#beat down: fists of vengeance

[two-40-foot-slabs]

[oimitocat]

IF I TOUCH YA… | OS

༘۠ anton x m!reader

༘۠ nonidol! au + swimmer!anton + swimmer!reader + rivals with benefits + angst + nsfw + shower sex + technically public sex

༘۠ a/n: i’m still new to riize, please spare me. i’m sorry if this suck, i’m literally trying to get back into my writing mojo. [i’m trying because shotaro and sungchan redebuted ;( ] angst cus i LOVE angst ;)

“DAMNIT!” you growl, slamming your fist against the shower door.

anton, anton, anton.

that’s the only thing— the only name bouncing around your head. the (beautiful) idiot beat you by a—

“SECOND. A FUCKING SECOND!” you fume, the hot water running down your back doesn’t help, the steam giving you comedic energy with your emotions.

it’s a reoccurring situation, you beat him one day, he beats you another day. yet this whole week he’s been beating you by mere seconds.

“n/n…” his soft voice comes out from outside the shower stall.

“what.” you grunt, angrily scrubbing the shampoo in your hair.

you know he’s standing outside, fidgeting. what you don’t know is how fast his heart is racing, how anxious he is at the sound of you being so angry. he knows you’re competitive, he is too, yet he had always hoped it wouldn’t affect the friendship or companionship he was trying to have with you.

“the hell do you want, lee?”

he takes a deep breath, glancing back at the shower room door. almost everyone had left, except the coach which said he’ll go to his office and watch his anime.

“are you going to sulk like a sore loser or go home de-stressed?”

he jolts when your door flies open with a slam. you’re glaring at him but his eyes fly down, below your hips. he’s not hiding anything, why would he? he came inside the shower room with purpose, no towel on with purpose.

“so that wasn’t a one time thing?” you question, raising a brow.

he hesitates, looking around and playing innocent. “did you want it to?”

he gasps when you yank him by the wrist. he’s genuinely surprised at how fast you accepted the invitation, he thought you’d put up more of a fight but no, clearly you wanted your vengeance. he almost pushes you away, but your lips on his is just a beautiful feeling. this is the only time you actually give him something other than a glare or competitive comments. he’s all bark no bite, this is exactly how you two tangoed the first time, except that time you only took a blowjob from him.

left his throat sore and his tongue felt heavy during the entirety of the next day, the ghost of your dick in his mouth there.

he’s not a virgin, by no means, but he’s never done something this crazy. fucking in the shower room? what if someone forgot their shampoo or something and tries to come in? what if their coach decided to do his job and actually check up on you two for once?

you grip his hips, pushing him against the stall wall, the water still running. your lips are over his neck, nipping and kissing. he gets lost in that sensation, his hands coming up to mess with your wet hair.

your body is hot, the water burning your skin. he’s not a hot shower person, so apart from him already feeling sweaty in your hands, the steam isn’t helping with his libido. he tugs at your hair when you trail down his chest and stomach. his hips twitch forward as you go lower. he’s so hard it’s embarrassing.

“don’t look at me as if i’d help you with it.”

and you embarrass him. of course you do.

“you clean?” you ask as you come back up and eye his plush, wet lips.

his eyes are naturally doe, you almost find it cute. (who are you kidding, it absolutely is. you wanna to destroy him, corrupt him so bad).

“yeah,” his voice is always soft, yet you fell in love with how hoarse and raspy you can make it sound.

“fine, let me show you how much you piss me off,” you growl, placing your hands behind his thighs and swooping him up in one swift movement.

you grunt, forgetting how tall and built this boy is. he cling to you out of fear, his heart racing. this is new to him and doing it with you just brings out a rush he never new he’d experience. yet, despite the arousal and sexual hunger, he eyes you with a hint of perplexion. are you joking? you don’t actually get pissed off at him, right? but of what? him beating you lately or his existence in general?

he can’t ponder about it for more than a mere second before your fingers spread his cheeks apart. he hooks his ankles behind you, securing himself in your hold as you push in. you make a small, almost silent noise when your tip pushes the moist gland.

“h-hold on, grab me right,” he gasps as his arms wrap around your neck again.

“this isn’t easy, idiot,” you huff, “you’re not exactly small or light.”

he closes his eyes when some water drips from the top of his head. yet, when he feels you thrust he snaps them open and gasps.

“fuck, you’re so warm,” you grunt, pulling him down by the hips to slam into him.

it’s taking everything in you to hoist him up and move him. a hardcore arm workout, but one you know you’ll enjoy. you place a soft kiss, contrasting your brutal movements, onto his wet skin, making him moan— his neck is sensitive to kisses. especially with how wet and hot yours are.

from the rush in the moment, you build the pace and stamina to fuck him into the wall. his arms tighten around you, his airy moans echoing softly. he’s trying to be silent just in case, or at least you think. is he always this soft voiced? you grin— could you make him get loud?

you pull out entirely before slamming back inside. his breath hitches and his eyes snap open again.

“ah- oh fuck-!” he squeaks as you slam him down onto you.

his dick flops uselessly between the two of you. your fingers dig into the softness of his flesh in his ass, nails digging into him. you’ll leave marks, he knows it. yet, that’s what he’s hoping for, because where you’ll look at him nasty for doing the drills perfectly or getting praised for his renewed charts , he’ll know those marks happened when you looked at him with something other than hate.

you aim like you’re on a mission, which you are. the wet sound of skin against skin bounces around the shower walls. the running water isn’t loud enough anymore— you’re grunting as you chase your high and anton is letting out high pitched whines.

he presses his cheek against the side of your face. you feel so good, he can feel you splitting him open. he can feel the warmth of your dick inside his equally warm walls.

“y-y/n, you feel so good,” he pants out. “guess you’re good at something.”

fuck. that literally pissed you off. like, maybe not exactly in a way where his words irked you, but in the sense that it drove you to keep proving him right since he clearly wants to be right.

he grunts and moans when you get brutal. you’re growling and digging your nails into his skin.

“ah, ah,” his thighs twitch around your waist, a clear sign he’s getting close and sensitive.

you let out heavy breaths, a gruttal moan leaves your throat as you feel your climax building.

“imagine coach comes in here and sees his best swimmer getting fucked like a slut,” you cackle between your grunts. you feels his hole clench around you and you can’t help but feel amused at that. “you wanna get caught being a slut? what would the school think?” his breathing turns more erratic, “what would your daddy think?”

“fuck- y/n stop,” he tries but you just feel so good slamming into him that he just sounds stupid.

“the district stars fucking in the shower rooms, what a header,” you grin as you push your hips flush into his reddened ass cheeks, spilling deep into him.

he shudders, your warm seed sending him over the edge. he can’t even bask in the post-orgasm for a second because you pull out and set him back on his feet. you feel the pull in your shoulder blades, this is going to be embedded in your muscles for a while. yet you don’t find yourself showing any shred of care for him when you notice how wobbly his legs are.

“just watch, i’ll make sure you become a good fuck more than a good swimmer, lee.” you grunt, stepping out of the shower stall while glaring at him.

his heart aches, but he just throws you a lazy, lustful smile. because he knows that as long as he beats you, you’ll take out your anger on him.

and that would mean he’ll mean something to you. one way or another.

[metamorphesque]

The Dance, Siamanto (translated by Tathev Simonyan) text:

And as her tears drowned in her blue eyes, Over a field of ashes, where Armenian life was still dying, A German woman described the horror she had seen. "This unspeakable story I now tell you, I saw it with these ruthless, human eyes, From the window of my safe little home, That opened onto hell Grinding my teeth in fury and in dread… With these pitilessly human eyes, I saw it. It was in the city of Bardez, now a heap of ash, Where corpses were piled to the tops of trees, And from the waters, the springs, the streams, the roads, The murmur of your blood cried out in rebellion… Even now, its voice of vengeance still rings in my ears…" Oh, do not be horrified when I tell you this unspeakable tale… Let humankind understand—man's crime against man, Under the sun of just two days, along the path leading to grave— Man’s evil against man, Let it be known to every heart in this world… That death-drenched morning was a Sunday, The first and futile Sunday rising over the corpses, When in my room, from dusk until dawn, Bent over the death throes of a stabbed girl… I doused her death with my tears… Suddenly, from afar, a dark horde—beastly— With twenty brides—whipping them savagely, Singing songs of lust—stopped in a garden. I, leaving behind the half-dead girl on her mat, Approached the balcony of my hell-facing window… In the garden, the horde thickened like a forest. One of the brutes thundered to the brides: ‘You must dance! You must dance when our drum beats!’ And the whips began to howl with rage  against the bodies of those Armenian women, longing for their death… Hand in hand, the twenty brides began their circle dance… Tears poured from their eyes like open wounds, Ah, how I envied my wounded neighbor, For I heard that with a peaceful sigh and cursing the universe, The beautiful, broken Armenian girl, With her pure soul of a dove, flew toward the stars… In vain, I shook my fists against the crowd… “You must dance,” shrieked the wild horde, “Until your death—you must dance, you infidel beauties, Flapping your tits—you must dance, smiling and without protest… Fatigue is not for you, nor shame— You are slaves—you must dance, stripped down to your skin, Until your death—you must dance, lasciviously and shamelessly. Our eyes are thirsting for your flesh and your death…” The twenty beautiful brides collapsed to the ground, despaired and drained… “Stand up!” they shouted, brandishing their bare swords like serpents, Then one brought a jar of kerosene to the horde… O, human justice, let me spit upon your forehead— The twenty brides were hastily anointed with that fluid… “You must dance!” they thundered, “Here is a perfume, A fragrance Arabia itself cannot offer…” Then with a torch, they set aflame the naked bodies of the brides. And the charred corpses rolled from the dance into death… In horror, I slammed shut the shutters of the window like a storm, And turning to my lonely dead girl, I asked: How can I gouge out these eyes of mine? Tell me—how can I gouge them out…?

[slasherscream]

I love your writing! And you just get my craziness and character obsessions. I was thinking what would happen if reader had a bruise cheek or lip, and refuse to tell them what happen. Then they discover that the reader was the one who beat the shit out of someone for saying something about their partner, and how proud yet pissed off they will be. I’m think Crazy Ass Girls Gang, need more possessive and protective FMC. Thank you!

warnings: yandere behavior - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

Tiffany Valentine - Tricks you into thinking she’s gonna be normal about it. She purses her lips when you won’t tell her anything, but quietly rushes off to get the first-aid kit. WATCH OUT! You have just activated a trap card: emotional manipulation. Her most powerful weapon. She’ll silently and dotingly take care of you. Disinfectant. Gentle Hands. Careful bandaging. Petulant silence. Painkillers lovingly dropped in your hand. Big sad eyes staring up at you. When you inevitably break and tell her what happened she could melt! She does melt, straight into your arms. You’re gonna be covered in lipstick by the time she’s through with you. Her hero. Don’t worry, she’ll help you clean up… eventually. Later, you’ll have to help her clean up too. It was so romantic of you to fight for her honor…. But she'd never let someone live after they hurt you, silly.

Jordan Li - Won’t drop the line of questioning until you’re damn near ready to fight her too. She hates that you’re hurt. She loves that you wanted to defend her. Jordan gets a lot of criticism, sometimes it seems never ending. The fact that you feel so strongly about protecting her, not because you think she can’t fight her own battles… but because she shouldn’t have to do it all alone? It means a lot. Still, she doesn’t want you getting into fights. Let alone fights over her. It doesn’t matter how badly you hurt the other person. If there are marks on you Jordan is going to go find them for round two. “You like to put hands on people?” Words spoken seconds before disaster (she’s ignoring the fact that you started the fight. Jordan could give a shit about semantics.)

Nancy Downs - Don’t wanna tell her? Cool! Get ready to experience her favorite couple’s activity besides shoplifting: abusing your coven bond to read your mind! Hooray! It will hurt badly. Because Nancy always makes it hurt when you keep her out on purpose, or hide things from her (or when she thinks you’re doing that.) But don’t worry, after she realizes how sweet you really were, she’ll make you feel all better. Cooing over you as much as she ever allows herself to coo. Cleaning your cuts. Healing you with her magic. Trying to ease the fever that always comes whenever she uses your bond in a way she shouldn’t. She thinks you’re the stupidest, sweetest thing. You’re witches. You don’t have to use your fists anymore to win fights. She leaves you with the coven and goes to enact a witch’s vengeance on whoever dared to lay a finger on you. 

Jennifer Check - You’ll try not to tell her but she immediately starts making such wild accusations you have to just come out and admit to why you’re injured. “I can smell someone on you. If you wanted to get beat up to get your rocks off you should’ve just told me, I’d happily beat the shit out of you.” Start talking quickly! She looks like she’s about to start fulfilling that nonexistent wish now. Once you tell her she has to suppress a smile. She’s a demon. She doesn’t need you playing knight in shining armor over what some jealous, mouth-breathing, loser is saying about her… but, it’s kinda hot that you did. She’ll show you just how hot she thinks it is. Then you two are gonna take a nice little drive, and you’re gonna point out the jackass who put bruises on you. She’ll fuck you again after she’s full. “Thanks for finding my next meal, baby.” 

Victoria Neuman - Victoria expects you to have better self control than this. Not telling her what happened isn’t an option. Ever. The look on her face when you first try and insist that nothing happened is enough for you to quietly admit you got into a fight. Her blood pressure sky-rockets. You two have an image to maintain. You’re her spouse. She has enough problems as it is. She’s thinking of viral videos, nightly news, seedy gossip magazines doing think-pieces: do we really want this person standing behind the president as first spouse? When you tell her you fought one of the Boys for trying to convince you she’s a monster? Well…. She goes a little softer. Victoria will pull you into the circle of her arms and thank you for being so loyal to her. She means it from the bottom of her heart. She’s also dreaming of the day she can pop their fucking heads. Touching you. Talking to you. Trying to turn you against her… they’ve crossed her last line. 

Carrie White - The moment she sees you she’s in hysterics: “Oh, Angel, what happened?!” You’re really gonna sit there and not tell her anything? She’s worked herself into an anxiety attack within seconds. She can hardly open the first aid kit, she’s shaking so bad. The sound of your voice is always so soothing for her that you’ll start telling her the story just to have something to say. She listens quietly while she cleans you up. You’ll have to pull her into your lap before long, and kiss her gently. You’re all she has in the world and it scares her to death to think of you putting yourself in unnecessary danger. You’ll fall asleep curled into each other’s arms. You whisper soft reassurances: “Nothing’s gonna happen to me / I’ll always be here.” Carrie tries her best to listen. You’ll wake up alone, but wander downstairs just as Carrie walks through the front door. She wanted to get her knight in shining armor some breakfast from your favorite diner down the street. She watches you eat with a big smile, and thinks about how she’ll have to burn those clothes in the trunk of the car. She couldn't risk them trying to hurt you again.

Ginger Fitzgerald - Don’t piss her off. If you don’t tell her exactly who touched you she’ll rip the entire city apart. Women, children, men, everyone. Anyone. “Do you want me to do that? Huh, baby? Is that what you want me to do?” No? Then start talking. She won’t be able to see through the blood-lust long enough to take care of you. As soon as you say a name Ginger’s out the door. She’ll only return once she’s thoroughly covered in viscera and gore. She’s still dripping with it when she crawls into bed with you, smearing the blood across your body. She’ll lick at any injury you have, until they’re clean and closed, your skin smooth and unblemished. She’s the only thing that can leave marks on you. She’ll kill anything else that tries. “You don’t have to lift a finger for me, baby. If you want someone hurt, I’ll do it. I’ll do anything for you.” Just run your fingers through her hair and try not to cringe as your fingertips get stained red. 

Patricia (Split) - She’s devastated by the state you come home in after she allows you to go out on a walk all by yourself for the first time since you were…. taken. You’d been so good for her. So obedient. So sweet. She wanted to reward you. And now your eye is starting to bruise, and your clothes are all askew, and your knuckles are swollen. Her calm demeanor cracks, and it’s a struggle to stay in the light. She takes deep breaths, centers herself. None of the others are what you need, right now. You need her. She strips you down, runs you a bath, won’t even let you hold the washcloth. It’s only as she’s patting you dry that she can force out words, finally: “What happened to you, sweet thing, hmm?” The guilt nearly brings her to tears. Months of keeping you close and look at what just a pinch of negligence has done to you… You try to assuage her guilt. You tell her you ran into a neighbor, who’d seen the two of you out together once Patricia trusted you enough to accompany her for little things like grocery trips. You say it’s your fault you came back to her in this condition. That you just couldn’t stand the vile things they said about her. Her face drops into an expression you’ve never seen. It’s gone in an instant, replaced by that comforting, ever present smile she wears for you. She takes you by the chin and kisses your forehead: “My little sweet thing. Playing knight, are you?” You had her love before. Tentatively, you had something like trust. Now Patricia trusts you completely. Even so, you won’t be going out alone again. Patricia trusts you. But it’s clear she can’t trust the world to be gentle with you. Don’t worry, though. All you need to do is ask, when you want to feel the sun on your face. You never see that neighbor again, no matter what time of day you and Patricia go walking.

A/N: thank you!!! we need more batshit crazy women with something wrong with them! Batshit crazy women with something wrong with them unite! if you enjoyed these headcanons consider reblogging, leaving a reply, or an anon! a writer's fuel is engagement. Xoxoxo

[aventurineswife]

PRETTY PRETTY PRETTY PLEASE hsr men reacting to seeing their baby for the first time when they’re born??? PLEASE ITD MAKE MY WHOLE YEAR WITH AT LEAST JING YUAN AND BOOTHILL

(No pressure, do only if you’d like :))

A Promise to Protect

Tags: Jing Yuan, Boothill, Family, Parenthood, Emotional Growth, Soft Moments, Character Development, Fatherhood.

Warnings: Emotional Content, Vulnerability.

Jing Yuan stood at the doorway, watching as the nurse gently placed the newborn in his arms. His eyes softened, a rare tenderness flickering across his calm expression. He had fought countless battles, led armies, and orchestrated peace, yet none of it compared to the quiet, fragile life now cradled in his hands.

The baby’s small form wiggled slightly, its innocent face scrunched in a mixture of confusion and discomfort, yet it was the most beautiful thing Jing Yuan had ever seen. He carefully adjusted his grip, ensuring the newborn was secure, his fingers brushing against the soft, delicate skin. For a fleeting moment, the weight of his past decisions—the wars, the alliances, the responsibility of the Xianzhou—seemed distant, as if they belonged to another person entirely.

Jing Yuan’s usual composed demeanor softened. His voice, normally a steady, calming force, became almost a whisper as he spoke to the baby.

"Welcome, little one..." he murmured, his gaze lingering on the tiny face. "The future is now in your hands."

Despite his calm exterior, there was a glimmer of something deeper in his eyes, a promise of protection, a promise of guidance. He would give everything to ensure this child would live in a world where peace and wisdom reigned, even if he had to face the challenges of time himself.

The baby’s tiny hand reached up, grasping his finger, and for the first time in centuries, Jing Yuan felt something he had long forgotten: hope.

Boothill stood at the entrance of the makeshift shelter, his mechanical arm clenched into a fist as his other hand gripped the wooden frame. He had been through countless battles, had seen the worst the galaxy had to offer, and survived more than any living being should. Yet nothing, nothing could have prepared him for the sight of the baby in his arms.

It was a fragile, wriggling bundle—nothing like the fierce, vengeful existence he had built for himself. The tiny life in his arms, with its soft skin and the faintest trace of his own features, struck him with a weight he had never known.

He gazed down at the baby, his shark-like teeth clenching, trying to hold back the storm of emotions that threatened to rise in him. For a moment, Boothill’s icy demeanor faltered. This wasn’t the revenge-fueled, merciless man that had become a bounty on his head. This was something entirely new—vulnerable, raw, unfiltered.

He gently rocked the baby in his arms, his voice gruff but steady as he muttered, "I won’t let ‘em hurt you, kid. Not like they did to my family."

The baby, with its tiny fists clenched, let out a soft coo, and for the first time in years, Boothill felt his heart beat in a way he couldn’t explain. It wasn’t for revenge, it wasn’t for justice—it was for something pure.

"You're gonna grow up strong, just like me," he said, his voice low and filled with a fierce determination.

Boothill had spent his life chasing revenge, but in that moment, holding the baby in his arms, he realized there was something worth fighting for beyond vengeance. This child would be the reason he fought from now on.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Ink & Needle // Chapter Twenty-Nine

Tattoo Artist Simon “Ghost” Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): tattoo shop au, swearing, military themes, suggestive themes

Word Count: 2.2k

Simon and Price have a discussion next to your hospital bed after rescuing you from Walsh. Simon brings you back to the MacTavish farm and proposes a promising future.

Chapter Twenty-Eight // Epilogue

ao3 // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Then

“You’ll pull a muscle in your neck sleeping like that.”

Like a dog on a chain, Simon is yanked from sleep. The world tilts, and then becomes laser-focused. Inhaling deep, Simon silently tells his nerves to fucking knock it off. The danger has passed. You are safe, and this is a friend.

Captain John Price lingers at the end of your hospital bed, hat off and tucked under his arm. There is a sympathetic quality to his expression that Simon can only describe as pity. If he weren’t so concerned about you, Simon might consider it a blow to his ego.

“I’ve slept on worse,” replies Simon.

Price nods. “I know.”

And it’s true. He does. They’ve been through hell together, seen and done so much awful shit that their present, past, and future are forever tangled.

A monitor beeps, and Simon’s attention shifts to you slumbering in your hospital bed.

“I’m not waking her up,” says Simon, not taking his gaze away from you.

“Didn’t ask,” murmurs Price. “Not why I’m here.”

This time, Simon glances away, curiosity pulling at the folds of his brain, wanting to absorb whatever it is Price has come here to say.

“Can I sit?” asks Price.

With a nod, Simon indicates an unoccupied chair near the window. Price goes to it, bringing it within distance of Simon. Setting it down silently, Price eases onto the cushion, sighing as he relaxes. While Price lounges, he remains quiet, observing you in your slumbering state.

“Captain,” prompts Simon as a gnarling fist of tension grips his stomach.

Price shifts slightly, clasping his hands together, and resting them over his stomach. “We did a sweep of the house. Nothing.”

Simon grunts. “Hardly expected more.”

“But we’re not empty handed.”

“You found something?”

Price nods. “Walsh didn’t come alone.”

Simon sits up slightly. “There was someone else in the house?”

“Not when you were there. But he had help. Moving…” Price’s gaze shifts away from Simon and lands on you.

There is no further explanation needed.

“You found that fucker, didn’t you?”

“Traffic stop of all things,” says Price. “Damn lucky.”

Simon’s voice is cold with violent intent. “I want to talk to him. Just a few minutes alone. That’s all I need.”

Price is silent for a few beats, understanding that Simon isn’t interested in talking at all. “You’ll have it.”

The confirmation siphons the tension away, leaving only a pleased sense of fulfillment. Simon has always followed Price’s orders, made sure to execute each mission with extreme precision. Rarely does he deal out vengeance or justice in the way he sees fit. But Price will allow it here, and Simon is grateful.

This is not what Simon imagined for himself in retirement. Though he felt wronged in the way that SAS forced him out, he found new purpose with 141 Ink. Even when you first appeared before him like a phantom, Simon never expected this.

“But that’s not what I came to talk to you about, Simon.”

“You came to talk about Walsh.” Price inclines his head and Simon shrugs. “What about?”

“How it’s all connected. Walsh’s intentions. What he was after.”

Simon’s hand forms a fist, some of that tension returning. He quietly counts to ten and releases the fist. “Walsh was after me.”

“Yes,” agrees Price. “But I’m talking about Archibald Williams. Why Walsh put a hit on him.”

Simon frowns. “It’s politics. Nothing more to be said.”

Price smirks, but there’s little humor in it. “Partially. Goes deeper than that. Worse than you think.”

“He’s dead, Price. What more is there to say about him?”

“It’s a family matter,” says Price.

Simon goes cold, his veins freezing over. “What about the family?” he asks, because Simon might not know much, but he knows enough. The argument Simon had with you after the pub, how he had seen you with another man thinking you weren’t interested in him, but you were only trying to protect your friend.

Price inhales and then leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, lowering his voice to a mere whisper. “Remember the man you got into it with at the pub?”

“Adam,” growls Simon.

How could he forget? The man had groped your thigh without invitation and then called you a whore after. In the moment, Simon only saw blood. If Price, Kyle, and Johnny hadn’t been there, Simon might have mauled the man.

“Archie’s brother,” adds Price.

“He’s involved?”

Price’s mouth forms a thin line. “He ordered the hit.”

“You’re lying,” says Simon, almost laughing at the idea. That man was nothing more than dirt under Simon’s shoe. A wanker. A loser. “Walsh takes orders from no one but himself.”

“Unless they’re a generous donor.”

Simon shakes his head. “Walsh doesn’t do charity.”

“It’s not charity,” says Price. “It’s a business deal.” The man sighs and sits back. “Do you know what Adam Williams does for a living? What industry he works in?”

Simon snorts. “Thinking you’re about to tell me.”

Price inclines his head. “Weapons manufacturing. Private and public sector. Government contracts across multiple nations. And…others. More discreet dealings.”

“And the war machine keeps turning,” mutters Simon.

“Always,” agrees Price. “War means profit for people like Adam Williams. Like Kit Walsh.”

“Power,” adds Simon. “Advantage.” Behind the balaclava, Simon’s jaw clenches. “So why the hit on his own brother?”

Price’s face falls, his gaze turning to you for a moment before returning to Simon. “Archie met with a few members of Parliament. They planned on meeting privately with the Defense Secretary. Have him testify at a committee hearing. He knew what his brother was up to with Walsh. Had damning evidence.”

“And Adam found out.”

“He did. Told Walsh. And Walsh took Archie out.”

“What about the evidence?” asks Simon. “Why didn’t Parliament continue with the committee?”

“They only had copies of what was exchanged between Archie and those few members of Parliament. Archie planned on bringing the rest during the meeting with the Defense Secretary.”

“So it’s lost?” asks Simon.

“Partially. As far as I’m aware, it’s being recovered as we speak.”

“Fucking hell,” sighs Simon, shaking his head.

“It gets worse, Simon. It gets personal.”

A sinking feeling develops in Simon’s stomach, weighing him down.

“There’s Adam and Walsh’s business agreement which is why Archie attempted to expose his brother in the first place.”

“I don’t need the details,” growls Simon.

“But you’ll want to listen to what I say next.” Price runs his hand over his face as if he hasn’t slept in ages. “Adam Williams is the one who set Walsh on your tail.”

“Price—”

He holds up a hand. “Not directly. He wanted Walsh to go after the wife, Evelyn. Take her out too in case she knew anything. But Walsh didn’t. Never touched her. Why is that?”

The revelation is like a punch to the face. “Me,” says Simon. “Walsh must have seen me.”

Price nods. “I think so, too. Saw you. Decided to stalk instead of kill.”

“To get revenge for what I did to him.”

Price’s expression is grim but leans in the affirmative. “When we came to seek your help about Walsh, the information I was given was because of Archie. Didn’t know it at the time. But he saved us from a massive national security threat.”

“And where is Williams?” asks Simon. “In custody?”

This time, Price smiles. “Just waiting on the judge drafting the warrants.”

Simon leans forward. “You fucking get him. You hear me? You do this for me, Price.” He glances at you asleep in your hospital bed. “And for her.”

“That I can promise.”

Now

It’s Christmas in April.

Simon has one arm draped over the back of your chair, watching with an amused expression as Johnny’s mother putters about, fussing over him.

“You’ve put on weight,” she mutters, frowning over her glasses.

“I’ve put on muscle,” corrects Johnny.

She gives him a quick once over, and then squeezes his bicep. “Could use you on the farm. It would be a huge help to your father.”

Johnny’s cheeks go pink. The woman’s been trying to get him to leave SAS for years, insisting that Soap return to run the family farm.

Simon brings his glass up to his lips, smiling around the rim. Johnny’s shoots him a look for help that Simon blatantly ignores. Shifting in his chair, Simon leans toward you, lowering his head.

“All good, love?”

You nod. “Just a little overwhelmed.”

“Need to leave?”

“No,” you reply softly, placing your hand on Simon’s thigh. “I’m excited to be here. It’s just…a lot.”

Simon presses his lips to your forehead, lingering there just so he can inhale your scent and savor your nearness.

Four months.

Four months and still, part of Simon thinks you’ll disappear, that Walsh will somehow manage to return, and drag you off again just to spite him. But Walsh is dead. Simon knows this. Not because he was told but because Price showed him the corpse. At least that version of Walsh wasn’t burnt up and unrecognizable.

And it’s Christmas. In April.

Simon planned on inviting you here in December, to meet the only family he has, but Walsh got to you first. He never had the chance. Yet this gathering isn’t Simon’s idea at all. Johnny’s mother insisted because she was so eager to meet you, to make you part of the family.

Inside, it’s set up the exact way it is when Simon comes to visit for Christmas. The tree is lit up in the corner, a real one grown and felled on MacTavish land. The dining table is packed with so much food that Simon can hardly see the dark wood beneath, and music plays from an old record player.

This is how it’s supposed to be. What Simon has always wanted with you.

Plates are filled. Conversation is had. And for a while, Simon forgets about everything, living only in the moment, reaching out to you on occasion to make sure you’re still there—that you’re real.

After, you and Simon cuddle on the sofa by the fire. Johnny’s father snores in his recliner as the muted television shows the weather. Johnny is in the kitchen with his mother, cleaning dishes and putting them away for her as she badgers him about still being single. Your eyes are closed, cheek resting on Simon’s shoulder, but you’re not asleep.

Simon whispers your name, and you snuggle closer, sighing softly before opening your eyes.

“You never answered by question,” murmurs Simon.

“What question?”

“About you staying here. Permanently. With me.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and then you’re smiling, an illumination of love that Simon wants to wrap himself up in.

“Are you proposing to me?” you giggle.

“No,” answers Simon, and it only makes you laugh harder.

“You are,” you reply, stifling your giggles by turning into his shoulder.

Simon shrugs. “Maybe.”

In a small gesture, you offer your hand, palm upward. Simon instinctually reaches for you, entwining your fingers with his. Lifting your clasped hands, Simon places kisses across your knuckles and then the back of your palm.

The two of you enjoy the silence, nestled together until you yawn. Simon offers up goodbyes, whisking you away to that little cottage on the edge of the property for the night.

“I can see myself staying here,” you murmur as Simon removes his coat and yours. “With you.”

“In England?”

“Yes.”

“In London?”

“Yes, Simon.”

He hangs the coats on the hooks by the door and takes a step toward you. “In my flat, or with Evie and Amelia?”

You pause a moment. Lick your lips. “Your flat.”

Simon’s stomach flips. His heart lurches. This time you match his forward movement, meeting him equally until the two of you are staring into each other’s eyes.

“You want to be with me? Only me? Forever?”

Your hand comes up to rest against his stomach. It slides upward over his chest only to come to a stop at his neck. With a gentle tug, Simon surrenders to you, closing the distance. The contact is electric and warm, and Simon cannot help wrapping his arms around you, pulling you against him as he takes what he desires.

“Do you remember this place?” he asks. You nod, lips puffy from his attention. Simon goes in for one more kiss. “What we did here.” Another kiss. “In that bed.” Another. “On the table.”

“Simon,” you whimper as his hands descend to grasp and squeeze.

“Do you remember?” Again, you nod. “Say it.”

“I do.”

His lips brush over yours. “I want to recreate it. To have you like that again.”

The offer is open, and all you need to do is take. Simon desperately wants you to take it.

“I’m yours, Simon.”

This time, Simon gives in to his urges, to feed that hunger, to settle in and finally make a home with the one person he cares for the most. Cradling your face in his hands, Simon shows you his passion, reveals it openly and without barriers. He wants you to see all of him, to know his desperation, his fears, and how much he craves you. You answer in kind, and that is enough for him.

It is everything.

[ltash]

"Wicked" Last pt

SimonGhostRileyxf!"Rose"reader

From her highschool bully to her wicked bodyguard, from Simon to Ghost

Gunfire crackled through the mansion like a thunderstorm splitting the sky.

Rose heard it all, The boots stomping down the hallways.

The sharp shouts.

The desperate cries of Massimo’s men as Task Force 141 descended like vengeance from the heavens.

Every shot echoed in her bones.

Every scream reminded her she was still alive.

Still breathing.

Still broken.

She didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

She laid there, trembling, eyes wide and blank, her mind looping through the last hour like a scratched reel. She flinched at every burst of gunfire, curling further into the sheets, her fingers fisted in the fabric like it was the only thing anchoring her.

Where was Massimo?

Where was that monster?

The question beat inside her skull. But there was no answer. No voice. No footstep.

Only the quiet thud of bodies dropping and the roar of Ghost’s voice, barking orders like a commander born from war.

“Clear the north wing.”

“Room by room. Take them alive if you can. Dead if you must.”

“He doesn’t leave this island. Not this time.”

But Massimo wasn’t there.

The coward.

He’d slithered away, probably back to Portofino, leaving his blood-soaked empire crumbling behind him.

And then, Silence.

Like a switch had flipped.

Like the storm had passed.

Ghost exhaled, slow and hard, the breath he’d been holding since the moment he’d broken through her door. His heart was still a war drum in his chest, but the danger had passed. For now.

She was safe.

He turned, ignoring the bodies behind him, stepping over blood and shattered glass like it was just another mission. His boots tracked crimson footprints back into her room.

Back to her.

She hadn’t moved.

Not since he left.

She was still curled on the edge of the bed, his tactical jacket around her shoulders, too large, drowning her like a shield. Her hair was tangled. Her eyes glassy. Her skin pale as bone china under the soft light.

But her gaze snapped to him when he walked in.

And then, she broke.

“Simon…” she whispered, voice barely more than air. “You came back…”

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

He just crossed the room, his jaw clenched tight, and then, he gathered her into his arms.

Rose collapsed into him, her fingers clawing at his chest, clutching the front of his black gear like she was afraid he’d disappear.

And then the sobs came.

“He ruined me…”

Her voice shattered against him.

“He ruined me, Simon…”

Her face buried in his chest, her tears soaking through his shirt, her body wracked with tremors that wouldn’t stop.

Ghost didn’t speak at first.

He just held her tighter.

One arm wrapped protectively around her back, the other cradling the back of her head. His lips pressed into her hair, eyes closed, jaw locked against the storm in his throat.

“No,” he whispered eventually, voice hoarse. “He didn’t ruin you.”

She shook her head, harder this time. “You don’t understand what he did, he.”

“I saw.” His voice cracked. “I saw, Rose. And if I could trade places with you, I would. In a heartbeat. I should’ve been there. I should’ve never let this happen to you.”

She cried harder.

“I used to hate you,” she whispered, choking on her sobs. “In school. For the way you made me feel. For how much you hurt me. But this… this is worse.”

His arms tensed around her.

“I know,” he said. “And I’m going to spend the rest of my life making up for every second of it. If you let me.”

A pause.

The sound of sirens blared faintly in the distance. Task Force 141 was securing the perimeter. Palm Jumeirah would never be the same.

“You didn’t deserve any of this,” he said, brushing her hair away from her tear-stained cheek. “And I swear to God, Rose, on Tommy’s name, I’ll never let anyone touch you again.”

She clung to him, breathing him in, trying to pull herself from the abyss.

“I feel so dirty,” she whispered.

“You’re not,” he said firmly, his fingers curling protectively around her. “You’re strong. And brave. And still you.”

She looked up at him then, really looked, at the Simon she once knew and the Ghost he had become. The soldier. The protector.

Her broken protector.

And for a moment, in the wreckage of the night, with her body still aching and her soul still bleeding...

She believed him.

A week had passed.

The golden sands of Palm Jumeirah were far behind them now.

The mansion, the shattered glass, the blood on the tiles, it all lingered in Rose’s memory like smoke after a fire. But now she woke to the soft overcast light of an English morning, wrapped in a heavy blanket, the scent of fresh coffee and military-grade disinfectant hanging in the air.

She was in England.

At a secure SAS base.

And Simon Riley hadn’t left her side since.

The quarters assigned to him were officer-level, bare, efficient, tucked in a quiet corner of the base shielded by layers of authorization, cameras, and more men in black gear than Rose could count.

Her room was adjacent to his. She wasn’t under lock and key, but Ghost, Simon made it clear.

“You don’t go anywhere without me. No errands. No walks. Not even a bloody tea run.”

She didn’t argue.

She didn’t want to.

Because whenever she closed her eyes, she still heard Massimo’s voice.

Still felt the way her body had frozen under his.

Still remembered the weight of the ring box in her hand and the bruises on her soul.

Simon saw it, even when she didn’t say a word.

He was gentler now than she’d ever known him to be, quieter, too. The Ghost inside him had retreated just far enough to let Simon exist beside her. Not the soldier. Not the executioner. But the boy she once knew, who stood beside her at prom and never took her hand.

Now, he didn’t let it go.

---

Friday – 11:43 PM

SAS Operations Room

Simon stood alone in front of a classified monitor, his broad frame wrapped in black fatigues, a half-empty mug of black coffee cooling on the console beside him.

Satellite images flickered across the screen, Portofino. A known Massimo front.

A villa by the coast. Private helipad. Security perimeter.

He clenched his jaw. His gloved finger hovered over the map.

“Coward didn’t even change his hideout.”

Behind him, the comms room was quiet save for the hum of screens and the occasional clack of boots on steel flooring.

Simon reached down, pressed a button on the panel, and leaned forward to record.

His voice came out low, cold, like steel dragged through ash.

“Massimo Toricelli.”

“You thought you could hide. Thought you could touch her and walk away.”

He stared directly into the lens.

“You’re a dead man.”

“I don’t care how deep you dig your hole, I’ll pull you out by the throat and make you watch yourself burn.”

“You think you broke her? You didn’t.”

“You just gave me a reason.”

A beat. A breath.

“I’m coming for you. I’ll hunt you down to the end of the fucking Earth.”

He ended the recording and sent it through a scrambled channel used by arms dealers and syndicates alike, he knew Massimo would hear it. Knew it would find him.

Let him squirm.

Let him sweat.

Let him know hell was coming.

Rose’s Room – 12:08 AM

The light was still on when he came back.

She was curled on the cot, legs tucked under her, reading a file quietly. Her bruises were healing, slowly, but the strength in her posture was returning.

Simon stepped inside, silent as a shadow.

She looked up.

“Was it him?”

He didn’t answer. Just nodded once.

She closed the file, eyes steady.

“Did you tell him?”

“I sent him a message.” His voice was quiet, but dark. “No threats. Just a promise.”

“Good.” She paused. “Because I want to be there when you keep it.”

Simon crossed the room, knelt down beside her.

He reached out, gently brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. He never rushed her. Never assumed. But tonight, she leaned into his touch.

“I still wake up,” she whispered, “thinking I’m there. In that room.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to be afraid of him anymore, Simon.”

His eyes burned with quiet rage.

“You won’t be. Not while I’m breathing.”

Outside, the wind howled across the field. The base slept under high alert.

But within these steel walls, something was being built between them again, slowly, cautiously.

Not revenge. Not just survival.

But something like hope.

The golden sun dipped behind the hills of Portofino, casting long shadows over the sea-slick rooftops of Massimo Toricelli’s infamous coastal villa. But peace was a luxury he could no longer afford.

Because Task Force 141 had arrived.

The sky ripped open with the thunder of Black Hawks descending. Dust, chaos, and orders shouted in clipped British accents filled the air. A single signal had been given.

"Execute."

Captain Price led the charge. Gaz and Soap swept the perimeter while Ghost moved like death incarnate, his skull mask a warning carved in bone. The villa’s security barely had time to react.

Gunfire erupted from the main courtyard. Automatic rifles crackled. Shouts echoed. Grenades lit the twilight.

"Go, go, go! Sweep the left hall!"

Inside, Massimo ran.

His guards dropped like dominoes, overwhelmed by the precision and brutality of Task Force 141. The Don himself darted through marbled corridors, shoving antique vases and staff out of his way, blood pounding in his ears.

But he didn’t get far.

At the end of the grand hallway, a shadow moved.

Ghost emerged from the smoke like a nightmare. Towering. Silent.

"Going somewhere?" Simon growled.

Massimo turned to flee but Ghost was faster. In a single lunge, he grabbed Massimo by the collar and slammed him against the stone wall. The Don’s face snapped back with the force of it.

"You touched her," Ghost seethed, slamming him again.

"She begged for mercy," Massimo spat, blood already trickling from his lip.

Ghost saw red.

The first punch landed with a sickening crunch. Then the second. Then the third.

"That's for every tear she cried." "For every bruise you left on her skin." "For every night she woke up screaming."

Massimo's face was a ruin, his body sagging with each blow. Blood splattered against the wall. A tooth flew from his mouth. He tried to raise his arms, but they were too slow, too broken.

"Ghost! That's enough!" Price bellowed from the corridor.

Simon didn't stop.

"He hurt her!"

"I know! But if you kill him, he gets off easy!"

Price grabbed Ghost by the vest, yanking him off the slumped figure.

Massimo collapsed to the ground, coughing blood, groaning like the rat he was.

"Arrest this son of a bitch," Price barked to the Italian special forces who had finally breached the back gate. "He's got a court date."

Massimo was dragged out, shackled, barely able to walk.

Later, in the courtroom, he faced charges from over a dozen countries. Trafficking. Assault. Torture. False imprisonment. His own allies abandoned him. His empire fell apart.

Millions in damages. Life imprisonment without parole.

But for Rose and Ghost, it wasn’t about the sentence.

It was about the moment.

The moment justice finally showed its face.

The wind was brisk on the RAF base that morning, sweeping over the tarmac in quiet gusts, rustling the corners of flags and lifting the hems of uniforms. It was unusually calm. No alarms, no drills. Just the steel grey clouds overhead and the low hum of distant jets.

Ghost stood by the fence overlooking the runway. Dressed in his fatigues, he looked like he belonged to the silence. The weight of war still hung on his shoulders, but something softer had returned to his eyes in the past weeks.

He heard her before he saw her.

The gentle steps on gravel. The subtle shift in the air. And then, her hand, warm and sure, slid into his.

Rose.

She had healed slowly, painfully. But she had healed. The bruises were gone, the shadows under her eyes fading. But it was the strength in her grip that told him she was back. Alive. Whole. His.

“You’re brooding again,” she teased softly, bumping her shoulder against his.

Simon turned toward her, a rare smile tugging at the edge of his lips.

“Force of habit,” he murmured.

They stood there quietly, hands clasped, until she leaned her head on his shoulder. The sky was a wash of pale blue behind her, and for the first time in a long time, the world didn’t feel like a battlefield.

Simon exhaled. Then turned fully to face her.

He cupped her face gently, thumbs brushing her cheeks.

“I’ve seen hell,” he said. “Fought monsters. Survived things I don’t even speak about. But nothing ever scared me like losing you.”

Her lips parted slightly. Her eyes shimmered.

“I promised myself I’d keep you safe, Rose,” he said. “Not just from him. From everything. Even from me, if I ever became something I swore I’d never be.”

Her hands came up to hold his wrists. “Simon”

“Marry me,” he interrupted quietly, voice almost a whisper.

She blinked, startled.

He didn’t flinch. “I want to wake up beside you. I want to build something real. A life. A home. You’re the only thing that’s ever made sense in all this noise.”

“Simon…” her voice caught in her throat.

He tilted his head slightly, his lips curving just a little. “I don’t have a ring yet. But I’ll get you one. A real one. Not one stuffed in a velvet box by some psychopath.”

Tears gathered in her eyes, but she laughed through them.

“Yes,” she whispered, breathless. “Yes, Simon. Of course, yes.”

He let out a shaky breath, something caught between a laugh and a sigh of relief.

Then he kissed her.

Not like a soldier returning from war. Not like a man desperate for something he lost.

But like someone who’d found his home. Finally. Fully.

Her hands slid into his hair as he pulled her close, anchoring her against him like he’d never let go again.

The air around them stood still, the base fading behind them. For a moment, there was only them. No wars. No ghosts.

Just Simon and Rose.

And the beginning of forever.

[random-thot-generator]

This is so NSFW. MDNI.

----------

I imagine John Price would need a lot of patience for the type of woman he's attracted to.

He says he wants a sweet little housewife, and he does, but he wants her to have a little spunk, too, a little bit of fight in her. He doesn't want a doormat, he wants a partner that will stand up for herself and stand up to him, if need be, but he would also want a woman that will have his back.

And that's you.

Just imagine some karen getting rude with John in the grocery store, and you, his sweet little missus, overhears it. John would be trying to keep the peace, handle the situation without causing a scene, when you come charging down the aisle like the flaming angel of vengeance and proceed to tear into Karen with a verbal beat down of biblical proportions.

John's just standing there stunned, because he just thought he'd seen you mad before, but this is on a whole other level. Your face is scrunched up in a mean scowl and you've got this karen backed up against the shelf, finger pointed right at the end of her nose, daring her to say one more word to your man.

John might have to pull you out of the grocery store when the manager threatens to call the cops, but as soon as he gets you back to the car, he's got you pressed up against it and kissing you until you have to get in the car, because your legs are too shaky to support you.

And once he gets you home, oh, mama!

He's got you set up on the kitchen counter, pants hanging off one ankle, panties ripped off and flung God knows where, and he is plowing into you like he's holding a grudge. I mean, he's putting his back into it, banging the cabinets with every hard thrust, hands gripping your ass tight enough to bruise. It's just balls-deep, unhinged fucking, because that was the hottest fucking thing he's ever seen you do, and you did it for him.

He's got your hair fisted in his hand, looking you dead in the eye when he growls, "Would've put 'er on 'er arse if she'd laid a finger on me, yeah?"

You lock your legs around him and yank him forward, digging your nails into the back of his neck and biting his earlobe before whispering in his ear, "They would've carried that bitch out on a stretcher."

And John comes so hard his knees wobble.

-

[queenstarlight2]

Imagine Legolas watching you get killed in battle and him not even being able to respond to your death

OG post

Legolas stood there frozen, his heart shattered as he watched your life slip away in the midst of battle. He desperately wanted to rush to your side, to shield you from further harm, but he was immobilized by grief and disbelief. Time seemed to stand still as he watched, consumed by a gut-wrenching helplessness that tore at his soul. He struggled to find his voice, to call out your name, to do anything to bring you back, but he was trapped in his own torment, unable to do anything but watch in absolute anguish as you slipped away.

The pain in his eyes was palpable, a reflection of the emotional turmoil he was experiencing. Yet, he was powerless to change the course of events, forced to endure the unbearable sight of your mortality unfolding before him. The horror of the scene, the knowledge that he couldn't intervene, etched deep lines of despair onto his face. Every beat of his heart felt like a torment, a constant reminder of the love he held for you and the cruel twist of fate that had torn you away from him.

The battlefield around him became a blur, the sounds of clashing steel and screams of pain fading into the background as his world narrowed to the tragic tableau unfolding before him. The weight of guilt and regret bore down on him, the realization that he had failed to protect you cutting him to the core. Every muscle in his body ached with the strain of holding back, the desire to lash out, to defy the cruel forces that had robbed him of you nearly overwhelming him.

He clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white with the intensity of his emotions, as he fought a losing battle against the despair threatening to consume him. He had known the dangers of battle, he had accepted the risks, but nothing could have prepared him for this moment of utter devastation. The thought of a future without you seemed inconceivable, and the reality of your absence felt like a blow to his very soul.

As the weight of his grief intensified, Legolas found a surge of newfound determination. The pain of your absence fueled an inferno of anger and defiance within him. He would fight with a vengeance now, his every strike against the enemy a direct outlet for his torment. The knowledge that he had lost you only served to ignite a fiercer flame within him, driving him to push further than he ever had before. This wasn't just about winning the battle anymore; it was about avenging your death and honoring your memory with every fiber of his being.

[ragnarokhound]

thinking fondly of you<3 want to ditch the kids and go to a winery this weekend? (drink some red wine(supernova))

also thinking fondly about jaytim. specifically, about how oftentimes we think of them as a slow burn… but you know what might make them a fast burn (an explosion?)?

one of them gets kidnapped and everyone thinks they’re dead:( but then they’re alive

Always, love, I'm sure they'll be happy to spend some time with their favorite familial babysitters, I'll give them a call tonight🍷💥

And OUGH. Yes. SUCH a classic action hero hurt/comfort trope, I'm always here for mortal peril being the trigger that forces a couple to realize what they mean to each other and that they WANT to take that chance!!

I am reminded strongly of one of feyburner's comics that I love so much... in this comic they were hooking up beforehand and this is the scenario that like. Makes it emotionally REAL for Tim and i love that sooo much... but also OwO

thinking about The Scenario:

One of them is kidnapped. Due to inspo in part from feyburner's comic, I'm thinking Jason. But it's been so long/the method in which he was taken leads everyone to believe that Jason's dead. EVERYONE. Tim included. Thinking that he's dead hits Tim harder than expected. Why? It doesn't make sense. I didn't even like him that much, what the fuck.

But he goes after the bastards who did it twice as hard, ridden by this sharp grief he didn't know he would feel. He's on a warpath. He's chasing down leads, shaking down goons, snapping at everyone that it doesn't matter that Jason's already dead this is about justice this is about vengeance this is about preventing it from happening again-- and finally finds the Organization's big base. Their big HQ.

Methodically he goes about tearing it down, one-man guerrilla style. As he moves through the complex, KO'ing goons, sabotaging weapons and computers, hell he might even rig this place to blow--

He picks up chatter about moving the 'livestock' and 'dealing with the troublemaker' and figures there must be human prisoners here. Possibly trafficking victims. He's been raising all kinds of hell, and security is just now going on alert as they find the evidence of his entry--

--when over one of the radios on the goons he just took out, Tim hears a very familiar and very alive voice taunting the Organization that he's out. They should have killed Jason when they had the chance.

Tim immediately factors Jason and the victims into his plans, gets in contact with Jason over the radio (full mission mode, no time for feelings or explanations yet) to work together on bringing this place down.

So by the time things are cleared up-- bad guys busted, victims rescued, base blown to smithereens-- Tim has been wildly coming to grips with the fact that Jason is alive after all and the confusing rush of emotions that's inspired in him, but Jason still has no idea that everyone thought he was dead.

So when Tim finally sees Jason in person, missing half his gear and still wearing the clothes he was snatched in, dirty and bloody and asking what took him so long-- he's not exactly thinking clearly, okay? Kissing him was a purely adrenaline/relief fueled action.

"Woah," Jason breathes once Tim gives him the chance. "What was that for?" "Thought you were dead," Tim muffles against the skin of Jason's throat. His pulse beats hard against Tim's cheek, his lips, sternly refuting the allegations. "Oh," Jason says, bowled over and bewildered. He's still holding Tim with an arm around his waist, his other hand cupping the back of his head, big and steady. "Well. I'm not." Tim squeezes tighter, his fists trembling in the back of Jason's shirt. Jason is solid, and warm, and alive-- and Tim might be in love with him. "Yeah," he apologizes. "Sorry. Had to check." Tim's clearly stumped him. "Huh." Tim doesn't let go. But neither does Jason. Jason clears his throat. "You know, I don't have the best track record with being alive after all," he says in a rambling tone so casual it makes Tim's chest hitch. "You maybe wanna... check again?"

[manichalseys]

marc spector/steven grant/jake lockley x reader

summary: you loved all of your boys equally. most days.

or; they're all amazing in their own ways, but definitely have their strong suits.

..••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••..

You were going to strangle Marc Spector, you were sure of it. You were also sure that Steven would forgive you, and Jake probably wouldn't bat an eye.

How many times had you told this man that you had a laundry basket for a reason? Fist of Vengeance or not, his socks still stunk and you were getting tired of padding around the apartment twice a week collecting them all.

You slammed the washer door shut a little too hard just as you heard the front door open and click shut.

"I'm home, love! They had a great deal on your favorite cream cheese at the shops." Steven's honey accent pierces the quiet of your anger and you immediately simmer; his sunny disposition a cold water on your raging fire. You had nearly forgotten that he was the one who went to the store.

"That's great." You said as you rounded the corner, a smile on your face.

Steven paused in his unloading the groceries, a furrow creasing his brow. "Are you alright, sweets? You look tense." He crossed the small kitchen over to you, hands settling lightly on your shoulders. Leave it to Steven to see the slightest bit of tension in you.

You have a loving eye roll, moving closer to wrap your own arms around him. "I'm okay, Steven. Just slightly peeved at Marc for being so messy."

His hold dropped to your waist and he rested his chin on top of your head, a mirthful chuckle rumbling out of his chest. "That he is, love. Right disgusting bugger. Shall we do something about him?"

"I thought you wouldn't take kindly to me choking him with the next dirty sock I find."

"I'm sure I can look the other way."

..••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••..

"You're being ungrateful, you need to actually listen to me-"

Conversations with your mother never went over well, but this time you were well tired of listening to it.

"I am not being ungrateful, Sharon. I'm being realistic. Don't call me again." You slammed the phone down with a force, shaking the glass of water you had perched on the dining table. You winced, knowing that smart phones weren't made to take that kind of beating but you were far past the point of caring.

She always knew how to rile you up; to upset you and make you feel guilty. You didn't even know why you bothered to pick up her calls anymore. Some sick sense of ownership.

The hands that turned you were warm and familiar, the chest that greeted you smelling of musk and pine.

"You want to talk about it?" Marc's voice made you wince. Steven was the one that left the house this morning, you hadn't been aware that they planned to switch. You hated talking about this stuff with Marc, knowing full well it never compared to the relationship he suffered with his own mother.

You gave a shake of your head and met his dark brown gaze. "It's fine, babe. Same old attitude."

Marc's smirk lacked the usual humor. He raised one of his hands to twirl a loose piece of your hair, tracing the movement with his eyes. "You know you don't have to bottle it up, right? How you feel is important. Don't ignore that just because I have my own issues."

Your eyebrows raised in surprise. "That's quite the self aware statement, Mr. Spector. I'm impressed."

Marc's smile morphed into that familiar one and he returned your earlier eye roll. "Don't deflect. I'm here if you want to talk."

You dropped your hand to his and started to pull him towards the kitchen. "We can talk while we cook. I'm starving."

"I can agree with that."

..••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••....••°°°°••..

You were being followed, you were sure of it. You tried not to hasten your steps too much, knowing full well that the person who had been following you for the last six blocks would give chase.

You wouldn't escape them.

You and the boys had obviously gone through this kind of situation before. Being the fist of Khonshu didn't come with a fan club, but it certainly did build a repertoire of enemies. If they lived, that is.

Your breath was puffing out of you in clouds as you power walked down a road parallel to your own, debating the merits on showing this man where you lived on the off chance that Marc was home.

You could hear the footsteps behind you speed up and you returned it in kind, kicking into a slow jog - all pretense of being unaware going out the window.

You glanced over your shoulder to see the man approaching quickly, and that was the first mistake you made.

The second one was hesitating when another men stepped out of the shadows of a store front. You knocked into him firmly, breath escaping out of your chest while his harsh grip dug into your shoulders.

Oh, you were fucked.

The man who had been following you caught up to you then, hand clasping over your mouth to muffle the strangled scream you had attempted.

Those training sessions in the living room with Jake felt like a distant memory with the blood pumping through your veins. You kicked wildly at the man in front of you, managing to graze that sensitive bit between his legs.

"I'm going to enjoy this so much more now." The accent was Irish, but you were quickly distracted by the large knife he brought up to your throat.

You stopped thrashing, all too aware of the sharp tip of steel biting into the sensitive skin on your neck. A stray tear rolled out of your eye, fate becoming more concrete.

"Hurry it up, Joey. We don't have time to dally."

"Shut yer pipe-" The man holding the knives voice gurgled briefly before he collapsed on the ground in front of you, the tips of crescent moon shaped knives poking out of the front of his chest.

You found him instantly, half masked by the shadows on the street.

"Bloody fuck." The man holding you simply tightened his hold, one hand fisting in your hair and yanking your head back. The squeal you gave wasn't by choice but you could see the start that the suited man watching you gave. "Stay over there, white devil, or she will die with me. Do you hear-"

You almost didn't see it, the knife being thrown but it was embedded in the goon's throat before your next breath. He released you all at once and you fell forward from the force, gloved hands catching you before you could hit the pavement.

You were heaving breaths, vaguely aware that you were going into something akin to shock but unable to pull yourself out.

"Breathe, mi corazon. You need to take slow breaths." Jake's own hands were shaking almost imperceptibly, you could tell that he was struggling to keep a lid on his fury.

You dragged in a deep breath through your nose, forcing yourself to sit on it before exhaling. You folded into his embrace, fresh tears springing into your eyes. "I'm sorry."

Jake's scoff was almost offensive. "What the fuck are you sorry about?"

You gestured to yourself haphazardly. "Completely losing my shit the first time that something happens to me."

The suit disappeared then, his bare hand gripping your chin lightly, bringing your gaze to his. There was fire churning there, and you realized you mistook some of his anger. There was fear there too. For you, though. Never himself.

"Don't you ever apologize to me when there's," His hand lowered a bit, ghosting over the line of red that the knife had left on your throat. "Blood dripping down you. Blood that's my fault." You understood then, the hard clench of his jaw. "Mierda, babe. This could've ended so differently."

Your hand wraps around the his wrist, bringing it into your lap, willing him to look at you instead of the wound he was fixated on. "But it wasn't. Because you were here. I'm okay, Jake."

Something flashed in his eyes, and a cloud passed over his face. He was bottling it up, you could tell, but there wasn't much you could do about that right now. "Let's get you home."

You let him help you off the pavement, keeping a grounding hand on his arm. Jake hesitated a moment, question poised on his tongue.

"What is it?"

"Are you sure you're okay? If you want to talk it out, I can step back. It would probably be good to have someone to talk to-"

Your kiss was chaste, but served its purpose of shutting him up. "If I wanted to talk about it, I could do that with you, Jake. You don't need to go anywhere."

"You know I'm not very good at that-"

"You're perfect." You insisted. No room for arguments.

He smiled wryly, arm wrapping around your waist. "How about I run you a bath when we get home and we order some takeout. What are you hungry for?"

"Surprise me."

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 23 all chapters

WARNING: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, YANDERE SH!T. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

-You think that maybe you’ve gotten off easy for the night, when the two of you practically doze together in the warm tub, the hot water up to your necks. You are endlessly relieved, when you feel him relax behind you, possibly even asleep. You daren’t look, not wanting to disturb him, afraid of what he might dream up next if you rub him just the wrong way.

You can still hardly believe that your relationship has come to this.

The water has started to cool by the time he stirs, kissing behind your ear with a tenderness that fills your heart with a stupid hope, his arm like a band of iron around your waist. “Will you wash me?” There is a softness, damn near vulnerability in this request, and you nod, knowing you cannot refuse.

It doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy yourself too.

You lather up with artisan soap that smells like sandalwood, sliding your hands over the contours of his skin. He tilts his head back, seemingly content, and you hope he will remain like this, passive as a sleeping leopard. Maybe he’ll be ready to snooze after this, and you’ll survive the night.

You try to avoid the area between his legs, but when his lips curl in a wicked little smile your heart skips a beat. “That’s especially dirty,” he tells you through a smirk, as though amused that you thought you might get away scot free.

He should count himself lucky, that you are gentle as you run your soapy hand over the bulge of his heavy sac. Then you are alarmed—and impressed—to find him rock hard again.

So much for your old man jokes.

“Jesus, what are you, fourteen?” you snipe, hoping to cover the state of your own frustrated arousal. Running your hands up and down his thick shaft does not help you at all.

He actually chuckles at that. “You do make me feel young again…not that young, luckily.”

You find yourself exploring him a few more strokes that what is necessary, just for you, because you like the feeling of him in your hand. He grumbles with approval, his eyes half closed. Then because it only seems fair you stop suddenly. “See how you like it.”

You try to slip away, but quick as lightning he grabs you up, water sloshing over the side of the tub. A playful scream escapes you, and his smile is like a baring of teeth. There is a dangerous glitter in his dark eyes that takes your breath away, even as you know you’re doomed.

You shouldn’t play with this man. There must be something missing in your brain, that makes you keep pulling his tail.

“My turn,” he says, perching you on his knees, reaching for the soap.

At first, he really does just wash you, running those strong hands over your body, and it’s all you can do not to melt. But then his focus keeps returning to your breasts, your soft globes floating at the waterline.

Men.

“I think they’re clean…”

“Not for long.” He rolls your nipples between his fingers and you whimper, that ache between your legs that never really went away returning with a vengeance. Somehow, you know begging him to stop will only make it worse.  

“You should sit up here,” you tell him, tapping on the edge of the tub, and just for a moment you think you may have succeeded in fogging his brain just enough to make him forget he always has to be the boss. He looks at you with intrigue—and suspicion.

“Why?”

“Because I want you in my mouth.”

It’s a little funny, as you watch him war with himself, trying to weigh what exactly you’re up to against his desire to put his cock between your lips. You already know it was on his mind earlier. The remnants of that spicy surprise in your mouth from earlier have faded. In the end, the promise of a blow job wins.

It always does.

Almost warily he lifts himself out of the tub, perching on the edge so you can reach him. His big hand fists in your damp hair at the back of your neck. “No teeth,” he warns you.

You make a pouty lip, watching as his gaze turns to your mouth with laser-focus. “Not even a little?” you tease. “Just lightly, on this big beautiful vein?” You trace it with your thumb, your hand dwarfed by the size of his erection in your little fist.

“Fuck. Woman…”

You take that as a yes, and swirl your tongue over his swollen head, before taking him as deep as you can. You actually enjoy giving head, when it’s an act of love, and not a chore in exchange for a boy’s affection, the way it was in your teens. This is…somewhere in between, truth be told, but you give it your all. You can tell by the way John grips your hair, guiding your rhythm upon him, that you haven’t lost your touch. Your jaw starts to ache, and you are relieved when he gives a strangled moan, pulling you off by your hair. He takes himself in hand, pumping himself two or three times before cumming all over your breasts, thick white ropes that paint your chest with hot seed.

Maybe you don’t get it, but the sight of you marked like this makes his eyes burn like low banked coals.  

He actually lets you slip from his grasp, floating away to rinse the evidence of his enjoyment from your skin. He continues to watch you, as you get out of the tub, and dry off with one of the plushy soft towels.

He only catches up when you try to go to the closet for pajamas, sweeping you up into his arms and depositing you in the bed. You can’t help but feel like you won the round, when he tangles you up in his long bare limbs, and promptly falls asleep behind you.

[aquaholicsanonymousworld]

Kill Bill: A Punisher fanfiction exploring love, obsession, and the cost of vengeance.

Pairing: Frank Castle x Reader, Billy Russo x Reader

Summary: “I still love him.” The words feel empty now, hollowed out by grief, by rage, by the sharp sting of rejection. If you can’t have him, no one should.

Inspired by: Kill bill by SZA

Author's note: This is kinda a continuation off Hollow Rounds

The elevator doors slide open, and you step into the dimly lit hallway, your pulse steady, your grip tightening around the gun in your hand. But it isn’t adrenaline that keeps you moving—it’s something heavier, something hollow. The weight of inevitability.

Frank watches you from the corner of his eye, his face unreadable. He knows that look—he’s worn it himself.

“You don’t gotta do this, kid,” he says, voice low, controlled.

You let out a tired breath, shaking your head. “I still love him.” The words come out flat, resigned. A truth that has lost all its fire.

Frank doesn’t answer right away. The two of you stand in silence, the distant hum of the city bleeding through the walls.

“You’re not doin’ this ‘cause he’s a bad guy.” His tone is even, but there’s a weight behind it, a challenge. “You’re doin’ this ‘cause he picked someone else.”

Your jaw tightens, but there’s no anger. Just exhaustion.

“I’m so mature, Frank,” you murmur, the words half-mocking, half-empty. “I got a therapist and everything.”

Frank exhales through his nose, stepping closer. “That what they told you to do? Kill the bastard?”

“No.” You tilt your head slightly, but there’s no smirk this time, only a hollow sort of acceptance. “That part’s all me.”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink. “Then what? You think this is gonna make you feel better?”

You roll your shoulders back, a mechanical motion, a habit of trying to shake off the weight pressing down on you. “It’ll make sure he never moves on.”

Frank studies you, his eyes searching for something—doubt, hesitation. But there’s none. Not because you’re sure, but because you’ve already sunk too deep.

“You kill him for this,” he says, slow, deliberate, “you don’t come back from it.”

You scoff, but there’s no bite to it. “You did.”

Frank’s jaw tightens, and for a split second, you think you’ve struck a nerve. But then he exhales, stepping even closer until there’s barely an inch between you.

“I did it for my family,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re doin’ it ‘cause you don’t know how to live without him.”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “He was mine, Frank.”

“And now he ain’t.” His gaze hardens, but there’s something else in it now—pity. “So what? You take him out, you take her out, and then what? You think you’re gonna feel whole again?”

Your throat tightens. You don’t force a smirk this time. You just breathe. “Better than feeling empty.”

Frank shakes his head. “Nah. You don’t want this.”

You don’t answer. Because he’s wrong.

Billy was at the farmer’s market with his perfect peach of a girlfriend while you were drowning. He was laughing in the sun while you were suffocating in the dark. He let you go like you were nothing.

And if you can’t have him…

Your fingers brush against the trigger of the gun.

No one should.

Frank catches the movement, his hand snapping around your wrist before you can draw the weapon. His grip is firm, but not painful.

“This ain’t you, kid. C'mon.” he says, quiet.

Your throat tightens. You close your eyes for half a second, as if that will stop the sting behind them. “You don’t know me, Frank.”

His eyes darken. “I know you better than you think.”

A beat of silence. Your pulse pounds in your ears.

Then, slowly, deliberately, his grip loosens, and he lets you go.

You stare at him, waiting for him to stop you again. He doesn’t.

Because this is your choice.

Your move. Your gun. Your ex.

And whether you walk out of here or come back covered in blood—

That’s on you.

[sleepymoonlady]

Roevember Day 19: Temper

"This must be important business indeed. Though if it concerns anything so underhand as an assassination, I fear I can be of little help."

Even as the negotiations were well underway, Rose still repeated Lolorito's glib little jab to herself over and over again, gritting her teeth all the while. It had been two years since that fateful night--the Bloody Banquet, in all its infamy. Two years since the Scions were disgraced and very nearly wiped out, all unwitting and unwilling pawns in a game of chess played by two warring factions of Ul'dah's Syndicate.

She had accepted--bitterly--that Lolorito's bargain was better for the stability of Ul'dah than the vengeance she had been craving since that night. Well, that wasn't entirely true: she had accepted that Raubahn, Alphinaud, and Nanamo all arrived at that conclusion. And out of respect for the wishes of her friends and closest allies, she stood down. But it never sat right with her. Even after he--through Hancock--furnished the Scions' efforts in Othard with a base of operations and more gil than they could spend. Even after Nanamo had come to Rose and told her that they needed his help, for the sake of Ala Mhigo and Ul'dah both. Rose was a woman of many talents, but neither forgiving nor forgetting were chief among them.

Ever since she was a child--even before she lied about her age to debut as a gladiator on the Bloodsands--she had been a person of action. She loathed passivity, couldn't stand to sit by and watch, and had never been good at forgiving--or at forgetting. She solved her problems, more often than not, by beating them into submission. But the problem of Lolorito--that opportunistic little shite--was off-limits. NOBODY should be above justice. But somehow, he kept managing to be just that. Even Thordan and his lackeys weren't.

She needed something. Anything. Some kind of closure. So when the meeting came to a close, she said she needed to speak with him in private. She concocted some kind of lie that felt right in the moment--damn if she remembered what it was. Something about discussing further contributions to the East Aldenard Trading Company no doubt. As Nanamo left the room, Rose kneeled down to be... closer to Lolorito's eye-level, at least. The man turned on his stool to face her.

"I must admit, champion, I'm curious to hear your idea," he said, with that smug half-smile that never seemed to leave his face--or his voice. "I didn't think you had much of a mind for business." Rose felt the anger that had been festering in her chest rising--gods, how did she expect to talk to this little fucker? She had forgotten how infuriating it was--he spoke at you, not to you. You were never his bloody equal. Did he even know that she had helped run her mums' shop growing up? That she had to learn arithmetic just to help them make ends meet? Not much of a mind for business, indeed. If fuckers like him weren't so greedy, maybe things would have been less tight growing up--THEN she wouldn't need a "mind for business."

"Honestly I rather thought it was too complicated a topic--"

Lolorito's next backhanded observation was ended--rather abruptly, too--by Rose's gauntleted fist crashing into his jaw with a sickening crack, sending him flying off the stool and across the room. Before she knew what she was doing--before she could even consider the consequences--she bounded over the table and pinned him to the ground with her left arm, before raising her right in preparation for another blow.

"I am SICK and BLOODY TIRED of this GODS-DAMNED CHARADE, LOLORITO," she snarled through gritted teeth.

"Have you LOST your MIND?" Came the retort from the merchant, spoken laboriously through a broken jaw. "Have you not thought of the CONSEQUENCES of assaulting a member of the Syndicate!? I'll have you--"

"SHUT UP!" Rose punctuated her demand with a raise of her fist. Her mind spun as she stared down Lolorito. This man KNEW what was going to happen that night. He could have stopped it, showed his hand earlier, anything. But he didn't. He didn't. Did he have ANY idea what he did? What that night had cost!?

Thancred couldn't use magic anymore.

Shtola lost her sight.

Min...

Rose's fist began to shake as she remembered. As she turned the sentence over and over again in her head, still afraid to say it to herself after all this time.

Why her? Why couldn't it have been someone else?

Why not HIM?

Shakily, she finally spoke again. "Her Grace has decided that you're better off to her--to us--alive, Lolorito. Out of respect for her, I've kept my peace all this time."

"But make no mistake, you miserable little shite:" As Rose spoke these next words, the fury in her voice could have shattered stone, and the hatred in her eyes--a hatred only the likes of Gaius, Thordan, or Zenos had seen before--shone brightly enough to melt through steel.

"The second you outlive your usefulness to her? The bloody MOMENT I even BEGIN to suspect that you're harboring any foolish delusions beyond your station?

I will personally deliver you to Thal."

-----------------

Hi hey if you made it all the way here uhhhh have a funny:

[gale-gentlepenguin]

Epic What If:

(What if Telemachus Did beat Antinous in the fight?)

Now before we start, I think it should be noted that while this doesnt seem like this would be a big deal. Trust me, this has some interesting Connotations

-Everything up to the start of the Wisdom Saga was basically the same. Telemachus ends up hearing Antinous comments and ends up challenging him to a fist fight.

-Though it starts with Antinous, mocking the "Little Wolf" Athena's intervention helps Telemachus even the playing field.

-Though instead of Athena realizing she pushed Telemachus too hard, something within Telemachus changes... instead of the punch that knocked him down, Telemachus lands on his feet... his eyes shift red (similar to his father's later down the line) and he nails Antinous in the throat, causing the man cough and hold his throat. Telemachus gets on top of the man and starts beating him with his fists!

-Athena noticed that all his strikes that he had been landing were all to vulnerabilities. Telemachus had his father's Strategic mind but his blood lust was different, it was ... could it be from Penelope? She was from Sparta. Could this boy have the rage of a Spartain?!

-The other suitors were stunned, unsure of what to do. Was Antinous, the one who was sort of the leader of the group really getting their ass beat by this squirt?

-Antinous' face was a bloody pulp, having difficulty breathing. He says he yields.

-Telemachus gets up, he yells at the suitors to take this man and leave.

-"Your stay in this castle is over

Make sure everyone hears,

If you want to try to get to my mother

I'll bring you blood and tears!"

-Telemachus basically saying none of them are getting through while he's around.

-And the suitors retreat. Taking the beaten man away.

-After they left, Telemachus falls to the ground, Athena does realize she did push him to hard.

-The song "We'll be fine" is played with only slight changes. But Athena says that those guys will be back and will be angry. So she tells him what he needs to do before she leaves to go intervene on Odysseus' behalf

-god games goes the same, and pretty much the Vengeance Saga is the exact same. Its only when the Ithaca saga occurs that there is a difference

-Penelope had heard about what Telemachus did and the castle was now getting cleaned up. Telemachus had actually Barricaded to ensure no one would be able to get in while he was 'Away'. Penelope sings about how the storm was a sign. But She doesnt sing the Challenge. She sings "Waiting." an altered version of the song. She doesnt pose the challenge, because the men arent in the castle anymore.

-"Hold them Down." is done differently. The men actually are attacking the barricaded castle. Antinous now with an Eye patch, is back and angry from his beating. He tells them that they will break through and kill the brat, and take what they want. Though when they finally get the door open, they rush in, only for Antinous to say his last line and get interrupted. By an arrow that pierced his patched eye. But it didnt kill him.

-The song is actually "Odysseus" It was Telemachus who was there, he had set traps and was fully equipped for war. He tells the suitors that this is their final warning. To leave the castle, return to their homes or else.

-The men laugh and say that there is only one of him and they charge. Telemachus retreats into the castle, where the traps were.

-Several suitors were killed by the traps. And Telemachus moved to the Armory. But something was killing the men far more brutally, something much more Agile and Brutal.

-Antinous, Melanthius, Amphimous, and Eurymachus, each had a small group of suitors. Though they commented that Telemachus and his traps arent the ones killing so brutally. It was then they hear Odysseus voice.

-Odysseus tells them that they invaded his home, they attacked his son, they tried to r*** his wife. Now he was going to make them pay.

-Eurymachus begs for mercy. But he and his group dies.

-Amphimous and Melanthius run into the armory and deal with Telemachus and his additional traps. Odysseus arrives and kills the Melanthius after Telemachus kills Amphimous.

-Odysseus asks Telemachus how many are left. "Telemachus asked how many he killed. "I think around 10. My traps maybe 20. Odysseus mentions that he has slayed 70.

They hear a brutal knock, it was near Penelope's room. Odysseus and Telemachus arrive. 7 men with Antinious remain.

"The old king is back from the dead.

You must be tired from your long trip back

Why dont you rest your head

While we go and make your wife arch her...."

Odysseus charges and stabs Antinous right in the gut Telemachus watched as Odysseus had slayed the other men so quick. Only Antinous was the last one alive. Antinous begs for mercy

-Odysseus did NOT like that. And proceeds to cut his head off.

-It was here that we get "I cant help but wonder" with a bit more mention of Telemachus and how proud he is of him, as well as Athena praising the boy. and then followed up by "Would you fall in love with me again." Between Odysseus and Penelope

[moonlitstoriess]

The Hidden Legacy- A Ruhn Danaan x Rhysands sister series

Chapter 5: Fate’s Silent Whisper

Summary: Rhysand’s sister, Seraphis, long thought dead, was taken by the Asteri/Valgs, her memories erased and turned into a ruthless killer loyal to their cause. After Bryce kills the Asteri, Seraphis seeks vengeance on her and everyone else involved. As she hunts them down, Rhysand and the Inner Circle discover the shocking truth: she’s alive, and now their enemy.

See masterlist

Catalyst: a person or thing that precipates an event or change

"You know where to find me"

"You know where to find me"

"You know where to find me"

The stranger's words from Seraphis' first day in Lunathion were ringing inside her head. She had dismissed them before, but now, she saw the opportunity in their offer. If they could provide her with the means to accelerate her plans, then perhaps it was time to make use of them.

Seraphis clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. The vision wasn’t a warning; it was a promise. Her promise to the Asteri, to herself. Lunathion would fall, Bryce Quinlan would pay, and everyone who had dared defy the Asteri would be swept away like dust in a storm.

But she needed to be smart about this. Calculated. Charging in blindly would only lead to failure, and failure wasn’t an option. She needed information, leverage, anything that would give her an edge.

With a cold, resolute breath, she grabbed her cloak and left the motel, the cool night air biting against her skin. The streets were nearly empty, save for a few lingering souls who paid her no mind. Her steps were quick, purposeful, as she retraced her path back to the alley where she had encountered the stranger.

This time, there was no hesitation as she stepped into the shadows. “Show yourself,” she called softly, her voice cutting through the silence.

For a moment, there was nothing. Then, like before, the figure emerged from the darkness, their movements smooth and unhurried. “Seraphis,” they greeted, their tone calm and composed. “I had a feeling you’d be back.”

“I don’t have time for pleasantries,” Seraphis snapped, her gaze cold. “You said you could help me. Prove it.”

The figure tilted their head, as if amused by her bluntness. “Still so determined, I see. Very well.” They took a step closer, their voice lowering conspiratorially. “I know what you want, Seraphis. You want to see Lunathion burn. You want Bryce Quinlan and all her allies destroyed. But it won’t be easy. They have defenses, secrets—things that even you don’t know.”

Seraphis’s jaw tightened. “Then tell me. Give me something I can use.”

The figure’s eyes gleamed beneath their hood. “The wolf, Danika Fendyr. She died hiding something. A secret that could tear Lunathion apart from the inside out.”

Seraphis’s interest piqued despite herself. She knew of Danika’s death, of course, but she hadn’t cared to delve into the details. The wolf was nothing to her—just another casualty. But if there was more to it, if it could serve her purposes…

“What secret?” she demanded, her voice a low growl.

The figure stepped closer still, their gaze piercing. “Danika was investigating something. Something big. Something that could have changed everything. But she died before she could reveal it. And Bryce… Bryce knows what it is.”

Seraphis’s heart beat faster, not with fear but with the thrill of opportunity. “And you know what it is?”

The figure’s lips curved into a faint smile. “I know enough to get you started. I can show you where to look, what to dig into. With the right pressure, the right leverage, you could unravel everything Bryce is trying to protect. You could turn her own city against her.”

Seraphis’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering in their depths. “And why would you help me?”

The figure’s smile widened, a dangerous glint in their eye. “Let’s just say I have my own reasons for wanting to see Lunathion fall. We may have different motives, but our goals align. I have information, and you have power. Together, we can bring this city to its knees.”

Seraphis studied them, her mind racing. She didn’t trust this stranger, but they knew things. Things she needed. If she could use them, manipulate them, then perhaps she could turn this to her advantage.

“All right,” she said finally, her voice firm. “Show me.”

The figure nodded, satisfaction gleaming in their eyes. “Follow me, then. There’s much to discuss, and not much time. If you want to destroy Lunathion, Seraphis, you’ll need to be ready for what comes next.”

She followed them, her heart steady, her resolve unshaken. She didn’t care about the consequences, about the cost. She had one goal, and nothing would stand in her way. Lunathion would fall, and she would be the one to bring it down.

Seraphis followed the cloaked figure through the labyrinth of darkened alleys, her steps silent as death itself. The air crackled with tension, each step taking them deeper into the shadowy depths of Lunathion. She was done playing games. Whoever this person was, they were about to find out just how lethal she could be.

The figure finally stopped at the entrance of a decrepit building, a place forgotten by the city above. They turned, slowly, and pushed back their hood, revealing a striking woman with raven-black hair and piercing green eyes that seemed to see right through her. There was a knowing, almost mocking smile on her lips.

Seraphis’s grip tightened on her blade, her instincts screaming at her to strike first. But she held back, if only barely. “Enough of this nonsense. Who are you?”

The woman’s smile widened, her voice low and smooth. “Names are such trivial things, don’t you think? But if you must call me something, let it be Miraya”

Seraphis narrowed her eyes. Miraya. It meant nothing to her, but the way this woman moved, the confidence in her stance—it set Seraphis on edge. She didn’t like not knowing who or what she was dealing with.

“You’re wasting my time,” Seraphis growled, her patience fraying. “I’m not here for games.”

“Neither am I.” Miraya’s voice was soft, but there was steel beneath it. She reached into the folds of her cloak and pulled out a small, shimmering crystal. It caught the faint light, casting eerie patterns across the walls. “I’m here because I can give you what you want.”

Seraphis took a step closer, her gaze locked on the crystal. There was something… off about it. A sense of immense power coiled within, dark and potent. “And what, exactly, is that?”

“An edge,” Miraya said, her eyes gleaming. “Something that will make your mission not just possible, but inevitable.”

Seraphis’s heart pounded in her chest, but she kept her expression neutral. “And what’s in it for you?”

Miraya tilted her head, studying her with an intensity that made Seraphis’s skin prickle. “Let’s just say I have my own reasons for wanting to see Lunathion in flames. Bryce Quinlan and her little band of heroes… they’ve upset the balance. It’s time for things to be set right.”

Seraphis clenched her jaw. It was tempting, so very tempting, but she didn’t trust easily. And she certainly didn’t trust strangers who appeared out of nowhere with promises of power. “Why should I believe anything you say?”

Miraya’s smile was pure ice. “You don’t have to believe me. But I know you, Seraphis. I know what you’ve been through, what you’ve lost. You think you can do this on your own, but you can’t. They’re too strong, too entrenched in this world. You need something more.”

She took another step forward, holding the crystal out. “This is a key. There’s a place beneath Lunathion, a vault hidden so deep even the Fae don’t know it exists. It holds something the Asteri left behind—a weapon capable of breaking even the strongest defenses. Find it, and you’ll have the power to bring this city to its knees.”

Seraphis stared at the crystal, her mind racing. A weapon left by the Asteri? It sounded too good to be true, and yet… There was a glimmer of truth in Miraya’s words. If such a thing existed, it could tip the scales in her favor.

She reached out, her fingers brushing against the crystal. A surge of energy jolted through her, dark and potent, whispering of untapped potential.

“Why would you give this to me?” Seraphis asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Miraya’s smile turned cold, almost predatory. “Because I want to see you succeed. I want to see them fall. And because I know you’re the only one who can do it.”

Seraphis hesitated, but only for a moment. Then she closed her hand around the crystal, its cold surface sending another shiver through her.

“You’ll find the entrance in the ruins beneath the old temple district,” Miraya said, stepping back. “Once you’re inside, you’ll know what to do.”

Seraphis didn’t respond. She turned on her heel, the crystal clutched tightly in her hand. She had a mission, and this—this could be the weapon she needed to see it through.

As she walked away, Miraya’s voice echoed softly behind her. “Remember, Seraphis… trust no one. Not even yourself.”

Seraphis didn’t look back. She had no intention of trusting anyone. All that mattered was the mission, the revenge that burned like fire in her veins.

And she would see it through to the bitter end.

Seraphis moved silently through the darkened alley, the sounds of the city muted around her. Every step was calculated, every glance over her shoulder deliberate. After her encounter with the cloaked woman, she’d doubled her precautions, her senses on high alert for any sign of pursuit.

But she had felt it—eyes on her. More than once.

She tightened her grip on the object she’d been given, its weight a solid reminder of the task she was here to complete. Failure wasn’t an option, not when the Asteri were depending on her. Not when revenge burned so fiercely in her veins.

She needed to get to the underground passage. It would take her to the place the woman had spoken of, to whatever weapon lay hidden beneath the city. She was almost there, just a few more turns through the labyrinth of alleys, and she—

Danika Fendyr.

The thought came unbidden, unwelcome. The woman had said Danika had been searching for the same information, that Bryce knew about it. But why? Why would Danika—a supposed hero, a loyal friend—have been looking for something like this? A weapon capable of untold destruction? Seraphis’s brow furrowed as she rounded another corner, her thoughts tangled.

Was Danika not as good as she’d appeared to be? Or had she been deceiving everyone, playing the role of the perfect friend while secretly hunting for power? The notion almost made her laugh. What did that little wolf think she could have done with a weapon like this?

And why hadn’t the Asteri told her about Danika’s involvement? She was their weapon, their prized creation. She was meant to know everything, to be one step ahead of everyone else. But this… this was a secret that had been kept from her, a piece of the puzzle she hadn’t even known was missing.

She gritted her teeth, her pace quickening. It burned, this not knowing. Danika’s shadow loomed over this mission, and it gnawed at her that a long-dead wolf—someone so inconsequential—had been privy to something that even she had been denied.

Had Rigelus kept this from her on purpose? But why? She had proven herself time and time again. Hadn’t she? Or had the Asteri doubted her all along?

She shook her head, trying to dispel the unsettling thoughts. It didn’t matter now. Danika was dead. Whatever she had known was irrelevant. Seraphis was here now, and she would succeed where that wolf had failed.

Another turn, deeper into the labyrinth of alleys. She could feel the undercurrent of magic beneath the city, the pulse of something powerful, something waiting. She was close now.

A flicker of movement caught her eye. She froze, every muscle coiled. But it was just a cat, slinking through the shadows. She exhaled slowly, forcing her heart to steady. This paranoia, this unease—it was unlike her. She was trained to be better than this, to remain calm no matter the situation.

A low murmur in her earpiece. Seraphis tensed, her hand flying to the device embedded in her cloak. She hadn’t activated it. How—

“Ithan, she’s moving towards the old market,” a voice crackled through, a woman’s voice. Bryce.

Seraphis’s eyes narrowed. They were tracking her. But how? She’d taken every precaution. Then she caught it—a faint shimmer on the hem of her cloak, almost imperceptible. Some kind of tracking spell. Clever.

Without hesitation, she ripped off the cloak and flung it aside, her lips curling into a sneer. Let them track that. She slipped into the deeper shadows, moving faster now. If they were here, it meant they knew who she was, or at least suspected. The cloak could buy her a few seconds, but she needed to—

A sharp sting in her side. She stumbled, her hand going to the small, feathered dart lodged in her ribs. Pain flared, followed by a wave of dizziness. Damn it. Her vision blurred as she yanked the dart free, but it was too late. Whatever they’d used was already coursing through her veins, muddying her thoughts, slowing her movements.

She had seconds, maybe less. A growl rumbled behind her, low and menacing. She turned just as a massive wolf lunged out of the darkness, knocking her to the ground. Her head slammed against the concrete, stars exploding in her vision.

“Got you,” a rough voice snarled above her. The wolf shifted, fur giving way to skin, claws retracting into hands as Ithan loomed over her, his eyes glowing golden in the dim light.

Seraphis thrashed, trying to summon her power, to freeze time and reverse the last few moments. But the sedative—whatever it was—scrambled her abilities. She could feel time slipping, slipping through her fingers like sand.

“Stay down,” Ithan growled, his hands pinning her wrists to the ground. His strength was immense, crushing. “You’re not going anywhere.”

She hissed, struggling beneath him, her vision fading in and out. “Get off me,” she spat, fury sparking even through the haze. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

“Maybe not,” he said, his voice a low rumble, “but we’re about to find out.”

Footsteps echoed in the alley, and then Bryce was there, her face hard as she looked down at Seraphis. “Nice catch, Ithan,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “So, you’re the one causing all this trouble.”

Seraphis tried to speak, but her tongue felt thick, her body heavy. She could barely keep her eyes open as the sedative pulled her deeper under.

“We’ll take her to the facility,” Bryce said, her voice distant now, like she was speaking from underwater. “Get her somewhere secure before she wakes up.”

Ithan nodded, his grip unrelenting as he hauled Seraphis to her feet. She swayed, her legs buckling, but he held her steady, half-carrying, half-dragging her towards the end of the alley.

“Big mistake,” she mumbled, barely coherent. “All of you.”

Ithan glanced down at her, his jaw tight. “We’ll see.”

As darkness claimed her, Seraphis’s last thought was of the Asteri. Of the promise she’d made. She wouldn’t fail them. Not now. Not ever.

And Lunathion would burn before she was through.

Seraphis blinked awake, the light overhead harsh and unrelenting. Her head pounded with every throb of her heart, and her wrists and ankles felt like they were on fire from the tight restraints. The room was stark and uninviting, concrete walls and a single blinding light the only features. As her vision cleared, she saw Bryce, Hunt, and Ithan standing before her, their expressions a mix of expectation and authority.

“Well, isn’t this a charming little setup,” Seraphis muttered, her voice hoarse but laced with sarcasm. “Did you redecorate just for me?”

Bryce’s gaze was steely as she stepped forward. “We’re glad you’re awake. We need to have a little chat about your plans and your connections.”

Seraphis’s lips curled into a smirk. “Oh, do you? How flattering. But I’m not really in the mood for a friendly conversation.”

Hunt, standing slightly behind Bryce, watched her with a detached interest. His presence was imposing, but he remained silent, his expression unreadable.

Ithan, closer to Seraphis, frowned slightly. “We’ve been patient. It would be in your best interest to cooperate.”

Seraphis looked Ithan up and down, her expression one of condescension. “Patient? How sweet. You know, for someone with your… formidable stature, you don’t really exude a lot of menace.”

Bryce stepped in, clearly trying to maintain control. “We don’t have time for games. You’re here because we want to understand your intentions. The sooner you talk, the sooner this can all be over.”

Seraphis chuckled softly, the sound cold and devoid of warmth. “You’re adorable, really. Do you think a bit of intimidation is going to make me spill my secrets?”

Hunt finally spoke, his voice calm but carrying an edge. “This isn’t a game. You’re going to find out just how serious we are if you don’t start talking.”

Seraphis’s eyes glittered with defiance. “And what exactly are you planning to do? You think you can break me with a bit of pressure? I’ve faced far worse than this.”

Bryce’s jaw tightened, her patience wearing thin. “You’re making this difficult for yourself. We’re asking you to help us understand what you’re after. It’s a simple request.”

Seraphis raised an eyebrow. “Simple? If it were simple, you wouldn’t need to resort to this. I’m sure you have better things to do than question me.”

Ithan’s frustration was evident. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Either way, you’re going to give us something.”

Seraphis leaned back, her posture relaxed despite the restraints. “You know, I think you’ve mistaken me for someone who’s easily intimidated. I’m not your average prisoner.”

Hunt’s gaze remained steady. “Then prove it. Give us something to work with.”

Bryce’s voice was sharp, her tone leaving no room for misinterpretation. “We’re running out of time. Either you start cooperating, or things are going to get a lot more uncomfortable for you.”

Seraphis met Bryce’s gaze with an icy stare. “And if I don’t?”

Bryce didn’t flinch. “We’ll make sure you regret it.”

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken tension. Seraphis remained impassive, her defiance unwavering despite the mounting pressure. The team exchanged looks of frustration but didn’t relent, waiting for her to crack.

As the minutes ticked by, Seraphis remained resolute, her mind already working on ways to use the situation to her advantage. Despite her predicament, she was far from beaten, and she was determined to make sure they knew it.

The silence was deafening. No one had left the room after Bryce’s declaration, the tension thick in the air. Seraphis sat in the center, her eyes cold and unyielding as she took in her surroundings. The room was fortified with magical wards, visible only as faint glows against the walls, meant to suppress any attempts at escape. The silence stretched, broken only by the occasional creak of the old wooden floor beneath them.

Bryce’s gaze was steady, her expression inscrutable. Ithan stood nearby, his arms crossed, a silent sentinel. Hunt, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, watched the scene unfold with a mix of impatience and curiosity. Seraphis’s mind, though clouded by the effects of the drug, was still sharp. She assessed her situation with the analytical precision of a seasoned operative.

The quiet stretched on until Bryce finally broke it, her voice laced with frustration and a touch of impatience. “You know, this isn’t a game. We have ways of getting the information we need. I suggest you cooperate before we resort to more… persuasive methods.”

Seraphis’s lips curled into a sardonic smile. “And here I thought you were just going to ask nicely. I’m afraid I don’t respond well to threats. You’ll have to do better than that.”

Hunt pushed off from the wall, stepping forward with a menacing aura. “Bryce is right. You might think you’re untouchable, but we have ways to make you talk. This isn’t a place where you can hide from us.”

Bryce’s eyes narrowed, but she remained calm. “You might be confident now, but this place is heavily protected. You can’t just walk out. You’ll find that our methods are quite effective.”

Ithan shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable with the prolonged standoff. He stepped forward, his voice carrying an edge of authority. “We don’t have all day. Tell us what we need to know, or things are going to get very uncomfortable for you.”

Seraphis’s gaze flickered between Bryce, Hunt, and Ithan, her resolve unwavering. “And if I refuse?”

Bryce leaned in slightly, her tone low but menacing. “Then we’ll make sure you regret it. We have the means to make you talk, whether you like it or not. You’re here, and we control the conditions. You might be able to resist for a while, but eventually, you’ll crack.”

Hunt stepped closer, his expression hardening. “We don’t want to hurt you, but we will if we have to. We’re here to get answers, and we’re not leaving until we do.”

The room fell silent again as Seraphis considered her options. The drug’s effects were dulling her senses, making it harder to think clearly, but her spirit remained unbroken.

As the minutes dragged on, Seraphis’s mind raced despite the drug-induced haze. She knew the facility’s magical barriers were formidable, but she had faced worse challenges before. The real threat was not the wards themselves but how they might use her vulnerabilities against her.

Bryce, Hunt, and Ethan exchanged a look, clearly contemplating their next move. The room’s oppressive silence seemed to grow heavier, but Seraphis refused to show any sign of weakness. She met their gazes with a steely determination, her resolve as sharp as ever.

Bryce finally spoke, her voice cutting through the silence. “We’ll leave you to think it over. When you’re ready to talk, we’ll be here. Until then, enjoy your stay.”

With that, Bryce, Hunt, and Ithan turned and walked out, the door closing behind them with a finality that echoed through the room. Seraphis was left alone, the silence now tinged with the faint hum of the magical wards.

As she sat in the dimly lit room, her mind continued to work despite the effects of the drug. She would find a way out, she vowed to herself. No matter how intricate the wards or how intense the interrogation, she would not let them break her spirit. She was determined to escape and continue her quest for revenge, no matter what it took.

******

Ruhn leaned against the wall of the darkened room, his gaze fixed on the blinking lights of the city outside. Flynn and Declan sat at the table, their expressions tense and thoughtful. The weight of recent events hung heavily between them, unspoken questions swirling in the air.

“She’s dangerous,” Flynn muttered, breaking the silence. “More than we realized.”

Ruhn’s jaw tightened. He knew it. They all did. But it was more than just danger that bothered him. He couldn’t shake the strange, inexplicable pull he felt when he thought about Seraphis. Something about her nagged at him, as if he should know who she was—what she was.

“I can’t get her out of my head,” Declan said quietly, his gaze distant. “It’s like she’s… I don’t know, like there’s something more we’re not seeing.”

“There is,” Ruhn replied, his voice tense. “And I don’t think she’s going to give it up easily.”

Flynn nodded slowly. “Bryce and Hunt are taking a big risk keeping her here.”

“I know,” Ruhn said, his voice clipped. He turned away, trying to shake the uneasy feeling settling in his gut. Something about this whole situation felt wrong, off-balance, like they were missing a crucial piece of the puzzle.

His phone buzzed, and he snatched it up, his heart skipping a beat when he saw Bryce’s name flash across the screen. He answered immediately.

“Bryce? What’s going on?”

“Ruhn, you need to get here now,” Bryce’s voice was strained, tight with urgency. “Something’s happening.”

His stomach dropped. “What do you mean? Is she—”

“Just get here, Ruhn.I don’t think we have much time.”

The line went dead, and Ruhn stared at the phone for a heartbeat, his mind racing. Then he turned to Flynn and Declan, his expression grim.

“Something’s up. Bryce needs us. Now.”

They didn’t waste time asking questions. Flynn and Declan were on their feet in an instant, following Ruhn as he strode out of the room, his thoughts a chaotic tangle of fear and determination.

What the hell are we dealing with?

They reached the building in record time, the air around them charged with tension. Bryce met them at the entrance, her expression a mix of relief and anxiety.

“She’s…changed,” Bryce said, her voice low. “I don’t know how to explain it, but something’s different.”

Ruhn frowned. “Different how?”

“I don’t know,” Bryce said, frustration evident in her tone. “But we need to be careful. She’s not just some prisoner. She’s…something else.”

They moved quickly, following Bryce down the hallway. The walls seemed to close in around them as if the building itself sensed the storm brewing within. Ruhn’s heart was pounding, a cold sweat breaking out on his skin. The sense of impending danger was almost suffocating.

When they reached the door of the interrogation room, Ruhn hesitated for a split second, his hand on the doorknob. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, then pushed it open.

And there she was.

The harsh lights above cast a stark glow over her, illuminating the delicate, angular lines of her face. Even under the circumstances, with chains binding her and an air of danger coiling around her like a living thing, this female was…breathtaking.

Ruhn’s heart stuttered, his gaze drinking her in despite himself. She was more striking than he remembered—no, not just striking. She was beautiful in a way that felt almost unreal, like a creature crafted from shadows and starlight. The soft illumination seemed to highlight every sharp, perfect angle of her face, the cold gleam in her eyes, the curve of her lips that spoke of secrets and danger.

She turned her head slightly, her eyes locking onto his with an intensity that sent a jolt through him. For a moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, caught in the pull of that gaze. There was something there—something more than just the hostility, more than the cold indifference she’d shown before. It was as if she saw right through him, as if she could peel back the layers of his mind and lay them bare.

His breath hitched, and he had to force himself to look away, to break the spell she seemed to weave so effortlessly. But the image of her stayed with him, burned into his mind. He had faced beautiful women before, had faced beings of power and danger, but there was something about her that felt different, something that stirred a primal, almost visceral reaction deep within him.

It wasn’t attraction—alright, maybe it was but he would never admit it. But it was also something darker, more complicated. A fascination he couldn’t shake, a curiosity that bordered on obsession. Who was she, really? What had shaped her into this cold, lethal creature who now sat before them, her beauty a mask that barely concealed the deadly edge beneath?

His heart pounded in his ears as he took a step closer, his eyes never leaving hers. She watched him with that same unflinching stare, her lips curving into a slow, mocking smile that made something twist painfully in his chest.

“Back for more?” she drawled, her voice dripping with disdain. “Or are you finally ready to admit you’re out of your depth?”

The spell was broken, the cold, biting sarcasm snapping him out of whatever strange hold she had over him. He forced himself to meet her gaze head-on, to remember why they were here, what was at stake.

“We’re not playing games. Tell us what you’re after.”

Her smile widened, a flash of teeth that was more feral than amused. “You really think you can make me talk?”

Bryce stepped forward, her expression hard. “You’re not getting out of here. This place is sealed with wards and magic. It’s in the middle of nowhere. There’s no escape.”

Her eyes gleamed, something dangerously close to amusement dancing in their depths. “You think a few wards and some isolation are going to hold me?”

The silence that followed was thick, charged with tension. Ruhn’s heart was still racing, his mind a tangled mess of emotions and questions he couldn’t begin to unravel. He knew he should hate her, should see her as the threat she was—but instead, all he could think about was the way her eyes had looked, the way her voice had sounded, the way she seemed to twist everything inside him into knots.

He forced himself to speak, to keep his voice steady despite the turmoil churning within. “We’ll see about that.”

Seraphis’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it grew sharper, more knowing. “Oh, I’m sure we will.”

The words hung between them, a challenge and a promise all at once. And Ruhn knew, in that moment, that whatever happened next, nothing would ever be the same.

The silence in the room thickened, stretching like a taut wire between the captors and their prisoner. Bryce exhaled sharply, her frustration palpable. “This is getting us nowhere,” she muttered, glancing at Hunt. He nodded, his wings twitching slightly in agitation.

Ruhn’s gaze lingered on the woman, still seated and chained, her expression cool and inscrutable. There was something about her—something that dug beneath his skin and refused to let go. He forced himself to turn away, following Bryce and Hunt as they moved toward the door.

“We’ll be back,” Bryce said over her shoulder to the others, her voice tight. “Make sure she doesn’t get too comfortable.”

Bryce’s grip tightened on Ruhn’s arm, a silent signal for him and Hunt to follow as she led them further down the corridor. Her footsteps echoed off the cold stone walls, each step measured, purposeful. She didn’t speak until they were out of earshot of the guards, out of sight of any prying eyes.

Finally, she stopped in front of a heavy door marked with sigils that glowed faintly in the dim light. Bryce glanced over her shoulder, her gaze flicking between Ruhn and Hunt. “Inside. Both of you.”

Ruhn and Hunt exchanged a look but followed her into the room without argument. It was smaller than the interrogation room, furnished only with a table and a few chairs. An array of magical devices cluttered the tabletop, shimmering faintly in the glow of the overhead lights. The door clicked shut behind them, and Bryce exhaled, running a hand through her hair.

“What’s this about, Bryce?” Hunt asked, his voice steady but wary.

Bryce took a deep breath, her expression serious as she turned to face them. “I need to try and reach Nesta. Now.”

Ruhn’s brows furrowed. “Here? But we’re supposed to—”

“I know what we’re supposed to do, Ruhn,” Bryce interrupted, her voice tight. “But if there’s even a chance that Nesta knows something—anything—that can help us understand what’s going on with our prisoner, then we can’t wait. We need answers, and we need them fast.”

Hunt crossed his arms, his wings rustling as he shifted. “And how exactly are you planning to reach her?”

Bryce moved to the table, picking up a small, intricately carved crystal and holding it up to the light. “This,” she said, her tone laced with determination. “I asked Hypaxia two days ago to create something that will be able to get me to open a portal. Apparently this is the best she could create in such a short notice. Astonishing really, how a medwitch can create something like this. But she was my only hope and this is the only way we have so I really don’t wanna fail this.”

Ruhn eyed the crystal warily. “Are you sure it’s safe?”

“No,” Bryce admitted, a faint smile curving her lips. “But when has that ever stopped us?”

Hunt’s jaw tightened. “We should have someone stand guard outside. In case anything goes wrong.”

Bryce nodded. “Good idea. I don’t know how long this will take, but if I can connect with her—if she’s seen anything related to those symbols or this female, then we’ll have a better chance of figuring out what we’re dealing with.”

Ruhn stepped closer, his expression softening. “Bryce, are you sure you’re ready for this? We don’t know what kind of effects this could have—on you, or on Nesta.”

“I have to try, Ruhn,” she said quietly, meeting his gaze. “We can’t just sit here and wait. Not when there’s so much at stake.”

Hunt nodded, his face set in a determined mask. “I’ll keep watch outside. If anyone tries to come in, I’ll handle it.”

Bryce’s eyes flickered with gratitude. “Thanks, Hunt.”

He gave her a quick, reassuring smile and a kiss before slipping out the door, leaving Ruhn and Bryce alone in the small room. Silence stretched between them, heavy and tense. Bryce set the crystal down on the table and began arranging a few other objects around it—candles, symbols drawn on parchment, small vials filled with what looked like sand or dust.

Ruhn watched her, his heart pounding in his chest. “Are you sure about this?”

Bryce paused, her hands hovering over the setup. “No,” she said softly. “But we need to know, Ruhn.”

Ruhn exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Alright. What do you need me to do?”

Bryce glanced up at him, a small, determined smile on her lips. “Just be here. In case things get… weird.”

He nodded, stepping closer to the table, his gaze fixed on the crystal. “I can do that.”

Taking a deep breath, Bryce lit the candles one by one, the flames flickering to life in the dim room. She closed her eyes, her hands hovering over the crystal as she began to murmur softly, her voice a low, melodic chant. The air around them seemed to thicken, a strange, tingling energy filling the space.

Ruhn held his breath, his heart pounding as he watched his sister work, the crystal beginning to glow faintly in response to her words. The light grew brighter, pulsing in time with her voice, until it filled the room with a warm, steady glow.

And then, with a sudden, almost imperceptible shift, the light changed—softening, dimming, until it seemed to fold in on itself, forming a small, shimmering portal in the air above the table.

Bryce’s eyes snapped open, her breath catching as she stared at the portal. “Nesta,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

For a moment, nothing happened. The portal shimmered and flickered, its edges wavering as if it might vanish at any second. And then, slowly, a figure began to take shape within it—a woman, her hair light and braided, her eyes fierce and unyielding.

Ruhn’s breath caught in his throat as Nesta Archeron’s face came into view, her expression tense and guarded. “Bryce?” she said, her voice echoing faintly through the portal.

Bryce’s grip on the table tightened, her knuckles white. “Nesta. I need your help.”

Nesta’s form solidified through the portal, her gaze cool and piercing as she took in the sight of Bryce and Ruhn. She crossed her arms, the faintest hint of irritation in her expression.

“This better be good,” she said sharply, her eyes flicking between the two of them. “Why did you call me?”

Bryce exhaled, gripping the pendant in her hand. “It’s about these symbols,” she said, holding up the engraved piece of jewelry for Nesta to see. “They’re the same ones we saw in those caves in your world, remember?”

Nesta’s gaze narrowed, her posture shifting slightly as she took a step closer. “I remember,” she said, her voice low. “The carvings on the walls. What does this have to do with you?”

“There’s a female we found,” Bryce explained. “She was wearing this. And she’s… dangerous, Nesta. I don’t know who or what she is, but I have a bad feeling about her. We need to figure out what these symbols mean and if there’s something in your world that could help us understand what’s going on.”

Nesta frowned, studying the pendant intently. “You think she’s connected to those carvings?”

Bryce nodded. “I don’t know how, but it’s too much of a coincidence. We can’t ignore it.”

Nesta’s expression remained guarded, but there was a flicker of something—concern, curiosity, maybe even a hint of fear. “And you think she’s a threat? To you, to Midgard?”

“Yes,” Bryce said softly. “I can feel it, Nesta. There’s something about her, something… wrong. Or maybe I am delusional but whatever the case is, she is not to be trusted and will cause unnecessary problems. Something we don’t need.”

Nesta’s lips pressed into a thin line. “And you think I can help?”

Bryce glanced at Ruhn, then back at Nesta. “You’ve dealt with a lot, Nesta. You’ve seen things most people can’t even imagine. If anyone can help us understand what’s going on, it’s you.”

Nesta’s eyes hardened, and for a moment, she seemed to be weighing something, some invisible scale tipping back and forth in her mind. Then she nodded slowly. “I’ll look into it,” she said, her voice steady. “But don’t get your hopes up. If these symbols are what I think they are… we might not like what we find.”

Bryce’s stomach tightened, but she nodded. “I just need to know what we’re up against. Anything you can find, anything at all, would be a start. Maybe even ask that uptight king of yours.”

“High lord. And I’ll do what I can,” Nesta said, a grim look in her eyes. She hesitated, glancing at Ruhn. “And you? Are you ready for whatever this might bring?”

Ruhn’s jaw clenched, but he nodded. “We’ll be ready.”

Nesta’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before she turned back to Bryce. “Just… be careful. If this female is as dangerous as you say, you’ll need to be prepared.”

Bryce nodded, a tight smile on her lips. “We will be.”

Nesta gave a curt nod, then turned back to the portal. She paused, looking over her shoulder one last time. “And Bryce… whatever you do, don’t go poking around too much. Some things are better left buried.”

With that, she stepped through the portal, disappearing into the swirling light.

Ruhn watched the portal close, the shimmering light fading until it was just him and Bryce left in the dim room. The female who’d stepped through was a stranger to him, her face fierce and determined, but it was clear from Bryce’s reaction that she wasn’t just anyone.

He turned to his sister, still trying to process what had just happened. “So… that was Nesta?”

Bryce nodded, her expression tight. “Yeah. One of the only ones I trust to help us figure this out. I mean, these carvings were in their caves, right? Her high lord has to know something.”

“She seems… intense,” he said, trying to piece together his impression of her. It was hard to gauge someone just from a brief encounter, but there had been something in her eyes—like she wasn’t easily rattled, no matter what she was facing.

“She is,” Bryce replied, her voice quiet. “But she’s also the best person to help us. If anyone can make sense of that pendant or those carvings, it’s her.”

Ruhn nodded slowly, still a little uncertain. He didn’t know Nesta, didn’t understand her, but if Bryce believed she could help, he’d go along with it. For now, at least. There were too many unknowns, too many dangers lurking in the shadows. And whoever that female was, the one they had locked up in the other room, she was at the center of it all.

“Do you think she’ll be able to get the answers we need?” he asked, glancing at Bryce.

“I hope so,” Bryce murmured, her gaze fixed on the door. “Because if not, I don’t know who else can.”

Ruhn swallowed, a chill settling over him. He didn’t like the uncertainty, the feeling of being out of his depth. But he’d follow Bryce’s lead, trust her judgment. Because right now, that was all they had.

******

1,2,3…….1,2,3….4,5,6,7,…8,9….

Seraphis sighed and leaned her head back against the cold wall. It has been two hours since the minions left. Captors, Seraphis chuckled. “Captors my ass.”

If they think that they are making any process with her, they are up for a big fucking surprise.

Her eyes roamed the small, barren room. She’d memorized every detail of it, every inch of the walls, the faint hum of magic lacing the air, the way the wards vibrated with power—everything they thought would keep her trapped. To anyone else, it might have seemed hopeless, but to her, it was just another puzzle to solve.

1, 2, 3… She counted again, the rhythm of it calming her thoughts as she traced the weak points in the wards. They weren’t glaring gaps, but subtle imperfections, places where the magic didn’t weave together perfectly. 4, 5, 6, 7… Almost there. She felt a grin tug at her lips.

A wisp of her magic slipped through the cracks, a tendril so fine it was almost undetectable. She fed it into the wards, feeling for their structure, testing the strength of their confinement. It wasn’t enough to break free—not yet—but it was enough to understand how they were constructed. It would only be a matter of time before she found the weak link.

8, 9… Seraphis’s eyes glinted as she completed the circuit. Her magic recoiled back to her, and she let out a slow breath. She could dismantle it—maybe not tonight, but soon.

She shifted, glancing at the door, imagining those self-satisfied faces of her so-called captors. Bryce Quinlan, with her fiery determination and endless questions. The way she’d tried to appear confident, in control. It was almost amusing.

“Sweetheart,” Seraphis murmured to the empty room, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “you have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

And Ruhn—his presence had surprised her. He was different from the others. He’d looked at her like he was trying to piece together some impossible puzzle. She almost felt sorry for him, almost. But whatever flicker of something she’d sensed between them, whatever unknown feelings she felt for him when she saw his dead body in the future, it didn’t matter. He was just another obstacle in her path.

The Asteri had taught her well. There was no room for sentimentality, no space for hesitation. Everything and everyone was a tool to be used, and once they’d served their purpose… well, she’d leave them behind like she always did.

She closed her eyes, her mind drifting back to her purpose, her mission. The Asteri, their commands, their goals. She was their weapon, honed and sharpened for centuries, and now, even in this pathetic excuse of a prison, she would not falter. The Asteri had made her strong. Made her untouchable.

This realm—Midgard, the Fae, the little humans playing at war and power—it was all so insignificant. She was here for a reason, and she would not be distracted by these petty games. They thought they were holding her, thought they were keeping her from what she needed to do. Fools.

“Tick tock,” she whispered, a vicious smile playing on her lips. “Time’s running out, darlings.”

She imagined the chaos she would unleash once she broke free, the terror that would spread through their ranks. She could almost taste their fear, the delicious scent of it filling her senses.

“Let’s see how long your precious wards hold.”

The door creaked open again. Seraphis didn’t bother to lift her head from where she leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, arms crossed over her chest. The scent of shadows and starlight clung to the air like smoke, a dead giveaway of who had entered.

Ruhn Danaan.

He shut the door behind him with a soft click, then stood there, the silence stretching as he observed her, probably trying to decide how to begin. She smirked inwardly. Amateurs.

“Back for more, Prince?” she drawled, still not opening her eyes. “Or did you forget something?”

“No,” Ruhn said evenly, his voice steady. “But I thought I’d give it another shot. See if you’re willing to talk.”

She cracked an eye open, lazily meeting his gaze. “You’re wasting your time.”

“Maybe.” He took a few steps closer, cautiously, like he was approaching a cornered animal. “But I’ve got time to waste.”

She huffed a laugh, low and derisive. “Charming. Let me guess, you’re here to ‘break me down’? To ‘win me over’ with that hero complex you all seem to have?”

Ruhn shrugged, his expression calm, almost thoughtful. “I’m here because I want to know who you are.”

“Good luck with that.” She straightened, fixing him with a cold stare. “I’m not interested in playing your little games.”

“I’m not playing games,” he countered. “I just want to know the truth.”

“Which is?” she taunted, arching an eyebrow. “That I’m some big, bad villain you all have to take down? That I’m the monster hiding under your beds?”

“I don’t know what you are,” Ruhn admitted, his gaze intense, unwavering. “But I know you’re not just some nameless, faceless enemy. There’s more to you than that.”

She snorted, shaking her head. “How profound. Did you come up with that all by yourself?”

“Actually, yeah,” he said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Figured it out while staring at these walls for hours.”

“Impressive.” She made a show of slow-clapping, her smile mocking. “But you’re still barking up the wrong tree.”

“Maybe.” He leaned against the table, still keeping a careful distance between them. “Or maybe you just don’t want anyone to see what’s really there.”

“What’s really there?” she echoed, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “A broken girl? A tragic backstory? Save it, Prince. I’m not some damsel in distress for you to fix.”

“I’m not trying to fix you,” he said quietly, his voice steady. “I’m just trying to understand.”

She scoffed, but there was something in his eyes, something that made her chest tighten, just a little. “Understand what, exactly?”

“Who you are,” Ruhn said, his gaze piercing. “What you’re doing here.”

“Maybe I’m just here to enjoy the scenery.” She gestured around the dull, bare room. “Isn’t it lovely?”

His lips twitched, a flicker of amusement that he quickly smothered. “So, what do I call you then? Or should I just keep referring to you as ‘the girl with the pendant’?”

“Call me whatever you like,” she said coolly. “It won’t change a thing.”

“Names have power,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “I guess you’d know that better than anyone.”

Seraphis stiffened, her eyes narrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that someone like you…” He trailed off, his gaze steady on hers. “I bet you know the weight a name can carry.”

“Nice try,” she said, her voice hard, unyielding. “But you’re not getting anything out of me.”

Ruhn tilted his head slightly, watching her with a careful, assessing look. “Not even your name?”

“No,” she snapped, the word cutting through the air like a knife. “Not even that.”

He didn’t back down, didn’t look away. “Why not?”

“Because it’s none of your damn business.” She could feel her pulse quickening, that tightness in her chest coiling tighter.

“You know, I get it,” Ruhn said, his voice almost gentle. “You don’t want to give anyone anything. Not a piece of yourself, not a name, nothing.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.” Her voice was icy, her walls firmly back in place.

“But here’s the thing,” Ruhn continued, his eyes locked on hers. “You’re not just anyone. And you’re not just here for nothing. I don’t need to know your whole story, but I think we can start with something small. Something that doesn’t mean anything.”

Seraphis clenched her jaw, every instinct screaming at her to shut him down, to throw him off. But there was something about the way he was looking at her, something that made her blood boil and her heart race. “You want a name?” she sneered, the words a razor-edged taunt. “Fine. You can call me Seraphis.”

Ruhn’s eyes widened, just a fraction, and then his expression smoothed into something more careful, more guarded. “Seraphis,” he repeated softly, like he was tasting the word, testing it. “It suits you.”

She rolled her eyes, feigning nonchalance even as her heart pounded in her chest. “Don’t get used to it.”

“I won’t,” he said, his voice low, almost a murmur. “But thanks.”

The silence stretched between them, taut and crackling with something unspoken, something dangerous. Then Ruhn straightened, pushing off the table.

“Guess I’ll leave you to your… solitude.” He turned, heading for the door. “For now.”

“Don’t do me any favors, Prince,” she called after him, her voice sharp, cutting. “You’ll just be wasting your time.”

He paused at the door, glancing back at her with a small, almost knowing smile. “I don’t think I am.”

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

Seraphis let out a long, slow breath, her hands still clenched into fists. Stupid. So stupid. Letting that slip. Letting him get to her, even for a moment.

But it didn’t matter. It was just a name. A meaningless, stupid name.

She pushed off the wall, pacing the small room, her thoughts racing. This wasn’t going to work. She needed to get out of here, and fast. Before they found out anything more.

Before this place—and these people—started getting under her skin.

Seraphis leaned back against the cold wall, the silence settling around her like a heavy fog. Alone again, she let out a slow breath, her frustration simmering just below the surface.

“Idiots,” she muttered, glancing at the pendant resting on the small table. Its etchings glinted under the dim light, a reminder of the power it held—and the threat it posed.

She reached out, fingers brushing over its cool surface. As soon as she made contact, the pendant warmed in her grip, its glow intensifying. Seraphis frowned, lifting it closer to her eyes. “What now?” she whispered, sensing an unusual energy radiating from it.

The light pulsed rhythmically, almost alive, and she could feel it beckoning her. Panic flickered in her chest. The Asteri had warned her: if it glowed, someone was trying to track or summon her.

“Damn it,” she hissed, gripping the pendant tighter. She had a mission, a purpose, but this was an unwelcome complication.

“Focus,” she commanded herself, willing the pendant to stabilize. If this was an attempt to manipulate her, she wouldn’t allow it. She was in control. But who was it?

With a surge of determination, she concentrated on the pendant, trying to push back against the pull. The glow flickered, responding to her will, but the intensity remained.

“No,” she said, frustration bubbling over. “You’re not summoning me.”

With a final push, she commanded the pendant’s light to dim. The glow faded, leaving her in silence once more. She took a deep breath, the weight of the pendant now a grounding presence against her chest.

As calm settled in, she steeled herself. This pendant was connected to something important, but she wouldn’t let it dictate her actions. She had her own plans.

Seraphis’s resolve hardened. She would uncover the truth behind this glow and use it to her advantage. No one was going to pull her into their games.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Taglist:@annamariereads16 @tooexhaustedsstuff @a-frog-with-a-laptop @cassie-at-college-blog @itsinherited @anuttellaa @ydubbu