the ice getting too thin or warn you when you cross a wampa’s path, that’s why.”
Cipher Blakk rolled his eyes and pulled the zipper of his insulated parka higher, but it still wasn’t enough to keep his face properly protected from the frankly absurd level of chill. “It’s not as though I plan to park on an ice sheet…”
“Uh huh, and you’ll know exactly what’s under the two inch layer of snow that’s just fallen…”
He huffed, and she laughed, opening the stall door against which she was leaning to lead out the young tauntaun buck she already had saddled and haltered. “Quit fretting. Thunder here is a solid ride and a soft touch, he won’t give you any problems, and I’d trust him over any autopilot to get you safely back to base if something goes wrong.”
Blakk felt some unexpected warmth rise in his cheeks, and while he wondered for the thousandth time why she cared so much that he got back safely, the buck lowered his head to snuffle through Ahuska’s hair. She raised a hand to give the tauntaun a firm rub on the cheek and horn. “Yeah, you’re a good boy aren’t you? You’ll be good for the Empire’s elite, won’t you? Won’t you my good soft woolly buddy…”
Ahuska’s ears flicked at the same moment as Thunder’s twitched, and a heartbeat later Blakk’s head turned as well, hearing the heavy rasp of an iron gate lifting.
Ahuska had been stationed on the remote Hoth outpost for the last month and a half, more than enough time to get to know the sound of every latch and door in the stables, and the animals that spent their lives here knew them even better. Her sky blue eyes turned to ice as she squinted, staring down into the lower level. “Who… oh.”
Her lips turned to a tight, flat line as she recognised the figure down below, and the coolness in her expression was enough to prompt Blakk to lift a brow. “Ahh, is something the matter…?”
“We’ll see. What is she… oh, oh no, no no no…”
The Cipher suddenly found himself with a set of reins thrust into his hands, with Ahuska taking the liberty of closing his fingers around them and squeezing tight. “What… what are you…?”
“Hold him. Hold him tight and don’t let go for a second, distract him with this if you can…” She shoved a pinkish rock of some sort toward him, and with his hands full he was forced to stoop and hold it under his chin, expression nothing short of bewildered.
“I don’t… oh, gods no,” Blakk had the profound discomfort of realising then that it was a block of salt, as Thunder pressed forward with an eager little warble and began to lick at it. He made a tiny sound of dismay. “Ahuska…!”
But she was already gone, not even sticking around to have a snigger at his predicament, darting down the stairwell rather than waiting on one of the stocklifts. “Oi! Oi, di’kut, what’n Kad’s name do you think you’re doing---!!”
The object of Ahuska’s anger turned, unnaturally blue eyes flashing with irritation, and then immediately turned back to the stall door she’d been about to open.
“Don’t you dare touch that! Who the hell authorized you to be down here and what the shab d’you think you’re doing opening straight up into the yards?” Rather than heading straight toward the Sith, Ahuska veered to the far wall where a harsh wind blustered through the now gaping entry to the outdoor paddocks, and slammed her fist against a set of controls.
“This animal is… Shen-Four-Seven, isn’t it?” Fynta Wolfe, Assassin for Sith Intelligence and Infiltration, glared at the Bothan stablekeep who stood firm in the gateway, as though she could somehow block her passage while the heavy gate groaned back shut. She cut a strong silhouette against the glaring white world outside, framed with reflected light and fluttering snowflakes.
“Star, yeah, that’s her.” Ahuska’s tone was curt. She didn’t enjoy dealing with Fynta any more than she explicitly had to. Never mind that the Sith knew far more about her than Ahuska was comfortable with, but the fact that Fynta thought she could just slip on some beskar and mingle amongst the clans as though she weren’t an out-and-out Sith grated at her terribly. The nerves struck were just… a little too close to home.
“Then she’s the one I’ve been assigned while I’m on duty here. And since I’m not here to take riding lessons, I don’t see why I need to answer to you of all people, stablekeep.”
Ahuska bristled as the steel gate locked shut behind her, putting an abrupt halt to the chill wind. “Maybe ‘cause every last one of these animals has been assigned to me while I’m on duty here, and I don’t give a damn if you’re the Emperor himself, you don’t take one outside without my say-so. Not a taun, not a vulp, not a gods-damned arctic womp-weasel! So you can take your fingers off that latch and let me do my job, or you can deal with the shab’la stampede you’re about to let loose. It’s stable master, by the way.”
Fynta knew Ahuska wasn’t the type to lie for the sake of a power trip. The bothan’s conviction and ferocity at this moment was enough to give her pause and slowly arch a brow, though her tone was flat and unconvinced. “Stampede. You mean the whole three out in the main yard.”
“Mmm.” Ahuska’s tone was equally flat, but there was something smug about the way she lifted her chin and stared down the bridge of her muzzle toward the Sith. “Those three first, if Thunder up on the balcony doesn’t fling himself over to beat them to it.” She gestured upward and over her shoulder with a thumb, toward where Blakk diligently kept a firm but wary hold of the tauntaun buck Ahuska had left in his care. The agent swiftly averted his gaze when he realised attention had momentarily turned his way. “Then the seven in the exercise yards ‘cause let’s face it, those fences aren’t gonna stop a buck in rut, and maybe the dozen in the outer…”
“Excuse me?”
“Excuse what?”
“A buck in rut?”
“I said what I said. I know it doesn’t look much like the seasons change here on Hoth, but believe me, there are seasons, and we’re in the thick of one right now. Your little Star there…” Ahuska dipped her head toward the stall door that Fynta remained precariously close to opening, though to her credit her fingers were looser on the handle than they had been moments before. “Is a very, very appealing little lady at the moment. She gets lead out through the back to be worked in the yards on the south ridge or not at all, and when she’s being groomed and treated in here this gate…” She slapped the metal surface behind her with the back of her hand. “Stays shut! I wouldn’t even recommend her for a mission today or tomorrow unless you were absolutely certain of no wild herds en route and let’s face it, you can never be certain of that…”
Fynta hadn’t exactly paled, but she was definitely looking less confident about taking her assigned mount out onto the slopes. She found herself feeling unwittingly grateful that the blasted bothan had been here to intercept her, and then an equal measure of furious at herself for feeling grateful at all. “Alright, alright, fierfek, just get me a more suitable animal ready as soon as you can, I’ve wasted enough time here already…”
“Of course, my Lord,” Ahuska’s grin was far too toothy, her flourished salute and bow far too exaggerated to be genuine. She enjoyed watching Fynta bite back her seething a little too much. “And let me know what shebs-for-brains gave you Star to begin with so I can have some words.”
“I’ll try to find out,” Fynta lied. No way in hell was she going to let Ahuska know that, in a bid to get herself in and out of Hoth as swiftly as possible, she might have forged a signature or two on a requisition document here and there, and arbitrarily assigned the tauntaun to herself. She straightened, stepping away from the stall, and stared Ahuska squarely in the eye. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Don’t keep me waiting.”
She didn’t give Ahuska the opportunity to respond, making her way smartly off down a corridor. The bothan might come across as meek as a runt nerf calf most of the time, but Force be damned if she didn’t find a spine and a half where her animals were concerned. Fynta couldn’t decide whether she was impressed or irritated, and just found herself hoping that Ahuska would be able to find the same amount of backbone if anyone ever pressed her about matters that remained better left unspoken.
She really didn’t want to see another decent Mandalorian having their arm twisted into Imperial service.
Ahuska, meanwhile, had every intention of keeping Fynta waiting; she had another Agent of the Empire to finish dealing with first, and she wasn’t going to rush seeing Blakk and Thunder off soundly for the sake of a single agitated Sith. Her hackles were already smooth and the set of her ears fully relaxed by the time she made it back to the upper level, though the way Blakk’s wide-eyed gaze settled on her when she flashed him a grin threatened to dishevel her all over again.
“Didn’t give you any trouble, did he?”
“No, you were great- I mean he, he was great. Thunder was… great. Perfect. No trouble.”
Ahuska might have plenty of backbone when it mattered, but that didn’t stop certain moments making her utterly weak. She coughed into her hand, glancing aside as she took back the reins and returned the remains of the salt lick to her pocket. “Ahh, uh, right, good. Good! Where have you got your gear then? Better get him all loaded up for you.”
---
[And now a bonus for everyone who got this far, hahaha, have some zipped up Hoth geared little Imperials. Ahuska thinks they’re both ridiculous for complaining so much about the cold.]
#dingoat writes#swtor fic#ahuska#bothan#tauntaun#hoth#blakk#fynta#imperial agent#sith#mandalorian#actually really nice to get a little writing going through my system#it's been a while#even if it is a bit of a mess#barely proof-read#but I've got so much other stuff I aughtta be working on#>.>#thank you for letting me play with your au though cinlat!#and blakk of course for trusting me to steal your boy hahaha#I realise how rarely#I actually get the chance to write Ahuska doing her animal business#so that was also fun
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Mismatch- Part 24
Bio dad Bruce Wayne Month 2020
Oh dear, oh dear Lila what a shame this is
First< Previous > Next
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The next couple of days are... awkward. Dick keeps calling which is nice, they even go for dinner one day dragging Tim along. Tim seems fine, tired but that's hardly unusual. Jason had just straight up disappeared, but Dick had assured them he would be coming to the Wayne Gala that weekend. Speaking of which they had been invited, well they were already going because of MDC stuff but now they were also invited as civilians. The news would have been happy if Damian hadn't stormed out the room when it was mentioned. The next day and the day after that hadn’t improved anything, Damian was completely ignoring them and they weren't the only ones to notice.
“What did you do to upset Dami so much?!” Lila announces rather loudly to the entire cafeteria, “I told you, you were going too far,”
“Lila, and I mean this sincerely, fuck off,” Marion says flatly, he hears Marinette cover a laugh despite swatting at him lightly.
“How dare you?! I’m just trying to look out for him,” Lila sniffles, basking under the attention of her large audience, looking between the girl and Damian. Marion catches Damian's eye, raising a brow basically saying you’re going to let this slide? Apparently he was as Damian looks away from them, and if anything was going to give Lila more believability it’s that.
“Marion are you alright?” Rose asks gently, having tiptoed after Lila with the rest of the class. Had he been looking so downcast she actually noticed?
“I’m fi-” Whatever assurance he was about to give is mute as he feels tears sliding down his cheeks, “Fuck-I just-”
He tries to wipe away the tears, very aware of everyone watching him. It’s starting to get hard to breath when he feels gentle arms wrap around him. It’s Rose. Rose is actually hugging him! It’s been so long he forgot what her hugs felt like. Well if she was trying to stop him from crying that certainly didn’t help matters. He tries to take a calming breath but it comes out more like a sob and soon enough he can’t hold it back anymore. A fine place to break down Mari, really, truly a testament to your skill.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this here,” Lila scoffs, Marion can feel the arms around him tighten, “After all the work I put in for this trip-”
“LILA WOULD YOU JUST STOP!” Alya’s scream makes them all jump back, Marion turning to face the absolutely seething girl, “This is the first time in YEARS we’ve been allowed to feel emotions! So just leave it alone, they’re allowed to be sad!”
“Well-I-its-they-” Lila splutters looking completely blindsided that one of her puppets broke off its strings, clearly she hasn't been paying attention the last few weeks, funny when you save someone's life they tend to listen and care about what you say a bit more. And if that leads to noticing a few more jibes in their direction... well that's just a happy coincidence.
“What is your problem!? You’ve been nothing but nasty to them since we got here!” Well a bit longer than that but good on you for noticing Alya.
“Oh, it’s just been so hard for me!” Lila exclaims, crocodile tears coming in as Marion still tries to wipe off his own, the genuine article at that, “If you had heard some of the things they’ve said to me-”
Lila jumps as Damian appears next to her. He doesn't look at or acknowledge the twins. In fact, he still looks rather pissed but at least some of its directed at Lila this time. He silently hands his phone over to Alya with some hesitation, Lila's eyes go wide. As quickly as he had come he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd that had formed around them.
“What’s-”
“Give it!” Lila screeches, lunging for the phone. Alya jerks back in surprise, Lila’s nails tearing down her arm. Ugly red marks that had broken the skin and gone in deep.
“What the hell!” Alya shouts through tears, clutching her bloody arm as the class crowd around her.
Instead of apologizing Lila tries to snatch the phone in the moment of distraction, but Alix is a hair quicker. She presses play despite Lila shouting threats that made the rest of the class go pale. The recording plays everyone is glued to it. The class becoming increasingly more hysterical. Marinette doesn't wait for it to finish, she gently guides Marion out of the room slipping through the crowd. They hide in an empty classroom, far enough away they can’t hear the outcry that follows.
“Do you think that’s really it, it’s done?” Marion whispers, Marinette is wiping his face with a handkerchief he had always made fun of her for carrying.
“Maybe, I honestly can’t bring myself to care anymore,” Marinette rests her forehead against his, her standing as he sits on a desk, “I thought I’d feel more…”
“Victorious?”
“Yeah,”
“I don’t think there are any winners here,” He can hear someone shouting their names down the hall, voice wobbly with tears, he doesn't care about any apology the can muster, “How lame did I look crying?”
“In front of the whole school like that?”
“Yeah,”
“I’d say it was pretty brave,” She pulls him into a hug, squeezing tight.
“He was just ignoring us,” Marion admits quietly, Lila hadn’t made him cry in a long time, but Damian? Damian did.
“I know,” Marinette pats his head, the same way she would tease him as Chat Noir, “But he did something in the end didn’t he?”
“Oh, gee look at this lame-ass, better make him stop before people associate him with me’,” Marion does an impression not remotely close to Damian, Marinette pinches him.
“That’s not what he was thinking and you know it,”
“Yeah,” Marion sighs, he can hear doors opening and closing now, apologies cast out through the school in hopes they’ll hear them, “What do we do now?”
“Jump out the window?”
So they did end up jumping out the window. Something Alfred had somehow known they were planning because he was waiting right there to pick them up. The debated on actually going to the manor, but their phones were lighting up with messages and the hotel was not an option. The Manor was silent when they arrived. And it remained silent for most of their stay.
Dick had apparently set himself a mission of making them feel at home, whatever that meant, and was nowhere to be seen. He seemed like the only one actually happy to have them join the ragtag family so without him it was likely the others were just avoiding them. That was fine, really, Alfred set them up with a movie and ice cream that they used to ignore everything else.
Dick was their saving grace and the bane of their existence. When he came back he had apparently made the decision they would be staying at the manor for the rest of the trip, despite it only meant to be a few more days(it wasn't for them but he didn’t know that yet). Alfred had apparently told him what happened and he had brought it upon himself to bring their friends, actual friends not classmates to the manor. This was a blessing and a curse as all they seemed to want to do was fill them in on what had happened.
They listened and ate ice cream together. And yeah Marion kind of wished he could have seen Lila as every lie was torn down but Chloe rejoiced in relaying her reactions with great detail. She had of course tried to lie and turn it all on the twins, them trying to frame her. However, with blood running down Alya's arm that warranted a trip to the hospital it was met with a cold shoulder. Their talk eventually morphed into laughing at all her outlandish lies, which Chloe gladly compiled into a list to share with the rest of the class, ranking them in order of their stupidity. She planned to go through the whole list on the plane ride back where there would be no escape for anyone. It was fun in a way, and if Marion noticed more than one pair of eyes spying in on the conversation he wasn’t going to point it out. Lila was yet to face her dues.
When their friends had to go back to the hotel they promised not to give anything away. Alfred gratefully let them skip over dinner and Dick was overjoyed to show them to their rooms. Marion kind of wanted to laugh when he was shown his, wondering how much of it was Dick, how much was Bruce, and what was Alfred.
There were cat plushies everywhere which he had to guess was Bruce latching onto the detail from the fair and indeed Dough boy is sitting front and center on his bed. Then again wherever he was over he did spend a lot of time with Catfred. It could also be Dick taking note of that because really everything has cats on it. There's blankets, pillows, a rug with kittens over it. There was an armchair shaped like a cat head, and where had they even found that? It only got worse the further he went into the room noticing that the curtains had been replaced to have cats on them and there were pictures of cats hanging on the wall, the lamps in the room even cast shadows of cats. The only thing he could find that wasn't cat-related was a picture of them with Bruce at the fair, each sporting a plushie with Bruce holding a cutesy Batman plush between the grinning twins.
“Nette my defining trait isn’t cats is it?” He walks into her room through the joining door he was willing to bet didn’t exist a week ago. His side, of course, had a cat painted on it, he closes it just so he has less exposure to all the cats.
“Course not,” Marinette grins from her sewing machine.
She had a more, let's say subdued room. Oh sure Bruce had apparently found her all the Ladybug plushies he could but they apparently didn't have the same abundance as cats. Instead, he seemed to have focused on her sewing kit. Mannequins littered about her room that Marinette had already started pinning fabric to. Half of her walk-in closet was dedicated to spools of fabric, the other stocked with clothes. Marion didn’t dare brave his own knowing he would find only cats .
“Did you notice the dollhouse?” Marinette asks as Marion flops onto her bed, at least you could actually see her bed and it wasn't hidden by a pile of cats.
“Yeah mine was stocked with camembert and sugar cubes,” and it had personalized rooms for both Kaalki and Plagg that they were happily exploring.
“Mine cookies,” Marinette hums, more concerned with her design than the topic at hand, “Think we got found out,”
“Probably, whoever it is hasn't said anything tho,” Marion looks over at the large dollhouse in Marinette's room, Tikki waved at him from a window and he waved back.
“Probably Alfred,”
“Probably, that mans a witch,”
“A Witch?”
“I know what I said,” Marion sighs, sealing himself to go back into the cat infestation. How do you politely say ‘thank you so much but what the fuck?’
He knew he had to brave the closet sometime as someone had been so kind as to put away his clothes. Sure enough, it was as bad as he had imagined. Everything from t-shirts with cartoon cats to clothes carefully crafted to have cat ears. I was actually kind of amazing at this point. Giving up his conquest to find his actual pj’s he buttons up a two-piece that is, naturally, covered with cats.
On his way out he notices a bit of black at the very front of the closet not fitting in with the color-coded organization. He pulls it out to find a gorgeous leather jacket that was completely devoid of cats! Huzzah! There was a note hanging from the sleeve which Marion unfolded.
Knew Bruce and Dick would be idiots so I got you something actually decent
I saw the room and yeah it's a fucken mess
If you ever need it gone or I don’t know accidentally set on fire give me a call
Marion chuckles knowing it could be no one else but Jason he tucks the note into the jacket, pulling it on to find a perfect fit. He keeps it on as a shield, something solidly not-cat is comforting at this point. He pushes the piles of cat toys onto the floor and seriously he was going to have to have a talk with Bruce about moderation and interior decorating. He lies down looking up at the ceiling, then immediately getting up and storming into Nette’s room. He was not going to sleep under a mural of cats! Nope not tonight! Not ever!
Marinette doesn't even look up from where she’s hunched over her desk as he flops onto her bed. Can someone be over the moon to be surrounded by ladybugs? Yes provided they have had an overexposure to cats first.
“I know we don’t want to go to school tomorrow but I can not stand a second more in that room,”
“Schools over Mari, it’s the concert tomorrow remember?”
“Goddammit,”
“Jasons having a bad influence on you,”
“Can’t we have just one day of rest?”
“No, now go to sleep,”
“You first,” Marion shoots, back despite curling up under the blankets.
“If you want to wear that jacket tomorrow you better take it off before it gets ruined,”
“I can wear it for the concert?” He shoots back up, excited but takes her advice anyway.
“ No I did not spend weeks designing a new jacket for you to wear that,” Besides it doesn't even have bats on the back,”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Marion yawns, sinking back into the bed, and wow it’s really soft, “What if we changed them to Robins?”
“... you really don’t want me to sleep tonight do you?”
“Means I get the whole bed to myself, a master plan if I do say so myself,” Marion doesn't even stir as the pillow hits him square in the face.
----------------------
Taglist:
@technicallyburninggarden @fusser90 @misslenamooney @superbwhispersconnoisseur @biodad-bruce-month @nalu-ismyjam @the-one-woman-army @rosesandsailboats @blackmagicforever @zeneralla @ivymala07 @tired-butterfly @Ranger-gothamite @A-star-with-a-human-name @enchanted-nerd @trippingovermyfeet
#miraculous#miraculous ladybug fic#miraculous ladybug#ml fic#ml#Bio Dad Bruce Wayne Month 2020#bio dad bruce wayne#Mismatch#marinette is mdc#twins au#vigilante au#pop star au#bio dad au#bio! dadbrucewaynemonth2020#b!dbwm2020#mlb#salt#Slight salt#lila lies#lila salt#class trip#class trip au#class salt
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@arsenic-creator THIS IS THE CHEESIEST THING I'VE EVER WRITTEN BUT HERE'S YOUR CARS AU MALEC FIC.
(Rated T for language).
----
There are a lot of things that Alec misses about life outside this shitty little town, even though he’s only been here for a few days: his family, his friends, his cell phone— he could go on for a while. Hell, he even misses Aldertree’s incessant bragging at this point, which is a little concerning, because the man is a menace and just generally unpleasant to be around. The fact that Alec has not had a very public fistfight with him yet is a goddamn miracle.
But— he’s getting distracted. The point is, there are a lot of things on that list.
So, it’s genuinely impressive when Simon shows up and rambles for long enough that all Alec really misses now is some peace and quiet, because Simon does not know when to shut up, oh my god—
“What happens if you get pulled over on the road and you don’t have your license on you? Do the cops just let you go? I mean, you are a world famous racer, so it would be assumed that you know how to drive, right?” he pesters, “Or do you still get in trouble?”
Alec groans. He’s been dealing with this for the better part of an hour now, and throwing himself into a nearby cactus plant has never seemed more appealing. Simon, ruiner of lives and seemingly oblivious to Alec’s current temperament, barrels on steadily in his rant about cops and racers until they approach the main part of the plaza, where he suddenly pauses and grins.
Dread claws its way up Alec’s shoulders. Simon grinning like that can only bring bad things.
“So,” the kid drawls, “Where are you staying tonight? Anywhere special? In the spare bedroom of a local attorney, by the name of Magnus Bane, perhaps?”
Scratch that: Alec’s going to throw Simon into a nearby cactus plant, and he won’t even feel a little bit guilty. He could make it look like an accident and everything.
“Fuck off, Simon,” he scowls. He tries increasing his pace to ditch the kid, but Simon is nothing if not persistent. “Don’t you have anything else to be doing right now?”
“Nope.” Simon pops the word in his mouth, grin growing even wider. “You like him. Like, like-like him!” he declares, leaning in closer. “If it helps, I think he likes you, too.”
“Are we fifth graders now? Is that what’s happening?” Alec pointedly ignores the blush threatening to take over his face, and glowers down at the brunette. “Besides, he’s just being nice. It doesn’t have to mean something.” He’d meant to sound firm and sure when he said it, but his voice tapers off and gets soft instead, and now Alec is considering committing multiple misdemeanors if it means he’ll get out of this conversation. Simon shoots him a knowing look.
“But you want it to mean something,” he observes. Alec rolls his eyes, not bothering to grace the statement with a response. Simon takes it as an open invitation to start singing a very loud and terrible rendition of a song about Alec and Magnus sitting in a tree, and it’s enough for Alec to give in and violently shove the other.
Unfortunately, Simon does not hit any of the cacti nearby.
God, Alec hates this town.
---
The thing about Magnus Bane is that, well—
The man is fucking beautiful. Like, holy-shit-Alec-can't-breathe-around-him beautiful, with golden skin and kohl-lined eyes and dark hair and a jawline that Alec would love to get up close and personal with.
The first time they’d met, Alec made a complete ass out of himself by stumbling all over his words in court and then had gotten himself stuck doing community service, largely because of Magnus, for the god-forsaken town he’d managed to land himself in.
(Look, it’s not his fault that he somehow managed to destroy the town’s main road after veering wildly off course and out of control on his way to Brooklyn, okay? These things happen.)
It had kind of been all downhill from there.
But now, somehow, he’s lying in Magnus’s spare bedroom and watching the sunlight as it touches everything in the room with its golden glow, illuminating the walls, the potted plants, the shelves, the man leaning against the doorway—
“Holy shit!”
Alec scrambles to sit up in bed, frantically pulling up the sheets to his bare chest, as Magnus laughs. “Magnus!” Alec squeaks. “I, um, what’re you doing here?”
Magnus grins, rounding the corner of the bed to place a tray in front of Alec. “I thought I’d bring you breakfast,” he says, “before I asked you if you wanted to go for a drive.”
Alec frowns. “A drive?”
“A drive,” Magnus repeats, shrugging a shoulder. “I wanted to show you something, and took the liberty of filling your car up with gas again.”
“Wha— Why? You don’t think I’ll try leaving town again?” The only reason Alec hadn’t been able to leave when he first tried had been the lack of fuel in his tank, so he’s genuinely confused as to why Magnus decided to change that.
“I don’t know, will you?” the other asks. He tilts his head, looking gentle and blurred in his robe and smiling softly, something warm cradled in his eyes, and Alec knows with sudden certainty that he won’t. He might’ve said yes a few days ago, but now?
“No,” he replies. “I won’t.”
“That’s that, then,” Magnus beams, and Alec can’t help beaming back a little stupidly. “I trust you. Now, finish up, Alexander. We’ve got daylight to catch.”
---
“Where do you want me to go?”
They’re both sitting in Alec’s car, windows rolled down, on an old road leading away from the interstate. It’s beautiful out here— green trees circling a little lake tucked in between the rocks and dirt— but Alec has a feeling it’s not what Magnus wanted to show him.
“Just follow the path,” Magnus instructs, unbuckling his seatbelt. He turns to Alec and winks, before hoisting himself so that he’s sitting halfway out of the window, laughing at Alec’s surprised yelp and swerve of the car. “Careful there, hotshot!” he giggles, then leans further out like he’s got a fucking death wish, closing his eyes against the wind.
“Are you insane?” Alec yells out, and Magnus laughs harder.
“All the best people are, darling!” he responds. “I’ll be just peachy. Just keep going, we’re about to get to my favorite part!”
Alec’s about to yell out again, probably something like you have a favorite part of almost dying? or I think I’m halfway in love with you as they pass through a rocky tunnel, but before he can say either, his breath catches at the sight in front of him.
A huge, sparkling waterfall cascades down from the mountains, overlooking the rocky canyon and trees below it, framing the bridge that hangs in between. It almost doesn’t look real, more like something out of a corny road trip movie or a documentary, and Alec slows down as they approach it, taking it in. Magnus grins as they pass by, leaning out to catch errant drops of water on his fingertips, and God, it’s such a cliché and cheesy thing to do, and Alec wants to kiss him straight on his stupid mouth.
“I bet you don’t see that out in the city,” Magnus says smugly, tucking himself back into the car. He glances back at Alec with a smirk on his lips, running a hand through his wind-mussed hair. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”
“Yeah,” Alec breathes, staring at Magnus’s flushed cheeks and bright eyes. “It really is.”
(Fuck, now he’s the one being cliché. Izzy’s going to find out about this somehow and laugh at him forever.)
“Right.” Magnus clears his throat, looking away, jarring Alec back to reality. “We’re almost there, just pull up at the sign there,” he continues, pointing to a clearing ahead.
Alec coughs, nodding. “Right. Yes. The sign.”
The sign in question is a small landmark that points to a dilapidated, out-of-place building hidden between the rock of the mountain. “The Hotel Dumont,” the front reads, paint chipped away at the edges of the letters. The building looks Victorian in design, with intricate arches decorating the front, though many of them are cracked and gray now, and there’s a large open courtyard area in the front that appears abandoned now. It must’ve been beautiful, once. Now, it carries only echoes of a world passed.
“What is this place?” Alec asks. Magnus shakes his head and exits the car, then stands and stares at the sign for a while when Alec joins him.
“This used to be their livelihood,” he finally says, “The Hotel Dumont. Raphael used to run it, and everyone else would pitch in. You wouldn’t believe what it looked like earlier: parties in the main hall, music playing in the foyer, people laughing. It kept them going.”
“What happened?”
Magnus smiles wistfully. “A famous racer by the name of Valentine dropped a particularly scathing review of the hotel after Raphael caught him harassing customers and kicked him out. Had enough influence and lawyers to destroy all of this place’s credibility. These days, everyone’s barely getting by. It’s why they took so long to warm up to you; you essentially represent everything that ruined them.”
That’s horrible, Alec wants to say, but instead he looks over at Magnus and notes his glittering makeup and golden rings and silk tunic and blurts out, “Then how did you end up here?” and immediately winces.
It’s a valid question, technically— Magnus obviously wasn’t one of the town’s original residents, if his extravagant nature and the way he discusses the hotel are any indication— but still. Alec could’ve been gentler about it.
“I was an attorney in L.A, actually,” Magnus sighs. “It was good, I suppose, and money was never an issue, but I don’t think I was happy.” He shuffles closer to Alec as they idle in front of the building, brushing their shoulders together. “Got myself horribly drunk one night and made a whole plan to run away and leave the city behind. I woke up the next day, saw the plans, decided I might as well, and just started driving until my car finally broke down here.”
They’re silent for a moment, and Alec reaches out to touch his fingertips to Magnus’s comfortingly. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I can’t imagine what that must’ve felt like.”
Magnus turns to face him completely then, looking up at him knowingly. “Can’t you?” he asks. He takes Alec’s palms in his own and holds their hands between them. “Are you happy out there, Alexander?”
Alec blinks, startled. “Of course I am,” he protests automatically, because why wouldn’t he be? He’s rich, he’s famous, he’s doing what he loves; it’s all perfect. And yet—
He thinks about the constant pressure from his family and fans to be perfect and flashy and smiling all the time. He thinks back to his mother’s desperate attempts to hide his sexuality from the media, setting him up for meeting after meeting with beautiful women. He thinks about the façade he’s made for himself against the person he is right now, standing here with Magnus, and realizes that they’ve never been the same.
“I don’t know,” he finally admits. “I— I’m not sure.”
Magnus hums. He looks back at the hotel, Alec’s hands still clutched in his own. “You don’t have to leave, you know. You could stay here,” he says.
Alec surveys the landscape, then the man in front of him. “Yeah,” he agrees, “I think I could.”
---
He never gets to find out, because the next day it all goes to hell: Maryse Lightwood descends on the town, armed with a fleet of reporters and a truck waiting to take Alec away.
“We’re going now, Alec,” she demands. “Say goodbye to your ‘friends’ if you need to, and then we’re leaving.” She glances warily over at Magnus, who’s holding Alec’s hand, and frowns before she turns on her heel and walks away.
“So,” Magnus says flatly, “It appears you’re finally getting to that race.”
Alec wants to scream. He hates this, hates that this is how it’s going to end, before it’s even truly begun. If he just had more time—
“Magnus, I wanted to—” he starts, “I wish we—” He exhales, running a hand through his hair exasperatedly, and Magnus smiles.
“It’s alright, Alexander. Just stay in touch, okay?” He pats Alec’s shoulder. “Go on, darling. I don’t think your mother would appreciate me keeping you any longer than I already have.”
Alec hesitates a moment more, wanting to do something, anything, to make this different, but then he swallows and steps away.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “I’ll, I’ll call you.”
(It won’t change anything: his life will be exactly the same as it was before. Just one phone call added onto the routine. They both know this is goodbye to whatever they could be.)
Still, Magnus squeezes his fingers and keeps smiling. “I’ll be waiting, Alexander,” he says.
“Sure,” Alec replies uselessly.
So he’s here now, weeks later, sitting on the stands and supposedly getting ready for a race that he doesn’t have heart in anymore.
Honestly, fuck this race. They all go the same way: he’ll race, he’ll win or lose, he’ll pose with some model for a newspaper, and that’ll be it. It used to be enough for him, once.
“Alec?” a voice interrupts, “You okay?”
It’s Izzy, crackling through the comms piece in his ear. Alec clears his throat. “Yeah,” he replies, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as brittle over the mic as it feels, “I’m fine.”
He’ll swallow his emotions and make it enough, again.
“Alright,” Izzy concedes, but she sounds disbelieving, “If you say so. It’s almost time, you might want to head to the car soon, okay?”
Alec hums in the affirmative, heading down to the track, paparazzi trying their best to bombard him. He takes a deep breath, avoiding the cameras, and opens the driver's side door of the car.
He’ll call Magnus after this. It’ll be enough.
Alec ducks under the roof of the vehicle. “Hey, Izzy?” he calls, seating himself behind the wheel. “If I win, remind me to call Magnus, okay?”
“I’m afraid that would be a little redundant, darling,” a new voice replies, and Alec’s heart skips a beat. “Given that you’ll be talking to me already.”
Magnus.
“Magnus?” Alec fucking leaps out of his car, searching frantically around the pit for the man in his ear. A warm laugh floods the comms, and Alec feverishly pushes past cameramen and well-meaning assistants (who are trying to remind him that he really should be in his car right now) in his desperation, only to turn around and:
It’s him. It’s really him, smiling warmly at Alec with his gorgeous brown eyes, wearing black eyeliner to match the Lightwood tracksuit he’s wearing, and Alec missed him so much, oh god, he’s really here—
“Magnus,” he breathes, then he’s throwing his helmet down and closing the distance between them and pulling at Magnus’s lapels, up, up, up, and straight to his own mouth.
He’s kissing him.
Magnus is gripping onto his face too tightly and Alec is clacking their teeth together too harshly, but it’s Magnus, and it’s perfect, and Alec is kissing him, and he could lose every race from this moment on and still feel like he’s on top of the world if it means he’ll get to have this.
“You came,” he whispers when they finally pull apart. Magnus cups his face, stealing another kiss, before he responds.
“Of course I did. Honestly, I’m offended you didn’t ask for me to show up here, yourself,” he teases, and Alec grins bashfully.
“I didn’t think you’d want to,” he replies. Magnus rolls his eyes before pressing their foreheads together.
“Well, darling, we better change that soon, hm?” He twirls his fingers at the nape of Alec’s neck, and time feels like it's perfect and frozen forever in this moment, until Magnus clears his throat.
“I hate to interrupt this, Alexander, but there’s a race and a very excited group of reporters waiting for you, and you should probably get back to both. Unless, of course, you’re not planning to participate?”
Alec snorts and pulls away, loosening his grip around Magnus’s waist. “I plan on participating, Magnus,” he says. “I have a very special someone I’d like to dedicate the trophy to, if they’re open to the idea.”
Magnus grins. “Mmm, you’d have to win, first, wouldn’t you?” he winks, and Alec smirks back.
“For you?” he replies. “I’d do nothing less.”
Alec knows that he’s going to have an absolute media shitstorm waiting for him after he ends this race. But, looking back at a beaming Magnus as he picks his helmet up, he thinks it just might be worth it.
God, Alec loves that town. He's not sure why he ever thought otherwise.
#my writing#fic#malec fic#malec#magnus bane#alec lightwood#cars#this is a fucking cars au#im not even ashamed#simon lewis#Simon is MATER lmao#shadowhunters#life is a highway blares in the background
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Dressed to Impress - Henry Cavill x Female Reader
So... I have no motivation to write a new fic or even make an original post, so to keep things moving, I’m just gonna a fic I already published. It’s on AO3, so I might as well just put this whole thing here.
Word Count: 4,697
Rating: Explicit
CW: Wall Sex, Possessive Henry
A slow night at a charity dinner means Henry’s attention would rather be all on you - and that dress you chose to wear is making it easy to focus solely on you. All he can do it wait until you two get home to start doing what he fantasized at dinner. And he certainly delivers.
Let’s get reading!
You crossed your legs in your chair, trying to listen attentively to the speaker drone on from a podium on stage. The charity dinner you and Henry had been invited to was fine until people started giving their speeches. At least the food had been good, and you still had some bread to nibble on and a glass of champagne to sip. You just assumed Henry was as bored as you were.
Henry was definitely bored with the speaker, but he had found something else to focus on. Your movement to cross your legs caught his attention, and his eyes went right to your thigh. The slit in the skirt of your dress opened up more when you moved, and your leg looked lovely framed in fabric. Henry shook some thoughts out of his head. He turned his gaze back to the stage and began to clap when everyone else did. Someone else walked on stage and to the podium and began their speech. Henry let out a sigh and adjusted his suit jacket as he realized this evening would be longer than anticipated.
More people were brought on stage to speak, and other people were acknowledged with applause or a toast. Henry’s eyes went to you each time you moved. If you touched your hair, he eyed your neck, which was being tickled by your sparkly earrings. He watched you attentively as you reapplied lipstick periodically, wishing he could lean over and smear it over your lips with his own. You, however, didn’t notice that Henry’s eyes spent more time on you than the presentations. You thought about your jewelry and the floral centerpieces on the tables and that fact that you and Henry were probably the youngest couple in the room. Or maybe not. You looked across the room and you were pretty sure you saw someone you recognized. But the room was dark. You’d have to look when the dinner was over.
Henry tried to listen, but you were so much more entertaining. He tried to remember how you two entered and if there was a back hallway or spare closet that he could pull you into once this was done. He could just kiss you silly. He wanted those tights you were wearing off so he could see your bare legs. He wanted to cover your vulnerable neck in red and purple hickies. At the memory of other men eyeing you when you first entered, Henry gritted his teeth. A few nice marks on your neck would let everyone know you were taken and well taken care of. If only…
You shifted again, this time leaning down to adjust your high heel. You really should have taken some time to break in the new heels before the event, but at least you were sitting down now. Better try them out now than at a red carpet event with lots of standing. Henry’s eyes went to you, and he noticed every single detail. As you leaned forward and down, your dress rode up a little farther and Henry got a glimpse of the wonderfully thick part of the top of your thigh. He so badly wanted to reach over and squeeze it, then slide his hand up your skirt and feel what panties you were wearing. He assumed you were wearing a matching bra and panties set, probably the lacy black one that was one of your favorites, but you could have on the pink set with embroidered flowers you just got. Oh, or that bright blue set that was almost all mesh. That would be amazing. Then Henry’s eyes went to your chest for, as you bent over, your breasts spilled forward and nearly out of the dress. Oh fuck. Henry had to hold in a groan as he shifted to sit more comfortably with a hard-on growing in his pants. The way your breasts fell and your bare back which was exposed by the dress made him know you had no bra on. It was just panties and tights. Of course, people had looked at you - how could they not? Henry could so easily lift you up, set you on the table, and fuck you long and hard. He could reach over and run his fingers over you and play with you, but he never would out in front of everyone. He could pull you into the bathroom once everything was over and have a nice quickie, but getting in and out without being noticed would be nearly impossible. He would have to wait until you both got out to the car. There, he could get you in the back seat for some action. Henry felt himself get warmer under this jacket and in his pants as he imagined you flushed and moaning with your dress pushed up in the back of his car. He wanted that dress off. What if you wore that dress on purpose just to rile him up? Well, it was certainly working. Henry let out a small grunt and shifted in his chair again, trying to ignore you so he wouldn’t be fully erecting during a charity event.
“Henry?” You looked over to him and put your hand on his knee. You had sat up after deciding to just take your shoes off. “Are you feeling alright?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” The feeling of your hand on his leg went right to Henry’s pants.
“Are you sure?” You were genuinely worried as to why Henry was acting so strangely all of a sudden.
“I’m just a little warm.”
“There’s still some water. And maybe you should take your jacket off.”
Henry put his hand on yours. “I’m fine, babe.”
You gave Henry a sweet smile before removing your hand and turning your attention back to the stage. Henry subtly adjusted his pants, frustrated that you could be so cute and sexy at the same time without even knowing what you’re putting him through.
The rest of the evening was as dry as the start, and it took Henry even more energy not to just stare at you the entire time. Each time you took a sip of champagne, all he could wish was that your lips were around his cock instead of the rim of the glass. He wanted your legs on his shoulders, your panties dangling off your ankle, your neck and breasts decorated with his marks. Applause snapped Henry out of his daydream once again, and he noticed a few people standing up as they clapped. The lights in the dining room went from dim to bright.
“That speech was well done, but I didn’t understand that part in the middle,” you commented as you took a bite of bread and gathered up your clutch. “Did you get it?”
“No, no I didn’t.” Henry did his best to compose himself. He stood and put his hand out to help you up from your chair just in time to watch you lean over to slip your shoes back on, your breasts once again nearly spilling out of the top of your dress. Henry ripped his eyes away so he wouldn’t go completely hard right away. You saw Henry’s hand being held out to you and took it and stood.
“Thank you.” You smoothed out your dress and looked to Henry. “I think that I saw someone you worked with on The Witcher. We should go over and say hi.”
“That’s fine. We can just go home.”
You put your arm in his as you two began to walk away from the table. “What? You don’t want to chat for a while? I thought you got along with everyone on set?”
“We… we don’t need to spend time just talking. It’s getting late anyway.”
You walked arm in arm with Henry towards the exit of the venue. “Are you sure you’re feeling well? You’re looking a little flushed, too.”
“Once I get some fresh air and some sleep, I’ll be alright.”
You two stood outside for a moment as the valet retrieved Henry’s car. You realized that it wasn’t that late in the evening, though the stars were out. Henry just stared ahead, watching some other people get into their cars and drive off. You looked around at the people waiting near you, a little shiver going through your shoulders as the night air nipped at you. Henry didn’t flinch. You started to regret not bringing even a light jacket to wear over your dress, especially considering how much skin you were showing.
Before long, Henry’s car was brought up, and Henry was given the keys. He led you around to the passenger’s door and opened it for you, holding your hand to help you get inside. He went around to the driver’s side and hopped in. He started to drive out of the driveway without a word. You pulled out your phone and answered a few texts and checked your email. Henry remained silent, eyes focused solely on the road.
“The salmon I had was really good,” you said to break the silence. “How was your pork?”
Henry’s eyes remain trained on the road. “It was fine.”
You nodded. “I wonder if the soup was any good. Italian wedding, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, I think.”
You watched Henry for a moment. He only moved when he needed to check the road at an intersection. Maybe you had done or said something. Maybe he was mad. Maybe he really didn’t want to attend the dinner but felt obligated because you were excited about getting dressed up and going. You just sat back in your seat and played a game on your phone as you and Henry rode home in silence.
Henry pulled into the garage and parked the car. He hopped out of the car as you gathered up your dress and he helped you out. You both walked into the house and were greeted by a very excited Kal.
“Hi, Puppy!” You reached down and gave Kal lots of scratches behind the ears as he danced at your feet. “Watch the dress, watch the dress.”
“Hey, Kal. Miss us?” Henry gave Kal a big smile and some scratched before the dog went back to chewing on a toy. He seemed to be on the sleepy side.
Both of you went upstairs to the master bedroom, Henry leaving his shoes at the door. You sighed as you entered the room and sat down on the bed to take your shoes off. You reached up the skirt of your dress and pulled off your tights one leg at a time and tossed them to the side. Henry had gone to his dresser and removed his suit jacket, hanging it up in the closet. As he unbuttoned his shirt, Henry looked over to you just in time to see your tights come off, the cut in your dress exposing your bare legs. That was the final straw.
You stood and took a few steps towards Henry and turned around. “Could you unzip my dress?”
Henry took a breath before walking over to you. “Certainly.”
You pushed the little hairs on the nape of your neck out of the way as Henry held the zipper head and began to undo the zip. As the dress started to come loose, you used your other hand to hold the top up. Henry knew you didn’t have a bra on, and he hoped the zipper went down far enough that he would be able to see the panties you were wearing, but the zipper stopped short. You felt your dress go completely slack, so you shook your shoulders and pulled your arms out of the straps, still trying to keep the dress up until you could grab your robe. Fingers of rough hands caressed your now bare sides. Eventually, palms met your skin and full hands held your waist. They began to turn you around, and your eyes met Henry’s as he stepped to the side to meet you, hands still on your waist. One hand went from your waist to just under your chin.
“Henry?”
Soft, gentle lips met yours and you melted into Henry’s kiss. Henry kissed you again, slipping his tongue over your lips and into your mouth. Your hands went to Henry’s shoulders, letting your dress fall to the ground. Both of Henry’s hands were now on your waist, and he pulled you in close, continuing to kiss you. He started getting rough, kissing you harder and holding you tighter. You turned your face to break the kiss just for a moment.
“Henry, are we-”
“Yes.”
In one smooth movement, Henry looped his thumbs under your panties - the bright blue ones - and pulled them off of you, letting them fall to your ankles. You gasped and Henry locked his lips to yours again. He closed any space that was still between your bodies, his muscular torso flush with your soft one. You could feel the hard-on in his pants against your lower belly. You felt yourself starting to melt when Henry broke the kiss.
“Hold on, babe.”
“Huh? Oh!”
Henry bent down, put his hands on the back of your legs, and lifted you up so each of your legs was on his hips. You clung onto Henry’s shoulders as your feet came off the ground. His lips went back to yours as he turned and put you against the closest wall. He got rough again, and your pussy started leaving a wet patch on Henry’s dress pants. You whimpered. That was enough of a cue for Henry to start biting and sucking away at your neck and as close to your collarbone as he could. You moaned when Henry latched on hard and sucked right behind your ear. You were sure you’d be decorated with red and purple marks tomorrow morning, but that was the last thing on your mind. Henry shifted your weight so you rested on one of his hips and the opposite hand. You wrapped your legs around his waist to keep your balance. You felt his hand grip your thigh hard and the other fiddle with his belt. Henry’s pants went slack and his cock pressed against your wet folds. Before you had time to prepare yourself, Henry lowered you down to his hilt. You gasped and dug your nails into Henry’s back as he pressed you harder into the wall, groaning low in his throat. He bounced you up once to get comfortable before starting to thrust into you at a rough rhythm. You squeezed your eyes shut and linked your ankles behind Henry’s back to keep yourself secure. A little squeak or moan escaped your throat each time Henry thrusted into you, whether it was him pushing up or bouncing you with his arms. It was slower than usual, but a whole lot harder and more frustrated.
“Henry! Henry!” you moaned as Henry kept working your neck with his mouth. He stopped more often to take deep, hoarse breaths between thrusts into your pussy. You opened your eyes for a moment and saw the reflection of Henry’s back in the body mirror on the other side of the room. Only a little more than half of him was visible, but you clearly saw his back muscles ripple when he repositioned you. His thighs and buttocks tensed under his dress pants with each thrust. Not a muscle on him went slack for more than a second as he held up and fucked you hard. You let out another moan and let your perfectly manicured nails drag more red stripes across Henry’s broad shoulders. “What’s gotten into you?”
“That… stupid dress...” Henry grumbled against your neck, driving his fingers into your thighs even further.
“My… dress?” you questioned, mind only half in the conversation.
“You… wore that fucking dress…” Henry spat out through gritted teeth, “and expect me not… to fuck you senseless?”
Henry slammed into you hard, pushing you against the wall. You cried out.
“I just thought that you- oh!”
Henry slammed in again. “Everyone stared at you with your legs and tits out.” Henry’s voice got deep and gruff. “You distracted me the whole fucking night.”
His words stung just a little. You picked that dress just for Henry, but now it seemed like he didn’t like you in it. Yeah, it was a little more revealing, but it was still appropriate for the event.
“I’m sorry Henry,” you whimpered. “I won’t wear it again...”
Henry’s thrusting slowed to a stop. His lips released from your neck and his eyes met yours. His face was soft and confused. “What?”
“I… I’m sorry about the dress. I shouldn’t have worn it.”
Henry furrowed his brow. “What are you talking about? (Y/n), you looked great!”
You felt a lump forming in your throat. “You said it was s-stupid and a distraction. Your stylist helped pick it and- and- I thought you’d like it…”
“Oh, sweetheart…” Henry’s face went soft again. “I just got a little caught up in the moment. You looked beautiful. I loved the dress.”
“I wasn’t trying to distract you. I know it was a little low cut but…”
“Baby… I know you weren’t. You’re allowed to wear whatever you want.” Henry tilted his head to one side and smiled. “If I had it my way, baby, you’d be in just those little panties of yours all day. And when my evening consists of choosing between staring at some old guy giving a long-winded speech or the most wonderful, beautiful, gorgeous woman in the whole world wearing something that shows her body off so much, I think you know which I’m going to choose.”
You smiled as Henry closed the distance between your lips. He pressed you a little more into the wall so he could get a nice, deep kiss. After a moment, Henry drew his lips from yours. “You’re going to hold onto that dress because I’m planning on showing you off some more. I’m gonna talk to my stylist to see if we can get a few more like it, too.”
You giggled as Henry started working his magic on your collarbone and going into you at slow, deep thrusts. You let out a deep sigh and ran one hand through Henry’s curls. That wonderful warm and tight feeling started forming in your lower belly and pussy. You curled your toes and you tilted your head back against the wall.
Henry’s breath hitched once and his steady pace faltered. He started going again, but struggled to keep up with his pace. He grunted and groaned and gripped your thighs hard.
“Oh… ah, fuck…” Henry’s lips were slack against your skin as he came inside of you, making sure here was buried completely in your pussy. His hips jerked into you a few times with a few more grunts before Henry’s body eased and he took heavy breaths into your shoulder.
“Henry…” you breathed, and Henry looked up to you. You were disappointed that you didn’t quite get to finish. “That was good.”
Henry’s eyes met yours. “Oh, I’m not done with you.” Henry put his lips to yours, sliding his tongue over your lips and into your mouth. Holding you tight, he stepped away from the wall and took some wobbly steps to the bed. You kept your body pressed against Henry’s as he put one knee onto the bed. He leaned forward and you let yourself ease back onto the pillows as Henry moved to stand up again. Henry’s cock slipped out of you and a dollop of cum came with it, dripping down your thigh and into the sheets of the unmade bed. Henry stood at the side of the bed and shimmied out of his dress pants and let them fall into a heap on the floor. He smiled at you as he crawled back onto the bed, not fully nude. As he made his way to be on top of you and put his lips to yours, Henry’s hand went down to your clit and rubbed it with his middle two fingers.
“Oh Henry!” you gasped, feeling the warmth and tightening return. Henry’s lips went from your lips, to your jawbone, down your neck, and to your breasts. He lefts kisses on one before starting to suck with more purpose. He spent more time on the fullest part of your breast, leaving little remarks as he moved his lips. He continued to rub circles on your clit as more of his cum leaked out of your clenching pussy.
“Yes, Henry! Yes!” You ran your hands through Henry’s hair again. An electric sensation shot through your body from your clit, and your legs began to shake. Your breathing became more desperate and Henry’s circling became faster, and after a few seconds, another shock came from your clit and your pussy squeezed hard as release finally came. Your legs shook for a moment as you yelled out. Henry’s pace tapered out and you could finally breathe. His lips released from your breasts and Henry looked at you.
“Was that good too?” he teased.
You chuckled and Henry gave you one more deep kiss with those lovely lips of his.
“Let me use the bathroom real quick,” you said. Henry rolled off of you, but let his fingers linger on your skin as you stood up from laying on the bed. Your legs quivered, but you managed to walk over to the bathroom and to close the door behind you. You let yourself nearly fall onto the toilet with a sigh. You took a moment to relieve yourself and rest your legs. While sitting, you reached over to the counter to get one of your birth control pills. It was more important now since Henry decided not to use protection tonight - but it wasn’t like you were mad about it. You finished on the toilet and went to wash your hands. You caught a look of yourself in the mirror.
“Oh dear…” You looked like shit; your lipstick was smudged, your eyeliner was starting to run, and one of your strip lashes was half falling off. You clearly saw all of the red marks that were darkening on your neck. At this point, it looked like there was more marred skin than not. Your hair, which was previously in a pinned updo, was now loose and falling to one side. But it wasn’t like Henry hadn’t messed you up on purpose since that was his favorite thing to do to you at the end of an evening. You took your earrings and necklace off and set them aside. You got some makeup remover and started to wipe everything off of your face. A shower was in line, but you weren’t in the mood to wash your hair. It could wait anyway. Getting your body clean was more important, so you opted for just taking your hair down and giving it a good comb through. Once your makeup was gone and your hair was tamed, you turned on the shower and hopped in. Your body wash was the first thing you reached for, and you washed your body down, focusing more on getting all of the drying fluids off of the insides of your thighs. You let out a sigh, letting the warm water take you away. A bubble bath would be amazing right now, but it was too late in the evening for that. Maybe you could convince Henry to have a relaxing evening in the jacuzzi with you tomorrow.
You got out of the shower with a yawn and dried yourself off. You threw your hair into a quick bun to get it out of your face before slipping your robe on. As you reentered the bedroom, you saw that the sheets on the bed had been made. Henry wasn’t in the room; he had probably gone to a guest bedroom to freshen up like you had. Keeping your silk robe on, you put your jewelry in the box on your vanity and made your way over to the bed. You climbed under the covers and got comfy. As you waited for Henry to return, you scrolled through Instagram on your phone, a few yawns escaping your mouth. You didn’t hear Henry sneak through the bedroom door and over to the bed. He crawled in and immediately wrapped his arms around you.
You smiled. “Hey, Hen.”
“Hello, sweetheart.” Henry’s bare chest went flush with your back. He put his lips on the nape of your neck and began to trail kisses up to your ear.
“Still excited?” you teased as you put your phone down.
“I just love having you in my arms.”
You turned to face Henry, putting one hand on the side of his face to guide his lips to yours. Henry pulled you in close and turned you on your side so you faced him. A hand guided your leg up to bend over Henry’s hip, and he carefully rubbed the juiciest part of your thigh. You kissed each other slowly, enjoying each other for a moment. You eventually moved your head to rest on Henry’s shoulder. He laid down on his back and you followed him.
“All of that was really great, y’know?” you said as you rubbed circles into Henry’s chest.
“Oh? You liked that?”
“Yeah… It was a little unexpected, but you were amazing.”
Henry put his lips against your head and smiled into a kiss. “How could I have resisted?”
You chuckled. There were a few minutes of silence as you and Henry just let your hands roam over each other’s skin.
“Henry,” you began, “can I ask you a kind of silly question?”
“Sure. What is it?”
“Well…” Maybe you shouldn’t have prompted this discussion. “You said that my dress was a distraction during the dinner. What all was… distracting you?”
“It was the way you looked in that wonderful dress.”
“I know that! I thought you looked very nice in your suit, too, but I wasn’t distracted from the presentation. I was just wondering what you were thinking.”
“First of all,” Henry began as he cuddled up closer to you, “there were your lovely legs in those shoes showing through that slit up your skirt.”
You nodded.
“Every time you crossed your legs, I could see up a little farther.”
You’d hadn’t thought about that when you had selected the dress for the evening.
“Your neck was so tempting with your hair pulled up, too. I wanted my lips on it so badly. What else?” Henry puckered his lips to the side in thought. “I was thinking about what bra you could be wearing when you took your shoes off. Your back was bare and your breasts nearly fell out of the front of your dress. No bra, huh?”
Your cheeks warmed up a little when Henry mentioned your potential wardrobe malfunction. Henry worked his way down and started kissing your neck.
“I started fantasizing about just bending you over the dinner table and taking you right there. I tried to remember every private corner we passed coming in so I could pull you over for something quick when we were on our way out.” Henry’s hand started to go under your robe. “If it wasn’t for the valet, I would have just pushed you into the back seat of the car and got under your dress there.”
“Oh really?”
“I was getting desperate, and my pants were getting tight.”
You let Henry turn you towards him, and you gladly let your lips meet his. Henry pulled the ribbon on your robe so it came loose as he climbed back on top of you. Your hands found their way back to Henry’s hair and he found his way between your legs.
“It took every ounce of my will power not to throw you over my shoulder as soon as we got home and toss you in bed so I could do as I pleased.” Henry let his half-hard cock press against the dampening skin of your vagina. “But here we are now, and you are all mine.”
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Will you please write headcanons for vampire!Sebastian?
Ahhh omg yes!! Love this idea!! Sorry this took so long, hope you enjoy!
❗️Warnings; mentions of blood
Masterlist
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Okay
So
Vampire!Sebastian looks pretty much the same as our normal demon, only I’d say his eyes are crimson more often than usual
OBVIOUSLY only out and about at night, but honestly he probably doesn’t sleep all that much during the day anyway
I feel like he’d be the type to hang about on street corners in the middle of central London when it’s really busy
Just imagine
It’s midnight, you’ve been out with your friends and just left to start walking back to your place (it’s only just around the corner)
You come across this really tall guy, wearing all black, heavy boots, leather jacket
Maybe a few ear piercings by now because he’s been on Earth for centuries and why not
Smoky, smouldering eyes with just a flash of blood reflecting off the irises
He inclines his head just a little as you approach, one ankle crossed over the other and shoulders leaning against the brick wall behind him
Onyx hair falling to frame his face, crossing over the bridge of his nose
His skin is deathly pale and he’s giving off an heir of someone who knows everything that you don’t
He also seems like someone who is very much in control
He offers you a smirk which widens into something of a knowing grin, stark white teeth glinting in the neon lights and are his canines a bit longer than the rest of his teeth?
I feel like vampire!Sebastian is very similar to his demon counterpart in that humans are incredibly interesting to him
I mean, obviously he’s out for blood, but I think he’d want to talk to the people he drinks from
Like he’s genuinely interested and curious, he wants to know more about humans
The concept of living for about a maximum of around 100 years is all but unfathomable to him so he wants to learn as much about them as possible in the time that they have
He’s the proud owner of some massive gothic manor somewhere
The whole place has a feel to it like it’s haunted
To be honest, it probably is
It’s surrounded by woodland, a little winding path leading up to it
Really, a horse and carriage look like they would be more at home here than a car
You can practically see people of times gone by living here, walking about
But you’re sure that’s just your overactive imagination
Right?
Mention it to Sebastian and all he’ll do is give you a knowing smirk and say something that’s not at all comforting for your steadily increasing heartbeat and the tremor wanting to set up in your hands
“Can you now?” or “How interesting...”
Just try and take a deep breath then carry on
With regards to his s/o, he would drink from them, but not enough to cause any sort of harm
And you would have to agree to it first, of course
He genuinely cares about you in more than just a ‘cornered lab rat’ kind of way, he doesn’t want to see you hurt
He especially doesn’t want to be the one hurting you
If you do agree to it and he appreciates you probably won’t. After all, you would need to have absolute trust in him; he’s so much stronger than you that you know you wouldn’t be able to push him away if you needed to. Not to mention, your life is now entirely in his hands
He reassures you he would never hurt you one more time, then slowly leans in, giving you time to stop him if you change your mind
When he does finally bite you, a hand curled around the back of your neck for support and the other running gently across your shoulder, his teeth are so very sharp that they don’t really hurt as much as you were expecting
He glances up at you before he actively starts to drink, waiting for some nod or look of confirmation
If you give one, he actually drinks very little
This isn’t him feeding; given that you’re his s/o this is his own act of intimacy
It’s an open display of your absolute trust in him and he knows that
He’s in complete control at this moment in time, and perfectly capable of deciding you a better meal than partner and finishing the job
It’s only your faith in him saying he won’t
If anything, this just makes your bond stronger and allows you too to grow closer
You already trusted him, but now you trust him absolutely
Now
His coffin is one of the most impressive pieces of art you have ever seen
He got Undertaker to custom build it
It’s made of solid, polished mahogany, so dark it almost looks black in the moonlight
It’s lined in crimson velvet, something soft and padded underneath for maximum comfort
The lid has two golden handles and is so heavy that it almost takes supernatural strength to move it
When you see it, you’re utterly captivated
You ask if you can touch it, wanting to gently run your fingertips along the hard surface and see if it’s as smooth as it looks
If he trusts you enough, he might let you lay down in there with him
Now. If you’re someone who needs very few hours of sleep, hanging out with Sebastian at night probably isn’t that much of a problem
However if you do need a decent amount of sleep, you’ll probably have to change your routine quite dramatically so that your waking hours compliment his
Maybe you start taking night shifts or late afternoon/evening shifts so you can spend as much time with him as possible
The other thing to bear in mind about vampire!Sebastian is that he’s very protective of you
Like if someone upsets you it’s not you they’ll be dealing with
If you’re getting unwanted attention from someone, assuming it’s at night, one minute you’ll be alone, the next he’ll be walking up slowly behind you, eyes narrowed and everything about him radiating confidence and strength
“My love,” he murmurs lowly and voice ever so soft, a greeting and a warning in one
He gently winds an arm around your waist and stands beside you, fingers splayed and stretching from your hip to your bottom rib
“Is there a problem?” He asks you quietly, completely ignoring whoever was bothering you
If they say anything, they become silent very quickly after the look he shoots them, a simple glance of blood red eyes with fury raging behind them
Needless to say you don’t have any problems with that person any more
Finally, on the subject of turning you into a vampire, I honestly don’t think he would have any problems with it
He’s definitely not the tragic ‘I refuse to ruin your life just so you can be with me’ type
He’s loving the (after?)life, if you want to become a vampire he’s certainly not going to be the one to stop you
Plus if it means he gets some more permanent company, then so much the better
He would only do it if you wanted to though, even then only if you were absolutely sure
You would be connected to him by blood ties if he were to turn you, so it’s not something he does lightly, nor is it something he tries to dress up to convince you to do it
#sebastian michaelis#black butler#kuroshitsuji#black butler x reader#kuroshitsuji x reader#sebastian x reader#sebastian#sebastian michaelis x reader#black butler sebastian#black butler sebastian x reader#kuroshitsuji sebastian x reader#kuroshitsuji sebastian#anime#manga#black butler reader inserts#vampire#vampire x reader#vampire!sebastian#vampire!sebastian x reader
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First chapter of a fic I will likely never continue. Canon divergent. Unedited and riddled with typos. ~5k words.
Lexa straightens her posture as her horse halts just after the forest and at the first sign of civilization ahead. It huffs and hits the soil with one of its hoofs, expressing its disquiet. She shares the sentiment; Skaikru are very much an odd and unpredictable body in the grand scheme of things still.
The Sky clan had been at war with Trikru for over a decade since falling to earth, seeing as they had occupied Lexa's people's land,whrnh the Ice Nation offered them an alliance. Trikru yielded, aware that fighting both clans at once would be foolish. At the time, the Commander was from the Blue Cliff clan and no more than a religious figure, indifferent to the quells between clans. Lexa has changed that over the past few years — and is intent on continuing to do so.
"Heda." She turns her head only slightly to her right, just enough to be able to look at Gustus from the corner of her eye. "I do not have a good feeling about this."
"We both know that if it were up to you I would be locked up in the tower and never come out." She softens, regards her bodyguard fully. "You worry too much, Gustus. The Sky People will be a valuable asset for the Coalition."
"They think themselves superior just because they have guns and tech," he counters with distrust. "They are dishonourable in combat and gloat about it."
"The Coalition needs them," Lexa snaps, and that is the end of it. "And, hopefully, they need the Coalition, too."
Arkadia, capital of the Sky clan, is by all means an impressive sight, very different to anything Lexa has ever seen. Everything is metal and a heavy grey; from the wall protecting it to the pair of guard lookout towers, to the massive gates with the 'Arkadia' lettering on top. From her elevated position, Lexa can see a main building that rises slightly above the wall and takes up about a quarter of the whole area, and other smaller buildings sprinkled about the space left vacant by it. It is evident that while the Arkadians had no say on the positioning of the main building, they planned the city around it, since everything else is so geometrically placed, including the grey dirt roads that trace an intricate cobweb that winds through the empty spaces and gives the city an air of concrete orderliness. However, everything pales in comparison to the giant wheel propped just to the side of the main building, presumably what was once meant to surround the ship that Sky People lived in up in space before they fell to earth. It is clearly one of the few things that have resisted the decades unadulterated, even if it has been repurposed, as Lexa assumes from the sillhouettes of people climbing up and down its inner arms. It is a formidable sight, even for those more averse to the marvels of the world that Skaikru left back in space and have ever since tried to recreate on Earth. Nonetheless, Arkadia as a whole is an obtrusive presence in the midst of the greenery and unwavering power of nature. It makes Lexa almost squirm on her saddle, uncomfortable with such a demonstration of stubborn inadaptation — no village, town, or city should be so violently at odds with its surroundings.
They approach the city slowly and with only half the warriors she brought along, so as to indicate that they mean no harm — and make sure no one will frame it otherwise. Lexa's retinue is mostly made up of warriors, amongst them her personal guards, but she was also careful to include two of her most trusted diplomats; people who will negotiate in her stead when need be and will work to make sure that those on her side remain there. They are people who work the complicated web of politics and favor better even than her.
As they come closer to Arkadia, its inhabitants crowd close to the walls, looking at Lexa and her crew as though they are wild, fascinating animals. Such is the consequence of isolation. Lexa watches as a small group gathers just outside the walls and recognises Marcus Kane, chancellor of the Sky People, at the head of the greeting party.
Finally her group come to a stop just a few feet from the Arkadians and Markus of the Sky People steps up to greet Lexa with a genuine, welcoming smile. "Commander," he says in greeting and extends his hand. "It's such a great honor to have your visit."
She nods and grips his forearm. Marcus of the Sky People is a pleasant man, both in appearance and personality. His luscious hair and thick beard frame kind eyes and a jovial smile that make him extremely likable. Soft-spoken and invested in every conversation he takes part in regardless of its actual importance, Marcus of the Sky People is a dependable fatherly figure. He is also fierce and wise, however, and Lexa likes him even more for that.
"Chancellor Marcus Kane," she greets back, careful to use his full name, as Sky People do. "Thank you for receiving us on such short notice."
She lets go of his arm and lets her hand rest on the pommel of her sword. "We're just lucky you're here at all," he replies honestly, then turns to the rest of his group. "Please give your warmest welcome to the Commander, Lexa kom Trikru." She appreciates the effort to use her mother tongue — details like that can make the difference between a successful deal and a failed one, for it builds bridges where there are none. Marcus is a proficient builder of diplomatic bridges.
The first person to step forward is a woman in her forties like Marcus, though the lines of her face are more tired and severe. She looks like a woman who looks death in the face every day and when she extends her calloused hand for a greeting, Lexa realises that is exactly the case. "I'm Abby Griffin." Lexa clasps Abby's forearm and she spies a special brand of kindness in brown eyes that tells her that this woman is not only a caretaker, but also a mother. "I'm a council member and Chief Doctor of Arkadia and Skaikru in general."
"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," Lexa says as Abby takes a step back and a new member of the greeting party comes forward. "Raven, I assume," Lexa nods, clued in by the girl's oil-splattered cheek. "Your fame precedes you, tech master."
The girl beams, dark eyes shining brightly, and salutes. Her ponytail swings with the movement. "At your service, Commander. I hope your visit proves fruitful."
"That makes two of us, Raven of the Sky People."
"I'm Bellamy Blake." Lexa turns to the man that has stepped forward and clasps his outstretched hand instead of his forearm. She can tell that this is a man who likes things done his way; insecure enough to need to underline his status. "I'm in charge of all things military and security."
"A general, then," Lexa recognises. "Are you Octavia Blake's fabled brother?" She is careful to use her Sky People surname and not her Trikru suffix lest he become even less friendly.
His nose crinkles and his freckles dance angrily beneath dark eyes and unruly, short curls of hair. "Haven't seen her in almost a year since she got it in her head that she wants to be a barbarian."
Lexa lets the comment slide. "She is a fine warrior. My people are very lucky to have her."
He grunts and gives way to the next council member, a middle-aged woman with a gentle smile but a fear of the unknown in the way she clasps Lexa's forearm. "Hannah Green. Farming, hunting, and other resources," the woman greets. "Council member, too."
Lexa nods her acknowledgement and watches as Hannah kom Skaikru steps backward. Her replacements are two tall, robust men, their dark skin, eyes, and mannerisms nearly identical, though the younger one is more genuine while the older one has an air of arrogance about him.
"I'm Wells Jaha and this is my father, Thelonious," the young man says pleasantly, and Lexa likes him right away. She clasps Wells's forearm, then Thelonious's, and even their grips are different. How can two men look so alike and yet behave so differently?
Just from the introductions, Lexa is slightly worried. Bellamy, Abby, Hannah, and Thelonious will vote against entering the Coalition; a number that exceeds that of Marcus, Raven, and Wells. The chancellor has the deciding vote, but it will be for naught if the numbers do not even out.
The final person steps forward at last. A girl around Lexa's age, with blonde hair and determined blue eyes. "My name is Clarke," the girl greets, her voice husky and only moderately welcoming. Lexa studies the girl, looks for twitches and tells, but cannot read her at all. It is worrying; the last thing she needs at this point is a wildcard. She can tell, however, that her own first impression is lacking. "I'm in charge of urban and regional planning, and foreign affairs." Lexa extends her arm for greeting, but Clarke leaves her hanging. A golden, sceptical eyebrow is quirked and Clarke's eyes are narrowed, and it is all Lexa can do not to growl at such insolence. "Let me decide first if you're worth shaking hands with."
Lexa takes a deep breath and tells herself that punishing Clarke kom Skaikru's impertinence is not worth wasting the chance to draw the Sky People into her Coalition. So she purses her lips and clasps her hands behind her back, letting her posture straighten and her chin rise with defiant authority. Her eyes burn into Clarke's. "Very well." She turns to Marcus, who seems to have blanched considerably. "Please lead me to my quarters, Marcus of the Sky People. The day has been long and we have much to discuss tomorrow. I would like to rest."
~~~~
Arkadia isn't home. But it also is, because she has never known another place. Nevertheless, she has never felt at home inside its dull grays, angry lights, and obstinate refusal to fully mesh with its surroundings.
Clarke isn't one to fantasise about what could be; she locks her dreams inside drawings of another life and lives what is instead. There is no space, no time to wonder on the ground.
Still she can't help musing about a world where she would be able to travel between clans freely and adopt another as her own. She can't help musing about a world where they wouldn't have to fend off attacks from the other clans, even if the Ice Nation has helped them through the more difficult times. That is exactly why she finds the idea of a coalition so appealing — it's eating away at her, however, to entertain the idea of it being led by a tyrant like Commander Lexa.
She's heard all the stories and she knows which ones are true. She knows of the Commander's thirst for glory and power. She knows of her ruthlessness and disregard for human life. She knows of the Commander's penchant for spilling blood and autocratic style. She knows and she saw it all in the Commander's conceited bearing, in the cold press of full lips, in the raised chin of a despot; she saw it in the way the Commander's eyes flashed with anger, the only display of emotion during an otherwise frigid interaction.
Yet the cry for change reverberates through the halls of Arkadia, which thrums with the need to be more. And Clarke... Clarke wants the best for her people. Always. So if she deems joining the Coalition the right step to take, she will vote for it no matter how tough a pillow it will be to swallow.
Another tough pill to swallow? Kane's reproach for the way she talked to the Commander.
"It was unacceptable, Clarke. You embarrassed the Commander and risked being beheaded on the spot." It means something when Zen Kane gives you such a talking-to. "You shamed us all."
"Stop right there, Marcus." Oh, yes. Your mother defending you does make the situation a hundred times better. It's not at all ignored for being biased. "I think you're being unfair. Yes, Clarke should've minced her words, but she didn't same us."
Kane's eye roll is exactly the reaction Clarke's expected. "Look, Abby. I know you're her mother—"
Abby's affronted look is even more predictable. "This has nothing to do with—"
"Enough!" Kane and Abby as well as the rest of the council look at her. Clarke looks at each of the six other faces sitting around the semicircle-shaped table and then at Kane, who stands alone at the straight side of it. She sighs. "I made a mistake. I put us in a difficult position. I'm sorry."
Kane nods his approval. The small, dark room lends him a more solemn, even poetic appearance, and the way he cups his bearded chin while he thinks makes him look like a philosopher. "Thank you for acknowledging your mistake, Clarke," he says kindly as he lays a companionable hand on her shoulder. "There will have to be consequences, however."
She expected nothing less. Despite the little show she put on before the Commander, Clarke knows her place. "I understand, Chancellor," she nods, and feels more insecure the moment his fatherly hand leaves her shoulder. Her dad died years ago and no one will ever replace him, but the way Kane behaves towards her reminds her a little bit of what it was like to have a father. She's grateful for it; she misses the comfort of her dad's hugs and the pride in his smile.
The moments before he finally doles out her punishment remind her why she doesn't like this room — it's cold and dark and has an ominous feeling to it that makes her feel trapped. Like everything discussed in her is always too serious. It often is. She much prefers the strategy meeting room with its rectangular, waist-high table that causes them to stay standing and its glass-like boards with maps and notes written into them with colorful pens. It's also larger — so much larger. It's better illuminated, too.
Finally Kane stops thinking and meets her eyes. "You will be the Commander's shadow. An ambassador. You will show Arkadia and whatever else necessary to her and you will be her guide around here. You will make sure she has everything she needs and you will handle everything relating to her presence here."
Clarke can't help but scoff. "You mean I'll be her damn babysitter," she challenges.
"Yes," Kane acquiesces, not giving in an inch. "That's exactly what you will be."
"You can't be serious," she presses, because this is too heavy a punishment for her offence.
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, then scratches at the side of his beard. "Look at it this way: you will be able to get to know her and her culture better and it might help shape your vote. I know you're the only one of us who hasn't made up her mind yet," he notes with a meaningful look. And yes, he's right. Actually, her vote is pretty damn important because with the way things are it will decide the Sky People's fate altogether. "It might help you decide that being a part of the Coalition is nothing but trouble for us, or it might actually change your mind and show you that the Commander's intentions are not so bad after all. Whatever the outcome, it will have been a good experience."
Clarke knows he's right, but she can't imagine spending two weeks with the Commander and not confirming that she is indeed a bloodthirsty savage. Alas, she owes it to her people to at least try.
"Fine."
~~~~
Lexa is not unused to the bustle of early morning, the sounds of the city rousing to life outside, the doors that open and close and the voices that speak in hushed tones so as not to wake those sleeping. They often wake her anyway. What she is unused to are the boots that clank on metal, that fans that whir along the halls, and the flickering, buzzing light provided not by candles but by a hollow opening in the ceiling.
She left Anya outside of Arkadia to set up camp with the rest of her retinue. Gustus came with her, along with a handful of warriors and diplomats. Despite reason, she does not think they will be at risk inside the walls of the ally of their enemy. Besides, having Gustus by her side — or in this case, in the next room — is like having an army of twenty. Lexa trusts him with her life and that of those she loves most. There was only one time when she trusted him and he could not keep someone she loved safe. It wasn't his fault, despite the tears of guilt and regret that ran down his face when he came back, battered and bloody and without Lexa's lover. It took weeks for his wounds to heal enough for him to leave his bed. Months later, he would finally admit that it had not been ten warriors he had had to fight off, but thirty. Lexa never blamed him, never even imagined blaming him for what happened. There are only two people she has ever blamed for it — one of them is herself.
Lexa gets ready for the day in motions automated by the years. She resents Skaikru for not having proper bathtubs; she doesn't dare touch what the server girl from last night called a shower, so she foregoes washing altogether. There is a river nearby she can bathe in anyway. Once her pauldron is resting on her shoulder, its weight and looping red sash a permanent reminder of her station, Lexa leaves her bedroom, only to register with disapproval that the Sky Council did not assign anyone to guard her door. Instead she finds Gustus waiting for her, no doubt already having sent whoever he assigned to her door away. "Heda," he greets with a bow. "How was your night?"
"As would be expected," she replies, keeping her face neutral as she notices Marcus's approach. He sends her a warm smile.
"Commander." They clasp forearms with comfortable formality. "I hope you had a good night's sleep."
"The mattress was stiff. But I have spent much worse nights in foreign clans." It is both criticism and a compliment, and she knows it leaves Marcus slightly disconcerted albeit resolute to make sure her next night is better. It keeps him on his toes without outright insulting his hospitality.
"We'll look into the matter." A pause, then another smile. "In the meantime, I'm sure you would like to eat, Commander?" He waits for Lexa to nod before leading her and Gustus through numerous halls, walking by doors left and right. Lexa peers curiously as they pass by a by room lined with tables and people eating. "That's the mess hall, where almost everyone eats, but I'm sure you'd like to have a more... discreet meal, if you will. I've arranged for breakfast in my office."
"I wouldn't mind eating with your people, Marcus," she says truly as they come to a stop at a door, two staircases later. He fishes a key from his pocket and inserts it in the hole.
"Of course, Commander. But just for today, for your very first meal here, I thought you would appreciate something not as overwhelming."
"I do," she nods.
He opens the door for her and she stops into a room with a wooden desk and a mismatched chair next to the far wall. A battered couch sits against one of the walls to one side and on the other are several maps and eerily realistic paintings nailed to it. A lamp hanging from the ceiling provides light to the entire office and an open door near the couch leads them to a more open, free space. Marcus motions for Lexa to enter it and she is pleased to find a small, semicircular room with large, tall windows on the round wall that oversee Arkadia from two stories above. There is a round table in the middle with three chairs around it and several dishes waiting for Lexa's hungry stomach. Looking out the windows again, she wonders if this is a room they had up in space before the Sky People fell to the ground and if they could see the stars and the Earth from there.
"Did you live there? In space?"
Kane is now standing next to her and looking out the windows with his arms being his back, a pose that very much mirrors her own. It takes him almost a minute to reply; when he does, it is not without a sigh she cannot decipher. It sounds like nostalgia laced with relief.
"The Ark fell down about thirty years ago. I was just a kid then, twenty years old and sure that I would become someone important one day. Which I did," he acquiesces with a rueful smile, "but not for the reasons I wanted it then. The ground shaped me. I've spent more years on the ground than I did in space already. I have... changed a lot since then. I was eager, too ambitious, and too overzealous in following the rules. The ground taught me that rules need to be interpreted. I'm still eager," he chuckles, and Lexa almost lets a small smile escape her lips, "but what drives me now is love for my people. I want what's best for them, not for myself. And that," he turns his torso to her with a raised eyebrow and a kind smile, "is why I want the Sky clan to be a part of the Coalition."
"What do I have to do to make sure our common goal is achieved?" Lexa asks with caution as he turns back to the windows. She needs to tread carefully.
"Convince Clarke," Marcus says easily. It is as she thought. "Everyone else has their mind set. I have the deciding vote, but right now we are at a disadvantage. We need her yes to tie with the no's and activate the deciding quality of my vote. Otherwise, it's just a vote. Anyway." He turns to her again and extends an arm towards the table. "Shall we eat? Food's getting cold."
Lexa eats mostly in silence while Marcus tells her stories of the Ark, the stars, and their planet seen from space. She keeps her expression neutral, but is secretly fascinated and hangs on to his every word. She barely notices when she has finished eating and Marcus leads her out of the room. She is shocked out of her awe when he opens the door to his office to reveal none other than Clarke kom Skaikru.
"Commander, I'm sure you remember Clarke Griffin," Marcus says pleasantly. Lexa's eyes do not leave their new company's.
"Yes, our first meeting was... quite memorable."
Clarke has the decency to lower her gaze to the floor in a clear sign of shame. When her eyes return to Lexa's, she sees honesty in them.
"I wanted to apologize for that, Commander. I was unnecessarily rude," Clarke admits, and Lexa has to fight off a triumphant smirk. Instead, she dips her head in wordless assent. An uncomfortable silence spans for several long seconds, before Marcus clears his throat.
"So. Clarke will be your guide here, Commander. She will be at your disposal for anything you need and will help you acclimate to Arkadia. I genuinely hope that all your future interactions will be better than the first." He finishes with a warning glare at Clarke, who once again ducks her head in embarrassment. His attention shifts back to Lexa. "Commander," he nods. She nods back wordlessly and then he's off to somewhere else, leaving her alone with Clarke.
Lexa is not a fan of employing clichés, but the silence is deafening. Neither she nor Clarke know what to say or do now that Marcus is not there to act as a buffer. Eventually, Clarke clears her throat, thus ending their torture.
"I hope you enjoy your stay in Arkadia, Commander. Today, I would like to show you what each sector does around here."
~~~~
First, Clarke takes her to see the farms. Lexa is impressed with the technology they employ, some of it simple enough that the other clans can replicate. They lack the knowledge earned through years of experience, however, and Lexa can visualize how the other clans can help the Sky People complement their scientific expertise with conventional wisdom. The same would be true for hunting if her people were keen on using fire guns. Instead, it is a foregone conclusion that the Sky People have much to learn before they can hunt in an effective way that will truly allow them to live fairly comfortably through the harsher seasons.
During the day, Lexa realises that Clarke is bright and ingenious, though judgemental and opinionated. Lexa can see that the Sky Council member is making an effort, however, so she does not make her job too hard. Clarke talks her through her clan's decision-making process, some general laws and traditions, the way religion evolved on the Ark, and how the ground contributed to diminish the gap between classes.
"We all need to work to survive," Clarke explains. "Some people will always be lazy, some will work more than others, but opportunities are never amiss. If you work hard enough, life will be merciful. Or as merciful as it can be on the ground," she adds as an afterthought. Lexa takes the chance to point out that life can be easier for the Sky People if they ally with her. Clarke counters with a smirking 'maybe' and moves on.
Lexa feels a quiet sense of wonder, muted also byba slight prickle of fear and discomfort, when she first enters the medical aisle. Everything is white and pristine, and there are machines as big as Lexa that both sit the patients down in comfortable seats and lloom over them with big, mechanical arms. There are beds everywhere, an organised chaos of machines, healers, and patients. Lexa feels miserably out of place, but she can't help but marvel at how advanced the Sky People seem to be in terms of medicine. This her people can learn from.
"Raven has managed to build more equipment and make our medical aisle as effective as it can be." Clarke's husky voice provides pleasant commentary on all the technological wonders around them. "A lot of the doctors are still in training, but soon we'll have a hospital ready to answer everyone's needs."
Lexa turns to Clarke, dips her chin in a slight nod. "Our methods are more traditional. We answer many needs, but often find ourselves lacking the means to further our expertise. Our healers could learn a lot from yours," she says. Clarke turns to her with a pensive crease between her eyebrows. "And maybe they could teach your healers how to draw from nature to cure many ailments."
"That's... not such a bad idea," Clarke concedes, and a smile ghosts over pink lips, making the beauty mark above them tip upwards. "But we would have to think things through very thoroughly. That is, if we joined the Coalition."
"Of course."
Their day draws to an end when the sun has already hidden behind the walls of Arkadia and the sky is the same purple that colours its flags. Clarke explains to her that each of their cities is represented by a colour and together they form a rainbow. "I may have had a hand in that," Clarke confides, although the meaning of her sly smirk is lost on Lexa.
Clarke takes her to the door of her quarters and it is not until Lexa is about to nod her goodbye that the Sky leader clears her throat and extends her arm. Lexa's eyes take in the proffered arm, then find Clarke's gaze with a raised eyebrow. Clarke purses her lips and takes a deep breath.
"Look, I am— genuinely sorry for... for what happened yesterday. My behaviour was unacceptable."
Lexa is tempted to punish Clarke a bit further, but decides to offer an olive branch instead. She clasps Clarke's forearm and feels soft fingers wrap around her own. "You are unwaveringly protective of your people, Clarke. I can appreciate that."
Clarke's small, grateful smile is worth the concession.
~~~~
The next morning, Lexa leaves her quarters to find Marcus and Clarke waiting for her. Once all pleasantries are exchanged, the Chancellor invites her, with an eager tilt to his voice, to have the first meal in the mess hall.
Lexa accepts the invitation with polite words and Marcus takes the front of their little group of four, Gustus included. Lexa and Clarke walk side by side just a few steps behind.
"I hope you are liking your stay here, Commander," Clarke says after several seconds of silence.
Lexa gathers her thoughts before she answers carefully: "It is in many ways an experience unlike what I am used to. The sounds are different, the clothes too. There is no shortage of metal."
Clarke hums in agreement. "Technology has its pros and cons. Against it is the fact that you find yourself turning your back on your surroundings." Lexa's eyes must hold a question in them, for Clarke answers it immediately: "When everything you need is inside a wall, you end up exploring the world outside less and less."
"Maybe I can help your people find their balance."
Clarke shrugs noncommittally, but Lexa spies indecision in her eyes. It is not until some seconds later that Clarke decides to voice her thoughts.
"The problem with alliances is that they only last for so long. Eventually one clan's needs trumps the alliance's and everyone falls back into their old, warring ways."
Lexa understands Clarke's doubt; it has plagued her sleepless one too many nights. However, it is not just a matter of conviction. Lexa knows that if she manages to find a balance between codependency and independency, she can keep the Coalition alive for many ages. She wants her legacy to be enjoyed by many commanders after her.
"Clarke, I am trying to build something that will last for many generations. An alliance that will stand the test of time, a brand of peace that will outlive all of us," she says, unable to keep a thread of passion from her voice. "Something much stronger than the Pauna's fist and far greater than a hero's glory. War breeds legends, peace feeds civilisations."
Clarke's smile is teasing, but Lexa recognises it for the deflection that it is. "Nice speech, Commander."
She shrugs and lets her eyes glint with mirth. "I am not above making rousing speeches to sway your vote, Clarke."
~~~~
(there was more but it was incomplete so I figured this would be the best place to cut)
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Both Sides of the Sky
Chapter 5: Calling
Ao3
The doors to the front entrance loomed ahead of them. Thick mahogany of solid build, richly carved by very skilled hands. It was clear whoever had first commissioned them must have paid a great deal. But as Claire stepped closer, she was able to notice the countless pockmarks and scars pitting the wood, how they had been so badly warped by the wind and rain that they no longer would hang quite straight.
Not a good harbinger for what lay beyond.
Keeping that thought, among others, to herself, Claire watched as the doors, warped wood catching ever so slightly in the frame, were pulled open. Revealing a grimm faced butler behind them who silently took the card from her father and ushered the three of them inside.
Without turning her head, it wouldn’t do to appear too curious, Claire glanced around at her surroundings. Avalon hall was massive, she had been able to see that much from the outside. But it soon became clear that the state of the front doors was not a unique feature.
Silk curtains that were faded and stained at the edges. Scuff Marks upon scuff marks on the floor from centuries of feet traipsing up and down the corridors. Tarnish creeping around the edges of the candlesticks, giving the silver a rotten appearance. And due to the building’s esteemed age, all the windows were small and far between, the dim light making the hallway feel claustrophobic.
The overall effect was that Avalon hall didn’t feel like a house where living people resided, rather more like an abandoned, decaying ruin from a bygone era that she and her parents were trespassing in.
Fighting very hard to suppress a shudder, Claire followed her parents deeper into the house.
It looked as though the rumors were true, this family may have a lofty and noble history, but they had fallen far indeed. Claire kept her gaze straight ahead and pointedly ignored the peeling wallpaper as they walked further in. Straight into debt by the looks of it.
The butler led them up the main stairs and down a hall on their right, to where someone was waiting for them, before swiftly turning and heading off to complete some other task. Claire had expected Strickler to greet them, as he had on her walks with Jim, but instead they were greeted by his uncle, the venerable Lord Merlin, who was so old Claire half expected him to have powder in his hair.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance Master and Mistress Nuñez,” he politely shook hands with her father before gesturing for them to follow “My nephew is waiting for us in the parlor, let’s not keep them waiting, shall we?”
As they walked he turned and looked Claire straight in the eye, flashing her a grin.
Startled, Claire quickly recovered and managed to return the smile with one of her own.
They’d only gone a short ways when Merlin stepped to the side, opening a door into a smaller small room.
“Please, after you,” the words were intended for all of them, but his gaze was once again locked on Claire. While she supposed most people would be flattered, Claire couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable at the attention, although why she couldn’t say.
Forcing down the cold fluttering in her belly, Claire followed her parents into the room, blinking at the sudden brightness within.
The curtains had been thrown open, filling the room with sunlight and allowing her to see that, mercifully, this space was in much better shape than the rest of the house. Immaculate blue and gold wallpaper, spotless china dishes and sparking silver on oak tables. Couches that looked comfortable and lived in, even if they were a little threadbare.
Claire let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.
Strickler was here, and so was Jim, right by his side, both of them standing by a small table holding several teacups filled with steaming brown liquid, two of which he handed over to her father and mother before picking one up himself “So glad you all could make it today, please take a seat. James and I are so happy to have you here,”
He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively “He was quite looking forward to this,”
All the adults in the room tittered at that while Claire blushed crimson, across the room she could see Jim’s face turn a similar hue.
Still flushing, she sank into a chair, everyone else following suit. The adults quickly fell into banal conversation concerning the weather and current events. Leaving Claire and James to stare at each other in awkward silence.
She wanted to talk to him. There were half a dozen questions perched on the tip of her tongue. Had he recovered from his tumble in the woods and fall in the river? Who was his mother and why did no one ever speak of her? Did the stone bridge still haunt his dreams the way it did hers?
But despite how much she burned for answers, Claire couldn’t bring herself to speak of those things, not in front of their parents.
It was too….private, personal; and the last thing she wanted was her parents pouncing on those thoughts and picking them apart piece by piece.
Of course there was a chance that Jim felt differently about his family, but the way he also kept his silence made Claire think not.
So here they were. Sitting there mute and bored to tears. Tuning out their families' blathering, Claire allowed her eyes to unfocus, gaze rolling around the room before landing on a sword hanging on the far wall. The blade was dull and the hilt simple, but it was clear that the sword’s true value was in its truly ancient age. She could easily imagine Strickler plucking it from foreign shores during one of his many expeditions.
Unfortunately by now their mutual silence had been noticed.
“James, why don’t you show the young Miss Nuñez our collection,” Claire jolted slightly upon hearing Strickler mention her name “I’m sure she’d find it fascinating,”
James stood from his chair and extend a hand towards her, flashing a smile that was almost convincing “Of course,”
Claire lifted herself up and returned his smile “That sounds delightful,” at least it would be better than sitting in silence. She allowed Jim to lay a hand over her forearm and lead her to the other side of the room.
“This sword is a viking artefact, along with that shield,” he inclined his head to the right “The vase and teapot are from the far east,”
“Very impressive…” Claire nodded along politely, when her attention was captured by a large painting hanging near the corner, a woman wrapped in silver gossamer reclining in a pond. A simple image, but captured in breathtaking detail “What about the painting, right next to the shield?”
“I...don’t know,” Jim glanced back towards the seated adults.
“Nothing much interesting about that one I’m afraid,” Strickler said with a shake of his head “Merely a gift from an old acquaintance,”
Claire’s eyes darted over the ripples and waves captured in shades of blue paint “It’s very lovely, is it an Undine?”
Strickler let out a chuckle, that sounded more than a little patronizing “A naiad actually,”
Despite her best efforts, Claire felt herself flushing at his thinly veiled condescension “What’s the difference?”
“Naiads live exclusively in fresh water whereas Undines aren’t bound to any one form of water. Oceanids live in open seas and nereids live along saltwater shores,”
For a moment the entire room was silent as everyone turned and stared at Jim. He flushed, clearly feeling the weight of their gazes.
Claire felt a grin, the first entirely genuine one of the day, spreading over her face “I didn’t know you were so well versed in mythology,”
“I...um....” Jim glanced over at his father and uncle for help, face a deep red.
Merlin let out a loud laugh, giving his knee a hearty slap “My dear nephew you’re too shy,” he glanced towards her parents “James has always had an avid interest in mythology, we had trouble getting him to put the books down,”
Jim, clearly embarrassed, was blushing a bright scarlet, and couldn’t seem to stop fidgeting under the attention. Meanwhile, even while she sympathized with the scrutiny, Claire was absolutely brimming with delight. Finally something that she and Jim could talk about, at least while they were in mixed company.
Still chortling, Merlin got to his feet “How about I show you two youngsters the library,” he glanced towards her parents “With Master and Mistress Nuñezs’ permission of course,”
Moving so subtly Claire was sure that she was the only one who saw, Ophelia and Javier shared a sly look with each other before turning towards him “We think that sounds delightful,” Javier said, both him and Ophelia positively beaming.
*
“What do you think of the classical myths?”
“They form the bedrock of literature as we know it and have persevered to the modern age due to their highly advanced themes and ideas,”
Jim’s gaze briefly flickered toward Merlin, sitting in a leather chair in the corner of the library holding a book whose pages he hadn’t turned for nearly an hour, the older man giving him an almost imperceptible nod. Claire pretended not to notice.
She thumbed through the thick book on the table in front of them “One of my favorites is the myth of Tantalus. He tried to trick the gods by feeding them his own son, but they weren’t fooled. They restored his son to life and condemned him to the underworld, with food and water forever just beyond his reach,”
“Oh yes,” he nodded “That is a classic, did you know that’s where the word tantalize comes from?”
Claire did, but she smiled and nodded as if she didn’t, keenly aware of Merlin’s eyes on the two of them.
Like the rest of Avalon hall, the library was old to the point of being ancient, but rather in a cosy sort of way. Mahogany shelves and angled windows giving the room a feeling of warmth. Walls completely lined with books from end to end, supplemented by the occasional freestanding shelf. Most impressive was the collection itself, the largest collection of books Claire had ever seen in her fifteen years. Some published as recently as a year ago, some centuries old; all filling the room with the sweet scents of paper and leather.
At first she’d been excited to discuss literature and folklore with Jim. Both of which were things she very much enjoyed, and hoped that they would be able to build upon a mutual interest. But what Claire hadn’t accounted for was Merlin hovering and ever so subtly correcting Jim when he strayed from what he deemed to be the proper responses. Most of which Claire already knew from her own studies. Making the entire conversation feel dull and rehearsed. Exchanging repetitive answers may be better than silence, but not by much.
Maybe if they wandered off the beaten path a little she could get Jim to tell her his own opinion and not the one his uncle approved of. There was a copy of Bluebeard just across from her, but that didn’t feel quite appropriate right now. She reached over to the far end of the table and pulled a new book with a dusty blue cover towards them “Have you read the Poetic Edda?”
“Yes I have,”
She waited for him to elaborate but he didn’t.
“Thrymskvida is my favorite portion, what do you think of it?”
“Truly a classic piece of Norse myth, although there is debate on whether its origins are Christian or Pagan,”
Well this clearly wasn’t working, time for a different approach.
“What is your favorite Arthurian legend?” she said abruptly, setting the blue book to the side without preamble.
Jim started, clearly caught off guard. He stammered for a few seconds before coming up with an answer “Oh, uh...Sir Gawain and the Green Knight,”
A solid classic, one that she could easily see Lords Strickler and Merlin lecturing him on how it was the best.
“That’s a good one, although I’ve always thought Gawain got away pretty easily considering he broke his word,”
Jim’s amiable expression slipped, sliding into a soft frown “Gawain did keep the scarf the lady gave him, but he could have easily given it to the lord after he let the green knight chop off his head. He wouldn’t have been breaking his word, just stretching it,”
Claire paused, mulling over his words “I suppose that’s true, but Gawain gave his word to give the lord whatever he gained during the day once he got home, not whenever he felt like it. He broke his word, and for that he deserves to be punished,”
“But--”
From the corner of the room Merlin rustled the papers of the book in his lap just loudly enough that it was clearly intentional. Jim shut his jaw with a click.
Claire had to bite her lip, quite hard in fact, to keep from groaning out loud. Just when their conversation was finally starting to get interesting, apparently disagreeing with her trumped what his uncle considered ‘correct’ as far as polite discussion went.
But what was the point of having a conversation if the other person agreed with whatever she said?
Claire had entertained the company of more than a few boys who had agreed with everything she said. Quite frankly she would sooner jump in the river again.
Time for another subject change “My favorite is the Quest for the White Hart,”
Jim nodded slowly, cowed back into meekness by his uncle’s interference “That is a really good one,”
“I enjoyed Pellinore’s quest for Nimue the most, especially at the end when he ends up cursing himself by not helping his daughter and the knight,”
“Really? I always thought that was pretty grim, he was told to let nothing distract him from his quest, he was only following instructions,”
“Doesn’t matter, he could have helped them but he didn’t,”
Jim paused for a bit “Wouldn’t that parallel Gawain’s story then? It’s not about what would be considered fair, it’s about keeping your word,”
Claire felt a smile tugging on her lips, very clever, it looked as though they could have a half decent discussion after all “I guess you have me there,” she pulled the green leather bound tome closer “But while we’re discussing the Green knight, you know how the old woman was really--”
The clock against the wall abruptly started to chime, signaling Merlin to sit up from his chair with a creak “I’m afraid our time together today must come to an end, feel free to keep the book Miss Nuñez, young James can collect it at a later time,”
And by that he was surely referring to when he and Strickler would come to their house with Jim to visit her in one weeks time. Which she knew her parents were no doubt arranging at this moment.
But still, she was disappointed that her time with Jim, however awkward and supervised, was coming to an end...which was not something Claire was accustomed to feeling .
She swallowed the confusing knot of emotion as the two of them followed Merlin out the library and back down towards the parlor, having to force the words out past it “Thank you, I will be sure to keep them in good condition,”
Claire thought that she and Jim would be able to get to know each other better when they weren’t slopping through the wilderness, but as it turned out their families' supervision wasn’t much of an improvement.
And unlike any of the other boys her parents had set her up with Claire wanted to know Jim better. He was genuinely sincere, and while Jim played the role of a nobleman well enough, Claire could sense something more beneath the surface. Like watching the surface of the sea and seeing the shadow of a hidden beast moving deep within.
She eyed the back of his head as they headed down through the gloomy hall.
If Claire wanted to get to know Jim, the real Jim, then she was going to have to get a little more creative.
#tales of arcadia#Trollhunters#fanfic#both sides of the sky#rmvwrites#claire nuñez#ophelia nuñez#javier nuñez#merlin#walter strickler#jim lake jr#Regency AU
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Sink Or Swim
tag list: @cleocc @feeling-kinda-so-so @hopelessromanticvirgo @dreamy-slytherin @adora8 @lockerfivethreefive @painfully-oblivious @poeticinemaa @jjustonemorething @saraben00 @wedarkacademia @coolguyssyndrome @hischbabe @suckerforsobbe @tayspots @starmansander @theah0lt @zoenneforever @invisibleme @chibibanane
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Saturday, 14:29
Song: The 1975 - Fallingforyou
After sneaking back in in the middle of the night, Lucas has spent the day hiding out in his room. The apartment has been relatively silent. There had been footsteps earlier, doors opening and closing, the bang of the kitchen cupboards, and then more silence. For those few brief moments, Lucas had half expected knocks on his door, his father there to greet him with a lecture and a punishment he wouldn’t be around to undertake.
He’d considered not coming back, crashing at the party like he’d seen many of the other attendees doing. It had seemed at once a safer alternative and the best way to piss his father off more. It had been tempting—extra tempting when he had someone to share a considerable amount of that time with.
His lips tug up involuntarily at the corners.
Jens.
Lucas hadn’t really expected to meet anyone at the party. Not anyone who really captured his attention, not anyone he could actually possibly become friends with. Amber had told him it was a college party, after all, and he’d been surprised to see so many faces he recognised.
Jens included.
He’d seen him just once, on his very first day. The dark haired boy had only been a flicker in the corner of his eye as he spoke to Amber and Luca, but he’d made an impression. Only, Lucas hadn’t known his name then, and he would’ve felt ridiculous asking the girls. Of course he should have, though, because of course they knew him. Of course he was part of the group Luca had claimed he was too ‘cool’ for. As if Lucas is cool in any way. He has a hunch, however, that maybe Luca hasn’t looked far beyond...well, his looks. Which is flattering. And mildly anxiety-inducing.
He also kind of assumes that they’d mostly been referring to his friends, because Jens himself might be the coolest person Lucas has ever met. Anyone willing to sit in a bathtub with Lucas for hours definitely deserves some cool points.
He’d been worried, a little, that Jens had only come in and stayed with him out of pity. He would’ve worried about it the whole time if it hadn’t felt so easy. Before they’d been interrupted, Lucas had felt perfectly at ease. It had been the most comfortable interaction he’s had since moving here. He’d forgotten about the whole incident with his father. It’s possible the weed and alcohol had helped in that department, but he’s betting they only added an extra pleasant haze. Jens was the true distraction, and what Lucas really needed in the moment. He’d wondered, very briefly, if that’s why he’d been so interested. Jens had seemed like a saving grace, appearing out of nowhere to pull Lucas out of the black hole he was letting himself sink into. He’d gone to the bathroom in the first place in an attempt to disappear.
But Jens had seen him.
So, he doesn’t think it matters that maybe he’s just feeling a little more desperate than usual. A little more lost. A lot more alone. It matters that Jens had appeared, and he’d seen him. It matters that Lucas found an instant comfort in him that he’d only ever found before in Kes. It matters that even after they’d been interrupted, and Jens had so many opportunities to leave, after Jana had even asked them if they wanted to rejoin the party, he’d chosen to stay with Lucas.
What matters is that Lucas had been lonely, and lost, and in desperate need of a friend, and the universe had presented Jens.
A moment’s hesitation is enough. Then he’s leaning over and collecting his phone from the bedside table. He’s been avoiding it all morning, telling himself to stop being ridiculous. But maybe he’s being more ridiculous ignoring the desire. He needs to try to make friends here, eventually.
Hanging out in a bathtub for a few hours is as good an invitation for friendship as any, right?
He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and tries to decide on the best course of action, staring at his home screen. Eventually, he opens Instagram.
He doesn’t have a lot of information to go on. He can only type ‘Jens’ into the search bar.
Thankfully, they already have a few mutuals, and Jens’s account isn’t private.
Lucas is glad, because it means he doesn’t have the anxiety of having to follow him right away and then spend an endless amount of time waiting for Jens to accept him. If he even would accept him. Instead, he has complete freedom to stalk his profile. It’s not far from what he expects, though he’s a little surprised to see the majority of his posts are food based. Most focusing entirely on the food, some on Jens eating. He has more time to focus on him now, and more freedom. Outside the dim, grimy lighting of the bathroom and without the edge of a bathtub digging into his back. Without the worry of Jens catching him looking.
There’s a conventional sort of attractiveness about him. Dark hair and chocolate eyes and smooth skin and sharp features. But he doesn’t play it up, the way Lucas expects. Half of his feed is food, and the rest is largely taken up by his friends. The same few boys appear over and over, and Lucas assumes this is his ‘group’, going way back to his early posts. He doesn’t focus all of the attention on himself—and when he does, it isn’t to make himself attractive. Lucas finds himself lingering on a few posts. A very artistic post of an egg. Jens seeming very comfortable with a lamp. With a keyboard in his lap. With his face stuck in a flower. Wrapped up like a burrito. In an elevator with his friends. There’s one, further down, that does fit the pretty boy aesthetic. A selfie of Jens in a red jacket, zipped up to his neck, gaze serious as he smolders at the camera. Lucas lingers on it the longest, a smile tugging at his lips. He shakes himself out of it and continues scrolling, finds a few more of these Jens-centered posts, and a few with Jana. Looking incredibly cosy.
Oh.
He supposes there had been an awkward kind of vibe, at the party, but it hadn’t seemed to come from Jana. An irrational part of Lucas had thought maybe there was an added tension, a heavier silence, because they’d been interrupted. He should have known he was the intruder.
But then again, these posts are from 2018, and there hasn’t been any since. At least nothing as...intimate. Lucas takes that to mean the breakup was long ago; and yet, the photos are still there.
At the very least, at least he knows Jens is straight. Which is fine. It’s what he expected.
It would be dangerous of him to expect anything else. It feels dangerous to acknowledge the thought in the first place. It’s not something he should care about. It isn’t something he should wonder every time he meets someone new.
It isn’t something he should wonder every time he looks in the mirror.
It doesn’t stop him from scrolling through his feed again. Then again. His eyes always seem to catch on something new, to linger on something different, and at the very least, it’s keeping him occupied. It’s harmless. It’s also incredibly hard to miss all the ‘vlog’ posts, though Lucas checks every one for a link and finds none.
Until he thinks to check the boy’s bio and sits up straight on the bed. His thumb hovers over the link, debating. He decides there’s no way for Jens to know if he watches them or not, and he clicks on it. It takes a few moments for the page to load, the apartment’s WiFi slower than what he’s used to, but eventually he’s staring at the ‘Broerrrs’ channel with a small grin. He moves to the videos tab and finds there are more than he predicted. He glances at the time. 14:29. It doesn’t matter anyway. He doesn’t have anything better to do. But this should give him a few hours even before his dad comes home.
He scrolls to the bottom of the list and clicks on the first vlog.
He finds himself with an almost instant smile on his face, and laughter is soon to follow. He doesn't know why he’s so surprised, at the beginning, to find that they’re genuinely funny, oddly likable. It takes him a few moments to remember their names, and less to categorise them. He dubs Robbe, at the beginning, the shy one of the group, until the videos progress and he finds him to be the somewhat hyper member of the trio, and yet notably sweet. Moyo is the creator, and seems every bit the leader, guiding his friends and keeping them on track and appearing overall the most invested and confident regarding their activities. Lucas doesn’t feel very confident in his conclusions.
Mostly because, as much as he tries to, he can’t quite drag his attention off of Jens.
Despite him possibly being the quietest member of the group, he seems to demand attention. Even when he’s hovering mostly out of frame, Lucas finds his eyes following him on the small screen. The first laugh is ripped out of him when Jens picks Robbe easily off the floor and holds him against the wall, looking as casual as ever. He’s surprised (but pleased) to find Jens so goofy in these instances, not as distantly ‘cool’ as Lucas had thought. It makes him appear even more approachable, even more likable, and Lucas should have known this was a bad idea. He finds himself, after just one video, desperately wanting to be part of this friend group. To be friends with Jens.
By the time he’s on the fifth video, he’s a little distracted from dissecting their personalities, because all the focus is on Jens and really, who gave him the right to look like that even with the most ridiculous makeup ever? Lucas cannot wipe the smile off his face. He feels ridiculous.
He discovers Jens can’t dance (but Moyo certainly can), that their rapping skills are dubious but entertaining nonetheless, and that he feels the happiest he’s been since moving here, just watching them. He also discovers Jens does not have a talent for wakeboarding, but he looks very good while attempting it (and after abandoning it to ‘chill’).
By the time he’s on the twelfth video and watching Jens run a keyboard over his hair, he realises he might have a slight problem.
Everything Jens does, he watches, and with every passing second, his smile grows wider and wider. He has way too much interest in someone he’s only had one conversation with. He knows this.
That doesn’t stop him from watching all the videos to the end, and returning to Jens’s profile to hit follow.
Before going back to watch the makeup video just one more time.
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Blowing Off Steam, Part II
Pairings: Axe Woves x F!Reader
Warnings: smut, dirty talk, alcohol use
A/N: UH OH SISTERS, WE LOVE AXE WOVES IN THIS HOUSE.
Word Count: 2,348
The first time you had been with the Mandalorian, it was a quick affair; straddling him in an alley behind the cantina, praying no one caught you. It was several days before you returned to the bar, but Axe was there all the same. Sitting at his usual table, but this time flanked by his companions. They were deeply engrossed in conversation, but Axe’s eyes flicked to you when you entered, and followed you on your path to the counter.
Tonight’s bartender was a quarren, stoic and silent, who took your order with very few words. If there was such a thing as mental exhaustion, you had it, and you hoped that the spotchka would ease it, if even for an hour. The first glass went down a little too easily, and another was in your hands within seconds. The distinctive sound of moving armor came from the table of Mandalorians behind you, signaling that they were ready to depart. For a moment, your heart sank, just a fraction, knowing he was leaving the cantina- but you pushed it aside and downed your drink.
“I thought maybe you weren’t going to come back,” you start at the sound of Axe’s voice behind you. He chuckles and moves to take a seat on the stool next to you, carefully placing his helmet on the counter. “Ready to tell me your name yet?” You consider him for a moment, then tell him. Axe repeats it back, his face breaking into a smile that makes your heart jump, “I like it”.
He removes his gloves and you notice a peppering of bruises on his knuckles, and what looks to be a blaster burn peeking from under his gauntlet.
“Did you have anything to do with the Imp freighter that was hijacked last week?” you keep your voice even, but playful. The Mandalorian chuckles again and leans in closer to you, “Maybe, “ he reaches down into his belt pouch and removes an Imperial officer’s pin, singed with blaster fire, and places it on the counter in front of him.
“If you’re hoping to woo me with proof of your conquests-” he grins and cuts you off, ‘I’m not, I just thought maybe it would get me a free drink,” he nods toward the Quarren, who is eyeing the pin, his face tendrils twitching. You scoff and signal to the bartender that you’re ready for another glass; instead of Spotchka, he sets down a bottle of Port in a Storm. You eye the bottle, then turn your gaze to the Quarren, silently asking for clarification. “On the house,” he grunts, before producing two glasses and placing them on the counter in front of you.
Axe slides a glass toward himself and pours some of the dark red wine into it, pausing to take in its scent before raising the glass to his lips. Reluctantly, you pour yourself a glass- you have heard stories of the wine’s potency, and even a rumour that in a pinch, it could be used as a solvent. Axe watches intently as you take the first swallow, and throws his head back in a laugh when you wrinkle your nose in disgust. “It’s awful! It tastes like fire paste!” You set the glass down carefully, fearing that the volatile liquid inside might explode if it was moved too harshly. “How can you drink it?” you cry, as Axe lifts the glass to his lips again, “I’m a Mandalorian- we’re a different breed.”
“Understatement of the century, I’m sure,” you mutter. The Mandalorian cocks his head and smiles before downing the rest of his wine. “So what happened to your two friends?” you ask, “Off to take down another Imp ship?” Axe nods almost imperceptibly, “Something like that.” Emboldened by the liquor in your system, you press him further, “Without you? That’s too bad.” Axe raises an eyebrow and smirks, seeming to have figured out your game, “Somebody has to stay behind and get the freighter ready for our return to Mandalore,” he pauses to fill his glass again, “besides, I don’t think I’m done blowing off steam just yet.”
You laugh, maybe the first genuine laugh you’ve had in weeks, and turn to face him, “I want to see it.” Axe blinks, and you swear you notice a twinge of surprise, “You- what?” You nod toward the pin, “The freighter. I want to see it.” The Mandalorian considers you for a moment, then jerks his head toward your unfinished wine, “Finish that-” he pauses to down his own glass, “and maybe we’ll talk.”
--
The strength of Port in a Storm was not exaggerated in the stories you had heard. After one glass, your head was spinning, and the mental exhaustion of the day had all but melted away. How Axe was still standing after two glasses was lost on you- Mandalorians were indeed a different breed entirely.
The night air is cold as usual, and the soft smell of saltwater hangs like fog on the small port city. You shiver, cursing yourself for forgetting your jacket on the table at home. Your Mandalorian companion has donned his helmet, and others on the street give the two of you a wide berth. It suddenly occurs to you that you are following a man who you barely know to a secondary location- maker, what would your mother say? "Looks like people are pretty afraid of you," you quip, looking up at his visor. "They should be," he retorts, "Mandalorians were once the most feared warriors in the galaxy." You consider it for a moment, "I'm not scared of you." A chuckle comes through his vocoder and he trains his visor on you, "You're the first."
You shiver again, and to your surprise, Axe places an arm around your shoulder and pulls you close as you walk. You feel your face grow warm, but you melt into the embrace anyway. A small hum of satisfaction crackles through the Mandalorian's vocoder, and his grip tightens just a little- enough to keep you against him.
The freighter is landed just outside the city, its enormous metal frame an impressive sight against the plain scenery of Trask. Axe produces a small fob from his belt and presses a button; with a pneumatic hiss, the cargo ramp of the freighter lowers, and the two of you enter.
The cargo area is stacked with crates, which you can only assume contain weapons. "What were they doing with this ship?" You ask, gently running your fingers over a blaster burn on the wall. "Trawling the planet. Taking what they want and moving the weapons and supplies. We've been hitting them, taking their cargo." You smile at this- any thorn in the Empire's side was a good thing; you remember all too clearly what it was like before it fell.
The two of you move from the cargo area, through the galley, and to the crew quarters. At its peak, the ship must have been staffed by at least 50 men. On a nearby table is a Storm Trooper helmet, clearly taken as a trophy, spattered with blood and blackened by blaster fire.
Off the main quarters are the captain's quarters- an impressive suite with a large bed and an enormous window. You imagine the view during spaceflight must be breathtaking. Axe watches you move about, examining the different trinkets the captain had collected- a kyber crystal, some kind of skull, and several small gemstones. You hear a hiss behind you as the Mandalorian removes his helmet and discards it on a nearby chair. You turn to face him, and his dark eyes bore into yours, hungry and full of want. You watch as he releases the buckles on his shoulders, and removes his chest plate, pauldrons, and gauntlets, then moves onto the thigh plating. The armor is haphazardly flung to the floor.
Beneath the armor, Axe is well built, the bulge of his muscles visible through his undershirt. He moves closer, quickly closing the distance between you, and cups your face with one rough hand. His kiss this time is less desperate than before- almost loving, as if he's savoring the feeling. His hand moves from your face and slips under the hem of your shirt, raising it and exposing your chest. You break away from the kiss to pull the shirt over your head and toss it to the floor.
Axe pauses for a moment and stares at your body, pulling his bottom lip in with his teeth. He pulls his own shirt over his head and you let out a small gasp at the sight of the scars that litter his chest. What kind of life had the Mandalorian led? The thought is quickly pushed from your mind as his mouth returns to yours, and one of his hands moves to gently explore your breasts. A whine escapes you as his calloused fingers find your nipples and gently brush over them. He grins against your mouth and pulls away, "take these off," he tugs at the hem of your pants and you happily oblige, toeing off your boots and letting your pants fall to the floor.
He leads you by the hand to the bed and gives you a gentle push to lie you down on your back. He peppers kisses down your jawline, continuing to your chest, where he lazily takes a nipple into his mouth. You let out a cry of pleasure and feel him smile against your skin before he continues his trail of kisses down your stomach. He pauses and adjusts himself so he can spread your legs, then positions them over his shoulders. You shudder at the feeling of his warm breath on your inner thigh.
"Look at you, mesh'la," he murmurs, his dark eyes meeting yours, "already so wet." He dips his mouth to your folds and you let out a strangled gasp at the feeling of his tongue on your clit. He works it in slow circles for a moment, savoring the sounds of your small moans, before he pushes a finger inside of you. You buck your hips into him as your hands grasp for purchase on the sheets beneath you. He pushes in a second finger as his mouth continues to lick and suck at your clit.
You can feel yourself nearing your breaking point, the white hot sensation of your impending climax like a pot set to boil over. "Axe, I'm-" you can't even finish the words. You feel yourself clench around his fingers, and you cry out as your orgasm crashes over you. You lie there, breathless, as Axe moves back up your body to kiss you, the taste of your own arousal still on his lips.
As he presses against you, you feel the swollen bulge of his cock through the fabric. "Are you ready?" he murmurs, his hands moving to free himself from his pants. You nod and he moves to position himself between your legs, lifting them up over his hips.
Slowly, torturously, he enters you, filling you until he is buried deep inside. He begins to thrust, slower than before, his mouth on yours, swallowing your every whimper and moan. Axe breaks his mouth from yours, and moves it to your ear. "I had hoped you would come back to the bar," he whispers, his stubble rough against your skin. "I wanted to know what you'd look like spread out beneath me."
"And do you like what you see?" You pant, breathless, as he bucks his hips into you. He chuckles and takes your earlobe into his mouth, "I love it."
He pushes himself up to rest on his knees, and pulls you up onto his lap, your legs wrapping around his waist. The new angle brings him even deeper into you, and you bury your face in the crook of his neck, only able to whimper his name as he fucks you. His grip on your hips is tight as he drives you down on his length, his movements growing more erratic as he chases his own climax. You hear him whisper your name and he moans as he drives one final thrust into you, spilling himself inside of your walls.
He holds you there for a moment, his breath hot on your neck, both of you panting and sticky with sweat. He kisses the top of your head and whispers "Gar cuyir kandosii'la." You don't recognize the words, but you hum contentedly anyway as he traces his fingers gently up and down your back, sending goosebumps to your flesh.
When you finally disentangle yourselves, you begin to make your way to your discarded clothes. You lace your pants and reach for your boots when you feel an arm wrap around your waist. You turn to find the Mandalorian staring at you, his expression unreadable. "Stay with me tonight, cyar'ika." His voice is soft, and the cocky air has disappeared entirely. You're taken aback by the offer, certain that you would be making your way back to your place tonight. "Stay...here with you?" You ask, trying to keep your voice even, "aren't you worried about your friends coming back?"
Axe smiles and closes the distance between you, raising his hand to brush a strand of hair from your face. "They won't be back for some time. And plus, I don't want you to have to walk back in the dark."
He guides you gently back to the bed, where he lies down on his back and motions for for you to rest your head on his chest. You wiggle in close and melt into him as he wraps his arm around your shoulder. Axe kisses the top of your head and sighs contentedly. You feel your eyes grow heavy as the weight of sleep starts to fall on you, and the gentle, even breathing of the Mandalorian beside you helps to lull you until your eyes close.
"Good night, Axe." You whisper, unsure if he is still awake. You feel his arm tighten ever so slightly.
"Good night, cyar'ika."
--
Mando'a words used:
Cyar'ika: beloved
Mesh'la: beautiful
Gar cuyir kandosii'la: you are amazing/wonderful
@djxrxn asked to be tagged in any Woves work!
Also I'm tagging @jango-fettish
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