#but nowadays i suppose it’s me whispering to those of you who do read them

[ghost-proofbaby]

Hour 19 😍 Steve! Such a bad spy. I did a huge comment on ao3 so I won't repeat here, but I saw you'd replied to someone saying that one of them is going to get outed next chapter and I can't wait. They've been all snuggly and cute and awkward the last few hours and it's time to open a can of worms for more drama. So evil. I love it. I hope it's coffee shop related.

Then Mordor! I'm gonna level with you. I haven't read it yet. BUT. only because I need to go back and re-read the last chapter because I don't have a scooby do what's going on because my memory is real bad. But I'll catch up soon. Willow and Eddie forever. IDST.

Also you do the funniest tags on your posts and asks and I always read all of them so just wanted you to know that 🖤

totally fine on the mordor part because honestly it was a bit of a back to back drop 😭 also we’ve all got lives here. it ain’t going anywhere — take all the time you need, and if you wanna scream about it once/if you do read, i’m always here 🖤

steve really is a bad spy. just imagine how the gang would assign him and robin to go spy on their first date and he blows their cover so eddie just sighs as they’re sitting with their coffee, both deciding the torture should end and they can stop putting on a bit knowing both their friends are near by, and he says “steve. dude. you fucking suck at sneaking around.”

the next few hours are a gentle mix of angst, as well as continuing to let these idiots explore all their awkwardness and cuteness, and i cannot wait 🖤

thank you for reading as always!! and oh my gosh, the fact that you read the tags 😭 you’re such a brave soldier. i’m not responsible for what i put in tags (though i do love dropping a good spoiler in them from time to time). <3

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Tale of the Cursed Raven -- Author’s Notes & Afterthoughts

The full series:

Part 1 I Part 2I Part 3 I Part 4 I Part 5 I Part 6 I Part 7 I Part 8 | Part 9 I Part 10 I Part 11 I Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20

Miss Raven sketch is by shimmeryspark!

Well, it’s been quite the journey but we’ve finally made it to the end of ✨ Raven’s origin saga ✨. It was such a wild experience to write it all and hear your feedback for each installment. I hope that you all enjoyed reading it as much as I loved creating it... and I hope that it sheds more light on why Raven is the way she is.

Now that the series is done, I’m feeling really nostalgic about it (maybe it’s Mis Raven’s enchanted inks working their magic on me)💦 so I wanted to relive the memories a little, and share some of the feelings, insights, and thoughts I had before, during, and after writing the saga.

If you’re interested in reading that, it’ll all be below the cut for your convenience.

“May those who accept their fate be granted happiness, may those who defy their fate be granted glory.” — Edel, Princess Tutu (2002)

The Origins

I’ve always loved stories—more specifically, fairy tales. When I was little, they’d always be on my mind. Actually, they still are to this very day. If I wasn’t reading them, I’d be watching them or thinking about them, making theories and spinning stories of my own.

I loved the fantastical elements, the whimsy of magic and talking animals, the witches and the monsters, the royals and the warriors that protected them... I loved it all. That childhood love of fairy tales followed me into adolescence and adulthood. That’s really where this all began.

Of course, I gravitated towards media that prominently featured elements of, or borrowed from, fairy tales. This would lead me to the rabbit hole that is Twisted Wonderland 😷 (you all knew this was coming). Due to the blank slate nature of the game’s protagonist, Yuu, TWST was ripe for an OC community to crop up.

I saw a lot of unique characters in the fandom, so I wanted to create a character too. However, no matter how hard I tried, I struggled to develop a “Yuu” that I was satisfied with. At times, I even felt uncomfortable because I felt I was either putting too much of myself into “Yuu”, or not enough. It was then that I realized I would have much more fun making a character based on a preexisting story. A theme, a concept—they’d all be pre-set for me, and I could let my imagination run wild from those.

I didn’t want to adapt a character from a Disney movie (say, the Mad Hatter or King Triton). While I had seen many cool interpretations made by other people, I didn’t want to limit myself to personalities and character traits that were already determined by the movies or stories for me. I started looking into fairy tales themselves, looking for a character or a concept vague enough for me to base my OC on—and I found it in the wording of a riddle from Alice in Wonderland.

Why is a raven like a writing desk?

It captured the spirit of whimsy I wanted to evoke in the OC. Ah, but there's also an underlying sadness and dread to her character. It's mostly Alice in Wonderland with a whisper of Edgar Allen Poe.

And thus, Raven was born.

Tsunderes — but why???

At first glance, you might look at Raven and label her personality as “tsundere”. It’s a popular trope in Japanese media where a character that is initially cold and harsh shows or develops a warm, friendlier side over time. One problem that I’ve always had with the tsundere archetype is that the media that employ it rarely, if ever, explain the reasoning for why a character is a tsundere. More often than not, tsunderes are used to comedic effect nowadays, with the tsundere characters acting violent towards their supposed love interests—and that’s something that has never really sat well with me. I don’t think that’s necessarily good writing, but I won’t fault the people who do enjoy that kind of thing. I personally prefer it when we get to know the characters and the reasoning behind their personalities and decisions more. Character-driven storytelling is my jam.

Familiar of Zero’s Louise lacks the magical power to back up her noble lineage, and she has an inferiority complex as a result of that. Toradora’s Taiga has a complex family situation which has left her distrustful of others. When writing Raven, I didn’t want her to fall into the trap of “no explanation” tsundere. I wanted to outline a clear reason for why her personality is “hot and cold”, like Louise and Taiga. Even more than that, I wanted Raven’s reason to line up with the concepts of “freedom” and “expression” that tie with her bird and storytelling motifs.

And so, her story started taking shape in my head. (If you want to read more specifics on my thought process, I’d check out this post. I also talk more about the concepts behind her there.)

Her Magic

I wanted to tie in her personality and philosophy into her unique magic too. After all, it's a spell that defines who she is as an individual. In the beginning, Raven was excited about the prospect of writing, as it would help her comes to understand others--however, she struggles to come to grips with their emotions and keeps holding herself at a distance. Only when she empathizes with her characters and with the people around her does her unique magic come into fruition. With it, she can see into others' hearts and rewrite their feelings--that is, if her willpower and coaxing can convince them to.

I didn't want Raven to be a particularly gifted magic user; she's someone that had to work hard to come into her own. I think of her humanoid form as something still awkward and developing, which sometimes interferes with her spellcasting. What really makes Raven shine is her determination, and the strong imagination that pairs with it. All she truly lacks is the ambition and the confidence, things that I hoped would be honed at Night Raven College.

The Characters for the Series

Initially, I wanted to feature a much larger cast of characters. At some point, I was ambitious enough to think I could somehow include every NRC student in the plot... but thank goodness I realized that just wasn’t feasible. I saw the narrative mess that happened whenever a creative piece tried to get too many characters involved. It just made it hard to keep track of and care about anyone on an individual level. Sometimes, it also distracted from the central themes and conflict. Now, that’s not to say that Raven has never canonically engaged with other characters (because she definitely has)! It’s just that those interactions aren’t as important to this story, so I left them out of it.

In hindsight, I’m so glad that I kept the core cast (up to a certain point) small. That way, I could dedicate more of my time writing each of their individual thoughts and emotions. Raven remains the main character throughout, while Rook, Crowley, Jade, and, to some extent, Azul, Floyd, and Octa A, are secondary characters. Idia, Vil, Epel, the Fates, etc., are very much tertiary characters that showed up a few times total 😂 but they all played their parts and still contributed the overall story.

A character that was introduced in part 6 was the timid but well-meaning Octavinelle A-kun (whose name is Kon, like konbu, or Japense kelp). He was actually included as a gag character because I couldn’t think of someone from the main cast for the role he ended up filling. I unintentionally got attached to Kon and decided to bring him back later in the story, because I guess I like the irony of a mob character that lacks eyes having more screen time than two Dorm Leaders (Vil and Idia). I think the inclusion of Kon also really helped the themes of the story, because, in a meta way, he’s like Raven. He’s a “background character” who ended up having time in the spotlight (and even earned himself a small but dedicated fan following), which proves that it’s possible for Raven, who also sees herself as a “background character”, to ascend and become a “main character”.

Speaking of semi-original characters, I also had fun doing my interpretation of the Fates in part 10. I doubt that’s what they’re like in canon and watch TWST prove me wrong, but it was super fun to write regardless of that. I think my favorite thing about them was how they bicker when they’re out of the public eye, but it was also interesting to come up with their idol poses and phrases.

The cast noticeably expands around part 15, and that was a very purposeful move on my end. Raven has had her revelation then, as well as a stronger understanding of how her unique magic works. Art that point, the story shifts from Raven being on the outside looking in to the characters witnessing her tale unfold. It's to indicate that Raven has finally properly begun integrating herself with the stories that she has always isolated herself from. Characters that have previously had smaller roles before (Vil, Idia, Azul) return for a reprise and to add their own context to what's happening now, and the characters never previously mentioned (Lilia, Riddle, Kalim, Leona) give their perspectives as people who had no direct involvement. I wanted to show the shades of familiarity that they have with what Raven's been up to on her lonesome, and how these different kinds of relationships and points of view are all important when looking at a story.

I was very excited to introduce the Enchantress (Estella) as an onlooker that has a tenacious history with Lilia; she's an original character I've been working on and hiding in the shadows until her first appearance late in this saga. Estella is a very complex person, whom I would describe as a mix of the Enchantress (Beauty and the Beast), Giselle (in both Enchanted and Disenchanted), Isabela (Encanto), Frollo (The Hunchback of Notre Dame), Mother Gothel (Tangled) and Fairy Godmother (Shrek 2). She gives... "tough love", but often acts in morally self-righteous and self-important ways, believing that it is for the "own good" of the people she becomes entangled with. Sadly, I was not able to go into her own background and motives, but someday I'd really like to!

The Plot of the Series

There’s a lot that you don’t see that goes into writing. I went through several iterations of Tale of the Cursed Raven, especially with the rising action and climax. You should see my writing drafts--there’s no rhyme or reason to them! You might see some bullet points to show a sequence of events, but the rest of the document is just random lines or ideas I think would “sound cool” that I just scribbled down while on the bus or something.

When I write a story, I usually know how I want things to begin and how I want them to end, and I have trouble filling in everything that’s in between. I usually took large chunks of time between the release of each installment to review information from the previous part and make sure the continuity carried over to the part I was currently writing.

It was also common for me to write, rewrite, and rewrite the parts again several times over before I actually put it to the public. Sometimes I would almost be done with an installment, and I’d delete it all and start over because I thought of something much better. I’d be irritated with myself in the moment for wasting all that time and hard work, but I think it ended up working out.

sadibasudbad Okay, I want to talk about some of the plot points that I scrapped, because some of them were actually interesting... They just took the story nowhere or caused issues with other things I had planned, so I had to drop them 😅

After Jade’s betrayal is revealed in part 3, I was going to have Raven become Azul’s business rival. Not in the restaurant sense, but more like she would offer similar “wish fulfillment” services as Azul, mostly because she needs something to do to keep herself positive. Her services were going to be called “Fairy Godmothering” and involved sending wishes on slips of paper in little black boxes she placed all over campus. However, she’d probably need a lot of help or strong magic to make that happen, neither of which really applies to her. I guess the tradeoff would have been that Azul offers more but asks for a price, whereas Raven offers less but works for free. She’d write stories as kind of a “road map” or “plan” for how she would personally fulfill her a wish, as opposed to Azul’s contracts, and which required a mutual agreement to the terms. I also didn’t know where to take the story after this point was introduced, so it had to go.

Part 8 was originally going to open with Raven and Riddle having a tea party and catching up. Floyd was going to emerge from some rose bushes with Cater and Trey chasing after him 😂 and Floyd was going to kidnap Raven from there for the boat scene with Jade. Like I mentioned before, I decided to cut this out to keep the number of characters the story had relatively short. (Plus, I guess Floyd would have had to run a shorter distance to the lake if Raven was already in the forest area than if she were all the way in Heartslabyul?)

There was a large hiatus between part 10 and part 11, because a lot of rewrites had to happen for the latter half of the series. Part 11 in particular went through several different versions—one of which would involve Prince Rielle visiting NRC for a magift game and knocking Raven out cold with the frisbee. Because Raven didn’t remember the face of the “prince” that saved her from drowning when she was a bird, I was going to have her mistake Rielle as that “prince” (similar to how Eric mistook Ursula/Vanessa for Ariel). Djsbsjsbshs But I already took a huge chance by writing my interpretation of the Fates, so I didn’t want to also do my interpretation of Rielle in case TWST gives us more details about him later. Rielle is based on a Disney princess, so I thought it was more likely that he got more details revealed about him over of the Fates, and I didn’t want to make my series too reliant on headcanons or unconfirmed information about a character we haven’t even seen yet.

Finally (and this is the biggest change of all), parts 10 through 20 were originally going to be heavily focused on action and adventure. Raven was going leave NRC in search of the Enchantress (who originally cursed the Storyteller several years go) and ask her to lift the curse, and the Enchantress was going to send her on a series of heroic quests to prove that she is “worthy”. But the more I thought about it, the more I thought the scale was too grand 💦 At the end of the day, Raven is just a bird trying to be a normal human girl... and I wanted her development to be more of a traditional coming of age story instead of a literal hero’s journey where she confronts dragons and saves villages. Something more down-to-earth makes her more relatable, so I went with that route instead of the action-adventure one.

I don’t know if you noticed, but the saga happens alongside the events of the main story (as some main story events, such as Overblots, are referenced). The last 5ish parts happen around the transition from the Ignihyde arc to the Diasomnia arc, sooo... :)) You can think what you like about whether Raven’s happy ending is reality or a dream conjured up by Malleus~

I argued with myself a lot while writing the series, especially about the ending. I had a lot of my friends (and readers, too) telling me “you’d better not kill Raven” and “Raven and Jade should kiss and make up/date each other at the end” (some of which came true, some of which didn’t). I was so conflicted at the time because while I never intended to kill Raven, it was clear that my audience was expecting a perfect “happily ever after”... and I didn’t know if such a conclusion would fit the overall tone of the series. I think what I ended up doing was satisfactory, though. It’s happy, but not overly so, and it keeps the door open for future shenanigans in a light-hearted and hopeful way.

Raven’s Growth and Development

Raven has come so far.

The saga here is written kind of like “oh, this is her main story”, but it’s meant to be supplemented by “vignettes” and “event stories” (ie all the side content of Raven which fleshes out her relationships with other characters). The idea is that all her experiences at NRC helped her to develop her own sense of self, and granted her the confidence to fly in the face of her own fate, which she was once so hopeless about. When I look back on the last few years, I’m amazed at how much of it there is, whether produced by myself, by friends, or by fans. It’s really humbling that I get to share this journey with you all.

Raven used to be scared and shy, a timid bird with little to no understanding of the world, or of the creatures in it. Then she picked up a quill, ink, and paper—and a whole new world opened up to her. Her story is one of how freedom of self expression and creative works can connect us not only with others, but with ourselves. Because of that, Raven was able to grow and become a much more mature person (with the support of her friends and family, of course)!

Just because the saga is over doesn’t mean Raven is suddenly perfect, though. She still very much struggles to be emotionally expressive and honest with her feelings of affection (since she has gone so long burying those), so she’s still got a long way to go in that regard 💦 She also has some lingering self-esteem issues that she’s got to work on. Raven’s always changing...! Always willing to learn! Jade and Rook, please help her—

When people read Tale of the Cursed Raven, I don’t want them to “just see it as a love story” or “TWST OC x TWST Boy” fanfiction 💦 because the focus isn’t just on romance, but on Raven discovering herself, and her voice, in a world that once confused and scared her. It’s not just a story about finding love, it’s also about a girl growing up, gaining confidence, finding new family and friends to support her... It’s a lot of things, and I feel that it’s doing the saga a disservice by calling it just a love story.

I’ve mentioned this a few times before, but while Raven is not meant to be a self-insert character, I feel that her struggles are very relatable and I hope that you, too, can see some part of yourself in her and her journey. A lot of the writing process involved me analyzing and coming to terms with difficult feelings, particularly ones of self-loathing, self-acceptance, coming to terms with emotions, and trying to find one’s place in a world that can be confusing and scary to navigate. I feel that writing Raven’s tale was able to help me through those tough times in my life. For that reason, this saga will always hold a lot of sentimental value to me.

So... What’s next?

There were originally plans for me to make a follow up/spin-off series where Octa A/Kon was the main character. The theme of that series was “even the unnoticed and ordinary can be noticed and extraordinary!” It was going to focus on Kon and his mob student friends (one from each dormitory), along with their struggles of being “noticed” (as they are often just one face in a sea of mob students) and “fitting in” with their respective dorm’s ideals. I think it would have been a series that resonated a lot with introverts and people who see themselves as “less than” others or as “not fitting in” with others’ expectations. I might still do this, but it would probably be another huge project that would take months of planning and revision.

Another idea I had was to write a series of stories that are just flashbacks of Raven’s life prior to Night Raven College, whether as a bird or whether as the Storyteller’s apprentice. I also considered writing in-depth about how the Storyteller was originally cursed, and about the Enchantress responsible for it. I would like to get into her backstory and her motivations for spinning the Storyteller’s curse to begin with. (Maybe I’ll do those as blog anniversary or follower milestone specials?) Some friends of mine also jokingly suggested I write a sequel series focused on Raven and her relationship with L*ONA 🤢 dfhlbahefvqoeuq Lots of ideas, lots of possibilities!

As for Raven, she’s definitely not going away just because her origin saga is done. She’s still the beloved poster child of this blog, so of course I want to continue writing about her! It’s just that she’ll be a little freer to speak her mind now that her curse has been lifted. After all, "the end" is just "the beginning" of another story!

I kind of feel like a proud parent, seeing my bird daughter growing up, making friends, finding love, and developing her own sense of agency and independence 😭 I’m excited to see where this next chapter of Raven’s life takes us.

Before I sign off, I’d like to thank you, dear readers, for following Miss Raven’s story until the very end. None of this would be possible without you!

[needle-thread-thimble-spear]

Hello! You may not remember a blog, "grouse-greyseed", a whispering voice among your followers, or a mutual you never spoke too. That was me, I deleted that blog because I had felt being online was crushingly lonely, and I didn't have the confidence to try and change that. I'm making a new blog because I think I understand myself and my fear better now. So, here is a little about me!

You can call me Thimble or Grouse, and I use she/it pronouns. I suppose, you could also call me Needle, Thread, or Spear, if you want!

I am especially interested in where the natural and artificial worlds come together and intersect. I use the tag "between" to indicate things that I think blur those boundaries especially well. I use the tag "spinning" to denote posts I make myself.

To give a list, things I enjoy or find interesting which I dedicate tags to include:

Natural History (I have an undergraduate degree in biology, and I have a lifelong passion for animals, especially birds. However, I also lump geology and astronomy in here as well. I don't necessarily like the term "natural history", but its the best I can come up with for now.)

CE (Short for "Common Era", but I suppose also "Current Events". I use this as a broad tag for humanities topics, which will include discussion of at times difficult subject matter, so if that's not what you are looking for I suggest filtering this tag.)

paint and fabric (For all sorts of visual art. I especially enjoy modern and contemporary art, embroidery, felting, and puppetry!)

qwerty (I have a recent interest in computers, and while I am not very knowledgeable about them I enjoy learning new things! Recent convert to linux mint, please be patient with my ignorance. Also used to tag sci fi art.)

sun moon and stars (I use this as a general tag for fantasy art, particularly stuff that focuses the sun, the moon, and the stars. Those, and fairies, have always had some sort of personal significance as long as i can remember. Probably the Waldorf schooling. May also post/reblog empty spaces type poetry under this tag. If you do not want to see that, block this tag.)

me when (haha funny relatable)

In addition to this, as I am here in this wretched place I of course will post and reblog stuff about my favorite stories. Expect to see a lot about Revolutionary Girl Utena, stuff by Ursula K. Le Guin, Labyrinth and Dark Crystal, Dungeon Meshi, Otherside Picnic, and more! (Have you figured out I'm a trans lesbian yet?)

I will occasionally post or reblog empty spaces type writing, or stuff adjacent to it. As such, this is an 18+ blog, and I will block minors who interact with it.

My main goal with this account is to continue to learn, and to meet people who share my interests. Due to a confluence of circumstances, I think I've lead a relatively sheltered life in some ways, and am in the process of reassessing a lot of stuff I've taken for granted for a long time. I'm not completely naive, but rapidly realizing there is just so much I don't know. I've been diving into as much reading as I can nowadays, and am eager to read more! If you like, you can feel free to send me recommendations for books and articles on the topics I'm interested in! Anons are off, I won't bite, unless u bite first.

EDIT: while the general sentiment of this remains true, the way I tag things is different now. I really ought to update this

[bluexiao]

Are you still the only one?

—instances or scenarios in which you felt jealous and he either messes up or not.

CHARACTERS: Albedo, Childe, Diluc, Kaeya, Kazuha, Scaramouche, Venti, Xiao, Zhongli; gn! Reader

THEMES: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, mentions of breakup and miscommunications. Good & Bad endings.

NOTES: ok so since i’d like to make it clear that all feelings are valid and yes, there are people who are the jealous types. as long as it is not borderline toxic or manipulative, it’s okay. communication however, is what i think is the key for this, and yep let’s get this started! enjoy reading:) this may be quite angsty than most of my works dksksk i’m sorry to all the hearts that will break</3 p.s. i think i’d make this in 3-parts or so… let me think about it:))

It had been days since you’ve seen him longer than a mere good morning or goodbye, talked to him like you did every night, whispering to each other about random things in your heads. You knew it was time to approach him and maybe inquire about the date he had forgotten several days ago or the spoiler dinner that you always had to throw the morning after.

However, just as you were about to do so, you watched along the sidelines as he conversed easily with the traveler, an immersed and focused look on both of their faces.

No, you weren’t angry. You were jealous. Jealous of how he seemed to have spent more time with this traveller than he did with you nowadays, and how much you missed having to bond with him as you did before. Jealousy is not good for a relationship, you know that.

But what can you do when your heart aches at the thought of losing his love for you when you’ve still got more for him?

ALBEDO wouldn’t realize or even address your feelings unless you speak to him. He may question you why you feel this way, but he would understand it and consider your feelings as valid. He will then provide solutions that might help solve the problem by saying that he’ll come home early starting that day or finally take you out on the date he forgot a few days back. He will add that he cannot just stop talking or meeting with the traveler, but he will be wary of his actions and words nonetheless because there really was nothing going on with them.

Heaving a sigh, he’d crouch in front of your sitting form and capture your hands to his, making you look him in the eye—his beautiful eyes that you couldn’t possibly deny anything with. “We can resolve this, don’t worry. I may not understand why you feel jealous all of a sudden, but I will accept it because they’re your feelings and you’re entitled to feel them. My love for you will never waver, we have a way through this, stay strong, my love.”

CHILDE would probably be one of those who will not take you seriously. “What should I do? It’s not like there’s anyone else who can spar with me as well as the traveler. It’s not like you could, can you?” he might even say such harsh words and be quite insensitive--what can you expect, he’s a Harbinger, you’d think. By the time he’d see the damage of his statements, however, he’d regret it almost immediately. He sighs, turning to face you directly. He’d want to reach out to your hand but he already knew he had hurt you, it would pain him to get rejected.

“Look, I know I’ve been busy lately, but what I and the traveler have is special. And-” there seems nothing for him to say at that point because you’d interject with a harsh voice, questioning him further. This pushes him to say what he shouldn't be supposed to however, “What do you want me to do?! This is my job, I can’t possibly give you more than I could now!”

And if you walk out of his life right there and then, he won’t follow you out of pride. In the end, that is the one thing he will regret.

DILUC will be annoyed, but he’s trying his best to calm down. He didn’t want to lash out on you especially if you’re calmly handling this too. But if he's been busy lately, it is because of his work and that he’s getting pretty stressed lately. Knowing him, he handles everything on his own and maybe ask some help from the traveler. And for you to say that you’re jealous? It’s so stressful for him as well. Still, even if he’s distressed with the situation, he’d try to stay calm.

“What is it that you want more, Y/n? You have me, you have this mansion, you have everything I could give you, what more do you possibly want that I haven’t given?” Take note that these are all his stress building up. If you don’t get affected by these—which is a difficult thing to do, you can coax him to relax for a bit and talk about the situation when he’s calm.

But if not and you choose to say about what he lacks—his time, then he won’t back out. He already had too much in his load and you demand more? That’s unfair. “We might as well part ways if you choose to act this way, Y/n.” And even if his heart aches every time he sees you after that, he won’t have the courage to face you anymore. He knows he messed up a huge lot by then.

KAEYA will seem like he won’t take you seriously, but he really did. He’s also someone who doesn’t really have a tendency to get mad easily at such things. Furthermore, it actually eases his mind at the thought that you liked him enough to the point of being jealous of someone who was worth getting jealous of nonetheless. After all, he understands and could not deny that he had been with the traveler more often than not these past few days. But he’d assure you that there was nothing going on.

KAZUHA is a natural smooth talker. Even if he does not intend to bring those flowery words, he does anyway. No matter what however, he’s a loyal man and he’d prove it again to you by both words and actions. “The stars and moon are a witness to my love for you, must you feel this way, I understand. Still, my dove, remember that my heart only belongs to you and you alone, no matter what.” he’d say. Starting from then on, he’d capture your heart again until you’d begin trusting him like you do before and rid of your jealousy once and for all.

SCARAMOUCHE will be annoyed, at best. Jealousy is for the weak, and what will he do, not do his work? “If you have a problem with it, it’s not mine to take care of.” he’d say. However, at least, what is good about him, is that he will be more mindful of his actions towards others. It may not be something he usually does but the thought of your state getting affected by him sets an uneasy feeling inside of him. Additionally, he may try to even give you more time or attention than previously. These actions are small, but he’s trying his best nonetheless. He’s heartless, but he’s not a two-timer, no. Alas, if you decide to stay with him, this is something he is proud of and he’d further be convinced that what you two have is more powerful than such things like jealousy.

you thought VENTI would take you seriously if you casually brought it out? No. The thing with him is that unless you act serious and make him understand, he will see how serious it really is. If you don’t, he won’t. He isn’t mortal, he wouldn’t understand human emotions unless you show him what you're feeling. The best thing to do is talk to him, hands probably tangled to each other, maybe cuddling will also give the moment some sort of privacy and intimacy, to rebuild what was momentarily lost.

XIAO will most likely handle it the worst, honestly. He doesn’t have mortal emotions and he’s always adjusting with them for you. But now, you have a problem with one of the only trusted friends he has? “Those pointless jealousy you mortals have, what good does it bring you to feel this way? Utterly insignificant. If you wish me to part with the traveler, that is not something I could do. This is not my problem, solve it yourself.” It’s not even a surprise if this would lead to a bigger fight. Patience is all you need to get this into his head, but with him growing colder and farther away from you, it seems that even you will have your own limitations.

ZHONGLI is probably the most intuitive and easy to understand you above everyone else. Yes, he may not have experience with mortal jealousy, but he’d seen it with gods of course, not in a romantic way like it is now however, but he can relate to it either way. He also doesn’t confront you unless you move away from him or give any indication that you’re uncomfortable in his presence. If it was a non-confrontational situation, he’d try his best to give you more time than he did these few days and when I say that he’s going to be consistent about it, he definitely will now. “My actions may have clouded your mind and in turn made you lost a little bit of trust on me, but believe me when I say that my love for you will be as strong as anything I can make. You have no need to worry for I will be yours until the end.”

[littlepadika]

Calling Home (5) | Frankie Morales x Reader

Summary: You are a receptionist at the VA. Frankie Morales keeps calling. Yearning ensues…

Rating: E (18+ only)

Warnings: age gap (legal), dilf!frankie, praise kink, voice kink, size kink, low self esteem, discussion of addiction/ptsd/trauma/triggers, divorce drama, no use of y/n, no beta reader, DDLG🎀, unprotected piv sex, oral m and oral f, hickies galore👅, mild BDSM (cuffs⛓, choking).

Masterlist here

AN: Whatta ride... but all things come to an end🥺. i'm blown away by the support for this fic. Thank you all 💕.

Chapter Five

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frankie had his own mental list of stuff he needed to do before you would arrive. He dunged out his closet to make room for your clothes. It was long overdue. He had a lot of things he didn’t wear anymore that needed to go. He went out and bought some more plates and silverware since his two plates and Rosie’s plastic plates would not do. He no longer looked around his home with a sense of loneliness, now he pictured all the places you could fit in. He could see you reading by the window in the living room so he bought a comfy new chair to put there. He noticed your small plant collection in your apartment and thought you’d maybe like a bigger one in the back yard so he bought a planter box.

He was reading your novel, titled Our Little Kingdom, while your candle burned. You didn't give it to him at first. While you were in the bathroom and Frankie washed your dishes, he noticed a stack of papers poking out in the trash. It was your manuscript. When you came back and saw him reading it you tried to take it back but Frankie insisted and you caved. It was good. Frankie wasn't just saying that because he loved you. He could see how great writers had influenced you and still it was uniquely your voice. The story, too, was compelling. He couldn't help but imagine you as the protagonist as she was just as sweet and clever.

You were making good progress on your list. You had put in your two weeks notice and started to applying to jobs in Miami. You enjoyed working with veterans so you hoped you could do something similar again. As two weeks went by you were disappointed you still hadn't heard back from job interviews. Packing was a little more difficult. You didn’t know what was worth taking and what was worth leaving. You knew Frankie had most everything already so it was a matter of picking your most special things. The rest you were slowing taking to Goodwill in batches.

You had completely forgotten you sent your book in to publishers until a flurry of emails came in on the same day.

Frankie woke up in the middle of the night to his phone ringing. He sat up pulling the phone towards him. It was you. Why would you be calling so late? Maybe something was wrong?

“Frankie?” You sounded congested. He heard a sniffle. Frankie furrowed his brow at that.

“Hey. Is everything all right?”

“ They-they-“ you could barely get it out “they rejected me.”

“Who?”

“All of them. All of the book agencies.” You threw yourself onto your bed, hot tears running down your face.

“Oh no! I’m so sorry, sweet pea.” Frankie didn’t know whether to be sad or angry. He thought your book was amazing. He sat up and flicked on the bedside lamp. “They’re idiots. Every one of them.”

“They’re experts, Frankie.” You felt more tears leak from your eyes. “Maybe I’m just not a good writer. Maybe-Maybe-" You hiccuped and low cry slipped from your mouth. You covered your mouth, taking in raking breaths. It was agony to admit this to him when he believed in you most. You felt like you had let him down. Frankie's heart literally ached in his chest as he listened to your quiet weeping over the phone. He waited for you to continue, feeling his own eyes grow misty.

“Don’t disappear on me, little pea. Let me hear that voice of yours.”

You were unable to speak. Scared of what may come out. You felt like your walls were closing in around you and mocking you. How did you ever think you could be a writer like all your favorite authors? You were so stupid, you thought.

“I let you down.” You said shakily.

“No no no, little pea.” Frankie said quickly. “You could never let me down. I don’t need to a book agent to tell me you’re a good writer. I know you’re writing is beautiful and perfect. Just like you.”

His praise caused another wave of tears from you.

“Daddy…” You bawled.

“I hear you, baby.” Frankie heard his own voice shake with emotion. He never hated the distance more than he did in this moment. He needed to wrap you up in his arms. “Close your eyes, sweet pea. Use that big imagination of yours. Pretend I’m there with you.”

“Imagination isn’t good enough, daddy.” You blubbered, fat tears slipping from your eyes.

“I know, baby.” Frankie’s heart was breaking. “But try for me okay?”

You clamped your eyes shut and tried to focus in on his breathing on the other end of the phone. Frankie did the same, closing his eyes.

“Good, sweet pea. Focus on daddy.” He wished he was there to comfort you, wrap you up in his arms and shield you from the cruel cruel world. “I’m next to you. I’m holding you so tight.”

“Hold me tighter!” You begged holding your pillow pet to your chest.

“Okay. I just did.” Frankie whispered closing his eyes as if it would be more real. “Feel that?”

“Yeah…” A moment went by as you steadied your breathing. Tears eventually stopped falling, drying against your cheeks. Frankie’s steady breathing anchored you.

“I loved your book. It was really really good. And fuck it, I’ll publish it myself.” Frankie couldn't help but raise his voice.

“Silly.” You sniffled.

“I’m serious, sweet pea. Who needs those stuck up assholes.”

“Hmm yeah, you’re right.” You agreed, voice softening with sleepiness. You pushed your face into your pillow. You could still smell Frankie if you really focused. "I miss you, Frankie."

"I miss you, too."

"I still haven't heard from any jobs. And- maybe I'm just not good enough and-" You felt more tears fill your eyes.

"Shhh shhh" Frankie interrupted "Listen to me. You are the best. The right thing will turn up i'm sure of it."

"But it's the only thing left on the list!"

"I know..." Frankie pulled over your copy of the list that you wrote for him. He had crossed things off as you reported to him. "Let's see if they get back to you tomorrow." Maybe he was being too hard on you, making you get a job first. He only wanted to put it on there to give you some independence over the move. He didn't want you to feel like you had nothing to do once you got here.

Frankie waited until your breathing evened out. He called your name quietly. When he got no response he assumed you fell asleep. He didn’t want to hang up. He missed you so fucking much and he felt helpless.

When he woke up the next morning, he said goodbye to Rosalia as usual, called in sick, and started driving north. Fuck the list. You were coming home with him now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Of course Frankie called you telling you he was on his way. You felt bad for making him miss work but your excitement overpowered any guilt. You set a timer for 14 hours and started packing with new energy. Your eyes were still puffy from your tears last night. But you repeated what Frankie said like a mantra. Who needs those stuck up assholes. There were tons of ways to self publish nowadays. It didn’t have to be through a publishing house.

When you ran out of things to clean up and pack, you watched out the window waiting to see Frankie’s blue pick up. You had changed into sleep shorts and a t shirt. While you had a plan to dress more sexy you ended up accidentally packing that surprise in one of the boxes earlier today. It was getting dark when Frankie finally pulled up. He looked exhausted but still… Frankie. He was wearing his favorite hat and grey t shirt. You ran down to the street to meet him. He’s pulling empty boxes from the bed of the truck when he sees you sprinting towards him.

“Sweet pea!” He smiled as you launched yourself into his arms. “Oof.” You buried you face in his shirt inhaling his scent. He rubbed your back affectionately enjoying having you back in his arms. “Aw… it’s okay. It’s okay now.” He murmured when he heard you sniffle. He oddly felt his chest swell with pride at how much you missed him. He never had to worry about how you felt about him. He peeled your head off him by stroking your head. You looked up at him with a watery smile. “You ready to blow this popsicle stand?”

You snickered at his dad phases. “I’m ready. Well… I still have some stuff I need to pack up. Too heavy.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” Frankie kissed you chastely. You pulled him in for more though, fisting his shirt in your hands. “Mmm no no. Work first. Play later.” Frankie pulled back. You pouted but have to agree with his logic. The faster you packed the faster you could leave.

Back in your apartment Frankie got to work taking apart your bed and dresser. You finished packing your clothes and dusting.

“Hey what’s this? It was under the bed.” Frankie walked over holding a gift bag with pink tissue paper sticking up.

“Oh…” You quickly grabbed it away. “That’s supposed to be a surprise. For Rosie.”

“You got her a present?” Frankie was touched by your thoughtfulness.

“Yeah I mean… I figured it might make her like me more.”

“She already likes you, but she can never have too many toys.” Frankie stepped further into your space. You realize at that moment how sweaty he was from moving all the furniture. It was so late at night and you were both exhausted but the sudden rush of his thicker smell made you feel wide awake. “Can I see what you got her?”

You handed the package back over, watching him gingerly move the tissue paper to the side. His eyes softened when he saw the pink unicorn pillow pet sitting in the bag. A mini version of yours.

“Am I too presumptuous making us matching? I don’t know if she likes unicorns and-" Frankie cut you off, dropping the bag and kissing you up against the wall. He wasn't even sure what part of that turned him on, just your sweetness and wanting to be a part of his family. He held your face in his hands, his grip forcing your mouth open. You felt yourself start to grow wet. You loved when he just went caveman on you. Sometimes he didn’t have the words to express how much he loved you so he reverted to touch; to deep kisses and deep thrusts. His hands trailed down your exposed legs so he could lift you up on his hips. You held onto his shoulders as he swung you around. The bed was gone, the couch was gone.

"Fuck. Hang on."

You laughed as he ran you out to the kitchen to set you down on the counter. You pawed at his pants trying to undo his belt, but Frankie was faster, unhooking your bra from under your shirt and then pulling your shirt over your head. He took your hand and placed it over his large bulge between his legs.

“Feel what you do to me…” He gritted through his teeth his chest rising and falling sharply.


“Frankie- oh my god-please let me” You pulled he belt loose. At first he stops you. “I didn’t get to last time. Please?” He bit his lip considering your plea. He really just wanted to give and give and give to you. But he had been mean last time, not letting you touch his cock. So this time he doesn’t stop you as you unbutton his pants and pull him out of his boxers. You licked your lips as his cock fell into your hand, curving up towards you.

You hopped off the counter, getting onto your knees before him. “Take off your shirt… please?” He obliged. You kissed down his belly feeling it tighten against your lips. He watched you with fire in his eyes, his mouth slightly parted. You pushed the rest of his pants and boxers down. You stroked him slowly with both hands.

“You have to tell me what you like…” You held his cock and licked a long stripe from the base to the head making him moan weakly. You repeat the motion adding a few kitten licks at the end, lapping up the stray drops of salty precum. Frankie was struggling to think let alone speak. He gripped the countertop above you, his other hand going to the back of your head.

“Just- go slow.” You followed his instructions, slowly taking his length in your mouth. “Good-good girl.” He clenched his jaw staring down at the sight. Your hot mouth felt like heaven and your innocent eyes staring up at him was just the cherry on top. You took his dick as far as you could before you choked lightly. You were by no means an expert at giving blowjobs but you were frustrated you couldn't go further. Your jaw was already aching from his girth.

“Mm don’t hurt yourself, baby.” He hissed unable to hold his hips still, he jerked a little against you making you whine. “Come back up, remember to breathe.”

You slowly pulled off his cock before going down again. Frankie’s hand on your head gently guided you so you didn’t hurt your throat. You added suction, applying pressure on the underside of his cock. You started to find what he liked based on his sounds. You still couldn’t take him all the way in your mouth, tears gathered in corner of your eyes from the effort. Your hand pumped the rest that wouldn’t fit.

“Oh fuck.” Frankie gasped his hips jerking again making his cock slide back into your mouth. You moved one of your hands to his hips looking up at him to say it was okay. “Are you-you want me to fuck your mouth, sweet pea?” You nodded eagerly. You put one of you hands on his length where he wouldn’t fit. He gathered up some of your hair in a makeshift ponytail and slowly thrust into your mouth. Like he always did, he waited for you to nod and give him the okay. When you did, he couldn’t help the growl that left his throat. Drool leaked from your mouth onto your chest as he sped up using your head more forcefully. You were sure you had soaked through your panties. It turned you on so much to see him take control, use you for his pleasure, but still his grip on you was firm and gentle. Every grunt went straight to your pussy. “Such a good girl letting me use this hole, too.” He rasped. “You’re crying around my cock.”

“Mmhm” You hummed around his dick making him groan. He was close. He was battering the back of your throat. You could recognize the furrowed brow and the tightening of his balls. You intensified your ministrations.

“Good girl, good-I’m gonna cum in your little mouth.” He pulled out of your mouth with a wet pop. “Stick out your tongue, sweet pea.” He ordered. You obeyed, watching greedily as he fisted himself harshly the tip of his cock hitting your tongue. You placed your hands on either side of his tummy, anticipating his load. His chest was flush and his eyes were fluttering shut. When he came he yanked your head up harshly as cum splashed onto your tongue. You loved this perspective, watching his face contort with pleasure. You tried to take every drop but some dripped down your chin. “Swallow.” Frankie ordered roughly still maintaining his grip on your head. You swallowed, his warm cum sliding down your throat.

“Thank you, daddy.” You smiled up at him, wiping some of the stray cum off your chin. He let go of your hair, now stroking your head then your jaw. “Did I do well?”

“So good.” He chuckled and helped you stand, his breath still ragged. You squirmed pressing your thighs together. The move not missed by Frankie. “Did sucking my cock make you wet, sweet pea?”

You nodded shyly before saying “It’s okay though. You don’t have to-it’s late and we have a long drive tomorrow.”

“You’re always looking out for me but what kind of man would I be if I left you all needy. But you have to ask for it, sweet pea.”

“I kinda just want your mouth if that’s okay?” You asked feeling too tired for a full round of sex.

“Of course.” Frankie smiled. “Your mattress is still in the bedroom.” He led you in and helped settle you on the center of the mattress. He pulled your shorts and underwear off, staring at your slick reddened pussy. "You soaked your little panties, sweet pea. Did you touch your little flower while I was gone?" Frankie asked, pulling apart your legs.

"I-I tried to. But it wasn't the same."

"How come, little pea?" His patronizing tone had your cunt clenching. He was teasing you.

"It wasn't your fingers. I needed you." You huffed, trying to push his head down onto you.

"Mmm poor thing." Frankie chuckled, the rich sound giving you goosebumps. He felt his cock start to harden again despite you just sucked the soul out of him moments ago. He slowly licked up your slit moaning at the taste of you. Your head tipped back as he he slowly inserted a finger into you. "Eyes on me." He instructed. You forced your head back down so you could make eye contact. "Play with your tits for me." You obeyed, squeezing the flesh in your hand. He returned to his task, taking your clit in between his lips, quickly escalating your climax. Your hands never stood a chance. He inserted a second finger, curling it against you. They were so thick and long it hit that spot deep inside you it made you gush.

"Oh my god. Daddy-I'm-" You teetered on the precipice your breath caught in your throat. Your entire body erupted in flames as your mouth open in a silent scream. Frankie's eyes widened as your pussy strangled his fingers before fluttering uncontrollably. Your cum dripped onto his hand, he quickly replaced his fingers with his tongue trying to catch it all.

"That's it." He felt you finally take a shaking inhale. "Breathe, sweet pea. Breathe." Exhaustion hit you hard as every muscle relaxed.

"I'm sleepy..." You slurred.

"It's okay. You can go to sleep." Frankie leaned up kissing you, smearing your slick all over your mouth. He returned to licking your pussy less aggressively though. "I got you."

You nodded before drifting off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning you dump the last of your stuff at goodwill, packed the truck, turned in your key, and hit the road. You were bouncing in your seat with excitement. You hadn’t ever traveled south of DC. The landscape was beautiful. You and Frankie took turns driving, belting Fleetwood Mac on repeat. You forced Frankie to take obligatory selfies to remember the journey at rest stops or whenever the view was worthy. Over halfway to Miami you paused at a rest stop for a quick nap. Frankie was anxious to get you home and he didn’t want to stay put for too long. He was used to long drives and quick naps, but you weren’t. He didn’t want to exhaust you because there was so much he wanted to show you when you arrived. You laid across the backseat of the truck with your head in Frankie’s lap as the sun was going down.

In the early morning Frankie finished the drive. His own excitement increased when he was back in the city. You had your head nearly sticking out of the window looking at everything. You couldn’t believe how sunny and warm it was here. Frankie turned down a residential street. “Almost there.” He said. You buzzed in your seat.

Frankie made one last turn into a driveway. You instantly got warm feelings looking at the house. It was painted seagull grey with white trim. It was wonderfully symmetrical with two windows on the first and second floor with window boxes outside the first floor window. The front yard was nicely mowed.

“Your house is so cute!” You hopped out of the car, your legs enjoying the chance to stretch. The air smelled slightly salty being so close to the beach. The sun felt wonderful on your skin. You could have laid down in the grass and just fallen asleep.

Frankie showed you around his house with your hand in his, pointing out random things of importance in his giddy state. You followed him around with bright adoring eyes. Despite looking forward to this moment for a while, you barely looked at anything except for him. You could care less about where the tile for the fireplace came from. You didn’t remember Frankie’s story about how Will messed up his back moving in Frankie’s couch in because it was hitting you over and over again that you were home with Frankie. You didn’t pay attention to the story behind Rosie’s crib because Frankie was here with you. His warm hand holding you close like you may disappear. He was here with that damn cute excited voice as he showed you around his home, soon to be your home.

“Sweet pea? Earth to sweet pea?”

“Hmmm?” You smiled apologetically. Standing in the kitchen, the sun pouring in from the window above the sink bathed Frankie in golden light making him look ethereal.

“I said- we should start moving boxes in before it gets dark.”

“You haven’t shown me everything yet.” You realized.

“What did I miss?”

“Your room…” You swung your entwined hands back and forth.

“Our room, sweet pea.”

“So I won’t be sleeping on the floor?” You laughed.

“Never.” He kissed you briefly. “I just haven’t cleaned up in there and I need to make some space for your stuff and-“

“Frankie.” You quiet his rambling with another kiss. You couldn’t stop kissing him. “Your house is immaculate. That’s the room I want to see.”

He swallowed harshly before he led you up the stairs and down the narrow hallway to his room. While showing you the garden and the other rooms he was giddy but now he seemed more flustered. When you opened the door you could see why. Your candle was sitting on his bedside table. It was the first thing you saw when you walked in.

You immediately break away from him, going to inspect his bedside table. Glimpses of Frankie that made you love him all the more. Your candle, your books, your list, his sergeant pin, and an old alarm clock.

“Was this what you’re so embarrassed about?” You asked picking up the candle. It was almost used up. He averted his gaze. The back of his neck bright red which you recognized as a sign of his nervousness. “Frankie…” You set it down and took both his hands in yours. You couldn’t even convey what it meant to you. He had missed you that much that he burned your candle.

“I have the real thing now.” He said pulling you against his chest, dragging his nose over your cheek in reverence. You hummed in contentment. “This is our room, sweet pea. Our home.” He whispered.

“Our bed.” You added moving his hands to rest on your ass, wrapping your own around his neck.


“Eager girl.” He tutted, kissing just below your ear, squeezing your ass lightly.

“I can’t help it. I’ve waited so long, Frankie.” You tilt your head up resting your forehead against his.

“You’ll never have to wait again, princesa pea. I’m here.”

“Then I want you now.” You tugged him towards the bed. Falling down onto his comforter you were hit by a puff of his scent. Laundry detergent, old spice, and that indescribable musk that was Frankie. You barely got a chance to enjoy it before Frankie is falling on top of you. You laughed as he pulled you up the bed until you’re against the pillows. He's about to rip your clothes from you but-

“Wait wait- I have a gift for you.” His eyes lit up.

“Frankie…” You smiled “You didn’t have to get me anything.” He pushed away from you, walking over to his dresser. He pulled out a small package.


“Here.” He handed it to you.

You sat up. You felt guilty you didn’t get him a gift. You slowly peeled back the tape trying to save the paper. It was wrapped so nicely.

“Come on, rip it up. It’s just paper.”

“No… I wanna save it.” You argued, pulling it open finally. You stared down at the contents in your lap. It was a book with a pink cover and loopy writing. Our Little Kingdom. “Frankie… this is- this is my book.” You felt your eyes swim with tears.

“I know.” Frankie knelt in front of you. “I read it and it was so good. I wanted to get it bound. I was serious when I said want to publish it. I want to make it happen. But if you don’t want to at least we can enjoy it how it’s meant to be enjoyed.”

You flipped through the pages smelling the fresh paper. You reached the end and noticed Frankie had slipped in something as a book mark. It was a torn half of a check. “This is…”

“The check I tore up. I use it as a bookmark so I thought you would-“

You launched yourself at Frankie, a habit you learned from him when words were just simply not enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When you woke up, you were surrounded by Frankie’s scent, warm sun hitting your face. Frankie wasn't there. You heard movement downstairs. You threw on the first shirt of Frankie's you could find. You practically skipped down the stairs, heart leaping when you saw Frankie in his PJ pants and nothing else sitting at the kitchen table. His body was lit up in the morning sun, he looked like a goddamn dream. He was shoveling some cereal into his mouth but he stopped when he noticed you. He still looked so sexy to you in this moment, his strong arms and big hand gripping the small spoon. His chest littered with small hickies you made. You blinked a couple of times wanting to imprint this image into your brain forever.

“What are you doing up so early?”

“The sun woke me up!”

“Shit. I would have made you some breakfast or something.”

“That’s okay.” You smiled going to stand in front of him. You kissed him, licking some of the milk from his lips. Your hands rested on his bare golden shoulders. You loved how wide they were and how solid and warm they felt.

“Mmm is this mine, sweet pea?” He tugged at the Fleetwood Mac shirt hanging down to your thighs.

“No, it’s another boys.” You teased.

“Don’t joke about that, little pea.” Frankie warned with a small swipe to your ass.

“I’m sorry, daddy.” You giggled. “I was only joking. No one else has cool shirts like you.”

“You want some cereal? I can also make eggs or pancakes or-“

“I want-” You slipped your hand over his pants. You could feel his slightly hard cock sitting below. “This.”

“You already had some last night and you still want more?” Frankie groaned his thighs spreading further around you. “I thought you’d be sore, sweet pea.”

“I am.” You admitted kissing him quickly. “but I still want you.”

“Mmm…” Frankie pulled your hand away watching you pout. “I think you need to eat something first.”

“No I don’t!”

“Come on, I’ll let you sit on your special seat.” He tapped his thigh. You debated this. You decided to do what he asked, not wanting to test your luck so early in the day. You hopped up on his lap wiggling back until his semi hard cock was pressed against your back. Your thighs sitting over his legs, your pussy peaking out from his shirt. Frankie rested his big hands on your bare thighs rubbing the skin back and forth. You closed your eyes enjoying his touch. You could feel his breath against your neck as he looked down at the sight.

“Do I look good on my special seat, daddy?” You asked looking up at him.

“Perfect, my little pea.” Frankie smiled. He pulled the cereal over and you popped a bite in your mouth. You didn’t normally like cereal but since Frankie asked…

“Okay, done. I’ve eaten.”

“Woah I hardly call that eating.” Frankie shook his head. He placed a hand on your stomach, fingers splayed out over the entire width almost. He applied a little pressure which had you squirming again. God his hands were so big and warm just above where you needed him. “I can feel little rumblings telling me you’re hungry, sweet pea.” You rock against him more intentionally making him catch his breath.

“Not for cereal.” You bit your lip.

“One more bite, sweet pea. For daddy?” He rubbed his beard into your neck which never failed to make you to laugh.


You took another spoonful of the soggy cereal before looking up at him for approval. He chuckled as you chewed quickly. You looked so cute with your cheeks full. It made cock ache.

“Good job, sweet pea.” He smirked when you swallowed it all. He lowered his hand down to cup your pussy which was already dripping. You hand flew to his thick forearm.

You melted against him as he rubs your clit slowly. Last night was hurried and desperate but now it was like he had all the time in the world. You listened to him take large inhale against your neck, smelling you.

“You look so beautiful, sweet pea. In my shirt. In our kitchen.”

“Fuck…” You moaned. His fingers felt so wonderful and thick against you. You fucking loved the sound of that. Ours.

“I’m gonna fuck you on our table.”

He lifted you up with ease, pushing your back down on the table. The sun coming through the window bathed your body in soft light. You looked divine. Frankie had your legs spread wide, tongue on that pussy before you could even blink. “Holy shit. Daddy!” Your hands clenched into fists at your side.

“Sweet pea.” Frankie pulled off, lips wetted by your slick. You blushed under his hot gaze. “Why don’t you pull my hair?”

You whimpered as he took your little fist and put it in his beautiful locks. “I want to but… the last person I was with didn’t like it.” You turned your head to the side trying to hide your embarrassment. His hair felt like silk in your hands.

“Hey-“ Frankie gently grabbed your chin and turned you to look at him. “You don’t have to hide anything from me.” He was leaning over you, invading all your senses, but of course the aspect that hit you hardest was his voice. Soft and reassuring. That rich baritone that made you fall in love in the first place. “Pull my hair, baby, I wanna know how well I treat this pussy. You won’t hurt me.”

You nodded feeling your eyes wet with tears. His affection never ceased to shock you. He kissed you, softening your worried look with each stroke of his tongue. When you were relaxed, he returned to your pussy. He was a fast learner for the times, applying the pressure you needed with his tongue while hitting that spot inside your walls with his fingers. Your hands were laced in his soft hair tugging almost unconsciously.

“Fuck-Daddy" You gasped feeling your breath. Your stomach tightened but you still felt like you weren't quite to your breaking point. "I can't- I need- I need-"

"What, sweet pea, what do you need?" Frankie paused, looking at you struggle above him. You grabbed his hand which was holding your hip and moved it to your throat. "Holy shit." Frankie's eyes widened.

"I need you to push me over-" you struggled to think of how to explain it but Frankie started applying light pressure over your throat making your cunt tighten around his fingers. The strain on your airway finally brought you to the edge. He returned to your clit and didn’t let up even as your walls clamped and gushed around his fingers. Didn’t stop as your back arched off the table, your toes curled, and your hands pulled his hair almost painfully. He let go of your throat when you tapped his wrist and your breath returned ragged and sharp, extending your orgasm. You brushed some of Frankie’s hair from his forehead and he looked up, making eye contact, as his lips suckled on your clit lightly. You didn’t say anything for a moment, feeling your body come down from that peak, basking in Frankie’s loving gaze between your legs. You felt boneless.

“I love you.” You murmured. Frankie surged up, capturing your lips in a wet kiss. He pulled back and kissed the happy tears falling from your eyes that you didn’t realize had fallen.

“I love you, too. I’m never letting you go.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m home.” You wrapped your legs around his waist, needing to feel that promise inside you. Needing his promise filling you up.

“Are you sure you’re not too sore?”

“I’m sure.” You ran your hand through his hair, now addicted to the feeling of it.

Frankie slowly eased himself into your pussy. It was harder without lube. You winced a little once he was fully inside. Fuck he was so big.

"Am I hurting you?" Frankie felt bad and started to pull out.

"No please." You arched your back trying to hold him inside. "I'm okay. I want- I want-."

"Sweet pea..." He bit his lip as he struggled to resist thrusting into you.

"And if I can't walk- then you can carry me." You wiggled your hips. Frankie couldn't help but laugh at that not that he minded carrying you around. "Please, daddy." You asked one last time as you dug your heels into his lower back. Frankie placed his hands on your waist and started fucking into you slowly, withdrawing almost all the way out before thrusting back in again.

“I’m so proud of you… taking my cock like a good girl.” He kissed you softly, moving to kiss a train down your neck to your nipples and back up. "You're home now." You nodded in agreement. "This is our little kingdom, sweet pea.” Your shallow breaths slowly transformed into moans. You felt your muscles relax a little and signaled he could start moving faster.

Needless to say the cereal on the table shook and spilled as he fucked you. Spilled milk on your table. His cum spilled inside you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frankie enjoyed hosting so much since Rosie’s birthday he wanted to have a Fourth of July barbecue. With your help he took the decorations to the next level. Hanging fairy lights over the patio, and renting a bouncy castle for the kids. In an act of irrational niceness, you had said it was okay if Laura came by, that way Rosalia would be there too.

Frankie was clear he had no desire to hide you. He wanted to show you off. Still, you dreaded meeting Frankie's ex. Rosalia had warmed to you quickly even preferring you to hold her. You already loved her so much. Today she wanted you to follow her everywhere and watch her play. Frankie was stuck behind the grill but he still could watch his girls playing. You were wearing a lovely red sundress which Frankie was looking forward to stripping off. It brushed your thighs in the breeze and it was perfect height for Rosalia to tug on when she wanted to be picked up.

“You’ve done a great job with the decor.” Laura appeared at Frankie’s side.

“Thanks.” Frankie smiled tightly. Her surprised tone confirmed that she always underestimated him.

“You’ve been happier lately.” Laura studied Frankie.

“I guess.” Frankie shrugged turning one of the hot dogs for something to do.

“It just has me remembering the old days. Before everything with you happened.” Frankie prickled at that last statement. Everything with you. She always put it on him totally forgetting how she also made things worse.

“Frankie?” You appeared at his other side, eyeing Laura warily and doing little to hide your dislike. You had seen from yards away how Frankie tensed up, looking down. You wouldn’t let that slide so you went over. Finally removing your glare from his ex wife you look up at him, laying a reassuring hand over his forearm. “Uh- people are getting hungry. How soon until it’s done?”

“It’s ready now.” Frankie smiled down at you, instantly feeling more at ease. His answer let you know he was okay.

“Great I’ll wrangle everyone.” You smiled before darting back to the crowd.

“Who is that?” Laura frowned. “Someone's babysitter?”

“No.” Frankie shut off the grill facing his ex wife face to face. “She’s my girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?” Laura sounded skeptical. “She’s 12.”

“She’s a woman.” Frankie corrected her. “A woman I love very much.” He wasn’t going to listen to anyone look down on you.

“You should have talked to me before you brought her around Rosie.” Laura huffed, putting a hand on her hip.

“You had no problem parading your boyfriends around during our divorce.” Frankie shot back quickly looking to make sure they couldn’t be heard. “It’s in the court records so I doubt you want to bring it up.”

“Frankie…” Laura seemed to regret what she said.

“Let’s just… move on.” Frankie said as people started to draw near.

“Papa!” He heard Rosie squeal, toddling towards him.

“Rosie!” He picked her up, his anger instantly melting away. “Ready for your hot dog?”

As Frankie and the others started filling up their plates Laura crept closer to you as you were cleaning up some of the kid’s mess by the pool.

“Excuse me. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Laura.” She extended her hand. She was taller than you. Her face was tight as if she was holding in her sneer.

“Hi.” You decided to be nice, shaking the woman’s hand. You introduced yourself.

“So… you and Frankie. “

“Yes.”

“How long has that been going on?”

“A few months.” You said keeping it vague.

“And it’s going well?”

“Yes.” You grew annoyed by her vague questioning. Obviously it was going well since you were here. Her eyes were the total opposite of Frankie's. Hard and cold and icy blue. You quietly thanked god that Rosalia had inherited Frankie's eyes.

“Hmm he’s not doing that crazy thing anymore?”

“What thing?” You frowned.

“Well one time while we were together he stayed up the whole night because he thought some criminal or something was after us.” Laura laughed cruelly. You wanted to slap her for her lack of sympathy. What was funny about Frankie’s fear? “The psychiatrist said there would be delusions but that was just too much.”

“I think I’ve heard enough.” You snipped, trying to keep at least a polite facade. There were people just a few feet away. You prayed the couldn’t hear.

“Hey I’m sorry.” She schooled her features. “Don’t think I’m cruel. It wasn’t easy being with someone like that. I’m trying to look out for you.”

“Thanks for that. I think I'm good though.” You finished picking up the last pool toy and walked away before Laura could say more. You wanted to turn back and say something mean but you were determined to be the bigger person. You didn’t want to start drama that would hurt Frankie and Rosalia. You spent a good minute in the garage after putting the toys back, positively fuming.

“Sweet pea?” Frankie interrupted your thoughts, joining you in the garage. “Aren’t you hungry?”

"I was just cleaning up.” You said though your hands were empty.

“I saw Laura talking to you.” He watched you warily. Fear lapped at him. What did Laura tell you...“Everything okay?”

“She just… a bitch.” You huffed. Your word choice made Frankie burst out laughing. “I’m sorry I know you married her but how? She’s awful and rude and judgmental.”

“I know.” Frankie quieted his laughter, pulling you into his chest. “It wasn’t meant to last.”

“Because she’s a bitch.” You grumbled into his chest making Frankie laugh again. His tummy bounced against yours with his laughter. You loved it. You thought again about what Laura said. How cruel she had been in the face of Frankie’s PTSD. “If she says one more rude thing I may have to smack her.”

“You’re hot when you’re possessive, you know that?” Frankie smiled tickling your sides. “Come on, we should get back before our guests start to notice.”

“Alright.” You agreed, taking his hand and following him out of the garage. You felt Laura’s eyes on you two when you came back to the yard. Frankie got your burger set up for you before doing his. It’s the simple things that got you going; how giving he is. You tried to hide your blush from the onlookers as Frankie asked you ketchup or mustard.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once everyone went home you and Frankie laid out a blanket in the back so you could watch the fireworks happening on the beach a mile away. He was quiet, at least more than he usually is. You didn’t know what to say to reassure him so again you reverted to touch. You placed your hand on his thigh reassuringly.

“Frankie?” You turned to him. “Do you want to talk about anything?”

“No.” He seemed taken aback by your question.

“Okay.” You moved closer to him until you were tucked into his side.

“You mean about Laura.” Frankie said after a moment. “Just- she didn’t say anything to you to make you upset right? She doesn’t get under my skin anymore. I don’t want her to get under yours.”

“She didn’t get under my skin.” You replied. She said nothing to make you insecure, just make you angry at her is all. “I’m just protective of you, you know. It seems like she was awful to you.”

“It’s fine.” Frankie shrugged.

“No.” You moved to sit on his lap, straddling him. “It’s not. You came back from your deployment probably in need of some comfort and all she gave you was judgment."

“She told you about that night.” Frankie hung his head in humiliation. You didn’t deny it. You didn’t want to upset him but part of you knew he should talk about this. Laura shouldn’t be the only one who holds this memory over his head. “It was my first night back. I just- I swore I heard gunfire. I was freaking out. I was probably acting really scary. I thought they came for me and she-Laura called the cops on me.”

“How could she…” You teared up on behalf of Frankie.

“I ran.” He continued, his voice thick. “I stayed a Will’s and calmed down. That was the end of the marriage.” He rubbed up and down your thighs under your dress. It always comforted him. You tried to think of what to say. His wife, the person who was supposed to love him the most, ostracized him and criminalized him.

Frankie was anticipating you to be afraid of him or push him away, but to his surprised you pulled him into a hug, holding his head against your neck like he was a child. He felt a sob rise in his throat and tears wet his eyes. You were so... kind. It was something he was still learning to accept and realize he deserved .

“You’re right.” You took a breath to relax yourself. “It doesn’t matter what she says. You’re mine now. Not hers.” You kissed Frankie on his nose then kissed his mouth.

“Always, sweet pea.” He rubbed his thumb over the area of your brow that furrowed in residual anger.

“I just wish there were some way…” you chewed your lip. “I have these-“ you pulled his dog tags out from where they hung between your breasts. “Reminds me I’m yours.”

“Maybe I need a necklace too.” Frankie smiled squeezing your thighs. That got you thinking…

“Can I try something?” You asked. Frankie nodded looking amused. You tugged at his shirt pulling it over his head. You never got over how broad he was. His toned arms were flexed holding himself up. You leaned forward planting a wet kiss on Frankie’s neck where it met his shoulder.

“Mmm gonna mark me up?”

You nodded and sucked harder till you were satisfied it would leave a mark. Pulling back you admired the red blooming where your mouth had been. It shouldn’t affect you as much as it did but you loved that he had a physical mark from you. He had scars here and there from cross fire and stab wounds. Some he wouldn’t go into detail. You loved them all but for once you wanted him to have a mark born out of love.

“I’m gonna give you a necklace, daddy.” You murmured tracing the path you would forge, down and around to the other side of his neck. You were gonna make hicks all around his neck like a chain. You leaned back down and planted another mark below and slightly to the right.

“Holy shit.” Frankie groaned, tilting his head back. He felt his cock start to harden under your attention. You slowly made your way across his hot skin until you had seven little wet hickies starting to show through the skin. You traced them with your finger, connecting the dots.

Frankie looked down, watching in fascination. His dog tags were a bittersweet thing, symbolizing his commitment to the military, but you wanted them. You wore them proudly, giving him more closure than 100 hours of therapy. But this... this new chain on his skin represented his belonging to you. “Beautiful, baby girl. Thank you.” He kissed you sucking your bottom lip into his mouth. You pulled away before he could deepen it. You start to lean down again like you were going to plant another hickie on him. He pushed you back and rolled the both of you over.

“Daddy! I wasn’t done yet.” You wiggled against the soft blanket.

“No it’s daddy’s turn now.” He pushed the straps of your dress down your arms, tugging your neckline down.

“But I already have a necklace.” You felt Frankie’s dog tags lying in your cleavage.

“Now you’ll have two. I spoil my girl like that.” Frankie teased. He kissed up and down your neck before settling on his starting place. When he started sucking it sent a lightning bolt straight to your clit. You gasped. You could feel him hard against your thigh, not fully yet. You rocked your hips impatiently, clutching his head against you.

“Be patient, baby.” He warned, pausing his work. You stilled your hips with a pout. “Good girl.” He resumed. You wanted to be naughty but you knew you’d never win that fight. Problem was you were loving his attention on your neck so much you couldn’t help but start grinding against his leg again. Your hand reached down and tried to stroke his hardening cock. Frankie pulled back, his lips swollen from giving you hickies. He was only halfway around your chest now.

“You’re being naughty…” Frankie chided, lightly slapping your hand away from him. You continued squirming under his gaze though you at least look apologetic. Frankie pulled away. “You don’t want your necklace?” Frankie pretended to be hurt.

“I’m sorry, Daddy.” You turned on the puppy dog eyes. “Just- your mouth feels so good.”

“If you’re not gonna behave I’m gonna have to make you behave.” Frankie’s mouth curled into a smirk. Your stomach flipped around in excitement. “Sit back up on your knees.” He ordered. You eagerly sat up on your knees, placing your hands on your thighs. Your dress hung around your waist. Frankie stood up and started undoing his belt. You got excited thinking he was going to let you suck his cock but instead he just pulled his belt from his pants and knelt down again. “Remember just say stop if you want to stop.” Frankie reminds you.

You nodded your eyes dilating, staring at the leather in his hands.

“Hands behind your back, baby.” He instructed. You obeyed your knees widening subconsciously. He tied his belt around your wrists. It’s not tight enough to hurt but you certainly could not move your hands without really trying. Frankie licked his lips, staring down at your vulnerable position. “Good little sweet pea.” He cooed. “Now you won’t be able to be naughty. What do you say?”

“Thank you, daddy.” You whispered feeling your cheeks burn at the depravity of your position. The smooth leather of his belt rubbed against your pulse point and Frankie’s smell filled your nose. You’re out in the open. Sure there was a fence but it still heightened your arousal. You were dripping you were sure of it. He knelt before you again to finish his hickies. He held your hair pulling it back to give himself more room.

You tried to lift up your arms multiple times but got stopped by the belt. You whined as he sucked another mark into you and you couldn’t get any stimulation in this position. Frankie let you moan and whine for him but he didn’t stop his mission. He finally pulled back, his hooded eyes evaluated at his work.

“Look at it, baby.”

You looked down at the curved line of hickies running from collarbone to collarbone. “Thank you, daddy, for my necklace. I love it so much.” You looked at his chest. You were matching now. Your lust was momentarily paused as a fresh wave of adoration washed over you. It was so much deeper than sex. Frankie noticed your change in expression and kissed you softly, bringing you back to the moment.

“You sat still for me so good. Now you can ask for what you want.” He strokes your hair softly.

“I wanna-I wanna suck you cock please?”

“Are you sure?” Frankie smiled. “You don’t want my mouth on you or-"

“No.” You shook your head. The emotions swirling in you from lust to love made you hungry for one thing. “I wanna make you cum in my mouth.”

“Fuck.” He groaned before kissing you hard, licking into your mouth. He never had someone as giving and kind and protective of him as you. He could have cried but there was no need because you were his forever. No yearning just living. He reached around to pull off the belt but you stopped him with a small voice.

“Leave it on.”

“Jesus fucking christ.” Frankie stood quickly. You sat up further, your hands still restrained behind your back. Your head was tilted up at him, your dress bunched around your waist, it was the most beautiful fucking sight.

Red blue and white fireworks dazzled the sky above. He picked you up bridal style and carried you inside as quickly as he could while you giggled in delight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Things started clicking into place like you were growing along some metaphorical ladder. You were finally where you needed to be. You got a job working at the VA in Miami, running their re-entry program. A small publishing house in Miami loved your book and agreed to publish it for a short run. Frankie took some money out of the Colombia account to cover the rest of the contract. Frankie had the book for sale at the shop pushing it on anyone who would enter. He was so proud of you. And that was all that mattered to you.

Frankie unironically planted sweet pea in the garden, telling you how they are slow to grow, but their delicate flower and sweet smell is worth the wait; just like you. Sweet peas were climbers, with the right support, they would bend to any shape. You knew you could go as high as the sky with Frankie by your side.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Taglist: @floraandfrost @agingerindenial, @heythere-mel, @icanbeyourjedi, @linnie0119, @pedrosmustache, @thisshipwillsail316, @peterhollandkait, @leias-rebelion, @phoenix-of-loki, @prettypedros, @kennedywxlsh, @punkerthanpascal, @the-witty-pen-name, @twentyfirstcenturyfox, @madslorian, @sarahjkl82-blog, @bison-writes, @lightning-fast54, @maievdenoir, @nicolethered, @kenoobiwan, @danniburgh, @janebby, @dihra-vesa, @yespolkadotkitty, @ilikechocolatemilkh, @headinthestarz, @tanyaherondale, @christina-loves, @dobbyjen, @fangirl-316

[rosesdrabbleblog]

A Warm Welcome

Pairing: Vilbur x fem!reader

Warnings: smut, 18+ content, Hamilton references, swearing.

Note: First story for the blog! Based off of an idea I had that I sent to @sallysimp a bit ago.

You had been in your room when Tubbo came by, letter in hand. You perked up seeing him, “hello Tubbo, is this for me?” The young boy nodded, a serious expression on his face. Without a word, he handed you the letter before running off.

It seemed like ages ago since everything had changed. You had gone from living in a nation called L’Manburg alongside some of your dearest friends, to living quietly and alone in the nation now called Manburg. Sure, you had Niki there for you from time to time, but it didn’t make you feel any less alone.

You missed him.

Wilbur Soot was L’Manburg’s president, and one of your dearest friends. You remember the day you fought by his side during the war against Dream, you remember hearing the strings of a guitar late at night, what his lips against your forehead felt like...it all seemed to just be a distant memory now. You remember watching in despair as he and Tommy were exiled after the election, trying to free yourself from Schlatts goons.

With a small sigh, you opened the letter, reading its contents with awe.

To my dearest,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. I know we haven’t spoken in a while, but I am in a better position to talk now. Me and Tommy have started a new nation called Pogtopia. This letter contains the coordinates to the location. Please come soon.

-Wilbur Soot

You hadn’t even noticed your eyes watering until a teardrop fell onto the letter. He was alive...Wilbur was okay. And Tommy too...they were both safe. You hugged the letter to yourself, reveling in the moment for just a bit...

“Hey! You were supposed to be downstairs five minutes ago!”

You jumped at the sound of Quackity’s voice. Damn, you had forgotten that Schlatt required everyone to be at tonight’s meeting. “Give me a second,” you muttered before grabbing your jacket, stuffing the letter under a pile of clothes, hidden from sight. You opened your door, smacking the man in the face. “Hey! What the hell, man?!” he cried out, rubbing his face. You walked past him without a word, eager to get this meeting over with.

“Well, look who decided to grace us with her presence?” Schlatt commented as you walked over to one of the seats in front of the podium. You frowned at him, but kept quiet despite the insults you wanted to hurl at him. You sat down next to Tubbo, who was fixing his tie, eyes focused on the podium as Schlatt started speaking again. You tuned out for the most part, thinking about the letter in your pocket, until you heard him speak to you.

“Hey doll, do you mind grabbing some wood for Tubbo? Great,” Schlatt commented before moving onto the next person.

You glanced at Tubbo and whispered, “wood?” The teen smiled, “for my builds I’m doing for the festival. It would help me out a lot!” You nodded, pretending as if you knew exactly what had been going on the entire time. The idea of visiting Pogtopia while getting wood sparked in your brain, and you couldn’t help but feel excited at the prospect of seeing Wilbur again. Wilbur...

Your thoughts were interrupted by the meeting ending as everyone got up to start on the tasks assigned to them. You followed Tubbo for a moment before asking, “do you want me to start getting wood now? I can go grab and axe and start.” The teen yawned, “you don’t have to do that, it’s late. I wanna go to bed.” You smiled and ruffled his brown hair, “I insist. I want to help you as much as I can.” And you honestly meant that. After everything you two had been through, you looked after Tubbo like he was your son in a way. If anything were to happen to him, you didn’t know what you would do. He nodded sleepily, “okay, but don’t wake me until morning.” You patted his back as he went off to bed, and you went back to your shelter, grabbing an axe and a few other supplies. While walking out, you ran into Schlatt, who was smoking a cigarette.

“You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were sneaking off somewhere.”

You stiffened, “of course not, I’m going to start getting wood for Tubbo.” You held out your axe for proof.

Schlatts dark eyes bore into yours, “well then, don’t stay out too long. Wouldn’t want something to sneak up on you in the dark.” He gave his signature grin before walking off, continuing to smoke his cigarette as if the exchange never happened. You shook off the uncertainty before heading off, letter in hand as you tried to look for Pogtopia.

You had searched for maybe an hour or so before hearing a rustle in the bushes. You whipped around, axe in hand as you scanned through the trees. You were about to walk off before a voice rang out, “is that YOU y/n?!”

You turned and were face to face with Tommy, who you hadn’t seen in so long. His clothes were a bit torn and dirty, and he was no longer wearing his L’Manburg outfit, but one he had probably gotten from Wilbur in their exile. You dropped your axe and ran forward to hug him, and smiled as he hugged you back. “Of course it’s me, I came as soon as I heard,” you said softly. Tommy pulled away with a wide grin, “Wilbur is gonna be so happy to see you again! He never stops talking about you, madman. Imagine being obsessed with a woman, couldn’t be me.” You laughed at that, picking up your axe and putting it back into your satchel. Tommy pointed at a a section in the forest, “Pogtopia is behind those dirt blocks. I’ll show you!” And with that, Tommy scampered off to show you. As he removed the blocks, the dim forest was bright with light coming from the hole, and you followed Tommy inside. Tommy blocked the hole back up before brushing off his hands on his pants. “Well, welcome to Pogtopia! You’re the first woman to come here. And I doubt the last.”

You followed Tommy as he explained what had happened to him and Wilbur. You listened seriously, nodding and expressing your sympathy for the two. You both eventually came across Wilbur, who sat plucking at a guitar near a campfire. “Hey Wilbur! I found your favorite woman!” Tommy grinned at him. Wilbur looked up, his brown eyes tired and glassy, but they widened when he saw you. “You...you came,” he said, a bit shocked. You sat next to him, smiling gently, “of course I did. I promised I would always be there for my president.” His serious expression was replaced by a small cheeky grin at that, “it’s so good to see you again, love.” Tommy made a gagging noise before going into his room, disgusted with you two. You and Wilbur both chuckled at that before Wilbur began explaining what happened, and what Tommy had left out. “We’ve been down here for weeks, probably months even. It’s hard to keep track of time nowadays.” He glanced at your formal outfit, “and I’ve never seen you look so formal. When did that start?” You sighed softly, “since Schlatt took over.” Wilbur eyes narrowed a bit, “I hope you’ve been okay throughout all this. If he did anything to hurt you...” You patted his arm gently, “I’m fine dear, I’ve just...missed you so much.” Wilbur leaned forward a bit, nodding and softly saying, “I’ve missed you as well....so much.” And with that, he leaned forward and kissed you.

Ever since that night, you began sneaking away to Pogtopia and returning to Manburg with stacks of logs for Tubbo. The teen was delighted as how much you brought back, but didn’t have much time to chat anymore. He was in charge of putting together everything for the festival, after all. It seemed like maybe things weren’t so bad anymore. Tubbo was happy, you could see Wilbur and Tommy again...maybe things would be okay for now.

That is, until it became apparent how much Wilbur had changed. You almost hadn’t noticed the change. Sure, maybe something was different about his eyes and appearance, but that wasn’t anything bad. The part of your brain that loved the Wilbur before refused to see anything suspicious about him.

One night when you had snuck away to Pogtopia, you came back to the place quiet and empty. Tommy wasn’t bickering with Wilbur for once, in fact, the teen wasn’t even there. You found a note scrawled on a piece of paper.

Gone off to spy on Manburg. Will return soon.

- Tommy

You were a bit unerved by the silence, looking around the unsually dark Pogtopia. You let out a yelp as something grabbed you, pushing you against the wall roughly. In the dark, you could see it was Wilbur who grabbed you.

Without warning, he kissed you roughly, hands grabbing at you like he was starved for you. You were confused as to what was going on, but kissed him back after a moment. Your hands wandered to his curls, pulling them gently. The man let out a soft moan at that. “God, I need you now love. Needed you for so long...” he said as he took off your jacket. He stared at you for a moment before you realized and said “yes...please.” He practically tore off your buttoned shirt, hands and fingers quicker than you had ever seen. Wilbur kissed you again as he let his coat drop to the floor, now moving to take off his own shirt. He pressed into you, and you could feel him harden as he softly thrusted against you. You let out a gasp as his leg went between your thighs, pining you into the wall even more. You responded by thrusting against his leg, which made him nearly go insane as you let out soft gasps. Wilbur began unfastening your pants, depserate to touch you. You stepped out of them and threw them off to the side, letting out a moan as his fingers began to tease you through your panties. “Look at you, already soaked. You needed this, didn’t you? I know I did,” Wilbur said, his eyes dark and focused. He pushed past your panties and teased you again before slipping a finger inside you. You let out a moan and attempted to thrust against it, gaining a grin from Wilbur. He pulled it out before thrusting it in again, soon pushing another in impatiently. He fingered you deep and hard, drinking in your moans. Wilbur leaned down and nipped at your neck, leaving dark bruises that would be tricky to hide. You heard him mutter minemineminemine as he sped up his fingers even more. “Wilbur- I’m gonna...” “You gonna cum? Then do it. Cum for me, love.” And with that command, you came with a loud whimper, driving the man insane. He pulled his fingers out and licked at them while his other hand began to unfasten his own pants. “I can’t take it anymore. I need you now. God, I needed you so long ago. Should have taken you so long ago. Should have made you mine so long ago,” he said darkly, his pants falling to the floor. His boxers followed soon after. He began to stroke himself with one hand while the other turned you towards the wall. You could feel him at your entrance one moment, and he pushed inside you the next. You let out a loud moan as you adjusted to him inside you.

Wilbur, meanwhile, was battling his own dark thoughts as he began to thrust into you slowly. One part of him wanted to be gentle and sweet with you, wanted to take the moment slowly and lovingly. The other part wanted him to take you fast and tough, make you cry and whimper for him. To make you fully submit to him.

That side won.

Wilbur began pounding into you mercilessly, gripping your throat with one hand while the other gripped your hip. “That’s it, take my fucking cock. Such a good little slut,” he growled into your ear, letting out a moan with every few thrusts. You never felt so aroused before, finding this dark side of Wilbur alluring. All you could do was whimper and whine his name as you pushed back against his thrusts. After a bit, the hand that gripped your hip moved down to stroke you as he went even faster. “Wilbur...Wilbur! Fuck, I need to cum!” you moaned out, feeling your orgasm approaching at an alarming rate. “Yeah? You need to cum on my cock? Then do it. Fucking cum,” he growled as his thrusts went deeper into you. With another whine, you pulsed around him, panting as you came down from your high. He thrusted into you a couple more times, groaning, “you’re gonna take my fucking cum like the good little slut you are.” And with a growly moan, he came inside of you. You nearly collapsed back into him as he held you to him, both of you panting. After a moment, he helped you sit down and brought your clothes to you, his hair disheveled and his forehead gleaming with sweat. The two of you got dressed silently, before he grabbed your face lovingly, leaning in to whisper, “god, I love you.” He kissed you again, gently and sweetly. This is the Wilbur you remembered.

“Why are you wearing a turtleneck out in the sun?” Tubbo questioned you as you brought back the stacks of logs he needed. You stiffened before quickly saying, “I...I have a scratch on my neck. From the trees, when I was chopping them down. Kind of ugly, but it’ll be fine!” He nodded, accepting your answer without a question. In reality, your neck was bruising from the amount of hickies Wilbur left behind after last nights events. You hoped others would accept this answer as well.

And you knew you had to go back to Pogtopia soon.

[hamsterboos]

tuck you in, turn on your favorite night light

Title from Taylor Swift's Never Grow Up, and this is stupidly fluffy, but that's apparently all I can do in 1k unless I totally go tragedy lmao

Word Count: 1100 Read on AO3 Rowaelin Month Master list

Day 2 of Rowaelin Month Prompt: College/University AU

~~~~

It was strange how accustomed Rowan had become to Aelin's presence in his life. At first, she was simply an acquaintance in his life as they shared classes until several study sessions led to them simply hanging out together as friends. Eventually, even that had progressed into dates, their barely existing relationship turning to a dedicated, loving one

It was hard at first, balancing college and internships with their newfound relationship. When they first started dating, they figured the only chance would be the physical touching, but it was more than that. All Rowan wanted to do was spend time with her, but he couldn't.

Being a year older than Aelin, Rowan had graduated first and found a job, one that was thankfully nearby the university, so it was only natural that Aelin moved in with Rowan for her senior year.

It took a bit of adjustment, though. Rowan and Aelin both had to learn how to live around the fact that Rowan now had a set 8-4 schedule of working while Aelin was up at random times studying. They had to get used to sleeping beside each other only to adjust to sleeping without each other, as well.

Tonight, it seemed, was one of those nights where they wouldn't get to sleep beside each other, and normally Rowan didn't really have a problem, except his brain wouldn't shut up. He tossed and turned in bed, trying to find a comfortable position to fall asleep in, but it wasn't working until Aelin walked in close to midnight. He watched as she went straight to the bookshelf and picked out a book without even turning the light on. She must've done this several times while he slept.

"Hey," he whispered into the darkness, causing her to jump.

"Holy shit," she cursed, whirling around to face him. "Why are you awake?!" Aelin walked over to the bed, sitting on her side and turned the bedside lamp on.

"Couldn't sleep," he responded. Aelin sighed before setting the book down and snuggled into bed. "You're sleeping?" he asked, wrapping his arms around her and already feeling calmer.

She nodded into his shoulder, and he sighed, letting himself sink into the bed. As he focused on Aelin's slow breathing in his arms, his mind finally quieted down. He could feel himself slowly falling asleep, and Rowan realized that maybe his problem was just the fact that he was getting used to having her in his arms despite their differing schedules. The last coherent thought he had was of how sweet Aelin’s shampoo smelled.

Rowan must’ve slept for a couple of hours when he twitched and woke up. Blinking a few times, he found himself facing away from Aelin, so when he turned around, he froze upon realizing that she wasn’t there in bed. The en suite bathroom light wasn’t on, which meant she wasn’t in the room. He sat up, his limbs and back aching slightly. He picked up his phone, realizing that he had only slept for about three hours, and that just meant that Aelin hadn’t been asleep for very long either.

Rowan slowly padded out of the bedroom and towards the living room where he now saw a dim light on in the kitchen, and he leaned against the doorway when he found Aelin hunched over the dining table, her laptop in front of her along with a notebook and textbook. Nearby was also an empty glass and plate, and he realized that maybe she’d never fallen asleep at all.

“Hey, babe,” he softly called out, stepping towards her, and she jerked in her seat before turning around to face him with a hand covering her heart.

“Jesus, you need to stop scaring me.” Rowan cracked a smile at that as he sat into the seat next to her.

“What are you doing? It’s 3AM, Aelin.”

“I’m studying,” she replied with a sheepish grin. Her eyes were sunken in, and her hair was carelessly thrown into a bun with strands falling out everywhere. It was clear that she was exhausted, but oftentimes university classes didn’t care for that, and he hated that he was free from that world, and she wasn’t.

“I know, but you’re not going to retain any information if you’re dead tired,” he responded, shifting closer so he could wrap an arm around her shoulder. He felt her melt into him, settling her head on his shoulder.

“But I really need to finish this,” she whispered.

“It can wait till tomorrow. You need to sleep. Did you even go to sleep?” he asked, looking down at her.

She looked away from him, biting her lip before she responded, “No. As soon as you fell asleep, I got up.”

“So you just had a three hour study session?”

“Um, yeah?”

“Then you’re fine. If you’ve been studying this long, you deserve to sleep for at least eight hours. Now come on, I’ll take tomorrow off if that helps.” He stood up, dragging her with him.

“No, Rowan, You can’t take off for me.”

“I can, and I will,” he insisted. “I don’t even care if you call me buzzard all day, but I’m making sure that you’re sleeping.” Rowan took her hand and tangled her fingers with his and started pulling her to their bedroom.

Aelin cracked a smile at that. “You love that nickname.”

He did, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. “No, I don’t, and there’s nothing you can do to make me change my mind. School can wait.”

“Wow, someone should’ve said that to you a year ago,” Aelin teased as

“Someone did,” he laughed. “It was you. Maybe you should take your advice?”

“Pft, who takes their own advice nowadays?” He let go of her to sit down on his side of the bed while she climbed in on her side, and they laid down, settling in to face each other.

“Someone who looks like they’ve seen better days,” he answered, taking a wayward strand of hair and twirling it around his finger.

Aelin scoffed, playfully pushing his hand away from her. “Wow, rude. It’s 3AM!”

“Never stopped you before from teasing me.”

“Because it’s supposed to be me doing the teasing in this relationship,” she grumbled as she snuggled in closer to him.

“Yeah, well if this continues, it’s going to be me, and you can’t say anything about it because I’m feeding you.”

“I can just order in.”

“No, you won’t. You love my food too much.”

“Ugh, fine. Only because of your food, though.”

“Alright,” he laughed, “whatever helps you sleep.”

[slytherinnbitch]

Day 37: Funeral

Warning: Contains Minor Character Death (from old age)

Narcissa Malfoy died at exactly 9:08 pm, 11th July 2021 at the age of 133. With Draco and Harry at her side, her sons and healers.

It was a proper shock to both of their systems. Draco wrecked havoc before it was confirmed that she wasn't any longer with them. Then he broke down- oh no it's not what you're thinking- he didn't break down in the hospital room with Narcissa's cold body just within reach. He didn't shred a single year as everything got sorted.

Harry went numb the moment he saw the last breath leave Narcissa, the woman who had become his mum. He had witnessed so many deaths in his life that at this point, it should not feel like this. Like drowning but not really caring about it.

Draco broke down in Harry's arms that night. It was going okay, he did all the things needed to be done as her healers and then as her family. Harry at his side at all times, letting Draco be the family while he played Healer because he still hadn't processed Narcissa's death.

Draco cried till 4 am that night, sobbing hysterically in Harry's arms, howling in pain, a pain so very familiar to Harry. He had still been hiccuping when he at last fell asleep in Harry's arms that night.

Harry didn't sleep a blink.

...

Narcissa Malfoy was buried on 13th July, 2021 at 12 pm.

Not many people attended the burial, some of her remaining friends- just a handful, what with most of them dead die to the wars and then with age. Andromeda Tonks had been one of the few who had been through the whole ceremony, without so much as a sob, just dainty tears flowing from her wrinkled eyes. She wiped them with a cream handkerchief, nobody noticed her Cissa's own embroidery on it.

After the burial was done, she had come up to the both of them, slightly squeezed both of their shoulders before she hurried away. Harry saw an upcoming storm in her eyes.

He and Draco remained seated in front of her headstone for a long time. Maybe it was just a few hours, maybe a couple of hours, he had no idea.

Draco had his head on Harry's shoulder as he slightly squeezed their entwined hands every now and then. Harry still didn't shred a single tear, Draco had started looking at him with such a tender expression nowadays like he knew Harry could break any moment without warning.

Harry's heart was so full all the time, like he was carrying so much extra weight and he had no idea what he was supposed to do with it. So he carried it.

The reality of the whole thing crashed on Harry the night before Narcissa's funeral was arranged. It was a normal day at Mungo's. He had just finished stepped through the floo and he saw all the flowers that had been delivered. From those across the world who were unable to attend. And Harry's would had crashed.

He had fallen on his knees and stared at the white flowers as Narcissa Malfoy's death finally made its home in his head. And oh, did that hurt.

He had been shaking when Draco finally found him, on his knees just before their sofa. Draco had been home, having taken a leave from the hospital. He had taken Harry in his arms and suddenly they were inside their bedroom making way towards the bed.

The tears had been flowing abundantly for a long time, but when Draco whispered a soft Harry. That's when all the walls broke. He sobbed, he screamed, he even tried to push Draco away as he tried to console him. He screamed MUM until his throat was sore and his voice hoarse, he finally fell asleep in the warm embrace of Draco's arms as he forcefully hugged him and Harry was grateful.

Harry didn't cry ever again, not over Narcissa's death. No, whenever her thoughts overwhelmed him. He thought of them together, laughing and gossiping about Draco and what he did as a child and how she had just one day called him son, and he had called her mum before he fell silent. Narcissa had been beaming for a whole week.

Draco still cried, every now and then, he would be found wiping silent tears as he drank his tea or had bit sized caramel and chocolate cookies- Narcissa's favourite.

The ache did lessen after awhile but it was always there. A piece of him was always missing as he did gardening or even mudane stuff, as if she was always there for him. Just out of reach but still with him. She provided him strength when he felt like giving up and hope when he was on his worst days. It was true afterall:

The ones who love us, never truly leave us...

Day 36: Airplane || Day 38: Car

This was a very personal piece for me, written in remembrance of someone I lost almost a year ago to cancer. I potrayed my feelings through Harry. Thank you so very much if you read this because this one was from the heart.

[the-darklings]

—𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒉 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆;

—PART XVIII. | THE TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wish to see him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keep him safe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s exactly the point though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fourth doesn’t move.

Here we go.

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

The closer they come, the tenser the air becomes.

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

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

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

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

Click, click, click.

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

The sharpshooter stands by his side, frowning faintly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can’t see him.”

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

“I have the right—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Winston has to bite back a small smile. Perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I will be in my room.”

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

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

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

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

“Gentlemen.”

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

Conversation over.

Fine by him.

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

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

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

Winston sighs, his shoulders dropping.

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

The concierge straightens, his hands folded behind his back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What will you do now, little hatchling?

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

He comes to a gradual stop.

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

Every breath takes notable effort.

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

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

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

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

“Drink.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why have you come?”

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

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

It’s him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here you are.”

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

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

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

A part of you…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The way he gazes at you makes you think that isn’t the case, however. There is warmth woven into his regard, an almost fondness that despite being muted is clear to you.

The darkness of that stare is arresting when he reaches out, the warmth of his fingertips ghosting over your bandaged ear. You don’t hold back your wince of pain, pulling away from the contact.

The Elder’s mouth slants downwards at that, his eyes narrowing marginally. He looks thoughtful, displeased almost. The shadow across his expression is new to you. You’ve seen him as many things but tense and unhappy is not one of them.

“What have they done to you?”

It’s a quiet question—a collection of sharp, hard syllables—dragging themselves from somewhere deeper, you can tell.

Your lips part, ready to tell him everything but you stop yourself at once. How would he even look at you if you knew what you did? There would be no chance of forgiveness then. If he knew how badly you broke the very rules he enforces upon everyone in their world repeatedly.

With that in mind, you instead settle on a weak, “Guess you were right.”

Do not let that fire consume you.

He was right. He was always going to be right, you were just too blind and proud to admit it.  

His expression strains, his touch dropping away, and a glint catches your eye when his hand lowers. You feel a thud against your ribcage, and focus on that golden skin, barely breathing to a point his next words hardly register.

“This is not something I wished to be right about,” he says unhappily.

You swallow. Then again.

“You’re wearing it.”

He pauses. It doesn’t take long for him to figure out what you mean by that. The pad of his index finger brushes over the ring he’s wearing absentmindedly. The golden plate seems to gleam at the touch despite neither of you standing in direct sunlight.

“It was a gift,” he says gently in return, his features guarded once more. “A parting gift from you.”

It doesn’t explain much yet it explains everything.

On your last day together, when you visited Casablanca together, you had gotten it for him after arguing Saad out of some local currency under the guise of buying something for yourself. A souvenir as far as he knew back then. But the ring had caught your eye first. Handmade ring crafted out of pale golden metal. It reminded you of the sun that is his presence and the endless stretches of sand surrounding you.

Grinning, and more than a little unsure, you had presented it to him when you sat on the beach together, calling it a thank you present because you hadn’t worked up the courage to talk to him about leaving just yet. He had accepted it readily, his fingers lingering against yours when he took it, and even back then you couldn’t quite describe the emotion you glimpsed across his face.

You hadn’t dared to assume it was wonder back then, but it had been a close thing.

You certainly didn’t expect him to keep it after you left.

Or to still be wearing it after all these years. But maybe you’re jumping to conclusions and he’s only wearing it today. Specifically for this.

The silence between you changes yet again, morphing. Something more charged. Near oppressive.

Nerves flutter inside your tired body and you allow a soft wisp of breath to escape you, thinking of something to break the tension with.  

“Where is John?” you question quietly, your voice thick.

His jaw ticks, and he looks away, staring out towards the horizon.

“Mr Wick is safe,” he answers coolly. “Do not fret for him. He will answer for his wrongdoings in due time.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

The Elder turns to face you again, and it unnerves you because he keeps slipping between the man you lived with for months, and the man who controls the High Table. One is close to you, familiar. The other feels removed, walled off. No longer a sun but a cold, distant star. Unreachable to you.

His expression softens a touch when he notices your startled expression.

“Mr Wick has returned only to unleash havoc,” he informs you calmly, matter of factly. He doesn’t sound or look angry or even displeased, yet something about the piercing gleam in his eyes makes you think that it will not be a confrontation without consequences. “His punishment will reflect that. He made the decisions that led him here,” he fades off, pausing, his stare flickering over your features once more. “As have you,” he adds.

“I’m sorry,” you force out, shaking your head, cringing slightly at the pain that flares through your skin at that. “They’re both important to me and—”

“I am not speaking about Santino D’Antonio getting shot, viper.”

Your head snaps up, your features slacking with confusion. “Then what...”

The Elder lifts his hand, his attention focusing on the ring on his finger instead. He seems to struggle with something internally before sighing softly and dragging his stare away from you once more. You wonder why. It’s almost as if it’s difficult for him to look at you.

“Do not tell me you were so quick to forget my warning to you,” he begins calmly, something aloof lingering in his voice. He walks past you, his fingertips tapping on his ring repeatedly. Your own fingers tighten into a fist when you note the shift in him, the Camorra ring pressing into your skin as a bleak reminder. Your eyes follow him as he goes, watching his broad back when he stops at the edge of the tent, looking out towards the vastness of the desert. “I told you what will happen if anything befalls Viggo Tarasov before your debt is repaid.”

Ice pierces you, burrowing under your skin viciously, and you’re glad that he can’t see your face because for a second your expression comes apart completely.

“I did not—”

“Do you really think I know you so little that lying to me would work?”

Your mouth snaps shut, a bitter tang stinging the inside of your mouth. He’s right. You feel as disappointed in yourself as he sounds. You’ve always prided yourself on being forward and direct. Yet your instinct now had been to lie, to deny, because the idea of him knowing terrifies you.

Because it puts you in so much worse of a position than what you first expected to be in.

How? Why would he even think—

The High Table would have—

“I know why you came here,” he says, at last, turning to face you again. His expression is grim and he watches you closely as he strolls closer. Despite his leisurely gait, his stare is searing. “You came in hopes that I would lift the Excommunicado. You came in hopes that you can clear your name. But your crimes run deeper than you are willing to admit to me.”

“I’ve disappointed you,” you assume blankly. “Is that it?”

He shakes his head once. “No, viper,” he responds placidly, his eyebrows knitting. “You have disappointed yourself. You are so much better than this. Yet your recklessness has led you to this. Did you really think that I would not find out?”

He comes to a stop before you again and you meet his stare.

There is no point in lying, so you don’t.

“If you knew,” you start, choked, forcing down your emotions as you search his face, and try to quieten the pounding of your heart. “Then why was I not declared Excommunicado sooner?”

A long beat of suffocating silence, and then, “Because I shielded you.”

He says it so simply. Like it’s as expected as the sun rising each morning. A faint knell of wind chimes fills the hush between you this time, and you peer at him in disbelief. Shock.

“What?” you exhale shakily.

The Elder shakes his head once, sighing. “I gave you a chance in hopes that you will take it and savour your new freedom,” he explains smoothly, his fingertips still dancing over the ring. His strong profile only accents his handsomeness and you see the conflict there—see the shadows dancing inside the inky pools that are his eyes. “I overlooked your wrongdoing. Because I understood your pain then as I do now. I cautioned the Table to look the other way. But what did you do with this gift, viper? You wasted it. And there is nothing to be done now. Even I cannot shield you from the storm that has been unleashed. The scale has been tipped towards chaos now. You broke the rules in the open, for the whole world to see,” he continues, each word making your heart beat harder inside your chest, his attention returning to you, “And now here you are.”

So that’s why.

Why there was such a long pause between Tarasov’s death and administration contacting you about you being free of your debt. The silence that made you so uneasy back then. The High Table had been suspicious, had assumed you played a part, but the Elder pulled their attention away from you.

Years later, he’s still looking out for you.

You’re too speechless to say much past gaping at him; a thousand thoughts fluttering through your mind, all of them wild and hurtful.

Your attention falls to the carpet beneath your feet, and stays there for some time while you digest what this means.

He knows. He’s known for weeks now.

Just like that the already shaky foundation beneath your feet slips further.

Helplessness closes in and your eyes sting.

Consequences. Everything has a price and it was foolish of you to assume that your luck will continue. You’ve been too quick to celebrate and now...

“What now?”

A whisper of material sounds in your ears and the heat of his palm comes to rest against one side of your face. You feel that warmth sink deep into your skin and it burns. Both a physical ache and something deeper. Your eyes open as he guides your face upwards for him to see.

You lean on the side of caution and say nothing, waiting for him to speak first.  

“Now, my viper,” he whispers, a touch forlorn. “You face the consequences of your actions.”

Forcing down your fear, you give him a firm, unyielding, “If you’re going to kill me, at least make it quick.”

His palm pulls back but not all the way. His knuckles trace over the curve of your cheek—so faint you barely register the sensation. “I would never kill you.”

“But?”

He seems to be considering something hard, his regard in a constant flux between warring emotions, “But you cannot be seen as walking away without punishment after what’s happened. It is the way of things,” he finally concludes.

You pull away from his touch, your eyes burning, “So be it,” you mutter, shaky and forcefully casual. “But I don’t regret stepping in. I don’t regret any of it. I would do it all again.”

Even if it meant the pain and the heartache. Sleepless nights and blood.

Because at least they’re all alive. Even if this is the sacrifice for that victory.

You saved them, and you would never regret that.

“Is this love?”

Your attention snaps back to him at the gentle murmur of his question. There is little distance between you—to a point you can feel the heat of his broad build and the phantom sensation of his exhales against your skin.

He didn’t specify who the love is for.

Deep down, you know it’s not so simple to untangle who means what to you anymore. It’s a mess of different emotions and loyalties. Everyone in your life that has made themselves a place in it, you love fiercely. Even if they’re all different kinds of love. All you know—all you need to know—is that you would gladly stand here for any of them. Punishment and consequences be damned.

“Yes.”

You’re not sure why you expect him to be irritated, perhaps even disappointed in your answer, but he only seems to consider your words for a while.

Fierce desert heat rolls across your skin while you wait for a response but he seems to be in no rush to provide you with one. His lips part, his head lowering and he makes a small sound at the back of his throat; half-disbelieving, and half-thoughtful.  

“How odd,” he muses faintly, his features drawing into something desolate. “I do not quite recall the last time I felt envy.”

Your eyes flutter shut, trying to push his words and the emotion in them away. He means that genuinely, and you know that. You’ve lived with him for months and have seen a great many sides to him. That loneliness—that drive to be something more, to be understood by someone else—is what drew you together in the first place. Bonded you as deeply as it did.

Despite the nip of sadness you feel for him, you don’t contradict him—don’t say anything at all, in fact.

“What is it that you want from me?”

The Elder appears lost in his head for a while before he finally responds, “You already know, viper,” he says in a knowing murmur. “Otherwise you would not look at me with such sadness in your eyes.”

“You want me to stay.”

“Yes,” he agrees with a slight nod, his previous melancholy receding, and his guard slipping back on. “It is the only way that your life can be spared. Your service to the High Table will be used to absolve you of your crimes.”

You can’t quite help the bitter, brief laugh that slips free from you. “And is love a crime? I’m being punished for caring. For wanting to keep my family safe.”

He doesn’t say anything but you can guess what he’s thinking.

You broke the rules. Killed Tarasov. Interfered when you could have killed John and proven your loyalty to the High Table. Rules apply to all—no exceptions.

You don’t want to think about what would be the outcome if he knew about Chicago as well. Then, you conclude numbly, even his favour won’t save you from death.

“For how long?”

The Elder doesn’t reply. You already know, his expression seems to say though, and your composure fractures. Sucking in a deep breath, you chew on your inner cheek, half-turning away from him.

Because of course you know.

“For life,” you choke out.

“Yes,” he agrees, his voice gentle. “You will become my fourth disciple, and my apprentice, working directly under me,” he explains carefully, watching you just as closely, and you fight to keep a straight expression. “I am sorry, (Name), I wish there had been another way. But we are each masters of our own fate. You gave this life a chance once before and you embraced it effortlessly.”

You know that. You know that compared to what could have happened, this is a mercy. He will treat you fairly, kindly, and you’ve almost made this place, his people, your new life once before. If anything, on the surface alone, this is more of a gift than a punishment, especially with the amount of power you will gain by joining him.

And yet.

This also means that you will rarely, if ever, see your friends and family again.

Everyone you love and care for will be removed from you. People who join the Elder don’t go back to their old lives. Service to the High Table becomes their new life. The tribe, their new family.

No Winston or Charon. Santino or John. No Ares or the Elites. No Sofia or Cassian.

Just no one.

The tear you feel in your heart at that thought nearly makes you choke on a sob. For all the physical agony you’ve been through in these last several weeks, this somehow hurts the most. The notion that you will never see them again, will never get to touch them or laugh with them, is agonising. Somehow it hurts even more than the realisation that you will be bound yet again, unable to be free, unable to live for yourself just like you always dreamt of.

A hand reaches for you but you stumble back a step, still not looking at him.  

“You will not be my prisoner, viper,” he tells you seriously. “I would never take that from you. But you—”

“Can never see them again, is that it?” you cut him off sharply.

You know he’s not used to being spoken to like that. You doubt anyone has even tried but when you lift your eyes to his, you notice how his own features smoothen in response to what he sees on your face. The grief and the pain. The raw, suffocating grip of it shackling you and dragging you down, down, down—

He doesn’t deny your words, however, and that’s answer enough.

“I know this is hard,” he says instead, and you think that sympathy you spy in his dark eyes is genuine, well-meant. “But I warned you where this path will lead you. You did not listen.”

It doesn’t help though.

God, it hurts so much. This is somehow worse than when John left. Worse even, is the fact that you have no one to blame. Not even the Elder. You did this yourself. Went into this fully knowing there is a chance it will all blow up in your face.

“Can I at least...say goodbye?” you wonder, your words thin, and inhale deeply despite the dry, hot air giving you little relief. “Spend some time with them before I leave?”

The Elder hesitates. “A week.”

You shake your head, stepping closer towards him. “Six months.”

His head slants; a colder, more authoritative motion. “Are you bargaining with me, viper?”

There is no hesitation in your reply, not this time, “Yes.”

“And what bargaining power do you have?”

It’s a curious question as opposed to condescending. Almost as if he’s trying to gauge how you will react, and you force your emotions back, licking your lips once. Your thumb smoothes against the inside of the metal band on your hand.

“I’m the acting boss of Camorra,” you remind him, straightening your shoulders once more despite the way you can feel your pulse fluttering against the base of your neck. You’re not sure if it betrays you but you certainly don’t let it show. “And I would respectfully ask that you give me six months. It will not change anything in the long run.”

The Elder’s attention drifts towards your hand, and he closes whatever little distance there is between you, reaching for it. You tense despite yourself when he carefully takes your clenched fist into his palm and lifts it between you. His thumb traces over your bruised knuckle—a tender, careful touch as if not to hurt you further—and a pensive hum slips free as he stares at the ring on your hand.

“You wear power beautifully,” he comments idly, and you have to hold back a shiver at the feeling of his thumb continuously journeying over your skin; nothing more than a tickle, a promise of warmth. The touch hurts as much as it soothes. “Three months. Offered to you only because you dare where others don’t. Because I am not unreasonable and while this is a punishment, I do not wish to see you unhappy.”

Too late for that nearly escapes you but you bite your tongue.

Three months. Just three. It will pass in a blink and then…

A lifetime away from everything you love, everything that is home and safety. Everything that’s important to you.  

“May...may I have a moment?” you request weakly. “Just to…”

He releases his grip on your hand and it falls to your side heavily. “Of course,” he voices graciously. “I will be back shortly but take the time you need.”

He steps past you once more but this time he heads towards the direction other men had left in earlier. He doesn’t pause and he doesn’t turn back to look at you, his gait slow but self-assured. You wait till his broad back disappears from your sight before you feel your expression crumble completely.

Pressing a hand against your face, you ignore the flare of pain where you dig too hard into your sunburnt skin. Instead, you focus everything inside yourself on controlling your despair and tears. You can’t fall apart now. Not after how far you’ve come and all you’ve been through.

Shuddering breaths wheeze past your mouth and nose, your shoulders quivering. Better to allow yourself this weakness now, alone, than to let the Elder or anyone see this slip.

Your shaking hands drag themselves away from your face and mouth, and your palm pushes against your breastbone. Beneath the material of your jumpsuit and skin, your heart hammers inside your chest like a wild beast desperate to escape. So afraid of the chain once again.

But what can you do? There is no other option. No escape. Nowhere to run, and even if you did, such action would only paint a bigger target on people closest to you. The only thing you would do by running is reassuring their demise.

The heel of your palm presses harsher against your sternum, maybe in some naive hope that you can tear your own heart out and it would be—

Oh.

You still, an unsettling sort of hush falling over you when a dark, insidious whisper slithers into your mind after all. You keep your palm close against the curve of your breast and think.

What would Winston do if he were here right now?

There is only one option, really.

Just the one.

But your mind and instincts go to battle at once. One side arguing for it and other against it. If you succeed...but if you fail…

But what other choice is there? Servitude or death? No.

A frustrated sound tears from the back of your throat and you drop your hand, standing to your full height, your eyes squeezing shut.

No. No, you will not let this pass. You will no longer be controlled. You’ve had enough.

Fuck consequences. You will deal with them as they come. You shouldn’t be punished for killing the man who took everything from you in the first place. You should not be punished for saving someone you care for—for interfering.

Your blunt nails bite into your palms to a point of pain despite that resolve. Because digging through that determination and rage is fear. Very simple human fear but you bottle it and shove it deep down.

No time for that now.

Power is a dangerous thing. You have to be willing to lose everything in order to take it.

And that’s exactly it.

Lose everything.

Just like that your taut limbs relax, the pounding inside your head retreating and dulling into a muffled buzz. You step forward one slow step at the time before dropping heavily onto the very throne you woke up to find the Elder sitting on.

Your eyes flutter close and you mull over the new path you’re about to step on, bowing your head in acceptance. So much for dreams of freedom. Your fingers ghost over your collarbone again and you smile this time; a cold, broken fragment of a smile.

Eyes closed, you listen to the sounds of the desert for a while, calming yourself. Wind against silk and tapestries. Faintest of whooshes caused by wind teasing sand away from the outer surface of dunes surrounding the camp. Sandorms, at least, you have not missed.

Deep down you can’t help but think that you always knew how this was going to end.  

People like us don’t get happy endings.

You ignore the ache inside your chest at the memory of Santino’s face, focusing instead on clearing your mind.

It takes at least another ten minutes before muted footsteps sound from ahead of you. You don’t lift your head at his approach, your arms hanging limp between your parted legs.

He pauses when he sees you. You suppose it’s rude, what you’re doing, sitting on his throne like it’s your own.

This time, you’re the one to tilt your head to one side, looking up at him from under your lashes.

The Elder doesn’t appear angry at your nerve to sit on his throne though. No rigidness to be found in his expression or slanting of his full mouth, not even a pinching of his brows; all telltale signs of his discontent usually. In fact, his eyes drag over your figure, lingering everywhere despite the distance.

For a man who doesn’t let others close, rarely lets his guard down in general, his appreciation—dare you say it, desire—is abundantly clear.

Jaw clamped tightly shut, you rise to your feet unhurriedly. Far steadier than you expected yourself to be capable of, and he steps closer towards you as well. Slow, bordering on cautious, and you wonder why. It’s like he’s afraid to blink lest you disappear.

But maybe that’s precisely it. Maybe he’s been hoping to walk into this tent and find you here every day since you’ve been gone. And now that you are here, he’s not quite sure what to do.

“How are you feeling?” he asks curiously, his accented words warming you like the setting sun, and you wonder what it may feel like to hear that voice for the rest of your life.

No turning back now.

Swallowing thickly, you ignore the pulsing numbness locking your throat, and wait for him to halt in front of you before you speak.

“I accept.”

A light sparks in his eyes—something burning and near living in its intensity, an emotion you have only glimpsed once before—as they roam over your features in search of an answer to a question he hasn’t asked.

“Three months,” you begin purposely, rushing your words out in a breathless whisper. He’s so close there’s hardly any distance between you at all—no room to turn away nor do you want to. The turquoise of his turban only seems to bring out the beauty of his dark eyes and golden skin. Draw you closer. He, too, hardly seems to be breathing while he listens to your words intently. “Then I come back here. To you. And stay. I will give this a chance but I can’t promise that it...will not be hard. In return…”

“The Excommunicado will be lifted upon your return to New York,” he reassures, still searching for something in your expression. “You have my word.”

His eyes lower and he breathes another sigh in a rare show of uncertainty.

“What is it?” you can’t help but wonder, confused.

“What proof do I have that you will uphold your word, viper?” he questions mildly, his probing stare digging into you. That challenging, clever stare that first got the warning bells ringing inside your head that this is not a man to be trifled with. “What will you give me in a show of fealty?”

You don’t say anything, peering up at him silently.

Seeing that, the Elder’s eyes slide towards your bare neck, and stop there. A second later, his strong fingers trace over the curve of the silver chain around your neck—

“No,” you choke out desperately, your hand snapping up to grip his own when his fingers slip around the metal. “Please, it’s not mine to give away.”

It’s Santino’s. When he gave it to you, over a year ago now, he asked to guard it for him, keep it safe. Even then, you knew it meant more to him than he would ever admit outright. You’re not quite sure where it comes from or who it belongs to but you have a strong inkling, and the idea of giving it away makes you feel sick to your stomach.

The Elder hesitates at your fragile plea, your eyes locking again, and fingers touching. “Yet it is important to you.”

More than he knows and certainly more than even you realised.

Here, now, faced with the prospect of losing it makes you think that you can’t live without it. That you need it or you will feel aimless and lost forever. It became an anchor slowly, with time, but now you value it above most things.

That realisation leaves you trembling before you conjure up some semblance of composure back.

“Please,” you plead again, soft and frayed. “Not this. I can give you something else. Something more.”

He doesn’t hide his palpable confusion, and that’s when you move closer, your fingers snaking up his neck as you lean forward and kiss him.

His moment of hesitation lasts no more than a split second before he grabs you around the waist, hauling you closer and you slip your arms around him, kissing him as deeply as you can. Your mouth hurts from how hard you kiss him, fervent and demanding, and despite his initial falter, he replies with equal drive and need. Your tongue slips inside his mouth, wet and hot, and you don’t compromise and neither does he. One hand grips the back of his neck where your nails sink into the firm, strong skin there, scratching and claiming. Your other drags across the scruff of his jaw, forcing him closer. Not that you need to, he holds you so close, every curve of your body presses into him.

He fuses you two together, the accessories of his robes wedging painfully into your skin but it only fuels you more. His large, burning hand settles against the back of your neck, holding you to him. Biting back a snarl, you try to wiggle your way free but his fingers dig in. Firm, unyielding, steadying; forcing a small gasp from you despite your best effort to hold it back.

You let everything flow outwards, biting down on his bottom lip greedily, and he groans loudly at the back of his throat—a deep, appreciative sound—that almost makes you purr in delight. All that control, all those guards, and you tore through them like tissue paper.

The taste of him mingles on your tongue, his nose nudging against your cheek when he deepens the kiss again, exploring and searching but with such desperation, it’s like he’s trying to drown himself in the kiss. In you.

Your lips tingle and feel partially numb by the time you finally part, breathing hard. Heat creeps up your neck and simmers in your gut while you continue holding onto him. The chain around your neck lays forgotten, both of the Elder’s arms locked firmly around you instead.  

Perhaps this is a kiss you should have shared years ago. That night by the fire you came dangerously close to taking this path. Claiming a lot more than just a kiss from him when he outright admitted that he would have made you his. A kiss that could have started something beautiful. It’s tainted now by the uncertainty of your shared future but you don’t point that out, only waiting for his reaction.

“Ya amar,” he breathes near reverent, his voice throaty, and gaze wild. He tries to leash his desire but you can still taste it, and with how thoroughly you kissed him, you have no doubt that he can say the same for you. “Why?”

“This is what you want,” you tell him, hushed words that brush against his lips as intimately as your lips have moments prior. “It’s what you always wanted.”  

He grips one side of your face, reminding you too much of someone you can’t afford to think of right now, and he shakes his head once.

“No,” he murmurs but the way he holds onto you betrays him as do his eyes that keep flickering back towards your lips. “What I always wanted was an equal,” he pauses for a beat, squinting at you like he’s taking you in with new eyes, like you’re a marvel to behold. “And you have become exactly that, haven’t you, my viper?”

Once you would have denied it, shielded away from saying anything on the matter. Once you simply won’t have believed it. But now there is nothing holding you back anymore.

In that freedom, you have unearthed a simple truth.

“Yes.”

His eyes flutter shut at your confirmation, and you hate the subtle glimmer of relief, even wonderment, you see creasing his expression. Like he’s waited his whole life for someone to say that.

“Three months,” he utters quietly like he doesn't want to disturb the moment. “Then you will return to me.”

“I always do.”

His grip on you constricts before loosening, lingering and reluctant to let go but he does eventually, his digits sliding away from the curve of your waist and neck.

You don’t bother asking how many rules you broke with this kiss.

You both got what you wanted.

“Your tent awaits you,” he prompts quietly, still drilling holes into you. “Rest before your journey, viper. We will see each other soon.”

You couldn’t run even if you wanted to or tried—neither of which you do. Too late for that now.

You dip your head in a small bow, but his fingers tap under your chin the moment you do, guiding your face upwards.

“Everyone but you.”

Then he pulls away, his thumb fluttering briefly over your bottom lip, and sits himself down on his throne, folding his arms and legs alike.

The perfect picture of a powerful, controlled ruler. Enigmatic and captivating.

Cruel as he is kind.

The Terrible Sultan, you can’t quite help your fleeting thought. Which makes you wonder if that, then, makes you his Golden Empress.

You don’t linger on that thought though, that connection that lives between you. Pivoting on your heels, you head towards the exit of the tent, feeling his eyes lingering on you the entire way.

Your mouth still burns but you ignore it.

Your expression slackens the moment your back is to him, coldness spreading through you as you step into the blazing desert sun.

E4 E5.

The roar inside your head is overpowering.

So much so that all you can do is sit slumped beside your old cot. You hadn’t quite made to it, instead half-collapsing beside it. Your folded knees partially obscure your sight as you stare blankly ahead but you can’t bring yourself to move. 

Instead, you work on glueing together that controlled calm the very man you just talked with taught you. 

Your mind doesn’t allow you rest though. Every wall of control and discipline you’ve ever learned from every influential person in your life dissolves in face of the blistering furnace that is your raging heart. 

A collection of voices scream at you inside your head, and it takes a while to be able to comprehend what one singular voice that sounds suspiciously like Winston is demanding. 

What have you done?

And all you can think in response to that is a tiny and uncertain, What I had to.

Lacing your fingers, you push them between your thighs, sucking in deep, near painful breaths. 

You don’t have time for this. No time for self-pity. There’s…

There’s too much to do. 

Yet all you want to do is sit here for the rest of your days and never move. 

You lick your lips, wetting them, and feel another torrent of emotions batter against your self-control. 

The taste of him is still in your mouth. 

You haven’t kissed anyone on the lips in five years. Not since that night on your birthday when you kissed John. The last time you ever laid your mouth on someone else in general…

A comforting memory slips through the chaos; wispy and balmy, like an embrace. A memory of heat enveloping you, familiar cologne, and dark curly hair. Santino’s small, drunken smile when you pressed a kiss against his forehead, your fingers cupping his face. 

The way he had held you to him around the waist, making you feel unfairly safe, cared for. 

You never did tell Santino about his whispered words at Naples. What he confessed to you between the shadowed walls of his bedroom. Back then, a large part of you still refused to believe it—believe him. Had chalked it up to nothing more than a drunken moment of sentimentality. But that’s no longer the case. You know better than that now. 

Three months will have to be enough to…

To say goodbye. 

Clinging to that memory—and the understanding that you don’t have time to waste—you rise to your feet. For what feels like a thousandth time, teeth gritted and jaw set, you still stand despite the knock. 

Your tent hasn’t changed much. Some things are in a different place to where you left them but the knowledge that it’s been waiting for you all this time is like a sledgehammer to the chest. 

Soon, if things come to pass, it will be your home permanently. 

You start with changing and washing up, followed by applying the salve you found in a small, ceramic pot onto your skin.

For the burns, the note left on your pillow beside the pot read. You didn’t need to ask questions about its origins. You know that penmanship as well as your own after spending endless months studying his research. 

The Elder has once again thought of everything. 

The salve is like a soothing, cool caress across your burned, dry skin and the relief is, once again, immediate. A part of you wonders if there will ever come a day when his genius doesn’t surprise and intrigue you. 

Food is harder. Your stomach still churns, and despite your best attempts to quell the sensation of queasiness, it doesn’t pass. 

You force some broth down despite that, chewing everything in front of you on automatic. Made with a loving hand and great care guarantees that the food is delicious yet you taste none of it. 

It’s quiet. 

The roar inside your mind has quietened. 

Now everything feels cold and far away despite the heat dampening the back of your neck already. The shock has worn off, leaving only throbbing absence behind. 

A commotion sounds outside your tent and your head snaps to the sound. A second later the flap parts and a familiar, dark spectre of a man walks inside, his eyes already locked onto you. 

“John.”

You jump to your feet at the sight of him, moving towards him in hurried steps. Saad slinks inside behind John and you halt at the sight of his looming frame, your eyes narrowing. So that’s where he’s been. No doubt watching over the deadliest assassin alive to make sure he doesn’t cause problems. 

John looks relieved to see you, his expression easing as he takes in your new attire. Previously severe contours of his features relax and his chin dips. 

“V.”

He always manages to pack so much into so little. It’s like the acknowledgement alone asks a hundred questions. 

Are you okay? 

Are you hurt?

What happened?

Though you want to ask him those same questions yourself. He looks terrible. His treatment, clearly, while not awful has not been as hospitable as your own. 

“Saad,” you address the man, nodding your head towards him. Much like the Elder, he hasn’t changed much. A new scar clips the left side of his chin but the rest of him remains the same. From his critical stare, crooked nose, and dark skin. “It’s good to see you again.”

He doesn’t smile and his expression doesn’t lighten at your words. You didn’t expect it to, either. 

“Viper,” he says so bluntly you blink and even John inclines his body towards the man, peering at him from the corner of his eye. “Finally back where you belong.”

Your mouth goes dry. 

“I’m going back to New York,” you inform him, jutting your chin. “So I’m afraid this is a brief visit only.”

Those pitch-black eyes study you for several moments and you can’t quite tell what’s going on behind those empty depths. 

“You have ten minutes,” he states briskly, his voice still flat and accent gruff. “Then I am to escort Mr Wick to his transport. Your presence has been requested by the Elder before your departure.” 

You straighten at that. John is much the same, his shoulders curving backwards. Those words are also when you notice that John is in a fresh, black suit. 

“Is there a problem?” you pose coolly, but your old sparring partner only watches you both with palpable distrust.

He glares at you for a beat, still deadly silent, before turning away from you both. “Ten minutes,” he grunts, and then he’s gone, the flap swishing in his wake while you listen to his retreating footsteps. 

“V, what happened?” John asks the moment Saad’s footsteps can no longer be heard. “He told me he saw you already.” 

He. The Elder. 

Dropping your head in a nod, you turn away from the man behind you, glancing briefly at your shaking fingers. You squeeze them painfully, pressing them against your chest instead, and focus. 

I can do this. 

“We came to an agreement,” you say swiftly, keeping your tone light, and glance at him over your shoulder. Your hand lowers from your chest at the look on his face. John looks confused. Unconvinced. “My Excommunicado will be lifted once I return to New York. You?”

You knew from the moment the deal was made that telling John would not be wise. You know the man inside this tent. His actions with Santino have proven to you that despite what you might say or do, it won’t change his mind. When it comes to push or shove, John will always shove. And he will shove with enough force to crush the opposition completely. 

His reaction to learning that you have to go back in three months would only land him in deeper trouble. Usually, you would expect him to maintain his ironlike composure. Very little could ever move John in the first place, especially towards anything rash. But that desperate gleam in his eyes when he told you that he will make up for his mistakes keeps constantly jumping to mind. 

You don’t trust John not to do something drastic right now. 

He doesn’t respond to your inquiry at first. Which gives you plenty of time to notice the sheen of pain exuding from him. You slant your body back towards him when you do, and take several steps closer.

“What’s wrong?” 

Still, he says nothing. 

You’re about to demand answers but he simply lifts his hand in the air between you. 

And you suck in a deep breath at the sight of his missing ring finger. 

The void is glaring and the finger that was once home for a golden wedding band is gone. As is the ring. 

“He wanted to see my conviction to the Table and told me to cut my finger in a show of fealty,” he explains lowly, his voice and expression worn. “I will be bound to it and remember through death after I complete my task. That was his will and my price to pay for survival.”

It’s so easy, you think in a dazed rush, to forget exactly what the Elder is capable of. He got the deadliest assassin in the world to mutilate himself as a punishment. You would wager he didn’t even threaten—he didn’t need to. 

It makes you painfully aware of what could have happened to you if you didn’t have that history with him. If he didn’t look at you with all that hidden emotion. If you were just a girl who broke his rules. What would have become of you then? Would you have lost a finger as well? Your whole hand? 

Would you have been just another casualty to be stomped out? Removed like a tumour because you didn’t abide. 

Suddenly you feel sick all over again. 

Suddenly all you want—

Your arms wrap around him and you squeeze the powerful frame of John’s body to you. He seems to deflate, unwind and soften, his arms wrapping tightly around you in return. 

“I’m sorry.”

Because you’re still angry at him, still bitter about all he’s done, but you care about him despite that, and know how deeply this would have hurt. Physical injury aside, it’s the loss of his ring that would have stung the deepest. 

John adores Helen still, loves her deeply. 

It’s not something that can fade so easily despite death. 

You felt panicked at the mere prospect of the Elder taking the silver chain around your neck. How did John feel having to lose his finger and his final sign of dedication to the woman he loves? 

But, it seems, that you have both gotten what you had coming. 

He, too, will be bound to the Table now. In a different way than you but bound all the same. This desperate, bloody fight to be free and you are both back exactly where you started. 

John’s face presses into you, savouring the contact, and you release him after another minute. It isn’t just him that needed this. 

“I have to tell you something,” he says the moment you pull back. 

The morose curve of his mouth chills you at once. Comfort, however fleeting, has now left the air between you. 

“What is it?”

“It’s...”

John stares at you for a while. An internal war rages behind his dark eyes and your confusion mounts at his hesitancy. Something is stuck behind his teeth and your stomach sinks the longer the battle goes on inside him.

“It’s about Cassian,” he eventually settles on.

Your brows draw together, caught off guard. Analysing his features closely, you wait to see if he will expand on that but as always John limits himself. He only peers at you but the regret you find lingering in the air around him unsettles you further. 

“What about him?”

He still looks torn and reluctant when his lips part, “After we parted. He found me,” he says and your shoulders lift with your forceful inhale. Understanding blooms steadily with every word. “He wanted revenge. For Gianna.”

The air inside the tent is blistering but you feel it cool by several degrees at those words. 

You had sworn an oath to Gianna that you will make sure her family name survives beyond her. Now you wear the very ring she and Santino have been struggling to earn their entire lives. 

Even worse were Cassian’s parting words to you that still haunt you. 

But if we ever meet again. I will kill you myself. 

Your mentor and friend. A brother you would have loved to have had. 

You could drill John about what happened while you were dealing with Lucien. You could accuse him of more wrongdoings and damage. Demand to know why he didn’t tell you sooner. Scorn him. Hate him.

But instead, you turn away, and let only one question slip free, the only one that matters, “Is he still alive?”

He answers you honestly.

“I don’t know.”

His voice is thick with muted remorse and you nod your head in acceptance of that honesty. You don’t say anything in return, still staring at your cot. Focus on the pattern of your old blanket.  

You feel it bubbling in the air between you and speak up before he can.

“Don’t apologise,” you order but it’s empty of fury. You just sound weary. So very weary. “I understand. I just…”

Your eyes slip shut. He was only trying to keep himself alive. It’s just survival. But it still hurts. In that moment, the urge to give up is near overpowering. It digs deep between your shoulder blades and straight into your heart but you shake it off.

You’re not getting out of this. There’s no hope for you now. You know how this ends. 

You almost recoil at Kishi’s voice filtering from the deepest recesses of your mind. 

No. There’s still hope. That’s exactly why you can’t give up. Because there is still hope. 

“Wish it didn’t have to be this way?”

John’s soft inquiry makes you flinch, snapping you to the present. Your eyes return to him and you examine him for a moment, digesting his words. 

“Yes,” you mumble in agreement, your sadness no doubt palpable. “Yes, I do.”

John lowers his head, a few strands of his raven hair tickling his cheek when he does. “Do you ever wonder…”

He stares at the empty space where his finger should be, flexing the remaining ones experimentally. You wait for him to continue but can tell from one look that he’s lost in his head, thinking hard about something. 

“Do I wonder what?” 

John’s lips part, then press shut again. His breaths are haggard, slow. 

“What might have happened had I never pushed you back? Never left.”

You’re not sure what to do with his curiosity. You’re not even sure how you feel about it.  

“I used to. Often,” you admit after several minutes of thought. Because what do you have left to hide? Now, perhaps, you can be as open as you wish to be, say everything because it’s not like— “Then I realised there was no point to it because you weren’t coming back,” you tell him and chuckle weakly, adding an ironic, “We’re each masters of our own fate.”

Shuffling your feet, you venture closer towards him, and lift your face to his, taking his hand into your own. His knuckles, much like your own, are bruised and swollen. His are worse than yours, however, and with that in mind, you lead him towards your cot. You reach into the still open ointment pot and gather some, rubbing your fingers briefly to warm the salve. 

Slowly, you drag your fingertips gently over his knuckles. It won’t be as effective as it is for burns but chamomile, echinacea and ginseng inside the salve should still help with healing and soothing the pain. 

“You always had the right to choose, John,” you say quietly, frankly, as you work to apply the salve on his other hand as well. He’s so still you’re not sure if he’s breathing. “The right to happiness. I understand that now. It’s always been your right,” you continue, a touch sadder, and your eyes skip upwards to rest on his face. His stare is gentle, his mouth parted while he peers at you. “I’m just sorry that you had to lose it. But to answer your question. No. Not anymore. It’s been a long time. We’re different people now.”

You finish applying the salve and release your grip but his fingers tighten around yours before you can.

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” he says, his words hushed. 

Your search his face again. Wonder what the future will hold for you both. “Yeah, maybe it is.”

A rustle sounds behind you and you turn just as Saad steps back into the tent, his features still rigid with displeasure. 

“Come with me, Mr Wick,” he instructs sternly and inclines his head in your direction. “The Elder awaits you.”

Grounding your jaw, you offer the assassin beside you a calm, “I’ll see you back at the Continental.”

John turns back towards you. He doesn’t look particularly thrilled at your words, a question hanging in the air around him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you say, unfazed. You pat his arm once as you pass; an old, routine gesture you haven’t done in years. “Tell Winston to get my favourite ready. He’ll know the one.”

You brush past them both, chin slanted at a higher angle. It’s late afternoon by now with the sun starting to dip towards the dunes. The air is still sweltering despite that, and a robed man waiting outside the tent gestures mutely in the direction he wants you to head in. 

You find the Elder at the edge of the camp, his presence a beacon that draws attention effortlessly. 

You pause at the sight of him, your shoes sinking into the golden sand beneath. He stares out towards the desert like you’ve seen him do a thousand times, and you wonder if he’s thinking about what you asked him years ago. Another ordinary night by the fire over your shared meal. 

Why not leave again? Why live in a desert? 

It is my duty. 

So you’re a prisoner of your own status? That seems lonely. 

And with his gaze focused on the fire instead of you, he had given you a simple yet serene response, Not anymore. 

Swallowing thickly, you stand there unmoving, watching him for a while. Something tells you that he’s as aware of you as you are of him. 

Loneliness is not unfamiliar to you. It’s a close companion. Has been for years. 

But you’ve found an escape. People to call your own. A sense of belonging.

He hasn’t. 

“It is peaceful here,” he speaks up suddenly, startling you. “Even as a boy, I loved the desert despite its cruelty. I have grown up appreciating its deadly beauty. Have learned to respect it and admire it.”

“Nothing about death is beautiful.”

A brief chuckle flows through the air and he turns to face you, his expression open, his stare narrowed but inquisitive as always. His laced fingers rest against his chest.  

“Your mind has been sorely missed, viper.”

The longing in those words brushes against your skin and mouth; an invisible kiss, an appreciation. 

You imagine that will change one day soon. 

Though it would be a lie to say that you, too, have not missed your discussions. The way you could submerge yourself in conversations with him completely. Lose yourself in his mind and the challenge he constantly posed. 

“You wished to see me.”

Your words sound lifeless even to your own ears and his expression drops. He strolls closer while you stand rooted in your spot. Something is different about him now. He’s missing that edge he had when he saw you earlier. That desperation. Desire. Near darkness. 

He’s more controlled now. At ease. Back to the man you knew. Earlier he gave into his desire freely, and you suspect it was only due to long years separating you. 

“I’m tempted to come with you,” he divulges quietly, like sharing one more secret, and a shiver tears down your spine at those words. He pauses, exhaling, and twists his ring on his finger for seemingly a hundredth time. You didn’t realise earlier how habitual touching it had become for him. “But I do not wish to take this time away from you. So, ya amar, I present you with this.”

From between the folds of his extravagant robes materialises a golden dagger. Your breaths grow shaky before you force them back into a steady rhythm, lifting your eyes to his. 

“It’s the same one,” you say weakly, your tone questioning. “From before.”

The Elder nods and holds out the dagger in the palm of his hand. It’s the same one he tried to give to you during your first stay here, after your sparring session.   

Same stunning, elegant design laced with gold around the handle. Black sheath edged by crusted golden detail as well. 

“Each of my disciples receives a weapon from me personally upon their initiation,” he tells you, his voice soft and melodic, always happy to sate your curiosity. “This one...is special to me,” his voice lowers, a glimmer passing through his eyes that’s gone too soon to decipher. “It is not official yet but I had hoped that one day it will serve you better than it has me.”

He waits for you to take it but you hesitate, staring at it. Your hand hovers over it, outlining the shape of it with your nail. 

You can still taste him. Like he’s rooted himself inside you now. 

“You told me that you understood me,” you begin cautiously, your voice equally as low. “Understood the vengeance that drove me. How?”

The Elder examines you closely. A pregnant pause stretches between you and you begin to think he will never respond before he finally reaches out. He grasps your hand in his, turning it till your palm faces the sky, and places the dagger deliberately into it. Watching you keenly, he carefully folds your fingers around it, not releasing your hand even when he’s done. 

A faint whisper passes his full lips—and you recognise Darija even if you don’t understand it—but it strikes you as…sad. Plagued with some nameless darkness. 

“One day,” he starts huskily, now in accented English, and you can’t quite read his expression or tone. But it’s some bizarre mix you’ve never seen before. A strain and a shadow all at once while he looks you over. “If you still wish it, I will tell you everything.”

The weight and the finality behind that word makes you shift, uneasy. You’re not sure if there will even be tomorrow—much less one day. 

But before you can voice that, the Elder lifts your joined hands, pressing his mouth gingerly against your skin; a fleeting flutter that warms the flesh. 

“Let this be a token of our shared promise to one another.”

He takes one last look at you, his dark gaze inscrutable, and then you’re left alone with only setting sun for company. 

The dagger in your hand feels like an anchor, and you tip your head backwards, gazing up at the expanse of the sky above. 

The subway doors hiss open and you lift your head, stepping out onto the platform with other passengers. You’ve spent the majority of the journey here staring at the soles of your shoes, your mind splintering in a thousand directions.

There’s too much to do with time so limited.

Your return to New York had been by air. The Elder’s decision, taking into consideration how you felt about water travel.

It’s funny how you didn’t even need to voice such a thing for him to understand it. For him to make sure that the journey back is as painless as possible.

You’re not sure how John travelled but he did leave first, meaning he should be back in New York already. Until you arrive at the Continental, however, you have no way of knowing for sure.

The fierceness with which you’ve missed your home makes your shoulders lock as you cut through the bustling crowd. It should be said that Grand Central is always busy and overflowing with noise. Today is no exception to that. But you’re still a person at the very top of the Wanted list, so you keep your eyes peeled.

Instinctually, you scan the flow of the crowd around you. Strain every sense. Employ everything you’ve learned from some of the best in this world.

Step by step, turn by turn, staircase by staircase.

This time, he doesn’t catch you off guard.

The mob of people flows around you like a coursing river, hiding you both as you jerk to a mutual stop.

The grip on your wrist is unyielding, painful. The sharpened metal between your fingers trembles under the strain of that grip, and your expression mangles with fury. Acidic, poisonous emotion bubbles up to the surface and you don’t bother hiding it.

The man before you smiles at that—a slight but lovely thing—every micro-expression laced with fine malice.

“Hello, Lucien.”

You stand close enough to be touching, his thin frame still managing to cover your own. Your jaw has become a rigid mass as you glare up at him with open hostility.

“There you are, snakey,” he hums pleasantly, his thin mouth transforming into a slow, chilling smile. You try to push the blade you’re holding into his gut but his numbing grip remains. “I’ve been waiting for you to return. Has he missed you much?”

A couple of friends pass right by you, laughing loudly, and you both jerk again; limbs locking and muscle straining further. Neither of you manages to gain more edge on the other though and Lucien’s smile stretches further.

“And I knew you would find me,” you snarl coldly, your eyes narrowing into slits. “I wanted you to find me.”

Knocking his knee with your own, you swipe another blade free and aim it at him. Lucien pushes himself into you in reply, wrapping his arm around yours and halting you in your tracks. The blade scratches against the sleeve of his black jacket, cutting into it, but it doesn’t break skin past that. He yanks you closer, your bodies pressing against each other. You’re both practically embracing. Your limbs a joined, trembling mass from the sheer friction between you.

It’s a deadlock and you’re too evenly matched.

You’ve been waiting for this chance. For the chance to return the slight that was taking you and wasting precious hours for you over a week ago. Now that you know Santino’s choice is you—that you could have avoided this whole mess in the first place had you just had enough time to talk with him—it only makes you more furious.

You’ve been waiting for Lucien to catch up with you.

This time, however, he’s not the hunter, catching unsuspecting prey.

Baring your teeth, you snarl, wrenching yourself back—

And freeze.

Lucien’s coat parts and this close up a blinking red light catches your eye. As does the beeping your ears hadn’t previously picked up with all the noise.

Lucien’s smile turns downright predatory.

“All these sweet little angels...” he remarks in a sing-song voice, pointedly looking around the crowd, his accent just a little more notable. “Ready to watch them all burn?”

A portable bomb.

You should have known.

There’s no doubt enough packed in it to blow half the building, if not more. He would likely delight in the idea of the carnage even he’s not alive to see it himself.

Your features creasing at that thought, you demand an incredulous, “You would kill yourself just to see me die?”

“I’m already dead,” he replies blankly, the tilt of his voice emotionless. “After all I’ve done, it’s not about survival anymore. It’s about me....and you. And one last dance between us.”

You’re not going to play his games. Despite the confusion his words birth, you only allow a chilly, tepid smile to grace your face. Mocking him openly.

“Then catch me if you can.”

You sweep your foot under his legs. Swift and brutal. Lucien doesn’t fall but he does stumble half-a-step back, and you rip yourself out of his grip, dashing through the throng of people.

You’re not running blindly.

He enjoys the chase and you know he will follow but it’s not fear or desperation leading you this time.

People curse and holler as you shove them out of your way, throwing a few purposely in Lucien’s path. You don’t slow down to check if he’s following.

Every trained instinct in your body is screaming at you that he is.

You should have known he would try to use the people at the station against you. Use your close proximity to each other against you too. He’s learned of the dangers you pose at close combat.

But he’s not the only one to have learned something from your previous encounters.

Focused entirely on your rapidly forming plan, you tear out of Grand Central, the cool air of New York greeting you like an old friend.

Streets blur around you and your heart pumps inside your chest as you round the corner, stumbling. Wind beats against your cheeks and you ignore your harsh breaths, leading Lucien deeper into the heart of the city.

And it’s not his city.

You know every nook and cranny of this concrete anthill.

Skidding and stumbling, you throw yourself behind a building wall, pressing your back against it.

Your lungs quiver, heart pumping, and throat aching from the outright sprint you’ve just done.

Lucien should assume the obvious.

That you’re leading him back to the Continental at neck-breaking speed. As you did once before. And you are but not just yet. There’s something you have to handle first.

It takes no longer than ten seconds for the commotion to explode from the direction you just came from. Just as expected.

Lucien’s pounding footsteps reach your ears and your arch your back, readying yourself.

A smear of golden hair enters your vision and you throw yourself at him, slashing at his side.

No wires attached to the bomb that you saw. The Lovers are too sophisticated for anything as inelegant and rudimentary as that. Which makes this bomb either remotely detonatable or Lucien has other means by which to set it off.

Which then means that all you need to do is to rip that portion of his coat off him.

You’re not about to lead him back to your home with a bomb on him.

Lucien crashes onto the concrete sidewalk heavily, you on top of him. His knee drives into your gut and you wince, your fingers tangling into his jacket so he doesn’t slip out of your grip. You manage to hold on, hacking against the coarse material wildly. His features contort, realisation as to what you’re trying to do sinking in.

He throws a punch at you but you duck, ignoring his fingers when they sink into your hair, trying to yank you off him. People around you scream as you roll across the concrete, scattering the moment they realise you’re armed.

You have no intention of killing Lucien outright.

He deserves to reap the consequences of his actions just like the rest of you. If there’s anyone who deserves to be punished for all of this, it’s him. And you will see to it. Lead him back to the Continental and trap him inside like a rat in a maze.  

See what the Black Dragon does when you offer their little pet as a sacrificial lamb for the High Table.

He yanks on your hair but you swipe upwards, scratching your blade against his skin and he barks a laugh. Few droplets of blood slide down his porcelain skin and you stumble back, staggering onto your feet.

Lucien’s jacket is in tatters and he grabs it, yanking it off himself, and throws it carelessly to one side. You tense when it hits the ground but nothing happens. You’re not quite sure if it’s just that durable or if it was a fake-out—both seem equally as likely. “You’re no fun,” he pouts, watching his hand curiously. Ruby droplets well where you have torn into his skin, and he swipes his tongue across the skin lazily, unconcerned. “But fair enough.”

“You and me,” you grit out, glaring down at him as you back up, rolling the blade between your digits with expert ease. He stretches to his full height, too, towering, cracking his neck as he does so. “Let’s dance.”

You peel away, him a second behind you. You know how fast he is and pump your legs till the muscles in your thighs burn from exertion.

You’re surprised he’s not trying to shoot you like last time but maybe that’s the point. He doesn’t want a quick death for you just like you don’t want to kill him till he’s been punished.

Night blurs around you and your eyes narrow in concentration, keeping ahead but just barely. You can hear him right behind you, practically breathing down your neck.

Motorcycles suddenly rev behind you but you don’t dare to risk turning around to check. There’s more than one engine. Which doesn’t bode well for you.

Leaping down the stairwell, you cut through an underground pass. The tunnel amplifies every sound and you hear Lucien’s pounding footsteps behind you. He’s gaining on you.

Sweat clings to the back of your neck, your cheeks stinging from heat and the cold alike.

You take three steps at a time, jumping up the staircase on the other side of the tunnel in a manner of seconds. It takes several moments before motorcycles sound from behind you again—they clearly know the route enough to know about the shortcuts—but you don’t let it shatter your concentration.

The staircase of the Continental appears in your vision, so dear and welcoming—

A weight slams into you from behind and you wince as you both roll across the ground; a wild tangle of limbs.

Scrambling, you punch him right across the jaw before he can get a solid grip on you. Your knuckles twinge with pain but it barely registers. Lucien’s head snaps to the side but he manages to grab your wrists, pinning them to the ground, before you can yank a blade loose.

You drive your knee into his ribs. Once, twice.

Lucien takes it like he can hardly feel it. Teeth gleaming, bared. His grip tightens on you again—there will be bruises there tomorrow without a doubt—and you roll in a mangled mess once more. Two animals snapping their teeth at each other. The motorcycles draw closer down the street and you squirm when he tries to pin you down again. For being so thin, his strength is impressive. Worrying.

He wants to play games. But you’re far, far more furious than he is.

Your head cracks against his forehead, momentarily blinding and deafening you. Lucien falls back. Wobbling, you do the same. Everything is static noise—one moment, two, then you force yourself to move. Vision swimming, you kick at his abdomen blindly. There’s contact and rolling onto your stomach, you hurriedly scramble onto your feet.

A roar of engines hums through the night air, closing in, and you leap onto the stone stairs ahead of you, gripping onto the concrete.

Safe haven. Home.

Your head slants to look behind you; a victorious, vicious smile spreading across your face even though your forehead hums with numbing pain.

Lucien approaches slowly, a hunter on a prowl. His slick back hair is in a disarray. Flecks of his own blood splattered across his face.

He looks murderous despite the deformed smile still splintering his mouth.

Motorcycles come to a stop behind him and you recognise those dark uniforms anywhere. Black Dragon’s men—just as you suspected.

You rise to your feet, deliberate but cautious, taking count of the men present. Foot soldiers are hardly a reason for concern. A certain blonde with his raging stare most certainly is though.

“No one interferes,” Lucien orders, directing his words at the men behind him. “This is between me and—”

“Us.”

Your heart stills for a second before exploding in a wild flutter inside your chest.

You don’t turn around but hear the hotel door behind you crack open, followed by footsteps.

Lucien’s expression morphs with cold viciousness in the face of the new company.

Dario and Julian walk past you first, coming to a stop at the foot of the stairs, effectively blocking Lucien’s path. The Sharpshooter has his twin pistols gripped firmly in each hand, his usually friendly demeanour absent. Only the Camorra’s best stares back; focused and grim. Dario is no better with his arms folding over his broad chest the moment he halts, seemingly only amplifying his domineering presence. He reminds you of a growling grizzly bear, waiting for the slightest of provocations.

Step comes to a standstill beside you, nudging you with his elbow, and you dare to momentarily look away from Lucien to see his grinning face. He wiggles his eyebrows, his round sunglasses still on his face before he leaps down the last several steps. He lands noisily just behind Julian, laughing softly under his breath.

“Whatever issue you have with our boss,” Dario speaks solemnly, his usually warm, rumbling voice void of those things. “We would caution you to forget about it.”

“Get out of my way,” Lucien hisses lowly, his lips barely moving. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Julian raises his pistols at blinding speed at those words, pointing them directly at Lucien’s face. The Dragon’s men unholster their weapons in response but despite being outnumbered at least one to two, the Elites don’t appear concerned.

You’re not sure if you’re still breathing.

“We would rather not kill you,” Step chirps happily, leaning his elbow on Julian’s shoulder, before adding a downright chilling, “But we will.”

Lucien’s expression smoothens, growing remote in its emptiness. His hollow stare drags up till it latches onto you—cold and unforgiving, two black holes.

“You know you can’t hide from me, viper,” he whispers yet his low, throaty words carry through the night air all the same. The Elites don’t so much as blink; an impenetrable wall of defence. “We have unfinished business, you and I.”

“Were they not clear enough for you, huh?”

Your eyes nearly close when the final pair of footsteps comes to a stop beside you. Your attention doesn’t waver but you hear the click of a lighter beside you. It’s followed a second later by a soft crinkle of a smouldering cigarette as Hector draws a deep, tobacco-induced breath into his lungs.

“She’s our boss,” he declares roughly and you feel your throat close up at his frank statement. “Which means that you really don’t want to start this,” a pointed pause, and another hard inhale of a cigarette before, “So why don’t you go and blow a load into your girlfriend and stop wasting our damn time.”

The atmosphere thickens with tension at Hector’s crass words but you don’t look away from Lucien.

The blonde slants his head, curious. He regards Hector like a bug; an odd, unusual being that makes no sense to him. Like his words are spoken in a foreign language the assassin doesn’t quite comprehend.

“Boss,” Lucien echoes softly, making a fine mockery of the word, as he takes a few deliberate steps closer. “Is that suppose to mean something to me?”

The threat in his lovely voice snaps Julian’s hand to one side, the barrel of his gleaming silver pistol pressing into Lucien’s temple just as the tall man places his foot on the Continental staircase.  

“Julian, don’t!” you warm loudly and the Sharpshooter freezes at your command. “It’s what he wants,” you add bitterly, turning your stare towards the blonde who appears completely unconcerned to have a fully loaded weapon digging into his head.

His smug smile stretches, quivering at the corners, his stare almost playful, goading.

Julian obeys, his arm lowering slightly but his pistol remains trailed on the French assassin. The man in question takes his time, deliberately climbing one step at the time, and Hector lowers his smouldering cigarette. He’s on your right, standing between you and Lucien but the blonde hardly seems to notice that when he comes to a halt, still watching you intently.

“Yeah, it really should,” Hector says deliberately, his voice dipping towards seriousness and warning.

Dario and Step are still watching the Dragon’s men closely while Julian has turned with Lucien, his pistols still locked onto the man. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen the Sharpshooter as anything other than grinning and relaxed.

Lucien drags his gaze away from you at long last, his attention switching to the leader of Elites beside you, and you feel the suffocating tension in the air as they both stare each other down.

“I hold no loyalties to anyone for you to threaten me with fancy titles, dog,” the blonde remarks, his voice light, almost friendly, his attention once again returning to you. “But I’ll see you inside, snakey.”

You don’t answer him, choosing to glare right at him and nothing more than that. The lack of reaction seems to dissatisfy him, his lips pressing into a firm, unhappy line. He reaches for you—

Hector grabs his extended hand with near blinding speed, crushing his wrist in an ironlike grip as he jerks Lucien’s hand backwards, holding him back.

Everyone tenses and Dario pulls his own weapons free when the Dragon’s men try to push closer.

“Let me rephrase that,” Hector hisses quietly, his words thick with warning—no boredom or indifference to be found in his voice now. “She’s ours. You so much as lay a hand on her and I’ll cut it off and feed it to you.”

The French assassin grins in return, chuckling, his fist clenched to a point his knuckles strain beneath his pale skin. Hector’s grip only tightens though, the ink of his tattoos highlighted by the lights above.

“You got that?” he stresses viciously. “Or was I being too obtuse, you bleached French fuck.”

He throws Lucien’s arm back at him and the man’s expression sharpens with a savage sort of rage. Aside from his stormy, narrowed stare, it’s near impossible to tell that Lucien is displeased though. His features might as well be cut from marble.

“You remind me of someone I knew once,” Lucien muses, still grinning though it looks no better than a sharpened blade. “He too was an arrogant, blunt tool to be used.”

The blonde hums mockingly, looking Hector up and down.

“Get lost,” he calls out loudly, slanting his head—something so harsh in the motion you half-expect to hear his neck crack—toward the Dragon’s men. “I don’t need you here.”

Confusion follows those words but Lucien only cuts one last look your way before strolling calmly into the hotel.

You’re not going to stop him because he’s exactly where you need him to be. He will stay to try and wait you out. Which is exactly what you want and need. Time.

Biting back a grin, you briefly glance at Hector who meets your inquisitive stare and turns towards the Dragon’s men who look unsure as to what they should do.

“Are you deaf?” he snaps loudly. “Get lost.”

Step moves first, bouncing up the stairs till he’s right in front of you. He parts his arms, waiting for you to show if you’re in the headspace to be touched and…

You wrap your arms around him—near crushing and strong, squeezing his wiry frame to you with all the strength you possess inside your body. The hacker’s arms lock equally as tightly around you despite Hector’s snort.

“We’ve been worried about you, carina,” he mumbles against your cooling neck, and you watch Dragon’s men clearing the entrance of the hotel over his shoulder. “Everything’s gone to hell.”

“We should take this inside,” Dario speaks up, finally lowering his weapons, and Julian does the same though his grip on them doesn’t loosen. “It’s not safe for you out here, V.”

You release Step from your death grip with a nod and a pat on his shoulder. He flashes you a quick smile but it looks strained. They all look tense, grim-faced, and tired. Still deadly though, and focused as always.

Julian opens the glass doors and steps inside, his pistol raised like he expects Lucien to leap at you from the shadows.

The hour is late and the reception area, for once, feels eerily quiet. No Lucien in sight though.

You haven’t even noticed how they’ve positioned themselves around you. Hector is still on your right, Julian at the front and Dario taking the rear while Step’s arm ghosts on your left.

Your throat aches, something coiling inside your heart.

You feel…

Protected. Safe.

It robs you of speech for a solid minute—that realisation.

You’ve lived with them for a year. Ate, trained and bled with them. But it feels different now for some reason you can’t explain.

You’ve grown so used to fighting your battles alone that having someone on your side feels surreal.

Even more surprising is Hector’s compliance. You hadn’t expected him to fall into the role of your temporary right hand so easily. Or to be as open about your position, and his by extension, at your side. You hadn’t even expected him to stand in defence of you, unlike the other three.

But Hector has always valued Camorra above all else. Personal prejudices aside, he will always do his duty. It is, perhaps, the one thing you’ve always admired the most about him. His unfailing loyalty.

If you died now it would only cause further chaos and headaches for him.

Seeing all of them again, however, fills you with such immense relief you can hardly speak.

“Santino?” is the first thing you manage to wheeze out. “Ares? Roberto? How—how are they?”

With each step, you shed your momentarily lapse reminding yourself that this is no time to feel sentimental.

Hector answers you promptly, as would be expected of him, “Princeling woke up several hours ago,” he states calmly and you notice that he no longer has his cigarette. He must have dropped it outside. Despite that, your sensitive nose still catches a whiff of tobacco every time his lips part. “Ares is with him. Roberto is stable.”

You practically stumble to a stop. “He woke up?” you whisper, your voice breathy with fragile hope.

Hector’s stare is critical but lacking his usual irritating superiority. Surprisingly. “Yeah, asked after you,” he reveals bluntly, and you can feel others monitoring your reaction to those words. “He thought Wick killed you.”

Your heart clenches painfully at that.

He got shot in the head and his first worry when he woke up had been you?

But the knowledge that he has regained consciousness, had been coherent enough to even speak, nearly crumbles your self-control again. Relief churning through your veins is immeasurable. Dizzying.

You want to demand a thousand things but instead push yourself to focus, “We have to move him to the penthouse. Immediately.”

One of Hector’s eyebrows arches at that. But it’s Dario that speaks first, “Why?”

You glance between the four of them silently. No one else seems to be around. In the distance, even the reception desk sits empty, and it’s the first time in seven years that you’ve seen it unmanned.

What’s going on? Where is Charon?

“Because she’s not here,” you tell them, still slightly out of breath due to your earlier sprint, and your words soften with bitterness. “The Female Lover. Divide and conquer seems to be the most logical course for them to follow now.”

It would make sense. Split attacks and lay traps. Force your hand with pitting Lucien against you because they no doubt know that Santino is being kept safe between these walls. Put danger right here on your doorstep so you are forced to act.

The Four exchange wary looks and you note them at once.

“We already moved boss,” Julian informs you before you can ask, his strong eyebrows curving and feet shuffling. You can almost hear the grimace in his voice. “Right after the visit from an Adjudicator earlier. We figured it was no longer safe for him to stay since they demanded to see him.”

“Don’t look so surprised, sweetheart,” Hector mutters under his breath, folding his arms with a slight roll of his eyes. “Some of us are actually good at doing our jobs. Removing him from the Table’s direct jurisdiction was the best thing to do at the time.”

“Then where the hell is he?”

Step winces. “The penthouse,” he tells you and immediately lifts his hand in a pacifying manner while your eyes close. “But Flavio and others are with him. He’s protected. He was moved discreetly. No one saw a thing. I was watching all the cameras myself.”

Biting back a sigh, you mull over his words and huff a breath. “Then why are you not with him?”

“Because once Mr Wick arrived here in a rather…loud manner,” Dario begins and your attentions slides to him. “We knew you will not be far behind. With trouble likely on your heels. We had no way of contacting you and splitting up would have drawn too much attention. Step worked entire day trying to pin the Lovers down to one location but they kept popping up all over the city. They’ve been circling.”

So they stayed here to keep enemy eyes pinned on the hotel, giving them time to move Santino in secret.

Sometimes you forget how brilliant they are.

“They were waiting for me to come back,” you assume.

Dario inclines his head, his stare firm, and strong eyebrows curved. “Our duty is to protect you as well, V.”

Your blink at those resolute words, caught off guard.

Step is grinning cheekily but the other two stand with sombre air surrounding them. Hector’s expression is stony but he doesn’t disagree, either.

Before you can thank them or say anything else, a realisation slices through you like a bolt of lightning. A sickly feeling of quicksand gobbles you up in a matter of seconds, and you battle down the urge to kick something.

“Circling,” you repeat numbly, nearly biting your tongue because you already know the answer before you bother continuing. “Anywhere near the penthouse?”

You direct that question at Step and the latter stills, his grin wilting. “Closest ping I got was four blocks out.”

“Fuck.”

Your head slants backwards and you bite out an even more vicious, “Fuck.”

“V?”

Your head drops back and your expression is no doubt unforgiving. “Get to the penthouse right now,” you order, not even bothering to make it sound like a request. “This is their plan. For me to get here so she has the go-ahead to attack while Santino is alone. They’ve been waiting for you to move him. They knew you did. That’s why the male Lover let it go. Why he’s not here right now.”

Lucien is no doubt putting their plan into motion. Dismissing Dragon’s men was about giving you a false sense of security.

“What about you?” Julian wonders quietly though his tone doesn’t lack urgency. Dario already has his phone pressed to his ear, no doubt calling the security at the penthouse.

You want to go.

You…

“I can’t,” you choke out even though it kills you to admit it. “If I go, I lead Lucien and god knows who else straight back to Santino.”

The Lovers are no doubt hoping for that outcome. But you can keep them separated too. Weaken them. It just means trusting the Elites with Santino’s life completely. They will be taking the brunt of Mika’s and the Black Dragon’s attack.

You look towards Hector but find him already gazing at you, his harsh features drawn into a pensive expression. His eyebrows sit contracted into a tight line and his eyes go to Step.

Dario’s muffled murmurs cease then, and he lifts his head, ending the call with a single touch against the glowing screen. “There’s been nothing so far but…”

“Can you isolate any incoming attacks?” Hector demands and Step pulls out his phone the moment those words leave the leader’s mouth, scrolling and tapping rapidly. “Get to the penthouse. Julian call the rest of the men. The ruse is up. Tell everyone to get their asses there right now or I’ll kill them myself. Go.”

It’s a testament to how much they trust each other that they move as one—not questions asked—only pausing monetarily before you, and it takes you a full second to realise that they’re waiting for your approval.

Right. You’re their boss. Even if only temporarily.

You nod twice; shaky and a touch frantic.

“Capo.”

You’re not even sure which one of them says it, or if it’s all of them in unison, but a shiver tingles down your neck all the same.

Hector hesitates, still standing rooted in his spot, his stare probing but he doesn’t make a sound until the hurried footsteps of the other Elites fade.

“You’re planning to go after him.”

It’s a statement, direct and shrewd, and you see no reason to deny it. “Promise me you will kill her,” you insist sternly, your eyes meeting for a charged moment. “Don’t let her touch him.”

Hector strolls past you, his hands in his pockets. “Consider it done,” he shoots back flatly, pausing beside you once again but doesn’t turn towards you. You simply stand shoulder to shoulder in the empty lobby. “Something else is going on here. The Frenchie isn’t the only one you should watch out for. Some bald asshole followed Wick, and this Adjudicator seems a little rule happy and not in a good way,” he concludes pointedly.

“It doesn’t matter,” you respond mildly, your voice vacant and low, distant. “They can’t touch me. No one can now.”

The dagger against your side feels like it’s scorching into your skin.

Hector turns to face you at that but you don’t do the same. His weighty stare digs into your temple for several moments but you ignore it. Expectation hangs heavy in the air between you but you don’t explain yourself further. There is no point.

He scoffs under his breath, managing to sound as dismissive and derisive as always. The nearby heat of his looming frame disappears, his footsteps echoing against the marble as he saunters away.

But the way he had the foresight to move Santino nags at you, as do his actions outside on that staircase only minutes prior.

And—

“Hector?”

His footsteps fade into a stop, and you turn your face towards him.

“What now, sweetheart?” he calls out impatiently, peering at you over his shoulder as well. “Want a back rub with all of that?”

Normally something like that would have angered you, dug under your skin, pissed you off. Now though…

“Thank you.”

He doesn’t outwardly react to your words, not even a twitch of his facial muscles. He only stares at you for a long minute completely silent. You’re not quite sure what to make of that reaction.

“Whatever.”

His back disappears through the door leading outside and you turn back towards the reception desk.

Time to get some answers.

You hear him before you see him.

The dog leaps at you with a happy bark, his tongue lolling to one side when he lifts his nose eager to give you kisses.

His presence here shocks you but only because you know for a fact that the Continental doesn’t do animal boarding. Everything lately has felt like an avalanche of one thing after another that you haven’t stopped to think about what may or may not have happened to him. Or where he might be staying after John’s home was destroyed.

Despite not seeing him in a few weeks, he seems no less thrilled to see you.

“Hey, Cheeseburger,” you greet with the first genuine smile in a week, your features softening. You bend down to pet him, rubbing behind his ears and he only tries to lick you with more fervour, a happy doggy grin splitting his face. “Have you been good?”

A small bark escapes him, tail wagging so quickly it’s a blur, and your smile grows.

“Miss.”

Your eyes skip ahead, and relief whispers through your chest, an invisible coil loosening when you spot Charon standing ahead of you. As always his posture is bowstring straight, his suit pressed neatly, and eyes watchful over his glasses.

“Charon.”

You’ve missed him. So dearly. Seeing his face is like a much-needed balm against your tattered nerves.

His voice is as low and soothing as always when he offers a cordial, “Welcome back.”

His words might as well be an embrace and your smile wobbles momentarily. There has been a large part of you that was convinced you would never see him or Winston again.

You try not to think about your deal now. About leaving just when you got them back. Right now all that matters is that you’re here.

Still stroking Cheeseburger’s head, you stand back to your feet, ignoring the twinge of discomfort in your muscles when you do.

“It’s good to be back.”

Charon starts approaching you but a voice cuts in before he can say anything else.

“The Vipress.”

Your smile slides off your face when a short, bald man with a fixed smile and a wide-eyed stare appears from behind the concierge.

Hector’s warning springs to mind at once, and your eyes briefly flicker towards Charon whose expression remains impassive. A certain strain—disdain, even—can still be found in his overall bearing, however.  

Charon is not one to dislike people often, and certainly not openly. Though to most he would no doubt appear as detached and professional as always you can tell the difference. You’ve known him for years after all.  

“Do we know each other?” you wonder neutrally, your palm ghosting over a concealed blade despite the no-business rule. Not a scowl or even a whisper of a frown shows but your voice slides into something apathetic all the same.

The man dressed in all black wanders closer. His stance is relaxed, expression friendly, but you see the assessing gleam in his eyes, the brittle—almost mean—edge to his slight grin. It makes you feel like he’s in on some joke you’re missing out on.

Despite being on the shorter side and his near deceptive demeanour, you don’t fail to take count of the precise way he moves—a trained, likely deadly individual, and your attention settles on him like a sharpened blade against his throat.

Though your body language doesn’t outright change, you know he, too, notes the shift in you in those several seconds that pass between him stopping just a little ahead of you.

Cheeseburger licks your fingers—blissfully ignorant of the uneasy atmosphere—and you drag your fingertips over his head tenderly.  

“No,” the man answers shortly, still smiling what he no doubt hopes to be a friendly smile though it hardly is. “But I know of you. Tokyo still remembers your name.”

Your heart stutters for a single second, feeling the slice of those calm, unassuming words. But you can tell from the way his lips flutter just slightly that he chose his words carefully. A deliberate dig and he examines your reaction closely, so you show him nothing.

The man ventures closer yet again, seemingly encouraged by whatever he sees, and extends his gloved hand your way. “But where are my manners? I am Zero.”

His hand hangs in the air between you and Charon’s stare settles on you. He doesn’t interfere though, or comments.

Not taking his hand would be rude but expected. People know of your aversion to touching strangers. However, it would also put you on a backfoot after his previous dig, and the last thing you want is someone that worries even Hector to smell weakness.

With that in mind, you slot your smaller hand into his, your grips equally as constrictive, “Good to meet you,” you say, your voice bland, dropping his hand after another forced twitch of your lips. “Now if you excuse—”

“I was still in training when you killed Kishi of Tokyo,” he declares loudly, freezing you mid-turn, and your eyes meet Charon’s again before you look back at the newcomer. You’re not quite sure what to make of his strange stare or fragmented little smile. “We knew each other. But not much,” he continues, no doubt purposely ignoring your disinterested, borderline hostile stare. “Maybe I should express my gratitude. If it were not for you, I would not be what I am today.”

He even bows his head. Like you’re his comrade. Like you’re one and the same.

Still, you say nothing, and Zero chuckles loudly before it cuts off abruptly. A new gleam glows in his eyes, and it doesn’t surprise you when Charon comes to a stop beside you. The concierge cuts for a silent but foreboding figure all the same.

Zero’s expression twists with amusement upon spotting that silent gesture, and he presses his hand over his chest. “You’ll have to forgive me, I’m a bit—what do they say—a little starstruck,” he apologizes but it feels more like oil on your skin followed by another gleaming smile. “Meeting the John Wick and the Vipress in a span of a single night. Legend of the old and legend of the new. The shadow that hides the snake—that’s what they still say about you two.”

You work hard to not let anything slip. You’ve known about your legacy in Tokyo for some time now—your and John’s both. You did what no one has done before. Escaped. Survived. John slaughtered his way through Kishi’s men to make sure no one ever followed you back.

It didn’t change much in the end. That nightmare of a man—his phantom, at least—still haunts you to this day. It chills the blood in your veins to be standing out here now and be discussing him so openly. Especially with someone who supposedly knew him.

You’re not sure if you’re strong enough to engage with this conversation. There’s only so many ghosts you can handle in such a short span of time.

“I wish to see the manager,” you announce instead, your stare not leaving the assassin before you.

There is a flare of fury at the dismissal but it’s brief, and once it passes, it leaves a man that reminds you of a mannequin—deflated and lacking life, formless like a ghost.

“Sir and Mr Wick are currently meeting in the administrative lounge, Miss,” Charon answers promptly but then adds a deliberate, “The manager, however, has expressed his desire to see you at once upon your return.”

Even if Winston hadn’t, something tells you that Charon would have said that regardless. Like you know him, he knows you. He understands perfectly well how shadows of your past belong there. Rattling them now would be dangerous.

Nodding, you force yourself to keep a polite facade, the assassin receiving a rather forced, “Mr Zero.”

Certainly the best he could hope for. Or should. Still, you feel proud of yourself for managing to contain yourself. For not letting him bait you into action because he no doubt was hoping for a reaction, perhaps even a confrontation. That would be easy, expectant.

Zero doesn’t look pleased about the outcome of the conversation at all. His easy-going, faux adoring demeanour splintering around the edges. The man before you tries to hold the pieces together but you notice the cracks all the same.

Lowering your chin, you raise your palm towards Cheeseburger, “Stay.”

The dog releases a small whine at the order but does as he’s told, sitting back on his hind legs, his ears perked up. That alone almost brings another smile to your face.

Your arm drops back to your side and you offer Charon another look that says a silent keep an eye on him.

Your footsteps echo as you cut through the hallways of the hotel, passing a few faces as you do. Zero doesn’t follow and you’re glad for it—for some reason, a part of you had expected him to.

Throughout your journey, you feel eyes tracking you. No one says anything or moves towards you though. You half expect Lucien to leap at you from every shadowed corner but he’s nowhere to be seen. You want to worry that maybe he truly did leave the hotel and hightailed it for the penthouse but it won’t be logical for him to miss out on this chance.

Lucien’s interest—fixation—with you has always felt deeply personal. More than a simple job or a hit. It never felt like he took as much interest in Santino as he did in you. Certainly surprising considering that from you two, it’s Santino with the biggest power reserve behind him. Enough to crush the Lovers if he came into his power as he now has. You’ve thought about this once before but maybe then you had things wrong.

Despite you being the bigger physical threat, removing Santino first would have been more logical. It would have isolated you. Left you without support.

Lucien never showed much eagerness in Santino’s removal aside from making an occasional threat to rile you up from the start.

Why?

Is it truly just conviction that you are alike? An obsessive there can only be one mentality?

With that thought lodged like a splinter inside your mind, you step into the elevator, shoving the partition roughly with a metallic click.

The elevator jolts when you press the appropriate floor button, falling back against the metal wall on your journey.

Everything is so loud it’s somehow quiet. Or maybe you’ve just gotten better at ignoring it.

It’s a short trip and when the elevator halts you pull the metal partition slowly this time, perking your ears for any unusual sounds.

There’s nothing.

You’ve never liked the administrative lounge much. Unlike the rest of the hotel that’s always oozed an old, rustic charm, this space has always felt cold and clinical on the few, rare occasions you visited Winston up here. Frankly, it’s never been the type of place you enjoyed visiting then, and you don’t suspect that will change any time soon.

The neon laser lights and glass as far as the eye can see. Visually it’s a masterpiece of architecture but it always made you feel uneasy. Like a rat caught in a crystal maze. Being back here now reminds you eerily of the gallery you had to chase John through, nearly losing everyone dear to you in the process.

Grabbing a blade from a secure sown-in compartment inside your coat, you move up the staircase soundlessly.

It doesn’t take long for faint, muffled voices to reach you. Slowing down further, you approach one step at a time. With each step, Winston’s calm baritone becomes clearer. You stop abruptly when his words start registering properly.

“—but you’re having doubts?” he calls out, sounding knowing and in control like usual. “Because you know that she will never forgive you if you do this. Will never let you into her heart again. She’s the only thing you still have left to lose,” he goes on, and your eyes widen when you realise who exactly he’s discussing. What the hell is going on? You know he’s talking to John but… “This is all assuming she can find it in herself to forgive you for your actions in regards to one Santino D’Antonio in the first place.”

You can’t see them from here. You’re above them by at least an entire flight of see-through glass stairs. Shifting your weigh, you move closer, holding your breath and sinking lower towards the ground to not alert them of your presence.

“I understand perfectly well, Johnathan, this is nothing personal,” Winston continues and for once you truly find yourself hating how calm he sounds. You’ve never seen the manager caught off guard. It’s everyone else he outmanoeuvres with expert ease. But personal? What’s personal? “If you feel like you must. Put a bullet through my heart. The High Table has asked me to step down one way or another.”

You almost stumble.

What?

It’s then that a memory springs forward. Of the tent. John’s conflicted expression and his words.

Elder gave you time to say goodbye but you had to make a deal. What if John had to make one too? He mentioned a task; a task he never got time to explain further. Only a vague mention of one.

But he had wanted to, you realise with sinking dread, the moment he saw you, he wanted to.

John’s punishment—his true punishment—is sacrificing his oldest friend in a show of fealty to the Table and killing him.

The lukewarm metal between your digits nearly falls to the ground at that realisation.  

But why—

“The hour?” John’s gruff voice speaks at long last.

A distracted hum, then confirmation, “The hour.”

“You should have killed me when you had the chance,” John says bluntly. “Killed us both.”

You gnash your teeth together, feeling the grind of bone inside your skull as you slink closer, taking it one stair at a time. Unhurried and precise. Just how John himself taught you.

Distantly, you hear Winston agree followed by muted footsteps against the gleaming floor. Is he moving away from John or towards him?

“In the years you’ve been away, Johnathan, I have come to learn that loyalty is a peculiar thing,” the manager muses, his voice thoughtful, but you hear the deliberateness he puts into each word he speaks. There is an odd quietness to his voice though—the type of you’ve only heard a handful of times. “Hard to earn, quick to break,” a long pause supersede those words and you come to a standstill as well, straining your ears. “But not always. It can sometimes be obtained by the most unlikely of individuals during the most unlikely of times.”

You’re not quite sure what exactly John gleans from those words but he does seem to take away something you miss. “You’re not stepping down, are you?”

“No,” Winston states evenly. “I don’t think I am.”

“So it’s war,” John declares, sounding just as bewildered as you feel, and you know it’s a rarity for him to let his emotions slip so easily. But this is… “You’re going to war with the High Table.”

Once you had joked about it. You were left cranky after yet another job for Tarasov, and had come back to the Continental worn after days of dealing with less than hospitable conditions. Winston had listened to your rant like usual.

What if I just killed Tarasov now?

Newspaper and brandy in hand, Winston’s reply had been unamused, You get killed.

Not if you help me. You and I, I bet we could take the Table on.

It was a joke back then. Nothing more than a throwaway, snarky remark you had made as a way to alleviate some pent up stress. A momentarily reprieve from the helplessness you’ve always felt in the face of your circumstances. It’s one of the few things that has helped you stay sane over the years.

It was long before you met the Elder and learned you could kill Tarasov without consequences once the debt was repaid.

It’s only now that you realise that Winston never did give you a response to that offhand statement. Joke or otherwise.

It’s only now that you stupidly realise that the idea of war shouldn’t surprise you at all. That perhaps deep in your bones you always knew there was a possibility of one.

Maybe Winston’s dedication to upholding rules and order always blinded you to the fact that despite that obedience he wasn’t afraid of them.

That which terrifies others—everyone, even you and John—has never affected the manager in the same manner.

He’s not afraid of the High Table. Or to move against them if he sees fit.

“I’ve made my decision. A long time ago now,” Winston remarks, and you edge closer, catching the first glimpse of him through the crack in the stairwell. “Back when I had to watch Charon carry a dying girl through the very halls of this fine establishment. A girl that you left behind. And now, it’s time for you to choose as well.”

Oh.

You’ve always privately considered Winston and Charon to be your family. One you weren’t quite allowed to have but chose for yourself despite how foolishly sentimental it was. A bond that was forged through years of knowing each other. Struggling together. Practically living together.

It never once crossed your mind that it was a feeling returned at least to some degree.

That alone makes you look at the entire conversation you’ve just heard in a new light.

“Choose what?”

Winston stands in front of John, his hand extended towards the assassin. In the manager’s weathered hand—a fine mockery of a week ago when he first declared you both Excommunicado, and even worse, of the Elder offering you the golden dagger at your side—sits a pistol.

The older man gives John a shrewd stare, and if you didn’t know any better you would say that he’s disappointed John is not catching on quicker.

“Oh, but you already know,” he states flatly, moving his hand in a vague motion. “It’s the same choice you’ve been struggling for the last five years now. Between who you are and who you wish to be. You kill me, you sell your soul to the Table.”

All you can see is the back of John’s head, his crop of black hair standing out like a dark spot against the glossy, blue tint of the lounge.

He thinks about Winston’s words for a bit.

“But I also live and remember Helen.”

Once those words might have caused a burn of pain but now all you feel is a nudge of sadness and a joyless sort of understanding. You’ve accepted the fact that there will always be a part of John that will always love Helen.

You’ve just hoped…

“Helen loved you, John. She truly did,” the manager agrees, something just a touch warmer to be heard in his intonation. “And you love her. You only came back because she was taken from you. But she’s also gone and she’s not coming back. You go ahead with this and you lose V forever, and I know that alone is stopping you.”

There is a scathing sort of finality to the last part and John’s slightly lowered head lifts.

“So I guess my question to you, then, is who do you wish to die as?” Winston asks though it does sound like a fine line between an inquiry of genuine curiosity and an authoritative demand. “Baba Yaga. The living nightmare and the last thing so many have seen. The servant of the High Table. Or as a man who was—and likely still is—loved by two wonderful women.”

John doesn’t move or say anything. That heaviness hangs across his shoulders, burdening him with yet another choice.

The problem is the fact that what you told him back at the desert still applies.

You don’t trust his word. You’ve been burned too harshly by recent events to do so.

With that in mind, you drop your guise, walking the remainder of the stairs with deliberate heaviness. Purpose.

Both men turn at the sound of your advancing footsteps. The former’s expression lightens, a clever gleam catching your eye. John looks weary, almost like he’s readying himself for another battle, another storm that is your raging fury.

You have little appetite for that though.

Too much is going on right now. The Elites could be battling against the Female Lover and the Black Dragon’s men right now. You need to find Lucien and figure out a way to keep him here. Inform the High Table. Find out who started this hunt in the first place. Who knows about Chicago.

“Winston.”

A slight smile ghosts over the manager’s face. “Welcome home.”

It hurts.

Because it feels so good to hear him say that. To feel welcome and missed. Even if you know it’s as much about drawing that line in the sand for John—an unspoken You vs Us.

John doesn’t fail to take count of the blade in your hand, neither does Winston.

A suspended kind of silence shrouds you three. If John really thinks that you will let him—

Footsteps.

You all turn in the direction of a tall, graceful figure clad in all black moving briskly down the steps.

The icy blue stare and black, short-cropped hair are all unfamiliar to you.

“Mr Wick and Miss Vipress,” the newcomer greets in a cool and collected manner, gripping a pair of leather gloves in one hand. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you both. I’m an Adjudicator.”

Shit. Of course they are. It makes sense for one to come and adjudicate the hotel after John shot Santino at practically point-blank range inside these very walls.

The hour.

Winston overstepped his position by offering you that hour. By helping you and John out.

Now he’s paying for it.

When neither you nor John say anything in return, their head slants in Winston’s direction, unperturbed. “Have you decided to step down?”

You would think they’re asking if the cookies are ready to come out of the oven. Their voice is as empty as their stare despite the gravity of their question. But the Adjudicators are often cold and distant. Dedicated to upholding the rules of the High Table even more so than the hotel managers are. To expect pity or mercy from one never bodes well.  

Winston greets that indifference by no less bored, “I don’t think I will.”

A quick tilt of their chin—offended, critical—and they turn towards John instead.  

“And you?” they demand, a notable sharpening to their tone. “Will you be pulling a bullet in his head?”

You tense at those words, your body instinctively moving in front of the manager.  

John’s ponderous scrutiny falls on you but you don’t take your attention away from the Adjudicator. Is what Winston said true? Are you really the only thing John still has left to lose?

You’re not sure if—

“No,” he says, quiet but resolute. “I don’t think I will.”

The High Table representative examines you three with a flicker of disbelief as well as irritation. You can’t help but wonder if this is the first time they encountered such blatant dismissal of their authority.

“So be it.”

They turn on their heels creating at least several meters in distance between you. A phone appears in their hand and they dial, bringing the phone to their ear with an effortless air of superiority.

All you manage to catch from where you stand is the very end of the conversation. “The Continental Hotel, New York,” an imposing proclamation followed by swift damnation. “Deconsecrated.”

The Adjudicator spins towards them, approaching leisurely as they gave each of you a measured, speculative look.

“This institution has hereby been deconsecrated,” they state flatly, appraising you all with aloof, disinterested air. Like you have just become less than human in their eyes and nothing more than trash to be taken out. “As such business may now be conducted on Continental grounds. Since you are refusing to step down,” they continue, their tone icy and pointed glaring digging into Winston, then John, “And you are refusing a direct order, your lives are now forfeited.”

Much to your surprise, the Adjudicator’s bright eyes come to rest on you next. “It is my advice to you Miss Vipress that you vacate the premises immediately,” they warn but the words lack much care aside from mild impartiality. “The High Table emissaries will be joining you shortly to see to the removal of your souls from the property,” they add to the two men on either side of you.

The Black Dragon men.

With that, the Adjudicator turns to go but your voice halts them before they take further than a step, “This hotel is my home,” you profess tightly, something slippery and raw in that string of words. An old ache; a new longing. Ironlike, unshakeable conviction shines the brightest though. “If you want it, you will have to take it over my cold, dead body.”

Another tilt of chin that makes you think reptile; coldblooded and dispassionate. “That can be arranged.”

A snarl pulls your lips back. “Can it?” you wonder, your words soft but deliberate. “You may wish to double-check that.”

The Adjudicator visibly pauses at that, and it’s the first sign of uncertainty you glimpse in their armour. The first time it takes them a moment to settle on their next course of action. Faint sourness lines their dignified features while they study you, considering your words no doubt.

“Good evening to you.”

Your glare is hot enough that you’re surprised the Adjudicator doesn’t catch on fire the moment their back is turned to you—and rather bold of them to turn their back on two master assassins after what they’ve just done—and your fingers itch.

John’s fingers snap around your wrist, holding firm and stilling your rising hand. “Don’t.”

The red haze lifts and you relax your jaw. It’s only after he sees your posture loosen that he releases his grip, his fingertips lingering against your inner wrist as if savouring the contact.

On your right, Winston heaves a weary sigh. “This haven is safe no more.”  

Your eyes lower and you try to process what’s just happened.

Continental is the only sanctuary you’ve ever known—the only one you’ve ever needed—and something in your gut churns. It’s a deadly, potent mix that makes you force a calming breath.

John breaks the silence first—a rarity, but you suppose this week has been full of those. “Are the services still off-limits to us?”

Winston looks to you first, taking you in, and you wonder what he finds in your no doubt murderous expression and blazing glare. Every muscle coiled tight and ready to spring.

Destruction hums in your blood, screaming for retribution and you want to indulge in it.

They should be terrified of you, the Elder’s voice reminds you.

“Considering the fact that V’s Excommunicado was lifted minutes prior and this interesting change in circumstances…”

He fades off for a moment, giving you both another thoughtful look that tells you he’s fully appreciating who exactly is about to stand in defence of his hotel. “What do you need?”

NF3 NC6.

You’re a statue rooted at Winston’s side.

The four of you—John, you, Winston and Charon—wait for the elevator to grind to a halt, Cheeseburger sitting patiently between you and John. Ever the loyal companion.

“We have another problem,” you declare with a subdued sigh, dragging your eyes over the metal cubicle you’re trapped in. Even years later the fear of being a trapped animal unable to escape hasn’t quite faded from memory.

The manager clicks his tongue in reply, leading you all out of the elevator and towards the massive vault door sitting at the end of a short hallway. Guards—what few cemented their loyalty to the hotel and Winston himself—dot the length of it, watchful and awaiting their orders.

“Splendid,” the man shoots back dryly. “Not like we have plenty of those already.”

“The Male Lover is here,” you inform him, ignoring his snark. “He followed me.”

Winston’s mouth curves downwards at that. He places his hand on a palm scanner, waiting. “As expected,” he offers in return, his tone challenging. “Your next move?”

“He knows something that he shouldn’t,” you answer promptly, fiddling with your fingers. John and Charon are silent behind you but you know they’re also missing a lot of context behind the conflict, especially the former. “About Chicago. I intend to find out how and from whom. Then…”

Well.

Your plan till about ten minutes ago was to capture him and keep him here. Feed him to the High Table. Exact your justice by other means.

Now though...

It’s war.

The hotel has been stripped of its immunity. People are on the way to kill Winston and John. Charon by default. Even the staff if they get in the way, though the order to evacuate has been sounded already.

If you stand with them you, too, become an enemy.

The choice is simple. Easier than most things in your life have been, and it sits right in your gut.

If the High Table wants the manager standing in front of you, they will have to go through you first. And you’re capable of unleashing a lot of damage before they ever manage to get close enough to touch him.

But this also means that there will be no divine justice at the end. By the decree of the Adjudicator, people can now spill blood freely between these walls. There’s nothing stopping Lucien from attacking you anymore. Nor will he miss such an opportunity.  

A confrontation between you two can only end one way now.

“Then I deal with him,” you finally mutter, your jaw locking with resolute firmness.

An eyebrow quirked, Winston gestures inside, going straight for the drinks cabinet. You head right without prompting, going for a very special compartment safe built into one of the wall’s inside the vault.

You’ve had it installed years ago gradually filling it full with the passage of months and then years.

Not wasting time, your palm settles on the scanner, ignoring the code pad entirely. A beep sounds and a muted green light bathes your skin a second later. A hiss follows and then—

“That’s…impressive.”

John’s voice behind you should not surprise you—and it doesn’t—but it does make you tense. Shrugging, you risk a glance in his direction to see what he makes of your collection. The quiet, impressed way his eyes drag over each shelf betrays both his surprise, and even a shade of wariness.

Vials upon vials all line the massive cabinet of three separate compartments folding outwards—custom made just for this. Labels hug each vial neatly, all of them lined up in an orderly fashion based on use and colour. The rest of the cabinet houses some of your rarest and most expensive ingredients. Carefully hidden in the most secure location you can think of—or it was till about fifteen minutes ago.

“It took me a while,” you admit though the tension in your tone and body don’t ebb away. “A lot of trial and error. And throwing up.”

You’ve been your own best guinea pig over the years, and have suffered a great deal for it. But it has also given you something no one before has been able to achieve: immunity. To most of these dark, dangerous creations of yours.

Your prized collection of at least a hundred vials makes even Baba Yaga pause and consider. See you differently no doubt.

The truth is that the sheer magnitude of the horrors and devastation this collection could unleash is unprecedented. Unrivalled by all with the exception of but one man.

And no one knows it exists apart from the people in this room and Santino. The High Table suspects something of this nature exists, you know that. Hence their insistence on you being unable to remove anything from the hotel after your Excommunicado.

“I should have told you,” John speaks up, his lips parted and tone deep, tired. “About my task. I just…”

“Knew that if you told me neither of us would have left that desert?” you guess. “Yeah, I kinda figured that.”

You understand his angle. His reason for not saying anything too. There’s just one thing that’s been bothering you since you learned about it.

“Did...did the Elder forbid you from telling me?”

John’s expression creases. “No,” he admits slowly. “But he reminded me that your forgiveness is rarer than water in the desert, and rage fiercer than the sun.”

You can almost hear that echoed in the Elder’s gentle, accented voice. Staring at the vials, you force some of them out, rolling them in your palm experimentally as you start assembling your weapons swiftly.

The task makes sense. Winston did something he shouldn’t have. Punishing him would be expected like it was with you and John. Manager or no, he’s not all-powerful.

But the thought that the Elder still knowingly told John to remove Winston stings. Deeply. He knows full well what the older man means to you.

Realising that you have nothing else to say, John steps away but you hear the reluctance in his steps when he walks away.

But all this can wait. The looming threat is the first order of business. You can’t afford any distractions, so this, too, gets shoved behind a wall. Locked tight. You can catch a moment later. Process everything that’s happened in this last week.

Charon’s lulling voice describes the change in the Black Dragon ranks to John—armour improvements, weapon improvements, more robust training. You listen with half an ear. They’ve gotten better with years, deadlier. They will not be an easy target but staring at all the vials out in the open fully and at your disposal makes your mouth twist into a cold, cruel smile.

Let them come.

You will make corpses of them all.

With that thought in mind, you arm yourself to the teeth, locking a belt around the curve of your hips. Blades slot easily against your body, vials of poison and canisters of gas following. Next, come pistols with spare clips and enough bullets to take down a small army. Fitting, considering that’s most likely what you are likely to face. You thoroughly check each pistol, removing the magazines, and making sure safety is on all of them. Double-checking there’s no jamming, either.

Once you’re comfortably armed you pull out two small needles, filling both with a small dosage of different colour solutions. You prepare more but focus on the two first.  

Charon and John are still getting prepped, arming themselves just as intently while Winston sits calmly on a luxurious leather sofa observing them. Cheeseburger lays beside him on the sofa, his ears slightly perked as he watches everyone in the room.

Charon is closer so you hand him the needle wordlessly, knowing that he’s more than aware of what it is. Moving closer to John, you note the concentration with which he adds each spare magazine into his own utility belt, a deep pinch between his brows. This lethal focus means that you’re about to lose the John you know. Once Baba Yaga arrives there will be nothing but destruction left behind.

Something in your chest is ready to do the same. You almost crave it. Like everything has been building too quickly and now you feel at a breaking point ready to unleash.

Moving swiftly, you stab a needle into John’s neck, feeling him jerk and snap his fingers around your arm just like he did earlier. His grip is harsher, his fighter instincts kicking in. This time he’s not trying to stop you from attacking anyone but himself.

Rising an unimpressed eyebrow, you remove the needle from his neck, and John sways, scowling in your direction.

“Ow. What was that?” he demands quietly, no doubt recalling the last time he had a run-in with your creations.

“A little concoction that will, hopefully, give you immunity from most things in my arsenal temporarily,” you tell him calmly, near monotonous. “Unless you prefer dissolving into an immobile puddle the moment my paralyser comes out?”

John’s brows hitch, his eyes narrowing marginally, and his chin slants. “You enjoyed that,” he states dryly.

Blinking, you feel your lips quirk in an infinitesimal smile, blinking innocently up at him. “No idea what you’re talking about,” you demure pleasantly. John stares at you blankly and your small smile quivers, widening. “Okay, fine. I totally enjoyed that.”

A tiny quirk of his own mouth follows and it feels strangely nostalgic, near bittersweet, because it’s like years ago again. Just you two getting ready for yet another job together, you teasing him or firing questions at him. He’s always been patient with you. It was a kindness you never once took for granted. You were so alone, so lost, and he’d been the only harbour you had.

Despite his flaws, despite his mistakes, in many ways, John will always be that. It’s the one thing you never see changing.

You still miss that ease you once shared. Sometimes remnants of it appear, like now, and it just makes it harder.

But reminiscing now is a fool's errand.

Instead, you reach for another blade mounted on the wall behind him and bend your knee, slotting it against the special opening in your boot. He doesn’t take his gaze away from you as you do that, and you straighten, waiting to see if he will say anything else. He doesn’t. That almost makes you smile again. Typical.

Nodding at him, you look towards Charon instead, pulling out several vials, “For the guards,” you state seriously, your ease evaporating, and he takes them without a word. “Make sure they inject themselves at least five minutes before heading out just in case. It’s going to be a nasty toxic cocktail one way or another. You already know what to do.”

A firm nod. “Certainly, Miss.”

Satisfied, you walk past them heading towards the manager who watches you curiously as you approach. Cheeseburger raises his head at once, his tail wagging at your proximity. Your fingers brush over his head, petting him, and you hold another vial for Winston to take.

Nothing to do with protection and everything to do with arming him. Which, you suppose, is its own type of protection.

He stares at you blankly, a glass of what you only assume is brandy gripped securely in his hand.

“Oh, I sincerely hope you’re joking.”

He sounds completely incredulous and you roll your eyes.

“Precautions,” you shoot back, twisting the poison vial between your fingers and holding the entire length of it out to him. “Your wisdom, remember?”

“And you think that if they somehow manage to get through you, Jonathan, Charon and the guard, as well as at least two tons of metal, that will stop them?”

“No,” you answer honestly. “But it will make me feel better if you have it.”

Winston heaves a sigh, shaking his head but takes the vial all the same, leaning back in his seat. A single eyebrow lifts as if to say satisfied? and you fight back a groan. Why can no one in your life make things easy for you? Just once?

You part your lips, a playful remark on your tongue, only for distinct thudding to sound from above. It’s faint, barely audible, but you all freeze at the sound of it.

Your eyes drag towards the ceiling, just as Winston’s voice sounds, “Charon, would you be so kind as to welcome our new guests?”

The concierge strolls briskly towards the fuse control box, pushing one of the levers down with a deafening click.

Upstairs, you know the hotel has been plunged into darkness before emergency lights come into operation.

“Let's go.”

You reach for the last few things you can get your hands on, your focus narrowing down to tunnel vision.

“You will do the Continental proud,” Winston states, sounding so sure you can’t help but lift your head in his direction from your last minute prep. “Both of you.”

Your heart jolts painfully but you nod in acknowledgement all the same. Charon returns the gesture as well.

“And Johnathan?”

The assassin halts at his name, looking towards the manager in an unspoken question. “Do what you do best. Hunt.”

The four of you share a long, leaden moment before John moves first, followed by you. The vault door whirls close behind you, securing Winston and Cheeseburger inside, but you refuse to look back.

You will see them both soon.

Splitting at the mouth of the hallway, you watch Charon lead the guards down a different path while you and John take the elevator. Divide and attack on two fronts. John will be their main target first, then you.

The man beside you is as still as death, his body relaxed but senses alert. John doesn’t fidget, hardly blinks, everything about him is steady and tranquil. Just standing near him feels electric.

“Just like old times.”

His faint words startle you. A large machine gun in his hands, the black suit, an unforgiving stare—he looks near godly, as always, and you blink in his direction. Your tongue drags over your lower lip, pensive, and when you glance back at him you see John’s eyes jump up from your mouth.

“Just like old times,” you agree softly.

You’re not sure what he sees when he looks at you. You would like to think he sees someone who exceeded his expectations for you all those years ago. Strong and unyielding.

You hope he sees an equal.

The lounge is painted with sickly green when the elevator crawls to a stop, and you both move like an extension of one another. Falling into a routine is easy because it’s instinct. The lounge is submerged in smoke, obscuring your vision so you both move silently through it, gauging the situation.

Raising your hand, you feel John slow beside you, his gun raised, covering you. Your eyes journey over the lounge, spotting blurry figures creeping through the space, trying to discover you no doubt. The black uniforms make anger simmer in your gut, gnawing on your self-control.

A hiss joins the fray of noise as you lightly roll your own gas canisters across the marble floor, your paralyser joining the smoke seamlessly.

You should really thank them. They just made this easier.

Now it’s just a matter of—

A gunshot booms behind you and you pivot on your knees, watching John tackle two men who have taken a route from behind, hidden from sight by large stone pillars.

Each man takes several bullets to take down and you frown at that. Through the darkness, you spot the heavy armour—heavier than you’ve seen them wear—as well as goddamn gas helmets on their heads.

Rising, you jog towards the bodies. John throws himself at the other approaching men and you yank on the helmet on the dead soldier’s head. It slips off relatively easily and you curse under your breath when you note what filters have been installed at the base of it.

They’re significantly better than the last time you faced off against them. This paralyser will be nothing more than an irritant at this rate.

They’ve come more than prepared.

They’ve come ready to skin the snake and hang her by that skin.  

Snarling, you hurl the helmet at another uniformed figure that rounds the column, his rifle raised, watching it crash against his head.

Two shots follow from your Glock but the man only stumbles back, and you leap at him, slotting the nozzle under his collar before firing again. A bullet slices clean through his neck, finally killing him. You slide a blade in your other hand, spinning it once. Scanning your surroundings, you take the other side so you and John work back to back even at the distance.

Gunshots explode ahead and you know that Charon has joined in the fray as well.  

Your displeasure morphs into anger and then outright fury with each dead body. It doesn’t take you long to realise that your weapons are too weak to handle this onslaught. The calibre too low. The helmets make the paralyser nothing more than a tickle down their throats and an ache in their eyes.

While that slows them somewhat, their armour is too good for a simple pistol fire. No matter how many bullets you may have at your disposal.

Slamming a knee into one man’s gut, you yank his body to one side. His body soaks up bullets his friends try to shoot at you and you pull back. A blade buries deep in his neck, you jerk the deadman again, feeling a splatter of hot liquid on your face when the blade cuts deeper into his skin.

Duck, yank, slice.

You tear through the throng of incoming soldiers but you’re slowed by the fact that each person takes too much effort to kill unless you get up close and personal. That in itself is tempting faith.

One bullet, one falter, that’s all it would take.  

A man charges at you when his gun clicks empty, and you block his punch, pistol-whipping him across the head. The contact rattles through your bones and you bare your teeth.

A slice so quick he doesn’t even register it follows before his throat opens.

Nothing but a wet gurgle slips free and gravity does the rest.

Another follows after that, and another and another. It’s chaos and darkness. The floor is slippery with blood but you push ahead your expression contorted with pure wrath.

They want to kill you, do they?  

Rules have drowned you for years now.

But right now—right this second—you’re still free of your chain.

And they have no idea what you can do.

Let me give you something to be afraid of.

With that thought racing through your mind, you turn and dash towards the elevator, slamming your hand against the button. It takes long—too long—but you know it will be worth it. Throwing yourself inside, you press the basement button over and over again, practically beating it.

The ride down seems to last an eternity as well.

You prowl inside the cubicle like a wild animal ready to spring free. So much so that the partition nearly breaks with the amount of strength you use to yank it backwards with.

“Winston!” you shout from the top of your lungs, slamming your palm repeatedly against the vault. “Let me in!”

There’s a reverberating click only moments later but you don’t wait for the hefty metal to open fully before you push inside, breathing harshly as you do.

Winston blinks slowly at the sight of you. “V?”

There is a question and a sharpness to his regard, and the wariness with which he takes you in should probably worry you. But you don’t answer him. Instead, you head straight for the cabinet. Your pulse pounding and a clamour inside your head leaving you partially deaf. To a point, both John’s and Charon’s returned presence back inside the vault scarcely registers.

A red haze clings to everything around you.

“V.”

Your knuckles are starting to swell again but after this, it won’t matter—

“V.”

“What do you want?” you hiss, each syllable acidic to a point it catches John off guard.

He mutely offers you a shotgun and something at the back of your brain recollects mentions of “armour piercing shells” but you shake your head.

“There’s still some left alive at the back, and they’re regrouping,” you say instead, trying to quell your temper. “I have something else for the second wave.”

He reads between the lines of your plan.

“I’m not leaving you alone to face them.”

Your head snaps in his direction, and you hold out a vial—smaller than others, rounder, filled with liquid that seems to be caught in a perpetual state of half-brown and half-red—in front of his face.

“This,” you begin tightly, your vocal cords straining from how hard you’re working to hold yourself back. “Is something that will kill them helmet or not. They should know better than to think that some cheap plastic will save them from me.”

You pull out two canisters of gas, shaking both as you look towards the air system. “Air filtering still on?”

“Minimal,” Winston returns, his voice dull, stare watchful. “Don’t let it consume you,” he reminds quietly after a pause.

Your grip momentarily falters at those words but that’s the only reaction he receives.

“Then I’ll do it the hard way.”

John intercepts you before you can take so much as a step, his minute unease now gone. “Why didn’t we open with that?”

You’re not sure why the hell he’s stalling now to ask you questions but you answer him despite that. “This is a diluted version of something I created a long time ago,” you tell them. “It wasn’t created to be used as a vapour. This is also the only vial I have, and it will take at least a month to create more. I was saving this for the eleventh hour because no matter how many are out there, they’re about all about to experience a quick but very painful death.”

You’re not quite sure what to make of what you glimpse across his features. Some turbulent mix of emotions he doesn’t seem to wish and explain. Day by day he learns the full extent of how you’re no longer that girl that walked away from him with tears streaming down her face.

This is what you are now. What you had to become.

You wait for a reaction, judgement, but John only steps aside, his voice a low rasp, “Be careful.”

You soften somewhat at the muted worry you hear in his voice. “You too,” you say with a sigh. “Go ahead. I’m grabbing one more canister of gas just in case. Don’t go anywhere near the lounge for the next ten minutes at least.”

Both men indicate their understanding, not bothering to question you further. And there is comfort in that, in their easy understanding and trust. They both can more than handle themselves but a distinct worry still gnaws on your entrails as you watch them leave. Lack of presence from the other guards no doubt means they’re all dead already.

So that leaves only you three.

Three vs a small army of highly trained fighters.

But not for long.

“V.”

“A little busy, Winston,” you stress while rummaging through different compartments. “Can it wait?”

Silence greets your words. Then, “If I asked for your trust. Your complete trust,” he begins purposely, his voice deceptively serene. “Would you give it to me?”

Your hands still and you stare blankly at your collection for a beat.

Straightening unhurriedly, you try to digest his words, and tilt your head in the manager’s direction.

It’s only when you note his expression that you realise something is very, very wrong.

The lobby is a graveyard.

Both literal and figurative.

Bodies lay in heaps across the usually gleaming flooring, and you wait patiently while leaning against one of many marble columns.

Waiting you’ve gotten rather good at.

The poison sits in your hands, warmed by your palms, but still brimming that ugly dark shade despite now being transformed into a vapour. You’ve recreated two versions of The Drowning and haven’t used either since Chicago. That thought makes you glare at the ceiling above because the recollection of Rafael and Boutin still wounds.

The grandeur of the Continental never fails to impress you though. Not even years later. There is always something new to discover and admire.  

You’ve been waiting for at least five minutes now so when a creak sounds you don’t move at first. Muffled footsteps echo across the eerily quiet lobby, moving towards you.

But not from the direction of the entrance.

The louder the steps become the more obvious a secondary sound becomes as well.

Whistling.

Faint but melodic.

The familiarity of the tune causes you to stands straighter, focus on the melody.

Mr Sandman drifts through the air as a peculiar sort of goad; purposeful and sly.

“Oh, snakey,” a voice coos playfully, pausing the tune for a moment. “I know you’re hiding somewhere out here.”

Lucien.

Of course.

You’ve been expecting him to show up sooner rather than later. It’s good to know that you were right about him though. He wasn’t going to let you slip by him again. This time, you don’t want to, either. This time, you’re going to finish this.

You contemplate throwing the poison in his face but the High Table would not give up so easily. John and Charon might be cleaning up the remainder of the first wave one shotgun shell at the time but a second wave is guaranteed and soon. Logically they would want to try and overwhelm you. They’re hoping to wear you out.

“Come out, come out wherever you are,” Lucien calls out in a sing-song drawl, his footsteps slowing to a point they fade entirely. “Don’t make me find you. You’re not going to enjoy that scenario.”

“Who says I’m hiding?”

You round the column, finding his thin, solitary figure in the middle of the lobby immediately. The dark green light seems to only emphasize his gaunt frame and you take a step closer, then another.

How clever of him to wait until your paralyser is fully dispelled from the air before he came seeking you out.  

His head lowers, deepening the shadows under his eyes. “Did your guard dogs run away?” he wonders mockingly, his voice carrying. “Good, they were getting in the way.”

“Of what?”

“Our dance, of course,” he retorts, a shade angry like you should know better. “One last dance and the truth. Oh, if only you knew but you don’t. No point in secrets now though.”

You scoff, both of you watching each other as you draw nearer. “You like hearing yourself talk, don’t you, Lucien?”

The blonde assassin bares his teeth at the sound of his name—dangerous and macabre, dripping with heinous amusement—and he gazes at you for a moment. Something flickers over his shoulder—

“Not at all actually,” he states overly calm. “But you’re not the only one to have your life stolen. Maybe it’s about time you realised that,” he divulges, his voice softening into something as hateful as it is eager. Like whatever he thought he knew, he couldn’t wait to impart on you. “I’ll be waiting for you, viper.”

You aim the poison at his head, hurling it through the air with every fibre of your strength.

Lucien ducks, sliding across the floor at near blinding speed, and disappearing behind the armchairs and from your sight.

It’s at that moment that the Black Dragon’s men burst through the lobby door, their guns raised.

Following his example, you dash behind the column, an explosion of bullets following a split second later.

Rubble splinters under the abuse and you turn, avoiding the crumbling stone.

One, two, three…

This time your poison doesn’t escape in an unassuming tickle of vapour. No, this time it’s an impact of a small explosive going off, and it’s a matter of one, two, three before muffled screams and groans replace the gunfire.

Arching your back against the ruined stone, you allow your head to tip back, watching the ceiling thoughtfully. You wait till gunfire completely cuts out before moving. Then, you stride from behind the column studying the effects with a mix of cold detachment.

Your own nose and lungs ache uncomfortably—just a show of how potent the formula really is—but you don’t take your attention away from the dying soldiers. They’re more of a heap at this point, their gas masks that they no doubt were so sure would keep them safe now virtually useless.

It’s a quick but brutal affair.

Wet sounds and sobs of pain. Then, like dominoes falling, the men still one by one.

They might be only obeying orders, but they came to kill the only family you have and take your home, and you find yourself feeling little to no pity for them.

The haze is gone now, leaving the lobby even more chillingly silent than earlier.

Lucien is nowhere in sight.

You would have preferred if the poison got him but didn’t hold out much hope that it would. He’s too good and far too fast.

I’ll be waiting for you.

He will grow to regret those words.

Stepping over the bodies, you approach the spot you saw the blonde last, heading in the direction of the only corridor he could have gone down.

Glock aimed ahead, your movements are utterly silent, deadly. No matter how deep into the hotel you head, he seems to be nowhere in sight, however. This time, clearly, he wants you to look for him.

Corridor by corridor you find nothing. Then floor by floor. You know this hotel far better than Lucien does. If he really assumes he can hide from you here he’s sorely mistaken.

Gunfire rips through the air and you pause, tightening your grip on the pistol. Little by little, you decrease the distance just as a hush falls up ahead.

John’s dark hair is what you glimpse first and instinctively relax seeing that it’s him.

“John.”

The man turns towards the call of his name, and you squint at him, approaching cautiously. “Why are you wet?”

John breaths are laboured, rattling from his lungs in shallow pants, making his chest expand with each inhale. “Zero’s men.”

“The Male Lover found me too,” you tell him and you both fall into step. “Missed out on the poison party, unfortunately.”

The man at your side glances you over once—a completely wordless but attentive examination—and you huff a small breath, amused.

“I’m fine.”

You’ve forgotten how much of a mother hen he could be without saying a single word.

At least you’re a little calmer now after your previous display of explosive fury.

He seems to accept your words, and you both step into the elevator for what feels like the hundredth time in a span of only several hours.

You know what logic John is following though. Both Lucien and Zero have likely hidden up on the higher levels for two reasons.

More places to hide.

And they’re less likely to encounter any poison on the higher floors.

Leaning your shoulder heavily against the cool metal, you peer at the man only arm’s length away. Baba Yaga stands with his shoulders slumped and expression enervated. Yet he’s standing despite that. His gaze still burns with a fierce sort of determination.  

That might have been one of the first things you’ve fallen in love with—that determination and will. Followed by his often unspoken kindness.

What won’t you give for things to be different.

Going up the floors proves to be the right of course action the moment the elevator stops.

John throws himself against one side of the metal cubicle, and you do the same when a bullet whistles through the partition, piercing the metal where John’s head just was.

Pushing your hand out, you fire blindly, hearing shuffling in response, and use the distraction to peek your head over the edge. John does the exact same thing and you both fire simultaneously, hitting two men. John in the head. You in the chest. Neither moves.

Shoulders hunched and tense, you move in unison, and you conclude instantaneously that this is clearly a trap to draw you in deeper. Laying a path for you to follow until the trap springs shut.

Eyeing each other, you both move ahead despite that shared conclusion.

It doesn’t matter much now. You may only have the single magazine, and one vial of paralyser left on you after butchering your way through an entire hoard of soldiers, but it won’t matter.

There is a nagging thought at the back of your mind that you should ask about Charon but now isn’t the time for that, either. The concierge is likely back with Winston by now.  

There is a ruthless strategy to how you remove Zero’s men. One by one, shoulder to shoulder, and know that these men are afraid. That they know deep in their heart of hearts that they won’t survive the fight before it even begins but they still try. They’re strong and fast. A legacy of hard training and cruel discipline no doubt. But John is stronger and you are faster.

In many ways, they remind you of those soldiers from years ago who ambushed you in that freezing Tokyo alleyway.

Your bullets run out by the time you return to the administrative lounge. All you have on you now are two blades, paralyser, and Elder’s dagger, tucked away and out of sight. Both blades have been christened with blood two floors ago, and John is down to his bare hands.

It would put most at a disadvantage but not him. If anything, his ruthlessness only seems to grow.

But something is different this time.

Three main differences, really.

First, a jovial whistle of Mr Sandman floating through the air.

Second, three dead men that you recognise as Zero’s and finally…

Lucien leans again a glass case housing an old relic, his hands covered in blood and the tip of his blade scratching at his nail. There’s at least a few dozen of these glass cases littering the room, an old passion of Winston’s, and quite the point of pride for him. Some artifacts locked away here are worth a lot of money. Frowning deeply, you stall, drilling holes into his figure.

Lucien knows you’re here but doesn’t acknowledge you right away. He continues humming, seemingly set on finishing the tune before his head dips lazily in your direction.

“Run along, Mr Wick,” he says bluntly, his face splattered with blood. “This is between me and the viper.”

The man beside you makes a small sound at the back of his throat, near disbelieving, but you cut him off before he can speak, still staring at Lucien, “Go, John,” you say calmly. “He’s right. We have unfinished business, as do you.”

John’s stare burns into the side of your head but you don’t explain further than that. This is not his fight. You’re no longer in need of his shadow and in need of his protection.

Still, he doesn’t move right away, and you hear him audibly inhale as if he needs to say something but can’t force the words out.

You’re about to repeat yourself but he finally steps to the side, taking a path around Lucien and the dead guards. His gait is slow. He’s practically staggering because you can sense his reluctance but the fact that he listens does make you feel a tinge of satisfaction.

A part of you wants to look towards him as he disappears down the hall but you don’t.  

Lucien peers at you with a strange little smile on his face all the while, waiting till John’s footsteps fully retreat until his limbs shift. He’s still smiling faintly but you’re in no urge to finish this, so you’re fine with letting him play his games, waiting and watching.

“Had your fun?” you wonder, bored, gesturing towards the dead men at his feet.

Lucien cranes his neck, pushing away from the glass with a swiftness that makes you tense. He chuckles at your reaction, stepping over them like they’re nothing more than dirt under his boot.

“Oh, that was just a little warm-up,” he says brightly that faint, unsettling smile still lingering, and you can’t help but wonder what his deal is. He seems awfully cheery. It makes for a strange contrast to your last few run-ins. And his previous words, implying his own looming demise. “You kept me waiting. Don’t tell me you’re getting slow.”

Smiling, you too move in his direction, limbs relaxed, a peaceful hush over your body. “Are you hoping to talk me to death?”

“Now, now,” he mutters icily. “No need to be quite so rude. I just want a dance.”

Your smile splits into something bleaker, more cold-blooded, and you circle each other. Pale blue light dances across Lucien’s sharp features. A snap of jaws, a growl—there is something animalistic about the wordless exchange between you. Something brittle, a string being yanked upon repeatedly until one of you finally gives in.

Lucien leaps first.

Your knives are short, certainly not created for duelling but the clank of metal pierces the air as you both meet in the middle. Your exhausted muscles snap, tensing, coiling.

He swipes his elbow in your direction but you duck just in time, a whistle of wind tickling your temple.

Arms twisting, you both ignore the screech of metal, you punching him in the jaw while he gets you in the ribs. Gasping, you stagger back, ignoring the numbing pain. Time has dulled the memory of how hard he manages to hit if the hits land.

Lucien springs towards you again, his face contorted, lips stretched back. This time your arms are tucked at your sides and you greet his attack. Your knees knock but you manage to push him back. A swipe of your blade is your reply but he careens out of the way and you kick at him instead. He catches your knee, staggering back from the impact, and he grins at you wildly. A slight cut against the corner of his mouth bubbles up, spilling blood over his front teeth. It paints the white bone canvas with diluted scarlet.

“You didn’t answer my question earlier,” he says conversationally, and you try to sink your knife into his chest but he shoves you back. You stumble but stay upright, exhaling shakily at the pain across your ribs. “If he missed you.”

Ignoring him, you roll the blades between your fingers, drooping lower as you unleash one quick swipe after another.

Lucien lurches backwards, his expression tightening in concentration. He manages to stay out of the way, just barely. So you push him backwards till you’re back by the bodies, and the man drops to the floor so suddenly you’re left staring at empty air until your mind catches up.

He rolls across the floor, a blur of his golden hair and dark clothes the only visible thing, and you realise a second too late as to why.

A blade lays by one of the dead men covered in blood as well. You have no idea how he managed to take down three men with a minimum of two katanas at their disposal. But there’s no time to contemplate that because this time you’re the one throwing yourself backwards.

Lucien swipes the katana in a deadly arc.

His hair mused, face bloodied and a grin on his face, he gazes at you for a second. Your grip on your blades constricts.

“I wondered for years what was so special about you,” he reveals mildly, tipping his chin upwards, pulling the blade closer towards his body as he stands. “I fucking hated you, viper. Viper. I suppose that’s one of many titles for you, isn’t it? John Wick’s protege, the Vipress, the Italian’s whore, the Russian’s Viper, Lady Camorra. Honestly doesn’t your head…hurt from it all? Or does it add to your ego?”  

He spins the katana in the air, rolling his wrist—experienced and at ease, the blade like an extension of his arm. Your senses pinprick at that assessment, knowing he just made this much harder for you.

“Did the way he used to call you his desert viper make you feel powerful?” he wonders suddenly, tracing his index finger up the curve of the metal. “Gave you a sense of importance? It must have felt thrilling to be such an exception to the most powerful man in the world.”

Something inside your chest stills.

Lucien drags his eyes in your direction, watching you closely over the edge of the blade.

“My, you really do have no idea, do you?” he continues slyly, his expression slackening with amusement; malicious, wild kind that causes you to bristle. “None. Your life is, ah, what is the expression again? A hot mess, non? Oh, snakey, I thought you could be the one to teach me a lesson I failed to learn all those years ago, but your ignorance is truly disappointing.”

He cuts the air with the blade, lowering it back to his side, and you bite out a chilly, “What the hell are you talking about?”

He tuts, wagging his index finger in your direction, his grin fluttering like he’s trying to contain a laugh bubbling inside his chest.

“I kept telling you but you just don’t listen, do you?” he wonders with a click of his tongue. “I told you we were the same. Forged by the same violence. Alike in ways you failed to understand. Now, why do you think I would say that?”

You don’t respond, instead, you push yourself backwards, launching your full mass at him. Lucien greets you with a chuckle—a cold, hollow sound, teetering on manic just like the rest of him—his katana managing to absorb the impact of your shorter dual blades.  

“Tokyo, Chicago, Prague, the Albanians, the summit, us—did you really think it was all, what exactly, one funny coincidence?” he asks jovially, and a distinct chill sinks into your bones at his words, forcing you to pull yourself backwards, and dive for the other blade on the ground.

He lets you. Doesn’t bother trying to stop you, and you grip the handle in a knuckle tight grip, creating some distance between you once more. Again, he lets you, examining you with a dark but curious light gleaming in his eyes. Like you’re a lab rat he’s conducting a study on. His question rattles through your head and you squint at him.  

“You never even questioned it, did you?” he continues, his voice airy with disbelief, a joke that seems to entertain him endlessly. He’s lost interest in the fight between you for a moment, prowling across the gleaming floor but in no hurry to attack. This, clearly is more important to him. “The water, the tunnels, the darkness. A repeating pattern. All carefully put together to test you. Over and over and over again. And you exceeded his every expectation. Every challenge thrown at you, you triumphed. And even if you did wonder at the back of your mind, you never once were made to believe that someone else was pulling the strings all along. Think, snake. Think.”

You’re not sure if you’re still breathing.

What…

No…

No, it doesn’t…

It’s not possible. It…can’t…

Your head is empty and you gasp for breath but your lungs feel blocked, your throat locked.

Lucien attacks in a blur.

You just barely manage to muster up the speed to block him, a piercing screech of metal against metal. Your arms buckle under his strength and he kicks you, catching you in the gut. One, two—

A muffled curse slips free, everything spinning, and he grabs the spare blade in your hand, throwing it away.

Parrying for control, you attempt a punch at his head but it’s too slow and sloppy. He catches your fist, bending your arm at a sharp angle. You relax it as per your old training to avoid broken tendons or bones. The katana slips from your hand and you growl under your breath, your free hand managing to form a fist.

A punch to his gut hits him quicker than a snake bite. Brutally efficient, impacting the exact same spot you gutted him only weeks prior.

Lucien grunts. Swears. His teeth gleam, still tinged by blood and you feel his hot breath on your face. Death and decay and—

You’re too misbalanced that you don’t notice it fast enough.

Lucien kicks you in the stomach with enough strength to send you flying.

A second of weightlessness enfolds you and then comes the crash.

Glass shatters upon contact and you muffle a cry of pain, feeling glass explode and rain down around you. Hitting the floor with a deafening thud, you stay there for a while, everything ringing and blurred around you.

A feeble moan escapes you, pained and strangled.

You attempt to shake your head, your fingers twitching against the glass covered floor.

“Tokyo was just the beginning,” Lucien’s muffled voice sounds like you’re underwater and you groan, weakly tilting your head to spot his approaching legs. Glass crunches under his boots and you try to desperately block out his words. “He’s always been on the lookout for new members to join his inner circle. Best of the best. And he’s always paid close attention to poisoners like you. Tokyo was just a nudge to see what you were made of. But you didn’t break and it escalated too far. Do you know what the Elder did after you escaped? Why you never heard from Kishi’s little group again? It wasn’t because of Wick. It was because the Elder had the entire clan killed. Just that easily. Because they disobeyed him.”

“No, no…”

It can’t be true.

It can’t.

He has to be lying. It doesn’t make any sense…

Except…it does.

“Did you never ask yourself why Tarasov didn’t simply turn you into another whore or sell you?” he demands harshly. “Later, I imagine, it was a certain degree of fear of you. But initially, it was because of the Elder’s will. Even if all Viggo Tarasov knew back then was that the Table willed it so.”

You focus on your core, trying to get yourself to move but Lucien speeds up his approach, kicking you in the stomach.

Pain blinds you and you roll across the floor. Your forehead connects with the glass, your left eyebrow splitting on impact. You don’t realise it at first—not till numbness is replaced by a sensation of something wet trailing down your face.

Droplets of fresh blood hit the crushed glass beneath you, and you crawl ahead with a pained gasp.

“Next—and my personal favourite—Chicago,” Lucien narrates loudly, his voice echoing through the large space. You hear him behind you but utter shock wins out, locking your limbs, leaving you a frail mess on the ground for him to prey upon. A part of you wants to roar, another wants to cry. Your training battles against the yawning abyss you keep slipping down with each horrifying word. “Who do you think fed the father-son wonder duo their information? Why do you think you were taken to an underground facility that was spitting image of Tokyo? Why not just kill you and D’Antonio outright? Boutin thought he was getting a special task but the truth was that he had long since outlived his use. The Elder fed both Boutin and his son to you to see what you would do. Black Dragon and D’Antonio were just pawns to hide the real test.”

The highway. The way they just kept attacking but not trying to kill you. It was to see how long you will last.

You want to be sick, a dry heave bubbling past your lips, every word crushing you harder, harder, harder—

“And, once again, you did perfectly but not without a loose end,” he sneers, venturing closer, step by step, as is savouring your reaction. “He also knew that the fear of being found out will make you more compliant. Wasn’t it peculiar that he summoned you right after you returned to New York? It’s almost like he…knew. Well, he did. He always has.”

Biting your tongue, you try to push yourself up on your elbows.

Ignore him, don’t listen, don’t—

“Prague. Again. Poison that made you struggle,” he reveals, his voice pitching towards impatience now. “The syndicate that took your Italian had no prior conflicts with Camorra and for a reason. Another test and punishment. More pieces for you to remove.”

Santino was taken for no reason. Right after your return from the desert. Cognitionis had no former alterations with Camorra up until that point. They were far too small to ever risk the wrath of a powerhouse like Camorra. They hadn’t even made demands which struck you as so odd back then but you had chalked it up to them wanting to prove a point.

A poison the heir was poisoned with was sophisticated and took some time to reverse-engineer. So long, in fact, that Santino nearly died.  

“Albanians. Same thing,” Lucien voices harshly, punctuating every word. He’s gotten so close that when the second kick comes the pain is distant, muted. Because what he’s betraying is so, so much worse. “It wasn’t Camorra that started the conflict. It was made to seem that way. Tarasov was cautioned to keep a close eye on you. To a point he forbade you from helping Camorra, right? And what did you do after that, snakey?” he demands, bending down and yanking you upwards by the back of your neck.

He pulls you towards him and more blood trails down your face. Lucien’s narrowed eyes search for something in your expression, and he smiles faintly when he spots it. “That’s right. It’s all starting to click, isn’t it?”

Tarasov forbade you from helping Camorra, from helping Santino. It was the first time you ever talked back to him. First time you ever conjured up enough courage to do so.

And then, furious and upset, you ran. Straight to Casablanca. And nearly back to the man who always expected—knew, he fucking knew, planned for it—for you to come back to him.

It’s what he wanted from the start and it would have been your choice.

No forced loyalty.

You will always lose, and it will always lead you back to me.

Oh God.

If Santino had come just half a day later you won’t even be here right now. You would be with him, at his side, and none the wiser to this truth.

The terrible, dark truth of what loneliness can do to someone.

“I even told you it was him,” the man holding you whispers, his head dipping to one side when he drags his fingers over your face, wetting them with your blood. “You just don’t remember, do you?”

His disappointment is once again palpable.  

Except while you’re staring at the cutting lines of his face, a recollection does come.

The warehouse. You tied to a chair. A needle stuck in your neck as Lucien leaned his body over you. The scathing bewilderment at the fact that he has managed to find something powerful enough to knock you out for hours. Those thin, pink lips shaping words while whatever he injected you with coursed through your veins, and a name you didn’t catch.

The Elder sends his regards.

Lucien’s fingers sink deep into the skin of your neck, his expression clouding with rage the longer he gazes at you.

“You were his favourite,” he seethes bitterly, ripping you upwards and on your knees so quickly you’re left scrambling. Your legs drag across the glass shards and your hands lock shakily around his, trying to rip out of his grip. “No one after you was good enough! We trained until our bones broke. We could bleed ourselves dry, and it still wasn’t enough!”

Shódigan.

That’s why he asked if you knew about it.

You thought you did but—

He flings you ahead and your body slides across the gleaming flooring, leaving a trail of blood behind. Lucien follows, stalking closer, and squats beside you, this time yanking you upwards by the collar of your shirt. “He adored you,” he adds with a hiss, his fury scalding your skin; an old, festering resentment. “And now you’re paying the price for that adoration.”

He exhales with great difficulty, taking several moments to reign in his temper.

Now, you understand his obsession with you perfectly.

He is like you.

He was a candidate too.

He must have been.

Another face in a long line of candidates for the coveted disciple position.

This time when Lucien speaks, his voice sounds contemplative, “Though I suppose you should thank him too,” he states forcefully light. “One day you will be remembered as a legend, just like your Baba Yaga. He helped to forge you into what you are today.”

You’re too numb to feel anything else.

There is just a hushed sort of silence ringing through your head.

Undeterred by your lack of response, Lucien goes on, wiping at the blood on his face, “You know there is an old French saying: qui se resemble, s'assemble. Can you guess what it means?” he doesn’t wait for your answer this time, either. “Every man loves well what is like to himself. You are each other’s dark mirror. His counterpart.”

He giggles this time, grabbing your face, his fingers cutting into the flesh of your cheeks, and for the first time since he started his speech, something sparks in your gut.

Shock or not, your body is failing to respond but you battle against it, silencing your mind.

Hurt and betrayal slam like an overloading flood against your composure despite your best attempts to stay afloat.

You’re such a fool.

Such a lonely, naive fool.

So desperate to believe.

Hope.

Just like he was.

Lucien is right.

You and Elder are two broken halves of a mangled whole.

The same man you once saw as a chance for redemption, belonging, is the architect of the majority of the pain in your life.

One day, if you still wish it, I will tell you everything.

Everything. This is what he had meant by everything.

He ordered Winston’s death not because the manager broke the rules but because he wanted to remove your main tie to New York—the very tie that made you choose to leave him in the first place.

And John would have been the one to fire the bullet.  

You would have hated him for the rest of your days for taking the manager away from you.

Santino is still weak and so very easy for the Elder to dispose of right now.

The Lovers. Their mission to hunt you both down.

Another test for you, another tie cut if they succeed in killing Santino.

And you would have crawled to him on your hands and knees, hoping for his kindness once again. Heartbroken and alone with no one to turn to.

He would have won and you would have made it easy for him.

So very easy.

Lucien drinks in your tiny, wet breaths and glassy stare. Blood continues dripping from the cut against your eyebrow and you shiver in his hold.

A tear trails down your cheek and you can’t process a single thought. It’s too much, it’s…  

“He always feared you would find out,” this time his voice is softer, emptier, and the hollows that make up his eyes examine you shrewdly. “But it’s a fitting punishment. To care for someone so deeply, to desire them, only to live with the burden of knowing that you are the reason for their suffering.”

His fingers tremble, sunken deep into your cheeks, and another off-tilter laugh tickles from the back of his throat.

“I really did hate you, your shadow, for years. Until those tunnels,” he murmurs, his faint accent just a little more notable then, his grip easing, loosening. “Until I saw how much darkness lurks under that mask of calm. How much hate festers inside you but directed at the wrong people. I told you we were one and the same. You should have listened.”

He shakes his head, blonde strands brushing over his forehead, his mouth stretching into another beaming smile, all teeth.

Lucien lets you go and you drop the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

That’s all you are—comes the sinking, gutting realisation—a puppet for others to use and play with.

“He will kill me for what I’ve done to you,” Lucien announces, sounding like he’s made peace with that grim fact long ago. “But you know it’s funny, snakey. I always thought I would enjoy this more. Getting back at them by betraying his secrets. Seeing that realisation on your face. That crumbling hope and despair as your world unravels and crashes around you,” he says softly, near lovingly.

It must have taken him years to gain this level of trust, to learn this information.

You don’t move a muscle. All you can see are Lucien’s legs but you can feel him staring down at you.

The blonde tsks under his breath, nudging you with the tip of his boot but you don’t react. “You want to deny it, I know you do,” he begins purposely, and you suppose he would know, won’t he? “But you can’t. Because I bet every single thing that’s never made sense about your life before now suddenly does. Am I right, snakey?”

Your fingers tremble and you press them closer to your body.

“Looking at you now, I almost pity you,” he muses and there is a distinct note of uncomfortable surprise in his low voice. It almost makes you ponder just how large the line between this lucid Lucien and his insanity really is. “You’re just a little tragedy, aren’t you?” he adds thoughtfully.

Little tragedy. Little tragedy. Little tragedy.

It echoes.

You wonder, then, what you would have become had you been allowed to stay a girl. If you didn’t have to become a monster. Even though the monster kept you alive, kept you breathing and fighting.

What would you have become if you hadn’t been robbed of a future you could have had?

“Your life is not your own, it never was.”

Deafening, hollow silence follows that statement. Your heart thuds so painfully inside your chest, a part of you waits for it to stop on its own.  

Lucien’s boot settles against your waist again, pushing you onto your back.  

You stare up at the ceiling above you and count the beats of your heart.

The assassin straddles you unhurriedly as if expecting you to fight back but all you do is blink slowly.

Everything is rushing through your head right now. Every moment over the last seven years.

His fingers brush over the curve of your neck and he stares down at you with an almost rueful expression on his face.

“What a waste,” he starts tightly, followed by a long pause and he mutters something in French under his breath. His fingers settle around your throat—not squeezing, simply gazing down at you. “I knew it would crush you. But I hoped for that rage. For the abyss. For you to show me once and for all what I lacked that you had. Your lesson.”

So that’s what that was about.

“We might have been friends had we met sooner, serpent girl.”

His fingers constrict—

“My—”

Your voice cracks and Lucien’s grip relaxes instantly. The thin line of his eyebrows knits in confusion. “Quoi?”

Gulping a painful breath, you part your lips, “My…lesson,” you croak out, tasting blood on your tongue and how fitting that you should. “My lesson…I have the answer.”

A certain light devours his gaze, and although his features drop with surprise, his eagerness is tangible.

He leans closer, and over you, his fingers still around your throat, “Tell me.”

Your tongue feels heavy and dry inside your mouth, an acrid aftertaste coating it, and Lucien jerks his fingers harder around the fragile column. He presses closer, his body weight pinning you down—

You jerk your body, a blur of your arm, a gleam of a dagger in the artificial, cold light. The Elder’s dagger in your hand trembles but gushing scarlet coats it still.

“I’m faster.”

Lucien gapes, his mouth parted. He convulses, his grip on your neck slipping, and you lurch your hips upwards, throwing him off you.

He drops to the side, right beside you, unmoving but the heat of his body still warming you—and you clutch the dagger tighter between your blood-stained fingers. You press it to your chest and lay there till time becomes nothing.  

BC4 BC5.

Years ago when you escaped to Casablanca, eager to start your life over and join the Elder once again, Sofia told you something that has stuck with you ever since.

Sometimes you have to kill what you love.

You’ve thought about that a lot over the years. What exactly she had to sacrifice to have the power she now possesses—her daughter, flesh and blood, and good.

What you may have to sacrifice one day to earn your freedom.

Now, you suppose, none of that matters anymore.

Not really.

You’ve almost won your pyrrhic victory, Kishi purrs happily at your side, and you hear the subdued rumble of Tarasov’s laugh too, soon you can savour the rotting, sweet taste of it on your tongue.

The rooftop terrace door slams open, and you step onto the patio, halting the heated conversation with your arrival. There is an unsteady sway to your limbs that doesn’t escape anyone’s attention—John’s shoulder’s slump, Winston’s eyes narrow, the Adjudicator simply arches an eyebrow—but your expression remains steely.

The fire roars behind Winston and Charon—and it is, admittedly, a massive relief to see them both safe and unharmed—even if it makes you think how close you came…

No.

None of that now.

You’ve lived through worse (have you? liar, liar, liar, Kishi coos) and you give them a forced, fragmented smile.

“Mornin’.”

The Adjudicator grimaces subtly, and you know it’s likely because your injuries leave your smile bloody. Good.

“The Vipress,” the Adjudicator greets, standing to their feet. “I must express my apologies on behalf of the High Table. It does, indeed, seem like the general order in regards to you has...changed.”

They don’t look particularly happy to admit that but this is no time to goad, if you even could muster up the strength for it.

Instead, you stare blankly in their direction for a beat. “Excuse me,” you say, your voice a grating whisper, as you push past them. “Killing your lackies has made me thirsty.”

You shoulder past them, avoiding contact, your eyes momentarily jumping to Winston who stands right behind the Adjudicator, his stare cautious. Your eye contact lasts no more than a scant few seconds but it’s enough.

It’s a split second in which you grab a glass of champagne, ignoring the other snacks on the table.

You turn to face them, finding them all in differing states of confusion or uncertainty but offer no explanation as you drown three large gulps.

“Let’s get on with it, then,” you phrase bitingly, not bothering to hide the impatience, the sting of bubbling acid and, and… “I would like to have breakfast and take a shower. It exhausts a girl, having to take down armies. Hope you can appreciate that at least most of mine are in one piece. Less blood for you to wipe,” you comment idly, directing your words at the Adjudicator.

Coldness lurks in their regard, and you can tell that their opinion of you is less than savoury.

You don’t give a shit what they might think of you.

Every word slips past your lips on automatic; mindless, void syllables that feel drained of life. It’s an effort to register anything around you.

The blood, the champagne, the bubbles tickling your nose.

“While you have been pardoned of your crimes,” the Adjudicator resumes smoothly, clearly eager to get the conversation back on track and out of the way. “I’m afraid no such thing has happened with Mr Wick. A man who has shown no loyalty, no regard for the rules. It is by that logic the Table’s decrees that the punishment should fit the crime.”

Winston hums loudly, his head tilting as he nods in absentminded agreement.

You take another sip of your drink, frowning at the taste of blood in your mouth. Fitting, somehow.

You might have scrubbed yourself clean of blood before coming up here but it still stains the cracks of your skin. Cuticles stained with red, mouth stained with red.

Red, red, red…

John straightens at those words. He looks beat from his own fight but remains quiet. Yet, he can no doubt sense that something’s wrong.

“You’re correct,” Winston states, no affliction to be found in his voice and he steps closer, pulling something from behind his jacket. “Sorry, Jonathan.”

BANG

The gunshot is like a thunderclap through the too still morning.

John’s body jerks with the impact, a gasp sounding a second later, and you look at him while Winston steps closer.

BANG

John scrambles backwards, his bulletproof clothing absorbing the impacts but it won’t get him far.

“(Name)!” he calls out desperately, pained, his eyes seeking your form out, his voice cracking and splintering.

You can’t help and wonder if he’s scared. He sounds scared. There is something ironic—downright hilarious—in the knowledge that he’s facing death yet calling out your name like it may prove to be a salvation.  

It’s the first time since you asked him not to use your real name that he uses it. But you don’t move. Don’t respond to the plea for help. Mercy.

You just stare at him, indifferent and cold, knowing that even if you tried you couldn’t muster up any emotional response right now.

Winston fires again, and again, and John veers towards the building edge, his knees shaking.

The manager’s expression remains vacant, cold, and he shoots again, no hesitation in his aim. Not a single falter. It’s one of the most well carried out executions you’ve ever witnessed.  

John’s back hits the ledge and you watch in near slow motion as he tips over the edge falling at least twenty floors down and towards the concrete below.

You hear the metallic bangs as he hits a few fire escapes on his way down but still don’t move.

Then, impact so loud it splits the air.

Then, stillness.

The typical buzz of New York City waking up resumes. Time restarts and goes back to its natural flow once again.

Throwing your glass back, you drown the remainder of the champagne, licking your lips twice, yet blood still lingers.

Winston lowers his arm, approaching the edge but the Adjudicator gets there first. Charon is only a step behind them, and you force yourself to move after them as well.

The Adjudicator gazes down for a long, assessing moment, silent. Their head turns towards the manager who meets their probing stare flatly.

“I assume we’re done here?” he questions.

The Adjudicator inclines their head and, predictably, switches their attention to you. “You did not help him.”

A fact, not a question, yet it demands an explanation all the same. Your tongue moves on automatic, forming words that taste brittle.

Everything feels brittle.

“Why would I?” you wonder dully. “He betrayed me not so long ago, and nearly killed the majority of my friends less than a week ago. I learned my lesson.”

Chuckling, you turn your back to them, walking away leisurely. The glass clangs back onto the coffee table, a shriek of a sound. “I have served. I will be of service,” you echo the mantra pleasantly, faint with scorn.

Every word bleeds venom through your heart.

You don’t face them again, and no one stops you. The terrace doors slam shut behind you, and it’s a deafening bang that reverberates. You force yourself to put one foot in front of another. Keep walking, keep walking, keep—

It’s a blur, your feet dragging behind you. You’ve stopped bleeding but still have to halt at one point, leaning your palm against the corridor wall to rest.

You’re teetering and—

Your life is not your own, it never was.  

Your room sits untouched. The door opens with a click that’s like a kiss against your hair—so soothing and loving, comforting in ways that you could never quite explain.

The table is still an organised mess; notes half-unfinished, empty vials, dried ingredients—all littering the wooden surface, and you approach it slowly.

Exactly as you left it before you departed for Rome.

It seems like a lifetime ago now.

Everything is the same here, frozen in time.

Except nothing is the same.

Your fingertips trace over your notebook; a new formula, a collection of improvements on old ideas, scribbles that don’t make much sense to anyone but you.  

Your legacy. Your work.

This room is a testament to who you are. What you have become.

A tragedy.

Not a legend, or a fighter, just a tragedy of a girl.

A sound escapes you at that, strangely wounded, and you lean the heels of your palms against the table edge, your vision blurring.

Tragedy, tragedy, tragedy.

A puppet stitched together by different hands, influenced by different people.

You’re a product of someone else.

Every victory from your past sours and cracks with that realisation. You must have made him so proud.

You hate this room, this table, these plants, yourself.

This time a scream rips from the back of your throat. A brutal sweep of your hands wipes the table clean, everything plummeting to the floor with a booming crash.

You destroy everything in your path. Glass explodes, paper rips, liquids spills. You’re panting, sweating, and shaking by the time you come back to yourself. The floor is a mess, the whole room is.

A glint catches your notice when you spin on your heels, and your head snaps to the floor-length mirror across the room.

You don’t recognise anything about the bloodied, tear-stained, wild reflection that glares back at you. A monster is all that stands there. Alone and devoid of everything.

Distance evaporates between you, and you slam the hilt of the only weapon you still have left into the glass. The Elder’s dagger shatters the mirror upon contact. Cracks fracture your face before the mess crashes at your feet with another ear-splitting echo.

That uses the last tendril of strength left in your body—perhaps your very soul.

Your knees fold under you—and it’s almost soft, your crumbling.

Weightless and empty you settle on the floor.

Tears stream down your cheeks, hitting the crushed glass in front of you but you don’t wipe them away, don’t make a single sound. You can’t.

Your forehead lowers between your knees, your hushed sobs the only noise permeating through the peaceful room.

You don't get back up.

B4.

. . .

AN: 

well. 

now you know. 

not sure how many of you are even around to read this but a fun game to play now that you're done:

- reread COA from start to finish, noting every use of "honoured guest" in relation to V spoken by her enemies throughout the years, even the elder himself.  

[nutellaneedsanap]

Almost a Dream

Jason awoke with a start, the senses he honed as a street kid warning him that something was wrong. It wasn’t a noticeable shift, something a more normal person wouldn’t notice, but to a person with his training it was glaringly obvious. The slight shift of the blankets, the dip of the bed…a quick peek confirmed what he already knew. There was someone else in his bed. The blue-eyed boy kept his eyes lightly shut, feeling the warm body next to him shift ever-so-slightly. Discreetly, he opened his eyes and peered at the figure that appeared next to him, gauging her threat level. 

She was a smaller girl with blueish-black hair, likely of asian-descent, and a wiry-muscular frame not unlike Dick’s. Deciding that she was asleep, (therefore not much of an immediate threat), Jason went to move, planning on getting Bruce. He had only just begun to sit up when she pounced.

She gave no warning before lunging forward, giving Jason’s throat a quick jab that left him gasping for air. Taking advantage of the moment it took for him to catch his breath, the girl grasped his hair at the root and brought his head down on her knee. A telltale crack sounded throughout the room and internally, Jason groaned. 

“Ahhh, Alfie’s not gonna be too happy about that.” His voice had a slight lisp, another sign pointing towards a broken nose. His assailant scrambled to get off the bed and backed towards the balcony, her hands quickly touching her ear lobes. She did not seem to like what she found, her face quickly settling into a scowl.

“I don't know who you are or what you want from me,” she began, settling into a (rather good) fighting stance. “And I don't care. I will be leaving and you will not stop me.”

Jason looked at her, grasping his nose that had begun to leak a small trail of blood.

“What the hell?” He wasn’t screaming but he sure wasn’t whispering. 

“I’m not exactly sure how you do things in France, but I'm pretty sure most parents teach their children to not break into someone’s house, sleep next to them like a weirdo, and then break their nose!” 

There was a chance that the bluenette couldn’t understand him(there was no shortage of immigrants in Gotham), but Jason hadn’t learned more than basic French yet. Technically, learning the more common languages was a part of his training as Robin, but he had kind of forgone those specific lessons. And why would he put in all that time and effort learning French when he could be reading more books from the Manor’s library?

She blinked at him. “What do you mean, I broke in? I apologize but sir, you are not pretty enough to pretend to be so stupid.”

The black-haired boy blinked right back. He may not know French but he does know an insult when he hears one, so he fires one back. “Well fuck you too.” 

The girl scrutinized him, her expression screaming “Is that the best you can do?”

“Oh? You want to go? Fine. My middle finger salutes you and your assholeishness. Calling you an idiot would be an insult to those who truly worked hard for the title.” 

She stuck her tongue out at him. 

“There is a special place in hell for you, ya know that?”

The girl cocked an eyebrow. “I’m aware there is a special place in hell for me, it's called a throne. And those are bold words for someone who literally kidnapped me, but go off I guess.” 

It didn’t take much more for the pair to dissolve into a screaming match, the bluenette yelling in French and what he thought was Cantoneese and Jason using more than a few of the Spanish phrases he had picked up from his dad and other folks on the street. Jason was in the middle of one of his more strongly worded combinations when the door slammed open, Bruce and Alfred standing in the doorway.

The both of them took a moment to examine the situation, Alfred accessing Jason for injuries while Bruce switched on the Batglare™. “Who are you, and how did you get here?” 

The poor girl looked exasperated. 

“I don’t know how I got here!! Last thing I remember was collapsing into bed and the next thing I know I wake up to the face of this,” she pointed at Jason, “creep who doesn’t even have the decency to talk to me! I keep on asking him how I got here and why he took me but he just won’t answer. He’s pretending that he doesn’t know French, but who in Paris doesn’t know French?!? I  mean, sure, there are immigrants, but who the hell would immigrate to Paris nowadays? What with Hawkmoth akkumatizing people day and night.” 

She paused before flopping down on the floor, dejected. “Today was supposed to be perfect, the day I finally got my soul mark and got one step closer to finding my soulmate, but no, I just had to get kidnapped the night before my 16th birthday!” She put her face in her hands and her shoulders began to shake slightly. 

Jason looked from the girl back to Alfred and Bruce. “Is she?” he mouthed, thoroughly bewildered. Bruce exactly as Jason felt, while Alfred’s face was twisted into something that resembled pity and understanding. 

“Master Bruce, may I have a moment with you?” Bruce sighed and turned to leave. Not wanting to be left alone with the now sobbing girl, Jason followed.

Alfred handed Jason a handkerchief for his nose before he began. “Masters, this young girl has been through quite the ordeal and I will not have either of you using your vigilante intimidation tactics on her, understood?” 

He waited until he got a nod from the two of them before continuing. “Good. You know, Master Jason, I read a very interesting book recently about Kate Goodwill and her studies on soulmates. And before you ask, Master Bruce, I do have somewhere I am going with this. The book was absolutely fascinating, the theories, the experiments, simply everything. However, the one thing that stood out to me the most was Dr. Goodwill’s research on the different types of soul bonds, specifically the one that she and her wife shared. Her research was kick-started because no one had heard of their type of soulbond before and it had caused quite the panic for both the young girls and their families.” He paused, making eye contact with Jason. “Their soulbond caused the younger of the pair to teleport into their soulmate’s bed in the middle of the night on their sixteenth birthday.”

•••

Marinette was not having a good day. First, Mlle. Bustier assigned her to work with Lila, Lila of all people, for the end of the semester project in summer school (which she was attending due to her absences as Ladybug and Lila was attending because she was constantly absent for “charity work”), then in the middle of the night, Hawkmoth sends out 1 and ½ akumas (long story), and now she wakes up to find that she was kidnapped by a psycho in her sleep? What the actual FUCK?!?! Where was Tikki’s luck when she needed it?

And ok, sure, she wasn’t necessarily proud of how she handled the situation, but she was under a lot of stress, ok! She woke up in a random kid’s bed with no earrings and no Tikki. And yeah, she probably could have done without antagonizing the boy, but it was so easy and fun to get him riled up! How was she to know that the yelling would bring scarier other people? Ok yeah scratch that she probably should have figured that out herself (I mean the boy obviously had money so it makes sense that he’d have more people around his house) but in her defense she was like, really tired.

She glanced at the closed door that the men had just exited, wiping a few stray tears from her face. 

“If only I had Kaliki,” she mused. 

But no matter. She already had the beginnings of an escape plan forming in her head. I’ll just need a handkerchief, a piece of twine, and maybe a hairpin to pick the lock on the balcony door, but then how would I get out of the property? A house with a room like this must have crazy security measures… She went on like this for a couple of minutes, formulating her plan before she checked out the window. Three stories up...could normal civilian Marinette survive that jump? I would transform, I still have my earrings, but without Tikki I can’t... She went on like this, thinking of different plans and contingencies. The bluenette was so lost in her head that she almost didn’t notice when the three re-entered the room.

“Miss,” the older man who looked like a butler began. “I deeply apologize for the earlier behaviour of Master Jason.” He gestured to the now apprehensive boy who gave her a little wave. “He has not yet learned French and had no way to comprehend the situation. I was able to hear both sides of the story, and I believe that there has been a large misunderstanding. You were under the impression that Master Jason kidnapped you, correct?” Marinette nodded, more than a little confused. “Master Jason was under the impression that you had snuck into his bedroom in the middle of the night.”

“So what are you suggesting, someone put me here without either of us knowing?” I swear to all things holy if this man accuses me of lying…

“I am getting there, Miss. I assume you are familiar with the soulmate story of Dr. Kate Goodwill?” Marinette nodded yet again. 

The man took a deep breath. “I believe this is a similar situation, and that the two of you are soulmates..”

Her jaw dropped. “You mean I...we...what? N-no way.” 

She racked her hands through her hair. She... she wouldn’t overlook something like that, right? You were supposed to feel a sense of belonging the first time you met your soulmate and she...had kind of felt that. The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. From a logical standpoint, it would explain so much! Why he spoke English, why Tikki wasn’t with her, why her earrings weren’t on… Her face turned crimson as she realized the full implications of the statement. She turned to face the newly named Jason.

“Oh Kwami I’m so sorry Jason! I didn’t mean to, I swear, I was just so surprised and kind of scared and oh Kwami, the first time I met my soulmate I broke his nose and called him every name that I knew,” she smacked herself on the head. “Only you Mari. Oh gosh I totally understand if you never want to talk to me again I’m probably the worst soulmate in existence I just-” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the two adults leaving the room.

“You can speak English?” Jason exclaimed, looking equal parts amused and exasperated. “You spent this whole time yelling at me in French and Cantoneese and you can speak English? So much of this could have been avoided if you had just talked to me!”

Marinette gave a nervous chuckle. “Uhhhhh, surprise?” 

At his incredulous look, she rushed to elaborate. “Well I thought we were still in Paris and no one has immigrated to Paris in literally two years so I thought that you knew French and the choice to speak English was conscious? Like maybe it was some weird interrogation tactic or something? I don’t know, I was just confused.”

“You thought I kidnapped you?” He whistled through his teeth. “Yeah, I can see why you reacted the way you did. No worries though, my nose isn’t too horribly fractured and I probably would have done the same thing.” They both chuckled. 

He has a nice smile, Mari noted. (She wouldn’t know until much later, but Jason thought the same about her laugh.)

“I think we should start over.” Marinette held out her hand. 

“Hi, I’m Marinette Dupain-Cheng. I live in Paris, France, today is my birthday, and I think I’m your soulmate.”

Jason smirked, holding out his hand. “Hello Marinette Dupain-Cheng. I’m Jason Todd-Wayne and I think you are my soulmate too,”

They shook, and that was that.

The End.

Bonus:

Jason: You know, Ethiopia can wait for one more day.

Marinette: It can wait FOREVER.

Bonus 2:

Alfred: Would you like to stay for dinner?

Jason: Would you like to stay forever?

[laequiem]

Careful whispers

/ Elain notices shadows moving in her room, so she decides to see if they report back to Azriel. They do. It's porn, y'all. 2.5k words.

this was... supposed to be short... and not angsty. oops.

Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses

Pairing: Azriel / Elain Archeron

Rating: Explicit (see ao3 for more specific tags)

Word count: 2,739

These days, Elain's thoughts keep spiraling to the brush of a wing against her neck as she kneels gardening and the soft touch of scarred fingers against hers when he hands her a glass of wine over dinner.

read on ao3 • masterlist

These days, Elain's thoughts keep spiraling to the brush of a wing against her neck as she kneels gardening and the soft touch of scarred fingers against hers when he hands her a glass of wine over dinner.

What has gotten into her? She who was so against the idea of a male is now longing for a fae's blood-stained hands.

As her hand travels south towards her aching core, she does not think of Graysen's noble fingers. Even with her gardening calluses, she finds she needs more to scratch the itch. She runs her hand over a heavy breast, angling her finger to run a jagged nail over its peak.

A soft moan escapes her. The effect definitely works, she can imagine his fingers instead of hers as her hand dips lower, under her nightgown.

As Elain circles the bud at the apex of her thighs with two fingers, she curses herself for her inexperience. A centuries-old fae male would surely know what to do better than she can. As she spent most of her teenage years at the cottage, sharing a bed with her sisters, she did not have the opportunity to explore self-pleasure. Only when she met Graysen did she entertain the idea, once her family had moved to the house Tamlin paid for.

Graysen, who had taken her maidenhead.

Graysen, whom she was supposed to now be married to.

She does think about him, sometimes, but it has become rarer. Nowadays, her thoughts are mostly consumed by cold hazel eyes and muscled brown skin.

Her fingers—too small, too delicate—travel southwards still as her thumb lingers on the bundle of nerves.

As she dips two fingers in her heat, she whimpers his name.

Azriel.

She knows it is wrong, but in all her virtue, even Elain is not immune to the call of forbiddenness.

Eyes closed, her other hand clamped over her mouth, Elain rides her hand with vehemence.

In the darkest corner of the room, shadows shift excitedly before disappearing, running to their master.

-

With Nesta and Cassian rutting in the House day in, day out, Azriel has a lot of trouble sleeping. He tried earlier, when his shadows had gone to sleep, but all he could think about was the stench of their lust. So he resolved himself to work until exhaustion drags him to sleep.

Maaaaas~ter.

His shadows should not be here at this hour. He would be worried something had happened, if not for the way they singsong their title to him. They had been his only friends for years. Just like he learned to hear them, he learned to read their mood. And this tone only means one thing: mischief.

Maaaaaaster!

Two of the shadows are curling around his neck, writhing with delight as they try to get his attention. Farther away, spread in all the dark corners of his room, others are snickering.

What.

You should go to the seer.

He straightens and gets up. Alone with his shadows is the only time he would let his fears show so blatantly. Did something happen to Elain?

The shadows curling around him giggle together.

No.

More shadows approach him, crowding at his shoulders. Some start pulling at his hair, snickering as they dance around the strands.

The fawn sings your name in the dark.

Go to her.

You will thank us later.

That's enough. I told you to never spy on her.

Come with us.

Before he can protest any more, shadows crowd him, casting him in total darkness.

In the blink of an eye, he finds himself transported to the River House, standing in Elain's room in only his underwear.

Busybodies.

His shadows did not even bother to hide him—they winnowed him right to the only light source in the room, in a ray of moonlight coming through the window.

Azriel is immediately hit by the musky scent of arousal, mixed with Elain's usual scent of jasmine and fresh bread.

Cauldron boil him alive.

-

Now that he is here, Elain has lost all bravado she previously felt when she noticed the shadows moving in the corner of the room.

Her hand stills. The idea of putting on a show had turned her on earlier, but now that it's real, now that she can hear his breath catch as he notices her, she flushes.

She pulls her nightgown back into place.

How long has passed since he appeared? Seconds? Minutes? Neither of them speaks.

Finally, Elain looks at him. Her blood rushes downwards as she takes in his toned body, the mighty wings, and, through his silken underwear, the… attentiveness of him.

Her whole face warms up, cheeks tingling with the telltale sign of a blush. Get it together, Elain, this isn't the first naked man you've seen.

No, but it is the first naked male.

She gathers her courage enough to finally drawl, "do you always send your friends to spy on me?"

"No." She swears she can see his throat bob. "They disobeyed. There will be consequences."

Her toes curl at his tone and, even if they're hidden under the blankets, he chuckles. He knows—of course he knows. He might be the quietest member of Rhysand's court, but he notices everything. It's no wonder that, when she sits up, his eyes track the strap of her nightgown hanging off her shoulder.

"Everyone is asleep," she says simply, letting him gather the meaning from her obvious statement.

"Your mate is—"

"I don't care."

"He might… hear."

Elain grabbed the hem of her nightgown and slowly lifted if, baring herself to him.

"Then, I suppose you'll have to silence me."

Azriel holds himself with preternatural stillness, gifted by his fae heritage and honed by centuries of training. His eyes follow one leg, savouring every inch of the skin she usually hides away. When his gaze reaches her mons, his chest rises in a deep breath.

He takes a careful step towards her. Maybe he is giving her time to reconsider, but Elain feels more like a cornered animal—he walks to her like a predator approaching prey, moving as though she would flee at the first sound.

Elain shifts on the bed and opens her legs for him. At the sight of her, bare and swollen with want, Azriel pounces.

Elain's only other experience with sex had been quick and to the point. It had been magical, in a way that having your first time with your first love can be. It had been soft, with a lot of kissing and grabbing until he positioned himself on top of her and entered. After a couple of minutes of inexperienced thrusts, Graysen had finished and Elain fell asleep in his arms.

And so, when Azriel dives straight between her legs, she gasps. Azriel lets out a primal groan as he parts her with a broad stroke of his tongue. Elain cannot get herself to look at him and the depravity of seeing his dark locks between her legs.

He devours her like a starving man, his skilled tongue swirling around her bundle of nerves in tight circles. It quickly becomes too much and she bucks her hips, unconsciously denying herself release. A strong hand pins her back down to the mattress, holding her there as his tongue quickens its ministrations.

Elain looks down at him only to find those gorgeous hazel eyes staring right at her. He is all tousled hair and dilated pupils, no expression on his perfect face. His other hand slowly trails up her thigh, raising her leg towards her torso as it goes. Soon enough, his hand reaches her center and a broad finger teases at her entrance. As he swirls the tip of his finger slowly, stretching the tight skin, Elain wimpers.

Slowly, Az works his finger inside her. The sound is positively obscene, her wetness mixed with the lapping and sucking of his mouth. Azriel's finger finally bottoms out, and he angles it up. The feeling is strange, but not unwelcome—and before she can even understand what is happening, mind-numbing pleasure ripples through her. Her body jerks, held in place only by Azriel's hand on her abdomen. His trained tongue escorts her through her orgasm, slowing as the wave dies down. To her surprise, however, he does not stop.

Elain is panting, her vision filled with stars, but Azriel continues his work. With every flick of his tongue on her nub, Elain's hips jerk and her legs twitch. The sensation is overwhelming, almost painful.

"Azriel," she whimpers, "I can't—"

Azriel pulls away from her and shifts on the bed to lay on his side next to her.

Bringing his mouth to her ear, he whispers, barely more than a breath, "you can."

"It's too much," she cries in response.

"You can," he raises the hand that was resting against her abdomen, bringing a finger to her lips, "but you have to stay quiet."

The rasp of his voice combined with the lust in his eyes set her body ablaze. She nods shallowly, trailing her gaze down his body. He looks like a work of art, a carved statue of marble—his muscles glistening in sweat, his perfectly carved face and the length of him straining against his silken underwear.

Azriel's hand starts rubbing her again, gently, and Elain parts her lips at the renewed contact. She hears him sigh, clearly restraining a groan, when his fingers find their way to her entrance again. This time, he teases her with two fingers. With his other hand, he mirrors the movement to her mouth. As if by instinct, Elain parts her lips around his fingers and takes them in her mouth, twirling her tongue around the callused pads.

"Good girl," he purrs.

Azriel rewards her by plunging two fingers in her, curling once again towards that spot she cannot comfortably reach on her own. His thumb circles her bud in tandem.

Soon enough, Elain feels the coil inside her tighten, and she tumbles off the edge again. Her back arches as she comes violently—she might have accidentally bitten down on Azriel's fingers—, her hands desperately clawing at the sheets to anchor herself to reality.

When Elain's head stops spinning and she lays on her bed panting, she sees Azriel get up.

Elain narrows her eyes in confusion as his shadows start to appear around him, preparing to winnow him into the night. Suddenly, she is filled with insecurity. Is she not what he was expecting? She has been wanting him for weeks, months, and she thought… well, she would never assume to know what he wanted, but it had seemed that they wanted the same thing. From the stolen glances and the rare jokes they shared only with each other, she had presumed he felt for her like she did for him. Yet now he was readying to leave without a word.

"Wait—"

The shadows dissipate again, the sound of her voice enough to send them away.

If this was all he wanted, Elain could live with that, but something about his demeanor made her stop him. The way his eyes dart away from her, the way they stare blankly at nothing instead, the droop of his wings.

"What about you?" she asks softly.

"Don't worry about me."

"It's not fair. For you."

"I can take care of myself." His voice is cold and detached. "You've gifted me plenty to do so."

Gifted.

It hits her then. Ever since he winnowed in, his eyes have been filled with lust. He stared at her mouth, but he never kissed her and barely even touched her. It felt as if it was a piece of himself he was not yet ready to give—or a piece of her he felt unworthy to take.

He plans to go back to the House of Wind and take care of himself in private.

"Can I… watch?"

-

Azriel was not one to care about religion, but thinking of Elain always made him feel like the filthiest heretic. And so, tasting her felt like spitting on the Mother herself. Touching her, with the same hands he used to torture a Hybern rebel just hours ago, surely tainted her with his sins. Even in his most indulgent fantasies, he never let himself go further than tasting and touching her.

He would not dare think himself worthy of being in her.

But neither was that pathetic waste of breath Graysen.

And Lucien.

Lucien.

Just the thought of him watching impassively as Feyre wasted away in that manor—

"Can I… watch?" Elain murmurs.

Azriel's eyes widen. He feels his cheeks heating, and by the smile appearing on Elain's beautiful face, he knows he must be blushing brightly.

She is not yours. The Cauldron does not want you together.

The Cauldron never gave him anything, only pain.

Her mate is here. He will know.

Her mate did nothing to deserve her.

She does not want her mate.

It does not matter what Lucien wants, Elain has made it clear she wants nothing to do with him.

She wants this. Indulge her.

She shouldn’t want this. She deserves so much more. Yet...

Azriel nods once, barely visible, then sits on the edge of her bed.

Tentatively, he runs a hand over his clothed length. His calluses catch against the silk, but he keeps going. With Elain looking at him, the familiar shame that rises in him whenever he touches himself multiplies ten folds. He shuts his eyes tight against her gaze and immediately his other senses seem to pick up her presence even more. The smell of her arousal and floral perfume, the sound of her heart thundering in her chest, the taste of her that lingers in his mouth.

Az squeezes his cock, the fabric acting as a buffer between the scars of his hands and himself, and strokes it from base to tip. Images swirl in his mind, more vivid than ever before. One light stroke, she is on her bed with her legs spread, so utterly unaware of how many times he had imagined this exact scene. He strokes himself firmly as he remembers her soaking sex, the taste of it as he drank his fill.

As his mind plays out the view he had from between her legs, his hips buck. The mattress shifts next to him, but he pays it no mind. He sees the way her breasts heaved as she restrained herself from making a sound, feels her legs twitch around his head. He rubs his thumb over his glans, feeling the moisture seep through his underwear. The way Elain had sucked on his fingers, her warm mouth surrounding him, is sure to be his main fantasy from now on. The way her lips parted for him, and he wanted nothing more than to kiss her.

With his eyes closed, lost in his fantasies, he had completely forgotten Elain’s presence until he felt something brushing the inside of his right wing. His eyes snap open, immediately turning his head to see Elain, kneeling inches away from him. How far gone had he been, to not notice her? She is so close, he can feel her breath on his wing.

Elain looks at him guiltily, as if his reaction made her regret touching him.

“Lower,” he tells her. He hisses quietly as she lets her hand brush against the thin membrane of his wing. “Trace the scar.”

Azriel shudders as Elain runs her fingers over the scar, once, twice. The pace of his hand is punishing now, and when Elain scratches her nails against the sensitive scar, Az erupts. He keeps stroking himself as he spends in his underwear, the oversensitive pain punishing him for his depravity. He keeps going until tears prick at the corners of his eyes and overstimulation threatens to make him whimper.

For a long moment, they sit there in silence; Azriel with his eyes staring right ahead, and Elain looking at him. There is still no sound in the house, thank the Mother.

“We should… do this again,” Elain says tentatively.

“We can’t.”

Az gets up. He calls his shadows and they quickly come, gathering around him.

“But—”

“Good night, Elain.”

The room disappears and Azriel is back at his room in the House of Wind. He lets himself fall face-first on his bed and groans.

How can he possibly stay away now?

[sumsebien]

by design prologue // Prince Friedrich

series masterlist

summary: y/n and friedrich find out who exactly they are betrothed to

word count: 2,6k

warnings: bad parenting

a/n: this is the 5th time i have rewritten this how crazy and has been changed 3 times since i posted that sneak peak :)) i am nuts. also, i am running out of gifs so i am working on a collage i promise

When Friedrich Wilheim Ludwig was born, his father had asked his advisors to draw up a route. Friedrich would study in Prussia, marry a Prussian lady and ascend to the throne as a true son of this great nation, like all of his predecessors.

What he did not plan, however, was that his wife, Frederica had no intention of continuing that tradition. Frederica had other plans for her son. She wanted Friedrich to be the man he wanted to be, not the prince or the king that his father wanted him to be.

She did everything in her power to teach her son just that. Before anything, he was a human being first. Not his title, not the heir, a person.

The King, had he stayed at home for more than a day, would have seen that Friedrich was shaping into a different man than his father had envisioned. He was independent, easygoing and humble.

When the King did realize it, it was too late. It was the summer before Friedrich was to enter a prestigious Prussian university. His aunt Charlotte came to visit with an invitation for his son to study at Cambridge. The King laughed, there was no way his son wanted to go there. Then the next morning, Friedrich had gotten everything ready to go, he was dead set on Cambridge.

There was nothing more the King could do.

The next thing he knew, his son wanted an English wife. It was a complete disaster. And it was all his incompetent wife’s fault. “Let him live on his own. Get all the reckless impulses out,” she said. Stupid women.

“My love, whatever is bothering you.”

The King looked over to his side, meeting the eyes of his mistress. Sweet Bernadine. She was the only thing he looked forward to all day. “Friedrich. He’s not accepting any of the women he was supposed to marry.”

“And why, may I ask?”

“Because they are not his type. Nice sensible Prussian girls. What is wrong with him? He asked me for a deal. Ridiculous!”

“Maybe you should agree.”

“That is the most absurd thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Is it?”

What the King was going to find out was that Bernadine had a sister who became a Duchess in England. And she had all the gossip sources in the world. She knew absolutely everything about the ins and outs of the ton and she had a beautiful daughter, unwed.

The English girl his son had been eyeing was already in love with someone else. And Friedrich did not seem like the type to force her into a marriage against her will.

If he took his son up on that deal, he’d win.

...

One can count on many things in life. For the ton, it is that grief will not put a stop to Lady Trowbridge’s annual balls. The recently widowed lady’s celebration seemed to be even more flamboyant than when her dear husband was still alive.

And even more scandalous.

Last night, the Incomparable of the season was seen changing her horses in midstream.

To refresh your memory, dear readers, Miss Bridgerton caught the eye of the Duke of Hastings at the beginning of the season. However, for reasons unknown, the Duke was hesitant in asking for her hand, letting Miss Bridgerton slip from his grasp into the hands of a Prince. Our most promising Debutante was then seen exclusively with the Prince of Prussia-the royal suitor of our dreams at balls and promenades for the whole of last week. It would also appear that the Duke had moved on with Miss Y/N Y/L/N, daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Clarence and heiress to their lush family fortunes.

There were talks today that both men might even take their final steps in securing a ring on their ladies’ fingers by the end of the night.

Miss Bridgerton did emerge from the Trowbridge estate engaged. But not to whom we thought she would. It was the Duke of Hastings that captured the heart and hand of the Diamond of the Season. Miss Y/L/N and Prince Friedrich were both left empty-handed.

This Author is seasoned enough to say she is not easily shocked by scandals nowadays. However, that is not to say the events that transpired last night didn’t raise her eyebrows.

Yours truly,

Lady Whistledown

...

“Your Highness. Pst. Your Highness!”

Friedrich sighed, turning over in hopes silence would return to him. He had just fallen asleep finally. It couldn’t possibly be morning already.

“Your Highness.”

The voice grew from a whisper to a normal speaking voice which was too loud for someone who was hoping for silence. He peaked open one eye and closed them again after he recognized the familiar face of his valet, Heinrich.

“Not now. I am sleeping.”

“Your Highness, it’s urgent.”

“It can wait until I wake up.”

There was a pause. “It’s your father, sir.”

Friedrich sighed. “Then it can definitely wait.”

Getting out of this bed would be to accept the truth. He should have known that his father would always get his way. But that was definitely for later. Right now, sleep.

Friedrich waited for the sound of footsteps and the click of the doors so that he could finally get the peace he was aching for. But it never came, which meant: ”Why are you still here, Heinrich?” he mumbled into the pillow.

No answers came.

Friedrich groaned and sat up.

Of course, Heinrich was still there. At the sight of the Prince finally giving in, Heinrich rushed to open the blinds but was stopped by the hand Friedrich raised. “If you want to wake me up and listen to what my father has to say, you’ll leave those curtains alone.”

“Very well, sir,” Heinrich nodded, folding his arms behind his back and cleared his voice. “Your betrothed is Lady Y/N Y/L/N, daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Clarence. Your father also asked that you confirm a couple of details for your wedding at Sanssouci Palace.”

“I am not getting married at Sanssouci.”

“Sir, I don’t think that’s wise.”

“Heinrich, I will not look at his smug face when he sees that he has won. I will get married here.”

“But you leave today.”

“Then I will marry before I leave.”

Heinrich had been his valet ever since he moved to England. At first, Friedrich thought Heinrich was spying on him and reporting all of his activities to his father. But after one incident which involved a very drunk Friedrich, a lost key, Friedrich trusted Heinrich with his life. They had even grown to become close friends.

“Very well, sir. I will get the carriages ready.”

Before Heinrich left, he placed a small stack of paper on the desk, telling Friedrich to read it. There were numerous types of documents, all on the Lady Y/N Y/L/N, his betrothed.

Friedrich flipped through as he continued on with his morning routine.

Highborn. Excessively rich. The typical lady of the ton. So far there was nothing that gave Friedrich a reason not to dread his future. Because there was probably nothing. He thought bitterly.

When Friedrich suggested the deal, he didn’t think he’d lose. If Friedrich found himself a wife by the end of the London season, he would get to marry her. If he did not however, his father would have every right to intervene.

How hard could it be to fall in love?

As it turned out, it was not. It was quite simple. He met her, spoke to her and knew. He loved her the moment she laughed ridiculously loudly at his compliment. Her hair, her eyes and of course her laugh which very much alarmed the Queen. She wished to have a large family, like he always wanted as a kid but never got. She was wonderful at conversations. She was perfect...well she would have been perfect, had she been in love with him.

Now, he had lost both the girl and control of his fate. He was now doomed to live the rest of his life with a choice made by his father. Someone who was definitely pretentious, incurious and worshipped titles-everything his father wanted in a wife. Friedrich knew his father would have done anything for his mother to be like that. He felt fortunate that she had never been and never would be one of those things.

Now he could only hope his future children were going to be half as lucky.

...

You were stirred from a dreamless night of sleep by the click of the doors. Truthfully, you hadn’t been sleeping that well these past few days, even the slightest of noises could wake you. You prompted yourself up on your elbows, seeing Olivia-your lady’s maid at the door. She peeked her head in, only coming in when she saw that you were awake.

“Do you have my Whistledown?” was the first thing you asked.

It had become your custom. Your mother wouldn’t let you read the words of that vile woman, lest you learn from the actions of those scandalous ladies. She always acted as though she was above gossip when the entire ton knew the centre of her existence was the scandalous tales told behind the curtains at Madame Delacroix’s fitting room.

Olivia handed you the papers and rushed to your dresser, digging for a dress. “You must be quick. They are asking for you in the drawing room. I told them I was coming to get you.”

You immediately jumped out of bed, knowing your father’s temper all too well. “They’re home again?”

Olivia nodded. “Another cook has been fired. I am scared I might be next.”

That was odd, to say the least. Everything around the house had been a little off lately. Normally, from the moment you woke up until afternoon tea was served, you had all the peace and quiet to yourself. Both of your parents usually left by this time, your father was with his business partners and your mother with Madame Delacroix and her gossip sources. A couple of household staff had also been sacked. It was probably because your father had been even more quick-tempered lately.

Or could the events of last night be the cause?

You knew they were disappointed when you came home without an offer from the Duke of Hastings. But the season hadn’t ended yet. There was still time to consider your other suitors. Besides, it was absolutely no surprise that his heart had belonged to Miss Bridgerton. The dances and the flowers he gave you were nothing more than politeness and perhaps to sooth the jealousy he felt seeing his love with another man. A Prince for that matter.

You got ready quickly, racing down the stairs. At the sound of your footsteps, your mother swung the door open and tugged on your wrist.

“Quickly!” she spat and gave Olivia a glare before closing the door in her face.

Your father sat with his eyes closed, barely breathing. He was completely still, almost statue-like.

“Darling,” your mother chirped, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder as if to send some life into him. He opened his eyes. Dull grey, stern and void of hope or happiness.

You knew this look. It had been the source for all of your childhood terror, the look of disappointment and ominous news.

“Get ready. You’re marrying the Prince of Prussia.”

You choked back a breath, feeling all of your blood draining from your face to your neck. You felt like you were burning but at the same time freezing cold. You couldn’t say anything. Not just because you were speechless. You were not allowed to. The only thing you could do was nod, say ‘yes, sir’ and do exactly as you were told.

You were their only daughter.

Throughout your childhood, your father made no attempts to hide his disappointment in you. And your mother was always too afraid to ever do anything. She couldn’t give him another child so they had to learn to tolerate you. They would rarely take you with them anywhere. It was as though you had never existed. You’d always feel proud after finishing a piano piece or after a painting was fully colored but they never cared. For a long time you thought that all parents acted this way, that it was normal. It wasn’t. Other parents took their children to the park, bought them puppies when they succeeded. For you, it was your job and you got no pay, no praise. Nothing. Ever.

You accepted that because there was no other way. And at some point along the way, you stopped looking for their approval. It didn’t mean that they stopped having control over you though. If you wanted a peaceful life, you had better obeyed.

...

Friedrich pulled on his gloves as they made their way quickly into the abbey.

He hated being late and he was late. They were running behind schedule too. Had Friedrich not squeezed a last minute wedding ceremony, he would have already left for Prussia by now.

Needless to say, there was no time for a traditional ceremony. They were getting in and out of the abbey in half an hour or else they would have to wait until tomorrow for another ship.

At the end of the aisle, Friedrich was greeted by his father’s old friend and his future father-in-law, the Duke of Clarence. The man was the picture of a typical aristocratic Englishman with his hair styled neatly, a cane in his hand. Next to him was the Duchess of Clarence, a lanky woman with hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes. There was an air of intimidation about them. Friedrich did not know enough to be afraid of them, though, he could imagine most of the ton were.

“Welcome, your Highness. It is a pleasure to see you again.” He bowed his head. “You’ve certainly grown since the last time I saw you at Sanssouci Palace.”

Friedrich only smiled. He did not remember ever meeting the man at all but did not mean to be impolite.

The Duchess spoke in a sweet voice, extending her arm towards the door. “Well, come, Y/N! We shouldn’t keep his Highness waiting for long.”

Friedrich felt his throat closing as his heart picked up its pace. It wasn’t the good kind of nervous butterflies one got from being near their beloved, it was anxious anticipation for his fate to be revealed.

From behind the archway came a beautiful young lady. He recognized you. You had briefly met before at the Salisbury ball before but never engaged in a dance.

“My Lady.” Friedrich bowed his head.

You were a little distracted, as if you did not hear him at all. He smiled, about to greet you again when the most bizzare thing happened.

Your father cleared his voice and flicked his cane against the skirt of your dress. That snapped you right out of your daze, your eyes lowered immediately as you bent your legs into a curtsy like a well-oiled machine. “Your Highness.”

Friedrich could not believe his eyes.

He turned to Heinrich to find his friend’s eyebrows tipped inwards. So it wasn’t just him who saw the strange way your father treated you. Like some kind of circus animal.

Friedrich nodded to you but kept a close eye on your father. The man smiled when he caught Friedrich staring. But there was something eerie about it. His mouth stretched into a smile but his eyes stayed stern.

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[cheesyficwriter]

idk if you have, but i would love to read prompt #1 from list 5 <33 thankssss ily

Hey there anon! Thanks for the lovely first kiss request 💜 hope you enjoy this take!

Prompt #1 - “Have you ever kissed anyone before?”

Making It Count

Kissing someone for the first time is always exciting and nerve-wracking. It’s an intimate act that you should only share with someone else once you are absolutely ready. 

15-year old Hermione Granger touched her lips instinctively. She had yet to experience a true kiss like the ones she read in books or seen in movies. Of course, she was a realistic person and was vastly aware that life wasn't as perfect as those depictions often perceived. Real life kisses were probably awkward, especially for first-timers, and especially if it was with the wrong person. 

There was Viktor Krum last year. He had pecked her once lightly on the lips just after the Yule Ball. It was hardly a kiss, not in the way that truly counted anyway. She refused to let that particular encounter be deemed as her first, real kiss. 

If you're unsure what to do, the best advice is to set up the scene. Pick a time and a private location. Ideally, you will probably want to be alone with the person you want to kiss. 

It was a Tuesday night. Nothing particularly special about the date or time, but it was the location that peaked her interest. She was on prefect rounds, often ducking her head into secluded classrooms to check for students out past curfew. The corridors were quiet and bare. 

Make sure that the other person you're with feels comfortable with being alone with you. 

She walked side by side with Ron Weasley, her best friend of many years. They were alone together quite often this year after being chosen as prefects for Gryffindor. At first it was slightly odd, being alone so much with Ron. Before, they were hardly together at a time when Harry wasn't. They were a trio. A pack that moved together. Always. 

As her arm brushed naturally against Ron's arm, both clad in black robes, she felt the spark that trickled through her body. A sensation she experienced on a regular basis nowadays. They were together for rounds several days a week. When they began their duties at the start of term, they practically walked as far away as they could from one another, each claiming a wall on opposite sides of the corridor. With each passing day, that distance disappeared. She hoped she wasn't imagining it all. 

Flirt with them to set the mood. Make sure you're smiling, leaning in, and keeping your body facing the other person to show your interest. 

"So...tell me about how the Chudley Cannons are doing this year."

Ron almost stopped mid-stride to gawk at her. He tilted his head sideways and peered down at her curiously. "Since when are you interested in Quidditch?" 

Hermione jerked her head upwards slightly, but kept her eyes focused on his azure ones sparkling back at her. 

"I've always been interested in Quidditch, Ron."

Ron made a sound that was a half-snort and half-chuckle. "Yeah, sure…" He kept walking briskly and Hermione's short legs were struggling to keep up. Merlin, he moved fast. 

She was just about to ask another question when he must have decided to answer her after all. 

"Well, they're still living by their team motto, I suppose. Let's all just cross our fingers and hope for the best." He grinned and laughed to himself, "If Gudgeon could get his head out of his arse and actually catch the damn snitch for once, maybe they'd win a match…" 

Hermione hadn't the slightest clue who Gudgeon was, but she did her best to politely nod along and show that she was listening intently. 

It wasn't until Ron had paused again, in the middle of the corridor, that she realized she may have been trying to listen a little too well. Ron was now looking at her like she had grown two heads. 

A slow grin curved onto his face. "What is up with you tonight?" 

Hermione tried desperately to hide the flush of pink that crept up onto her cheeks. 

If they're looking back into your eyes, smiling and laughing, it is likely that they are also interested. 

He was still grinning at her brilliantly, his eyes lit up in amusement. All signs suggested that he was in a flirtatious mood, given the way his feet were now pointed directly at her and how he was standing so close to her that she could reach out and touch the freckles on his cheek. 

Behind Ron's mass of flaming hair she spotted an empty classroom. Biting her lip, she grabbed his hand and guided him into the classroom before she lost all of her courage. 

She turned swiftly back around to face him, squealing when her face almost collided straight into Ron's chest. Apparently he was following behind her much closer than she had anticipated. His hands gripped her shoulders to keep her from falling over. 

Lightly touch them on their arm and hold their gaze.

Hermione latched onto Ron's arm to steady herself. "So you were saying, about the Seeker…"

A line appeared between Ron’s brows. "Are we still talking about this?"

"Only if you want to…" She was positive that her cheeks had reddened to a similar shade as his hair. 

He gave her a once-over; his eyes fell down to the hand she still had positioned firmly on his arm. When he glanced back up at her, she noticed that his ears had turned pink and his pupils were dilated. He appeared to inhale sharply as his lips parted.

"Well," Hermione gulped, suddenly aware of the growing perspiration on her palms, "what do you want to talk about?" 

“I...don’t know if I want to talk anymore.” 

His confession elicited the tiniest of sounds from the back of her throat. He was studying her reaction closely, holding her gaze with determined eyes, leaving her so dazed that she forgot what she was even going to suggest next. 

“Me either," she finally admitted in a breathy whisper. 

Hermione braced herself from the inevitable. This is the part where everything becomes awkward and confusing. This is the part where Ron will step back, flush, and exit the room as quickly as possible. They would pretend that the moment never happened. 

Except...

“Can I…" His voice was scratchy, and he had tilted his head, a clear question in his eyes. 

It was then that Hermione became certain that he didn't want to step back. And neither did she. 

His gaze flickered from her eyes and down to her lips. She parted them instinctively, her labored breath now giving away her anticipation. Did she put on lip balm this morning? She couldn't remember, and only hoped that her lips weren't chapped from the dryness. 

“...kiss you?” She finished the thought for him, and his eyes flashed with a different emotion. Perhaps it was desire? 

Hermione didn't have time to dwell, for Ron was already leaning forward, eyes closed. She remembered one more piece of advice. 

Make sure to tilt your head in the opposite direction to avoid bumping noses. 

She did as instructed, letting her lashes flutter closed, inhaling Ron's faint scent of peppermint and chocolate as he drew closer. It made her wonder what kind of pudding he had for dessert in the Great Hall that day…

His lips brushed hers so lightly that they felt almost like a feather tickling one of the softest parts of her face. It was brief, quick, no more than a peck. Hermione let out a surprise gurgle as he pushed back unexpectedly, breathing heavily. 

"Wh-what?" She opened her eyes, crinkling her eyebrows.

"Just...just give me a minute…" Ron placed his hands on his hips and jerked out of her embrace, deciding instead to pace the length of the room. 

Hermione watched him, wide-eyed, blindly confused as to what just happened. Her happiness faltered. Could he be regretting the kiss? It was barely a kiss anyway, and she was definitely not going to let that one be the one that counts as her first experience. 

"Ron…" She called out softly, biting her bottom lip. "Do you - do you even want to kiss me? It's okay if you don't-"

"Bloody hell." He marched back over to her and stood directly in front of her, feet yet again facing forward. "You're driving me absolutely mental, you know that? One minute you're talking Quidditch stats, and another minute you're dragging me in here, doing everything imaginable to distract me and…" 

His breath hitched in his throat and he was now looking at her like a puzzle he was trying to so desperately solve. In fact, she recognized the look on his face. It was one that she often saw him wearing in the common room, out by the lake, walking the corridors during prefect rounds...and every time he was looking at her. Every. Single. Time.

"Yes. Yes I do," he definitively answered. His knuckles were white as he clenched them tightly to his sides. He stood up so straight that he seemed even taller than she had ever noticed before. 

Hermione wasn't nervous anymore. She held out her hands for him to grab and then tugged him forward, resuming their earlier closeness. "Then let's try again, shall we? I think we can do better than that first one."

She initiated this time, standing up on the balls of her feet to reach his face. She intertwined her hands around his neck to tilt his head downward, his hair falling into his eyes. Her heart beat faster and faster as she puckered her lips up towards Ron’s. With a final inhale, their lips meshed together once again, this time lingering long enough to feel each other’s warmth and taste of their skin. His lips were soft, so soft. Tentatively, Hermione parted her lips and allowed herself to sigh deeply into his mouth, taking an unconscious step forward so that there was no physical space left between their bodies. She barely registered Ron’s hand as it trailed up her shoulder, gently pushing her hair back over her shoulders, before entangling his fingers into her hair. 

It was...exactly how she imagined her first kiss, yet it wasn’t. It was more. It was Ron. 

When they finally pulled back a second time, their lips just mere centimeters apart, Ron quietly asked, “Have you-have you ever kissed someone before?”

Hermione didn’t hesitate to answer. “Not in any way that counted...until now.”

Follow up with the person you kissed the next day. Show them that you are interested if you want more. 

Hermione wasn’t quite sure what to expect the next morning, as she hovered by the portrait hole, chewing nervously on her nails as she waited for Ron to emerge from his dormitory. 

She was so lost in thought, drifting in and out of awareness, that she entirely missed his arrival. 

It wasn’t until she felt the warmth of Ron’s hand as he intertwined his fingers with her own that she was transported back to reality. 

Judging by the shy smile on Ron’s face, reality was looking pretty good. 

[loudstan]

Epiphany

A collection of  NCT werewolf AU stories.

Doyoung (pt.1) (pt.2) (pt. 3) (pt. 4) (pt. 5) (pt. 6) (pt. 7)

Summary: The wolf population kept decreasing and those who were left had a hard time trying to fit  into society. Sure, people didn’t consider them as dangerous as vampires, but wolves could still sense some hostility every time they did as much as go for a walk in a public place. Thanks to wolves’ natural magical abilities, NCT (one of the remaining packs) found a safe place among witches in a town where no one knew their secret, allowing some members to finally get a job, study and interact with others without fear of being rejected.

Life seems to finally be peaceful for them… except that wolves have needs, and one of those needs is finding their mate.

Pairing: Werewolf! Doyoung x Witch! female reader

Warnings: future smut

“...How do I break the bond?” you asked him after a few seconds.

“What?”

You sat up and repeated louder, “How do I get rid of this?” 

Taeyong’s heart clutched at your words. This was not how it was supposed to go. For the first time, someone from his pack had imprinted, destined to love someone the universe had chosen for him for the rest of his life, but now Doyoung’s mate was right in front of him, mark fresh on her neck, declaring she didn’t want to fulfill her destiny. She was rejecting the bond.

He cleared his throat. “I’m sure this is not how you planned your freshman year to go, so I understand if you need some time to accept it…”

“I don’t need time, Taeyong. I need Doyoung out of my life,” you heard him whimper at your words, “Him being a werewolf is not the problem, not at all! It 's him. He 's an asshole.”

“His behaviour hasn’t been ideal, I agree,” he almost stumbled over his own words. “But the truth is, no one around us has ever  been through this before. He is the first and he’s terrified of himself. It’s no excuse, I know, but please…”

He kneeled next to the sofa, looking at the floor in pliability, “Please, give him a chance.”

 “Taeyong,” you sigh and he looks up at you hopefully, “He doesn’t deserve it.”

He thought so too, but he was still hoping you would consider it. 

Before all this happened, his biggest concern was if he would ever meet his mate. Now, he was more worried his mate would reject him like you were rejecting Doyoung. 

Looks like the bond does not necessarily lead towards a happy ending.

“There are two ways to break the bond,” he finally revealed.

Doyoung didn’t sleep that night. He had first waited patiently for his leader to come, but as the sky became darker, his anxiety grew. He exhaled relieved and hurried towards the front door when he heard Taeyong arriving.

 “How is she?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper.

“What do you think?” Taeyong spat and walked past him. 

 If Doyoung could feel the tension, it still didn’t stop him from following Taeyong around the house.

 “Is she mad? Oh god, of course she is… What did she say?” he bumped into Taeyong’s back, who had suddenly stopped walking.

The leader turned around, narrowed eyes and clenched jaw. “If you really care, fix this before it’s too late,” he said bitterly, before entering his room and slamming the door.

And there was Doyoung now, sitting on his bed, trying to come up with a way to see you now that the semester was over...except that it wasn’t for those whose grades were insufficient. He still hadn’t graded your last paper, so if your grade didn’t let you pass but was just enough for a supplementary exam, you would have to show up on campus again.

He mulled it over. It was a dick move, but he could just change your grade after meeting you and say it was a mistake. 

He turned his laptop on and took a look at your grades, calculating the exact number he needed and without a second thought he wrote it down in the last empty space next to your name. Now he just needed to prepare what to say and how to say it.

 The next day he went to campus early, as usual, helped the professor finish with some paperwork and took care of the students that had unfinished homework. He checked his email multiple times, reading the neverending pleas from desperate students who  needed to pass the class. None of those was yours.

 The very same routine was repeated the next day, and the day after, for more than a week. You never showed up and he never got to say what he had rehearsed.

 “Mr. Choi?” Doyoung asked casually, like he hadn’t spent a week sleepless thinking about the topic, “Has Y/L/N contacted you? She’s the only one left for the supplementary exam.”

Mr. Choi paused chewing the chocolate donut he was holding and hummed like he was trying to remember who Y/L/N was. “Oh, she did! She said she’ll be taking the course again next year when she feels more prepared. It’s a shame though, I think she is pretty good, but she doesn’t seem to do well in written assignments.”

Doyoung dropped his phone on the table, the loud sound startling poor Mr.Choi who choked on his donut and started coughing dramatically. 

“Next year? I won’t even be here next year…” Doyoung said absentmindedly, ignoring his professor’s cough. 

“Uh...yeah, you’ll be a great lawyer and  I’ll lose the best TA ever,” he said when he was able to breath again.

 Doyoung tried to smile at the compliment. He really did, but his chest felt heavy. He knew this wasn’t about you not being ready for the class, this was all on him.

What if he sent you an email encouraging you to take the exam?

Or even better, what if he sent you an email letting you know your last grade was a mistake and your paper had made him so proud he felt like he wanted to marry you right there?

He considered all those options on his way home, but by the time he locked himself in his room, he knew he would do none of them. 

He was too prideful.

He was a coward.

 Just when he was thinking he wouldn’t see you again, he smelled your scent. It was faint, but it was there for sure, he couldn’t be mistaken. But, why in his house? Could it be…?

Nervously he walked to the door, opened it and looked down the corridor. There was no one there, but now your scent was more intense.

 Slowly, he went to the kitchen, where Taeyong was getting something to drink. He acknowledged Doyoung’s presence with a nod and proceeded to finish his glass of juice. Ever since Doyong had marked you and run away from the scene, Taeyong had barely talked to him.

 Doyoung looked around, but there was no one else. 

Just Taeyong, standing in the kitchen.

With your scent all over him.

“Where were you?” Doyoung asked. 

Taeyong stopped drinking, he put his now empty glass on the counter and stared at it for a second too long.

“Busy,” he finally replied, attempting to leave the kitchen, but halting when Doyoung punched the wall right next to his face.

Doyoung leaned closer to Taeyong and inhaled deeply. The leader glared back at him but didn’t move. He knew very well who he smelled like.

“Why do you smell like my mate?” Doyoung hissed.

“She needed my help with something.”

“With what?”

Taeyong looked at his feet and swallowed. His mouth felt way too dry for someone who had just drank that much juice. “...You should have fixed things with her, Doyoung.”

“I tried.”

“How?”

“I…” Doyoung suddenly realised how dumb it sounded to admit that he had made you fail the class to have you come to him, so he adapted it to a less childish version, “I have been waiting for her at campus everyday for the past week.”

“...That 's all? You just waited for her to go to you?”

“What else am I supposed to do?”

“She wants to break the bond,” Taeyong deadpanned instead of answering that question. “She asked me how to do it.”

Doyoung took a step back. 

“You wouldn’t.”

“Maybe I did.”

“Would you betray your own pack? What a great leader we have,” Doyoung scoffed in disbelief.

“Well, last time I checked you didn’t seem to want her,” Taeyong huffed.

 No. It couldn’t be. He could still feel the bond, so it wasn’t broken, Taeyong was bluffing.

 Beep!

Taeyong’s phone rang from the counter and its dim light caught Doyoung’s attention. 

Doyoung reached for it out of instinct and read the notification before Taeyong could even move. It was a message from you.

Thanks for everything. I’m ready :)

Taeyong snatched the phone from him and read the message too and then glanced at Doyoung who was in pure shock. However, he snapped out of it when he saw Taeyong moving towards the door.

“Don’t do it” Doyoung pleaded , grabbing the other’s arm desperately.

“Doyoung,” Taeyong sounded exhausted, “What else is there to do? You didn’t want her, now she doesn’t want you.”

“Let me talk to her just once, please. That’s all I ask.”

“You won’t convince her to meet you. She doesn’t even go out nowadays.”

“I’ll go to her place.”

“You don’t even know whe-” Taeyong stopped mid-sentence when Doyoung hid his face on his neck and inhaled your scent.

“Now I do, thanks to you,” And without another word, Doyoung left the house running.

Taeyong stood there dumbfounded.What  did Doyoung mean? How would he find your apartm-

“Oh shit, her scent!” he yelled and dialed your number hurriedly. 

[mc-lukanette]

"So... you gotta go today?" Marinette asked during the uncomfortable silence between them.

"Yeah," Luka muttered in reply. "Dad's coming to get me."

"Y'still don't know when you get to come back?"

Deep down, she already knew the answer.

He shook his head. "No. He says that I should go if I wanna be a rockstar like him though."

She already knew that too, as they'd had the discussion multiple times before. When she'd first become friends with Luka, there was a connection there that she wanted to hold onto, and Luka felt the same way about her as well. They played with each other more than any of their other friends, sharing their creative energies ever since day one.

They hadn't expected that to have to end one day, especially so soon. Luka had always been into music, which made the natural next step being a rockstar. He'd initially been hesitant at the idea of leaving her, but Marinette hadn't wanted to hold him back and thus encouraged the idea. It only made sense to get as big of a headstart as possible, so it'd be wasteful to not take advantage of the offer.

Being as young as they were, neither had a great concept of the time they'd have to be apart, but they knew it was a big deal and that made it feel like forever even though Luka hadn't gone anywhere yet. Marinette hated that the atmosphere was so sad when they were supposed to be enjoying their time together, but she couldn't stop reminding herself that this was the last time they'd see each other for some unknown amount of years.

Then, Luka spoke up, breaking up her thoughts. "D-did...did you ever get 'em?"

She glanced up at him, confused. "Hm?" Realization struck a moment later. "O-oh! You still...?"

He nodded eagerly, and Marinette turned to rummage through the little purse she had slung over her shoulder. She felt her fingers touch the little box she'd been searching for, then pulled it to show it to him.

"I-I'm sorry it took so long," she murmured guiltily. "I had to work a bunch for Papa and Maman so I could buy 'em!"

"With money?" he questioned, suddenly baffled. "Y'didn't have to do that..."

"Maybe, b-but I was scared that they'd break too soon if I made them myself, but I swear I made 'em look nice and everything!"

She opened the box to show him, finally revealing the jewelry inside: a pair of promise rings that she decorated herself. She'd had to be extremely careful not to tell her parents what they were for, as she was smart enough to know that they would've said that they were too young; how they weren't even teenagers yet.

Marinette didn't care though, and neither did Luka.

"S-since—" Marinette steeled herself up, then looked at Luka with resolve. "Since you gotta go, you better become the best rockstar ever, okay? And then I'll become a famous fashion designer and I'll spoil you a bunch!"

He was already grinning at the idea, nodding in agreement. "I'll spoil you too and wear all the stuff you make." He giggled. "The girl ones too."

She giggled in return, then turned her attention to the rings. She'd colored hers pink and white while his was blue and black, and Luka held his hand out excitedly for the latter. She was a little clumsy with it, having never put a ring on someone's hand before, but still managed to slip it onto Luka's ring finger. She had previously considered practicing at home by putting her ring on her own hand, but had stubbornly refused the idea, reminding herself that Luka was supposed to put it on her and anything else was wrong.

Luka slipped hers on as well and she admired it, appreciating the white and pink against her skin. It made the situation feel all the more real, which was both exciting and sad.

Feeling the emotions start taking over, she took a breath.

"A-and then we'll get married," she said resolutely, giving him a hopeful look, "and we'll live in a house together, and you won't have to go away ever again?"

It'd been a mistake to bring up the fact that he was leaving, as the thought brought tears to her eyes. He must've noticed too, as he immediately outstretched his arms for her. She dove for him, hugging him tight and not missing how his usually gentle hug was tighter as well.

"I'll miss you," she whispered, silently wondering what she'd do without the person that made her happiest.

He squeezed her tighter. "I'll miss you too." At the sound of her small sob, his voice grew pained. "M-marinette, please don't cry."

She sniffled, then pulled away to look at his face, pointing out half-accusingly, "Y-you're crying too."

His tears spilled over at the realization, and they went right back to hugging, unwilling to pull away until they were forced to.

She just hoped everything would be okay.

—————

Marinette sighed, leaning on the counter and playing with the petals of a nearby azalea. It was one of those days where she couldn't help feeling down, her mind drifting back to childhood where everything was easier and she'd had everything figured out. She'd been so sure about becoming a fashion designer, so famous that she was known by everyone for making the best and most fashionable clothes possible.

Yet, she'd found her way into a flower shop instead. Instead of the grand places she imagined herself going to, she'd gotten a quaint little place that featured flowers over fabric. Her various bouquets had their signature Marinette appeal, but fashion was little more than a hobby for her nowadays.

She hadn't regretted it, at least for the most part. She'd had expectations of the fashion world that simply hadn't measured up to her childhood dreams, and the feeling of selling scarves and outfits to strangers ended up being so much different compared to giving the same exact things to her friends and family. Put simply, it was never meant to happen, and she'd long since grown content with that.

As she leaned further on the counter, trying to be more level with the azalea, a soft 'clink' noise brought her back to attention. She looked down, noting the ring - that her fingers had long since outgrown - dangling from the string of her necklace. Her gaze softened as she brought her hand up to hold it in her palm, gently stroking the surface with her fingers. The familiar white and pink colors had faded slightly, but the memories that came with them had not, and she often found herself lost in them.

To a degree, she knew that it was silly to hang onto it - they were adults and Luka had probably thrown his away a long time ago - but she thought too fondly of her friendship with him, and there was a romantic in her that giggled at the memory of two kids wanting so badly to stay together that they'd marry as soon as possible.

And really, Luka had never truly left her. She'd gained a habit long ago of looking at the ring whenever she felt down, imagining what he might do to comfort her had he been there. Even in her flower shop, there were hints of blues and blacks strewn about the pinks and whites, and the bell that rang whenever the door opened was inspired by how Luka always liked the bell of her parents' bakery (not that she'd ever tell them that it was Luka and not them who made the bell happen, but still).

It was almost like he really did live there.

She sighed, taking the ring in her fingers and turning it every way possible. She hadn't heard from him since the day they'd been forced apart, but she imagined that he was too busy, or maybe just forgot about her. Jagged probably wanted the absolute best for him and took him all over the world to do it, dropping him off wherever for the sake of inspiration. The paparazzi must've found the story extremely boring as well, as she'd never read or heard about him. She couldn't help being amused at the idea that Luka had stayed as sweet and pure as he was when they were kids, making covering the son of Jagged Stone somehow the least newsworthy thing in the world.

Part of the whole "not knowing" thing was her fault. She supposed she could've asked Anarka or Juleka for a way to contact Luka, but the little girl inside her was afraid. Even if their promise meant nothing, she hadn't gone on to do what she'd told Luka that she would while he was still out and about, probably on the other side of the world, ready to make it as a rockstar. She felt guilty in a way, wondering if maybe things would've been different had she somehow convinced everyone to let her go with him. Maybe she could've gotten used to the idea of being a fashion designer, and they would've really been together all that time, and—

Marinette snapped herself out of her daydream, having to remind herself that she was supposed to be working, not reminiscing or throwing out 'what-ifs' that she’d never know the answers to. Letting her ring fall back against her chest, she released a breath and went out to the back to look over all of her flowers. The day before then had already been rather uneventful, with a few random customers here and there, so she expected the rest of the day to be the same.

She was right, for the most part. Time passed by as it always did - a little slow, but she enjoyed her job so she didn't mind - and she was almost ready to go close the shop when the bell suddenly rang.

"Coming!" she called out, jogging out so she could see who her last customer of the day was. She silently hoped it'd be brief, wanting to go home and take a long bath after all the sad thoughts she let swirl around in her head.

Then, she actually saw who it was, and all thoughts ceased. The dim lighting of the shop cast a light on his blue and black hair, his form further illuminated by hints of moonlight showing through the glass windows at the front of the shop.

Luka.

She blinked, her mind finally catching up enough with reality to throw a thousand unvoiced questions. How did he get back without her hearing about it? What was he doing here? Why was he here?

At the last question in particular, she noticed that he didn't seem as surprised as she was, like he'd expected her to be there. His smile was even as warm as ever and just as soft despite his grown-up face.

As if he'd heard what was on her mind, he explained, "Rose said you'd be here." Though his posture was casual, there was a subtle hint of trepidation; perhaps fear that she would be upset somehow at the surprise.

She absolutely wasn't. In fact, her legs finally kicked in and she was rushing around the counter to reach him. There wasn't even time to think about how childish it might've seemed or worry that too much time had passed for Luka to care; he was already outstretching his arms for her, his smile even wider than before.

She collided with him, wrapping her arms around him while he did the same to her. He staggered slightly from her weight being thrown at him, but he didn't complain, and she noted that she fit into him even better than when they were kids. She took it as an opportunity to snuggle into him, inhaling a scent that was different yet familiar at the same time.

"I missed you," she murmured when she exhaled, though it was muffled by his jacket.

"I missed you too," he whispered in reply. "It's been too long."

She squeezed him a little harder, nodding against his chest. Though she had to steel herself up to do so, she pulled away from the hug just enough to make eye contact with him. "Yeah, way too long. I-I mean—" She sucked in a breath as she took him in up close, her hands flying up to cup his face. "Look at you!"

She stepped back to follow her own command, spreading her arms out to gesture at him. "I know it's been so many years so obviously you're older, but you're still you! It's just that you're even more you than before! You're so tall and mature and you got even more han—"

She cut herself off at the last second, though not because she caught what she almost blurted out. She'd been giving him a look up and down while she talked, and her eyes had finally noticed the faint glimmer on his wrist. She looked up at him to ask, but his eyes seemed to notice the same thing she did, only her necklace instead of his wrist.

Pointing, she asked sheepishly, "I-is that what I think it is?"

He glanced up at her, then smiled down at the object in question. Raising his left hand, he showed her the blue-and-black ring in full, which was attached to a band around his wrist. The ring itself was positioned at the front of his wrist rather than the back of it, right below his palm and centered roughly in the middle.

"You kept yours too," he observed softly.

"Oh, um..." She giggled, the notion seeming so much more meaningful now that she knew they'd both kept theirs. "Yeah, I'm—" She glanced down to admire her necklace, but stopped as she realized, "...still wearing my work outfit, oh my gosh, give me one second—"

Utterly mortified and wondering about how she must look right now, she turned to leave when Luka's arm shot out to catch her wrist, as if she'd disappear if he let her leave the room.

"Marinette, it's okay," he assured. Offering her a warm smile, he added, "You're beautiful."

She blushed, the red tint of her cheeks not helped by the fact that he was so blunt and shameless with the compliment. He really meant it and she knew it; Luka never said things he didn't mean.

"T-thanks." Pulling her hand away only to neaten herself up a bit, she smiled back at him and returned her gaze to his ring, eager to distract herself from the smooth comment. She noted lightly, "I thought about wearing mine on my wrist too, but I was always afraid of something happening to it, like I'd reach into something and it'd be gone when I pulled away."

He eased his posture, presumably because she wasn't running away now. Glancing off to the side, she could tell he was reminiscing when he replied, "Yeah, I couldn't really imagine wearing mine anywhere else except for here." He rose his hand again for emphasis.

She tilted her head, not understanding why that spot specifically was so important. Luka was apparently happy to explain it, moving both hands to pose them as if there was a guitar slung around his shoulders. His eyes darted over to the ring itself, and though Marinette couldn't see it due to the ring not facing her anymore, it only took her a few more seconds to realize that he'd chosen that spot because he could see the ring at all times that way.

The blush came back, and she tried to hide it - even if briefly - by turning away to walk back to the counter. She heard his footsteps behind her, but a glance his way proved that it was only to approach the counter itself, not follow her behind it. He was also amazingly calm and at ease dishing out such attacks on her heart, which was both delightful and confusing at the same time; delightful because it was Luka and he was genuine in everything he did, but confusing because...

She scratched her cheek, then slipped her hand down to rub awkwardly at her arm. "S-so, you said Rose told you I'd be here?"

He nodded, seeming unaware of where she was going with this.

She bit her lip, wondering if it made it worse to directly point it out something that was already obvious to her. Nevertheless, curiosity won over and she asked, "You're not... disappointed?"

He straightened, stunned. "Disappointed? Why would I be?"

Lowering her gaze to the floor, she shifted uncomfortably, "I said I'd become a fashion designer, but—"

His snort cut her off and her gaze jerked up to look at him. He immediately raised a hand, wordlessly assuring that he wasn't laughing at her.

"Sorry," he said, calming himself. "Anyway, I know it's not because you weren't able to do it. You just found a song you liked playing better, right?"

She was somewhere between surprised that he knew and amused that his tendency towards music metaphors hadn't gone away. "How'd you know?"

His smile softened. Resting his hands on the counter, he leaned onto it and explained, "I did think back then that I had to be a rockstar because of how much I loved music, but..." He shrugged sheepishly. "I was so young, I didn't even think there was any other option."

Marinette gaped. "Wait, you—you didn't become a rockstar then?"

With an affirming look, he continued, "I felt awful when I finally realized it. I left you to learn how to be a rockstar and I knew I'd be throwing all of Dad's teachings away, but I still couldn't enjoy the life he tried to make for me." He rubbed the back of his neck, almost looking embarrassed. "I've actually been here for a while now. I wanted to see you and Rose was happy to help, but I also wanted to have my life together first, music shop and all."

"Music shop?" she echoed curiously.

"Yeah, I...I wanted to be around music, but not in the way Dad and Mom are." He placed a hand to his chest. "I want to make instruments, and teach people how to play from the heart like I do. I wished I'd known it sooner too, because I can't imagine doing anything else."

It wasn't apparent on his face, but she could tell that there was a vulnerability there that he wouldn't have shared with anyone else. She felt touched, assuring, "I think that's a wonderful dream. Way better than just being a rockstar." Then, she laughed. "It's also way cooler than my reason for getting a flower shop."

"I'm sure it's not," he retorted with a smile. "I always thought you were cool, no matter what you did."

She ducked her head to hide herself, turning shy at the once again blunt compliment. It was as if he'd been making up for lost time when he hadn't been able to bombard her with praise.

She didn't entirely mind it.

"W-well," she began, "it was because of you, actually?"

He blinked in surprise. "Me?"

She nodded. "Yeah, just... even before I realized that fashion wasn't going to work out, I always loved flowers and gardening." She fidgeted, feeling like she sounded lame. "It reminded me of us."

He gaped at her, and she had to pretend not to see it so she could continue.

"You weren't around anymore, but seeing flowers anywhere brought me back to when we'd play on my balcony where all my plants were, or when I'd run onto the Liberty and there'd be all those flowers to greet me." She giggled at a memory of the one time she and Luka had grown a flower themselves; they’d nearly cried when it finally bloomed. "I guess... you stayed in everything I did, even after you left."

When the silence stretched, she tried to occupy herself by resting her hands on the counter and twiddling her fingers. It was only once Luka's hands reached out and held hers that she finally met his gaze again.

Despite the time apart, she could still feel the emotional weight of his expressions. Luka didn't always show a lot on the outside, but she felt it deep in her core.

"It was the same for me," he whispered, and she didn't have to ask what he meant with his ring glistening at her. He breathed up, saying on the exhale, "I'm so glad you haven't changed, Marinette."

Feeling relief and a slew of different emotions overwhelm her, she smiled at him. "I'm glad you haven't either."

They stayed in that moment for a while, and she realized that they really had picked right back up where they'd left off as kids, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. She'd lost a few friends over the years due to growing apart and lack of contact, but Luka was just—always there, no matter how far away he was, and now he was back for real.

He was a constant in her life, and she wanted to keep it that way.

"...Luka," she called gently, needing a moment to gather her resolve. "I—I know I can't spoil you as much as I promised, but... could I take you out sometime? And we could talk more?"

He gave her hands a gentle squeeze, the look in his eyes making her heart do a flip.

"You already spoiled me, Marinette," he assured, "and I'd love to."

She beamed at him, utterly floored by how happy she felt and how quickly all her feelings from childhood had come rushing back, as if no time had passed at all.

It was what she imagined Luka would call "a classic."

[maplecornia]

chapter 31

𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 1.26K

𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢: romance | slice of life | fluff | angst | bts x female!reader | ot7

𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: You watched them from the sidelines ever since you were a young teenage girl. Now you’re grown up, they’ve returned after 2 long years and everything has changed. What happens when you pull back the mask and find the darkness within? What happens when you see that they’re broken?

𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: cliffhangers | angst | fluff | slight mentions of self hatred | depression | mental health illness | self harm | occurs in the year 2024 | set in a timeline where BTS went to the military together | slight language

tags: @kookaine | @fangirl125reader | @kookiebbyxx | @taradevonne | @rae-bear |@mangminnie | @pixiekooo | @cana | @canarystwin

Opening the door to your apartment, you sigh.

It was a long day. The photoshoot lasted longer than you expected, and you didn't even get a chance to reprint your schedule. It was for the best though, you supposed. Namjoon didn't need you to do much of anything else besides assist him while he set up to get some work done.

Biting your bottom lip, you try not to feel guilty that you left him all alone. He said he needed no distractions, but you pray he doesn't pull an all-nighter. Knowing him, however...Glancing down at your phone, you wince at the week's schedule Mr. Sejin gave to you before leaving. He told you that getting a daily schedule would be tedious, and informed you that weekly schedules would be sent to you every Sunday.

As for this week...

They have hardly any free time, especially Namjoon. Filled to the brim with practices, photoshoots, and interviews...you can't imagine what it'd be like when promotions start. He really shouldn't be pulling all-nighters nowadays, he needs to rest now to prepare for the workload that will come his way.

You scoff.

Who are you kidding? Namjoon won't be likely to do that. He's the type to pour out every last of his waking spirit into his work. Even if you did go back to help, you'd probably be in the way. Not to mention the fact he wouldn't listen to a word you say.

Shaking your head, you wonder if your mother felt the same way when she was raising you.

Studying all night, practicing until your voice was sore or you couldn't dance anymore, pushing yourself to the very limit, preparing for your dream...

Swallowing hard, you push the thought out of your mind.

You don't have time for guilt.

Slipping out of your shoes, you advance, locking the door tightly behind you. In the corner of your mind, you wonder if Sunoh is sleeping already. Glancing at the clock, you roll your eyes. If he wasn't, he'd be crazy.

3 am already?

Reminds you of the times you would write till the wee hours of the morning. Creating countless stories and adventures, different worlds and different people, trying to find a way to escape when you had nowhere else to run. When was the last time you were inspired to even pick up a pencil much less write?

"I hate being alone." You murmur, rubbing your face. "I always think too much."

Setting your satchel on the counter island, you empty its contents and come across the contract. Freezing, you slowly pull it out and stare at it.

This is your dream.

So why are you hesitating?

Taking it to the table, you pull out a chair and carefully set it down.

It couldn't hurt to read through, could it?

You wonder why you are so afraid. What he did wasn't even something to be worried about. But when the one you cherish the most tells you you'll never make it, that you aren't talented enough...

He heard your voice and called it mediocre, amateur, and told you to find a new dream. Told you to give up on something you would never succeed at. Told you everything you worked so hard for was worthless. It was unrealistic, it wasn't worth trying.

You'd never make it anyway.

You weren't nearly as pretty enough to fit their standards.

You weren't perfect enough to pass their expectations.

You weren't made for the dream, so you shouldn't be given the chance to achieve them.

Groaning, you try to swallow the lump in your throat, you try to ignore everything you wish to hold back, but you can't.

How?

How could they see that you were worth something?

Obviously, you aren't worth that much, obviously, you aren't that special...

"Why are you hesitating?"

Remembering what Suga said, you wonder at the question yourself.

This is supposed to be your dream, you are supposed to hold onto it no matter what others tell you. No matter what people may think. It's something that's made to be eternal, that won't give up as long as you don't give up either.

Are you afraid?

"Yes. I'm terrified."

But why are you terrified? Why can't you forget the past?

"What if he's right? What if I'm not cut out for this?"

So are you afraid of what others think?

"No."

Then what is it?

You think of everyone who is counting on you, their high expectations. What they are risking for you. You think of the people who came before you, how hard they tried for this chance, just so they can achieve a dream they may never get. You think of your mother, who lost the very same dream and could never achieve it.

What is holding you back?

"What if I let them down?" you whisper softly, as a tear finally escapes its blockade and lands on the very same contract you've been holding in your hands.

You've dreamed of this. Receiving your first contract and signing with a company, ready to become a trainee, ready to be the singer; the performer you've always wanted. You've imagined the scenario in your head, acted it out many times over and over again. This was supposed to be a happy moment, the moment when all your hard work meant something. The moment when you finally took the next step towards your goal.

Inwardly, you want to scream in joy. You want to cry from happiness. But that fear, that blockade of terror, that is the one thing that holds you back.

What if when you finally let go, when you allow yourself to be happy again, it's ruined?

I gave everything to you.

"Shut up."

But you threw it away.

"Stop."

And for what? A dream that will never find its way out of your head?

"You're not here."

It's worthless hoping for something that can never happen.

"You don't know that."

Do you want to be worthless?

"You don't get to dictate my life."

Biting your lip, turn the final page of the contract, and find the dotted line. A line that will sign your life away. A line that holds every dream, every wish, every hope you've gathered in your small wish to be an idol. To sing on the stage, to perform and touch the world with your music.

Your world.

Finding a pen amongst the confines of your satchel, you put the tip gently to the paper and sign your name.

You smile once you do, and hold your hands to your face.

Letting out a small shriek, you let your excitement take control of your body and you allow the euphoric feeling of happiness to spread throughout you. You push back the feelings of doubt, the paralyzing helplessness of terror. For now, that doesn't matter. At this moment, those feelings aren't important.

Who cares about what's to happen in the future?

Would you rather be held back because of things you can't control?

No, this is your choice. This is your life.

You make the choice, no one else can make it for you.

At the harsh ringer of the phone, you jump. Startled, you turn to it from where it sits on the counter and check the caller ID.

One step at a time right?

That's all it takes to be okay again.

To move on.

Maybe it's time you talked to her.

Setting the pen down, you pick up your phone, taking a deep breath before accepting the call.

"Hi, Mom."

she finally called her mom! question, on a scale of 1-10 how angry would your guys' mom be if you ghosted her for this long? 0.o cuz mine would disown me for the longest time.

chapter 32 here

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