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candlewaxandp0lar0ids · 4 years ago

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if I can never give you peace — zero || Jungkook

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Summary: It starts like quite a few stories do, in your world. Girl meets boy, who happens to be a hybrid, girl buys him at an auction where hybrids are sold, boy falls in love with her, girl gets bored of him. Then it’s not so typical anymore, when the boy ends up forced into illegal fighting rings, until he makes a wrong move and the girl’s father decides he needs to be killed.

Where does that leave you? Well, you’re the one who handled Jungkook’s fight and generally organized his life, and, when the girl’s father, your boss and mafia leader, tells you he wants him ‘put down’, you’re the one who has to get it done. Except, instead, you let him escape, and everything turns out fine.

Until he comes back.

Also available on Ao3.

Word count (chapter): 5.8k

Genre: Mafia AU, Hybrid AU, enemies to lovers, heavy on angst, slow burn, eventual smut

Warnings & Tags (chapter): Descriptions of Violence, Tension, Dehumanization and general poor treatment of hybrids

A/N: So I have two modes and those are tooth-rotting fluff and angst feast. This is... not fluff. I hope you’ll enjoy this first installment and introduction to the series, and I will see you soon for the next one!

Your eyes follow Jungkook’s every step as he walks through the crowd and enters the cage that serves as a ring. He doesn’t have to look at you to know you’re watching. You’re always watching. You’re standing in your usual corner, from where you make sure everything goes smoothly. Two tall, muscular men stand on either side of you. They look like they’re your bodyguards, but really, they’re here to handle him if he tries to do something. To everyone in the room but the two of you, this looks like every other fight night since the very first time he came to the Circle.

You’re too far for him to smell you, especially over the crowd of excited, sweaty men, but if he did, he’s sure he would pick up on the bitter scent of anxiety, would hear your heart beating a little too fast. He’d say you’re lucky the guards aren’t hybrids, but he knows that’s not the case. You never count on luck. Everybody knows that. That’s what makes you so good at your job. That’s what might just save his life.

He glances at you, finds your eyes glued on him, and gives you a smirk, which reveals his abnormally pointy teeth for a rabbit hybrid. It’s been over a year since they’ve been sharpened for him, to make him look more threatening. You’re used to them, but he still sees you swallow. For the first time he wonders, vaguely, if you had any say in that. You’re the one he meets with nowadays, but you’re not his owner, after all.

Your eyes leave him to look at his opponent. The man’s taller and has broad shoulders, he seems to have some training based on his on-guard position, and he’s older than him. You couldn’t find many informations on him, but based on his attributes, he’s probably some kind of dog hybrid.

You both know he doesn’t stand a chance.

“On my left,” the announcer roars, “some fresh meat! I give you… Jin!”

There are enthusiastic shouts, and the man shoots nervous glances around him at the crowd all around him. It’s clear that he isn’t used to that type of setting, and you feel an unexpected wave a guilt in your chest. He’s going to get destroyed tonight, you’re sure of it. You’re the one who suggested that Jungkook should fight a newbie, for the show. You don’t regret your decision, but you don’t feel good about it either.

“And on my right! The man who needs no introduction, who has won thirty! Two! Fights in a row, I give you… Jungkook!”

The crowd goes hysterical, and the hybrid facing him winces again. If he thought he had chance before that, it’s clear that he doesn’t anymore. You wonder if he’d heard about Jungkook, if his owners had prepared him well enough, if whoever owned him was betting against him. You wonder if he’d just been told he would be fighting a rabbit hybrid and assumed he would be fine.

Jungkook’s long ears are flat against his head, carefully tucked under a headband, and without those, he doesn’t look like a rabbit hybrid, too tall and broad-shouldered. Then again, he had never really been your typical rabbit hybrid.

Truth was, you had been relieved when you had been assigned to working for the daughter of Mr. Xanders. Your whole life, you had known you would end up here. Your dad had worked for the Family since before your birth, and though it was clear your mom disapproved, she had never held any illusion that you would escape it. If anything, you were the sacrifice, a way of making sure your siblings wouldn’t be forced to work for the most powerful crime family in town. That was, if you did good enough.

Getting assigned to the girl who was nicknamed “the Princess” was both a blessing and a curse. It meant you got to stay away from most of the illegal stuff, as the girl was notoriously sheltered from all of that by her father. However, it also meant that you had to basically babysit the spoiled seventeen years old, despite her being only a few years younger than you. You had dressed as professionally and sternly as you could, adorning yourself in a dark woman’s suit, but she hadn’t seemed impressed.

That was how you found yourself here, at an auction for rare hybrids. You thought the whole thing was grim — oh, how naive you had to be back then, to think this was bad — but you had obeyed orders without batting an eye. You had to do this right, and this was a pretty easy job, after all.

You gritted your teeth silently as various hybrids were brought on stage, exhibited and bought, one by one. The status of hybrids was a complicated subject in the country, always had been, but you had grown up in a poor area, where a lot of hybrids lived freely, and the idea of owning what you knew to be a person made you sick to your stomach. At least the Princess hadn’t said a word the whole time you’d been there, and you had hopes that you would leave without — God — buying someone.

Naive. So damn naive.

“I want this one,” the girl had announced decidedly, pointing at the stage with a movement of her chin.

Shit.

You looked at the stage. There, the auctioneer was highly praising the hybrid who had last been brought on stage. A surprisingly tall and muscular rabbit hybrid, with fluffy black hair and long ears falling on either side of his head. He was shaking slightly, sending terrified looks around him, and your heart tightened in your chest.

Naive and soft.

“Are you sure?” you asked, and the girl rolled her eyes.

“Do your job. Get him for me.”

Numbers flashed in your mind, the exact amount of money you were allowed to spend clear as day. It made you feel a little better, for a second. This was what you were good with; numbers, facts, informations. If you thought of the hybrid as just that — a number, an element to compose with — you should be able to do what you were supposed to do. Do your damn job, and ensure your little brother never ever had to work here, because they wouldn’t be as kind to him.

You took a deep breath, and, after a few people had already considerably raised the price, you made your bid.

Jungkook walks to the center of the ring, arms raised high. He’s good at giving a show, good at most things, actually. He looks good here, confident, knowing exactly what he’s worth, and he’s nothing like what he was that first day. There is absolutely no fear on his face as he fists the air and people shout for him. Instead, he seems to be positively thriving on the attention he’s getting.

He’s a favorite here, because he always gives people what they came for. He makes the fight last, makes it theatrical, with twists and impressive moves. It’s been a while since he’s struggled in a fight, really struggled, which has made it easier. You recognize you’ve played your part in that. You have your word to say when picking his opponents, and you don’t want him to— well, to die, or to be too badly injured.

You know it’s not much. You know no matter what you tell yourself, that’s not protecting him. You know you should have acted a lot earlier.

But you didn’t.

They gave you Jungkook as soon as the payment was confirmed, which didn’t take long. People were fidgeting in the room, careful not to stare too long at the Princess. They knew who she was, of course. The bodyguards and your ghostly presence, one step behind her, did not do anything to soothe their nerves. No one actually knew you back then. You hadn’t earned your reputation of efficiency, no one had called you a cold-hearted bitch yet, though that would pretty much become your identifier, but you were still somewhat unnerving, with your stillness and your all black attire.

Which was why you never tried to add color to it.

The Princess seemed to be in her element, not bothered by the silence and people’s obvious fear of her, even for a second. Instead, she was watching her acquisition. The hybrid — Jungkook, you remembered, because you’d heard his name after winning the auction — was staring at the floor, stealing glances at her every once in a while, before quickly looking away again. He was clearly shy, and terrified, and it looked like the Princess liked that.

When they handed the leash to her, she was quick to clip it on his collar, and you held back your disgust. Your mind went to Mark, a kind golden retriever hybrid you had grown up with, and the idea of him being collared like that almost made you retch.

But, of course, none of that could be seen on your face. You had been told that you had the perfect poker face, unreadable at all times. In moments like this, it was a true blessing.

“Hello, Jungkook, I’m Anna, and I’m your new owner. I’m going to take good care of you.”

Then Jungkook looked up at her, briefly, and an adorable smile curved his lips.

You knew then that this could only end in pain and heartbreak.

Once Jungkook is done, he turns to face Jin. The other hybrid looks like he wants to run away, but even if he tried it, he’d be pushed right back in. So he does the smart thing, and prepares himself for the fight, lifting his hands to protect himself. Jungkook does the same thing. There is a brief moment of silence, everyone bracing themselves for what is to come. Despite his earlier display, Jungkook is deathly calm now, every muscle in his body ready for action.

The second the bell rings, Jungkook is moving, so fast he’s almost blurry, and you have to avert your eyes when his fist connects with the other hybrid’s chest.

This all feels like it could have been avoided.

A relationship quickly developed between the shy bunny and the Princess. You didn’t say anything about it; that wasn’t what you were here for. A baby-sitter, sure, but not a chaperone. Anyway, it seemed like Mr. Xanders wasn’t too worried about that, and his daughter was free to do whatever she wanted as long as she didn’t get pregnant. You supposed a hybrid was the perfect choice for that, with how rare it was for them to have children with a human. It could happen, of course, but it was highly unlikely without medical assistance.

Still, you weren’t sure you liked the relationship all that much. It just felt like Anna had so much power over him. He was a couple of years older than her, since selling hybrids under eighteen was technically illegal, but it was clear from the very beginning that he had been sheltered and didn’t have much experience in— well, in any areas. A sickening feeling told you that had probably been done on purpose by the people who had raised him. You were well aware of what rabbit hybrids were usually bought for.

You watched, silently, as they got close, as Anna’s hands started to easily find Jungkook’s, as Jungkook started to rest his head on her shoulder, to scent her, as he fell in love with her. Today, maybe you would have been annoyed at the sight, annoyed by his innocence, but back then, it only made you sad.

You were also there to see Anna grow bored of him. It didn’t even take her that long, no more than a couple of months.

When she insisted on going to another hybrid auction, and asked you to bid on someone else, you knew that it was over.

“Get him to fight,” Mr. Xanders told you dismissively at a meeting you had with him. “I want the money he cost me back.”

“He’s a rabbit hybrid,” you had said, frowning. “He’s not exactly the fighting type.”

“I didn’t tell you to make him win,” he scoffed. “I don’t care if you have to bet against him. Get my money back. After that, I don’t care what you do with him.”

You didn’t realize then that that was a ‘promotion’, and that this meant you would start working in illegal settings. All you knew was the painful weight in your chest at the idea of sending Jungkook to his death. You had kept away from him, not trying to create any bonds with him, but he smiled politely and kindly when he saw you.

God, he was in love with Anna. You were sure he had noticed her losing interest in him, but you also believed he held out hope. This could— This would probably be crushing for him.

So you took the matter into your own hands. You didn’t just sign him up for an upcoming fight, but you also found him a trainer, the best you could.

“Does Anna want me to learn how to fight?” he had asked you, big brown eyes looking at you, when you had told him about the training. “So I can be her bodyguard?”

“My orders don’t come from Anna,” you’d answered, trying to stay as distant as possible.

“But will she— Do you think she’ll like me again, if I learn to fight?”

No. You thought Anna had gotten everything she wanted from him.

“I don’t know,” you had answered. You couldn’t. You couldn’t do it.

The first fight had been brutal. Devastating, in fact. Jungkook had been training, and you’d been told he was good at what he was doing, but, as a newbie, he’d been sent against an expert fighter — “for the show”, you’d heard, the exact same thing you would use as well, years later —, and you were later told he was lucky he’d made it out alive.

You stayed next to him in the hospital room. As a hybrid, he healed quickly, but he still looked terrible, body marred with black and blue, lip busted, and black eyes. When he woke up, he looked around the room, every movement he made clearly painful, and you knew, at his expression, that there was only one thing he thought about in that moment.

Anna wasn’t there.

You would never forget the look he gave you then. The way he set his jaw, the way something hardened in his eyes.

“Get out,” he had said, and you were pretty sure he had meant for it to sound aggressive, but he wasn’t good at it yet, so it was more pleading.

You had gotten up, made a move to— to pat his shoulder, to do something, but you had refrained and your hand had fallen down to your side.

“I’m sorry,” you had said, and you had left him alone in there, with his broken hopes and heart.

That night was the first and last time you considered leaving your job.

But there was no quitting, where you worked.

In the ring, of course, Jungkook is good. He leaves an opening for the guy to place a few punches, ones that can’t hurt him too much. The crowd is delirious, bets are being placed. There’s a rumor that Jungkook was injured at the last fight so tonight could be the night where he loses his title, couldn’t it? The first round is coming to an end, and he doesn’t seem to have done much so, surely, he’s not going to be able to end that guy by the third, like he usually does — and if he does, hey, at least they’ll have had one hell of a show.

The three rounds thing is something you asked him to do after an organizer told you people needed that to feel they had gotten their money’s worth. You had told Jungkook, and he’d growled an answer, but he had never won in less than that since. For all his obvious hatred of you, the organization, and everything that surrounded him, he didn’t actively oppose you most of the time. He had tried to run away, twice, but when those attempts had failed, he had seemed to realize that it was just easier to go with the flow.

When the second round starts, though, he goes wild. His bare feet are light on the floor, his fists quick and precise. He doesn’t leave anything to luck either. Every punch lands exactly where he wants it to, when he wants it to. He dodges his opponent’s attacks easily, and he sees in his eyes the moment when the man realizes that he’s not winning this. He sees confidence turn into surprise, then into fear, and it only makes him want blood.

His right hook hits the man in the jaw with all the power he can put into it, and this time you don’t wince. You’ve gotten used to the violence now — it always takes you a while — and you’re mostly impressed at how good Jungkook is.

But that’s exactly why you’re in this situation, isn’t it?

“We should put him down,” Mr. Xanders said, with the exact same dismissive tone he had used years ago to tell you to make Jungkook fight, and you looked at him in disbelief. Surely, surely, he didn’t mean—

“I really disapprove of that solution, dad,” Anna said, shaking her head, and you realized he did.

You had been surprised by Anna’s presence, when you had walked into the office. You hadn’t worked for her in a long time, having graduated to far worse things. You had served your purpose, you supposed, made yourself practically indispensable when it came to the organizing of the Family’s business, as you knew the workings of the Family in and out, both legal and… less legal aspects. No one had ever said anything about your siblings joining.

“He attacked someone,” her father simply shrugged.

“If I may, Mr. X, it was after a fight and the man was being really aggressive after he lost the money he’d bet against—”

“I don’t care,” he said, waving his hand like you were just an annoying fly. “He attacked a human. We can’t have our hybrids doing that, otherwise it will just be chaos. You’re smart enough to know that.”

You swallowed. Something inside you was screaming. You had long shut down any form of moral compass, but it seemed like Jungkook always awoke the last remnants of it. You were pretty sure he despised you now, and you didn’t blame him for it. But, just like what you’d thought when Anna had bought him, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this just wasn’t right.

“I understand, sir.”

“That’s a horrible thing you’re doing, dad,” Anna insisted. “I thought you’d try to at least reason with him, (Y/N).”

That wasn’t your job. You knew when your opinion was asked on those things, and now was not one of those times. You also knew that you hated that she called you by your first name, like the two of you were friends, and you didn’t say anything about that either.

“I’m sorry, honey,” Mr. Xanders said warmly, like he had just refused to buy her an expensive toy, and not condemned a man to death. “I’ll make it up to you, okay?”

Anna sighed and rolled her eyes, and you assumed she’d probably stay mad at him for a while. But not too long.

Your heart was beating so loud in your chest you barely heard Mr. Xanders dismissing you, and you were relieved to be left alone when you walked out. There was only one thing you wanted to be thinking about now.

How were you going to save Jungkook’s life?

Jin hits the floor and doesn’t get up. It’s not an actual knock-out, because he’s still moving around, but Jungkook doubts he’ll even try to get back on his feet. The guy seems to be smart, he probably realizes that that would be suicide. Another minute with him on the ring? Nah. That would be a really, really stupid thing to do. Jungkook’s knuckles are bleeding — he doesn’t think they’ve been intact once in the four years he’s been fighting — and he’s pretty much unstoppable, right now.

He lets the referee grab his arm and lift it in the air as the crowd screams. They’re particularly loud tonight, because he won in two rounds. It’s not really a surprise when they force the entrance of the cage, flooding it, and Jungkook looks for you, almost instinctively. When he finds you, your eyes are on your phone. You look like you couldn’t care less about what’s happening around you, and he knows you do genuinely dislike the fights. You’ve never made it a secret. You’ve never taken care of the other hybrids owned by the family who participate, either. He doesn’t know if he’s your burden, or if you’re the one who chooses to still do that. Before, he wouldn’t have doubted it. Now… He’s not so sure.

Your eyes flicker up to his for a second, and you nod, imperceptibly. Your heart is probably beating as loud as his right now, though for different reasons.

Jungkook examines you, takes in how out of place you are in that environment, immaculately dressed, small glasses on your nose, hair pulled back, and lets himself be amused by it, one last time.

And then he’s gone.

You only visited Jungkook when there was about to be a fight, and it was clear he really didn’t like it when you showed up. You always seemed to be interrupting him, whether it was a training session or a work-out. You didn’t think you’d ever seen him do something other than those two things. You didn’t know if he had anything else.

You brought some food from a restaurant he liked, as you usually did, and got some things for the guards who would be around. That wasn’t as usual, but you had done it before, so hopefully it wouldn’t make anyone suspicious and it would allow you to have some privacy with Jungkook.

He sat down opposite from you, immediately diving into the food you’d brought, and you watched silently. His shoulders were tense, never completely down but, though he would hate to admit it, he was more relaxed around you than around anyone else. It said a lot about his life, about how desperate he was for any form of companionship, that the way you told him about his opponents almost made him feel like you cared about him. It said a lot that your presence comforted him, and it was pretty pathetic, if you asked him.

“So, who am I fighting?” he asked while eating. He never bothered with his manners when he was around you.

“A newbie,” you said. “Some fighting training from what I’ve gathered, but he shouldn’t be an issue.”

He growled. The sound was unnatural for a rabbit hybrid, but he had mastered it over the years. It was a good way of intimidating people.

“Really? I thought I told you I wanted a challenge.”

You didn’t reply immediately, and that made him look up at you. When he did, you were chewing on the inside of your cheek, hesitant. That was completely out of character. Then, you made up your mind, and your expression turned back to the unreadable one he was so familiar with.

“Keep eating, and don’t raise your voice” you ordered.

He lifted an eyebrow. Normally, he would have done something like folding his arms and waited for more, in a defiant attitude, but this was you. You would never do something like that just to assert your power over him. He hated your guts, but that was one thing he could say about you.

“Mr. X is going to have you killed because you attacked that man at your last fight.”

There. Direct, to the point, not a useless word — though you couldn’t bring yourself to use the words “put you down”. Jungkook froze for a half a second, than resumed his eating, albeit slower than before.

“It was all good as long as long as I brought him money, but he doesn’t want any trouble for it, huh?”

His voice was bitter and low, barely more than a rumble. You were confident no one was paying attention to you, since the guards ate in another part of the house and no one cared about what you were saying. They could see you through the picture window, but they couldn’t read lips. Still, you lowered your voice as well.

“Win your next fight in two rounds,” you said, instead of answering him.

He shot you a dirty glance.

“Do you really think that’s what I—”

“That should get the crowd to lose their mind,” you continued. You had gone through all the possibilities in your mind, over and over again. This was the one that was the safest for you and your family, while giving Jungkook a reasonable chance of survival. “When that happens, you’ll use the hysteria to leave through your opponent’s entrance.”

This got his attention, and he stopped trying to interrupt you, finally focusing on your words.

“I can probably get you somewhere between five and ten minutes before everyone finds out you’re missing.”

He scoffed.

“That’s very generous of you.”

“I also won’t look too hard for you,” you added, because you would obviously be in charge of that as well. “So as long as you don’t do a terrible job hiding, we probably won’t find you. Stay away from hotels, and don’t get noticed.”

Jungkook stayed silent for a while. He didn’t look at you, jaw set, and you were pretty sure he was weighing the pros and cons of your plan.

“I don’t know if there’ll be another chance,” you told him truthfully. “They want you gone after the fight.”

The silence went on a little longer, before Jungkook spoke again.

“Anna’s said yes to that?”

You didn’t miss the way his voice faltered on her name. You didn’t think he had spoken to her in years, but he still had a soft spot for her, and being reminded of it always made you sad. You had accepted, a long time ago, that life wasn’t fair, but that was particularly true when it came to him. None of what had happened to him was fair. The shy boy with the wide eyes you’d helped buy at the auction deserved better. You didn’t, probably deserved every single bad thing that had happened to you, but for him, you wished you had done something — anything — differently. So you wouldn’t be faced with a jaded, cynical version of that boy right now.

“She opposed it, but her father is still going through with it.”

“So she didn’t oppose it much.”

You didn’t answer that. It was true, and you both knew it.

You glanced at your watch. Your time here was almost over, and you had a lot of responsibilities.

“Will you do it?”

Jungkook glanced at you, eyes wary.

“How do I know you’re telling me the truth? You could just do that so you could have me killed and say I tried to escape.”

You shook your head, almost amused by the possibility.

“I would gain nothing from doing that, and if I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t go about it that way. Will you do it?”

This time, he nodded. He didn’t trust you, but he thought you were telling the truth on this. So following your plan would be just as well.

“Good. I’ll see you for the fight.”

This would have been a good moment to wish him good luck, probably, but you didn’t do luck, so you didn’t say anything. You gave him a quick nod, gathered your things, and then you were out.

You didn’t think to say goodbye.

“We’ll get him when the crowd’s dispersed,” one of the bodyguards says, and you hum noncommittally in response, eyes on your phone.

Moron.

If these two were the ones you usually work with, they would know that your usual protocol is to go get Jungkook as soon as the referee’s lifted his hand up. That way, you can get him out as quickly as possible and you don’t have to worry about him getting mobbed. But you’ve changed your team the day Mr. Xanders asked you to ‘put Jungkook down’, so they have no idea. It’s been a week since then, which shouldn’t make it too suspicious. Hopefully.

When the crowd does move enough to see what’s going on in the cage — three minutes — one of the two men says, voice worried, “Hey, can you see him?”

Your head snaps up and your eyes scan the room. You’re relieved to see that Jungkook’s nowhere in sight.

“Where is he?” you ask urgently, and the men seem to shrink under your glare, exchanging worried glances. You roll your eyes and sigh. This may be your plan, but they’re still acting incompetent. Which is good for you, sure, but the perfectionist in you is annoyed.

“You two should pray he’s in the changing room,” you spit out as you march towards it. It takes some struggle, because the crowd isn’t exactly calming down, but it’s not too long.

Of course, Jungkook isn’t in the changing room. It was a bad idea to go look there anyway — usually you would probably have already informed everyone that he had disappeared — but these two don’t seem to realize that.

“Go search the fighting room,” you order, “make sure you haven’t missed anything. Then check the surroundings. I’ll stay there. Let me know if you find something.”

They practically run out, and you allow yourself to sit down. This isn’t even dangerous yet. If Jungkook’s done that part correctly, he should already be too far for them to find him. As far as you’re concerned, you’ve bought him — you check your watch — seven minutes. But even if you don’t doubt him, you still feel terror at the idea they could catch him. You don’t know what would happen then. You don’t want to think about it.

The seconds tick by. It’s been almost exactly ten minutes when your phone rings.

“Hello, Miss—”

“Do you have him?” you bark.

There’s a silence.

“I want an answer!” you snap.

“No. I’m sorry. We’ve lost him.”

You hang up immediately and start to dial another number to let people know Jungkook’s missing.

But, before you actually call, you let out a brief sigh of relief.

This just might work.

You get home late the following night. When you do, you’re absolutely exhausted. You’ve had a terrible day, unable to sleep a wink, and you got thoroughly chewed out over Jungkook going missing. You think Mr. X was suspicious of you, because you basically don’t fuck up, ever, but then Anna started to wax poetics about how “Jungkook was a soul who wanted to live”, and you don’t think he bought it, but it at least got his mind off of you.

You doubt he’d get you killed over that, it just isn’t worth it and you’re pretty valuable, but it would be much better if he didn’t think about it too much.

You’ve organized the searches, pretty sloppily in your own opinion. Of course, it’s possible that they could find him, but if Jungkoook does his part, everything should be okay.

You remove your shoes with a groan when you walk in. You usually never regret wearing heels, thankful for the centimeters they help you gain, but tonight you definitely do. Keeping them on for two days was not how they had been intended to be used.

Once they’re off your feet, you painfully walk to your kitchen. All you want to do is to make yourself a cup of tea before going to bed, but you stop yourself before grabbing your kettle.

Something feels— off. You’re probably the only person who could notice it, because you’re so obsessive with everything that’s in your home, but you just can’t miss it. It’s not much, just some items that aren’t where they should be, or that were moved a little to the side.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you hesitantly grab a knife from your kitchen drawer. You don’t think that would do anything, if someone was in your apartment right now, because you can’t fight and, considering the people you work for, you’re pretty sure if someone wanted to kill you they would, but it makes you feel better.

You make your way through the living-room slowly, heart hammering in your chest. You check the bathroom, first. No one’s in there, but it’s clear that whoever was there used it as well. He didn’t put your toothpaste back where it belonged.

That only leaves your room. You walk in, carefully, to find it empty. Your bed’s done, though not exactly how you do it, and that confuses you. At least until your eyes find the necklace that’s on your bedside table.

It’s the identifying tag Jungkook wore around his neck for fights. You reach out for it, in disbelief, and that only confirms what you thought.

A laugh bubbles in your throat, and you just can’t hold it in. It escapes your lips, breaking the silence that always reigns in your apartment.

Here. He was here, in the eye of the storm, while everyone was looking for him. You have no idea where he is now, but this makes you feel like he’ll be fine. Clearly, he is a smart man and he has resources.

You fall to the ground, lean against your bed, holding the tag in your hand. You give yourself a second. That’s more than you usually get. It’s a second to close your eyes and feel grateful and happy about what happened, a second to think that perhaps not everything is dark and terrible in the world.

A second, because Jungkook made it out.

And then, you open your eyes, and you come back to your reality, which is that you’ll be working for the family tomorrow, and the day after that, and probably for the rest of your life. There’s no out for you. No hope.

But at least Jungkook should be fine. You’ll never know about it, because if he is, then you’ll never hear about him again.

If you ever do, it will only mean bad news.

Thank you for reading! I hope you’ve enjoyed this first chapter and feel free to let me know if you would like to be tagged for future ones!

#jungkook x reader #bts #bts x reader #jeon jungkook x reader #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfic #jungkook angst #jungkook #jeon jungkook #hybrid jungkook #candywrites

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beomcoups · 4 years ago

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Bad Alive

𝐅𝐨𝐫 @𝐧𝐞𝐨𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 ‘𝐬 𝟑𝐫𝐝 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭: 𝐑𝐢𝐬𝐪𝐮é

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: mafia!boss Kun (NCT) x mafia!boss reader

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: smut, fluff, angst, mafia au, friends with benefits au, childhood

𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: R (18+)

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), rough missionary, nail digging, squirting, mentions of violence, guns, swearing

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 3.6k

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: The rival boss is a bad kind of player, with thousand dollar shoes. He's the final obstacle in your three year journey to the top of your group. It would be a piece of cake - if he wasn't your ex-lover.

𝐀𝐍: A massive thank you to @darknytemare, @sunshinekims and @lovey-simone for beta reading for me 🖤

You first spotted him surrounded by his crew and women in the VIP, leaning over the rail. His eyes watching the club like a hawk, the scene unraveling before him. His honey blonde hair cut short into an undercut, well-tailored suit, and nice smile caught you off guard, as you usually don’t see these kinds of men in this club.

“Who is that?” You ask the bartender, pointing in his direction.

“Oh, that’s Qian Kun; he is the owner of this club,” the bartender says matter-of-factly.

“Do you mean Qian, as in Qian mafia?!” your voice unexpectedly rises, earning a few looks from the people around you.

You turn around and sneak another look at him, watching the ladies laugh at his every word, clearly loving the attention. Rumors spread quickly about the club being owned by a mafia Don.

“Shh! Are you trying to get yourself killed?” He whispers, working on a drink for a customer. Naive was your best ploy and to get where you needed to be you had to be coy. “But yes, it has the affiliation. So be careful.”

You nod and take a swig of your drink, finishing it completely before making your way to the dance floor. You already knew who Kun was. His reputation exceeding him, just from his looks alone he wouldn’t be expected. His looks made him look innocent almost, knowing the things his mafia did to people who weren’t needed anymore, you knew you had to proceed with caution before you went into action.

Kun wasn’t an ordinary guy; he is the Qian mafia head after inheriting it from his father a year ago. Being the daughter of the rival mafia, the Zodiacs, had its perks. He’s not a total stranger to you, as you grew up to be childhood friends and eventually lovers, losing your virginities to each other as you both became adults. You wanted a relationship, but he didn’t want anything serious; he just wanted your friendship and to fuck you ravishingly whenever he could.

You were okay with that for a while until you moved out of town and stayed away for three years. Since then, your families became enemies over a bad drug deal. The severity growing by the minute. Moving back recently brought on memories but that’s what you intended on keeping them as. Your father knew you were ready to take over the family business. So forth your here now attending to some routine affairs, before everything could be complete you had to cut down the biggest threat:

Kun

This was the final task, one you planned on exploiting until the last minute.You find a spot dancing with the strangers, the EDM sounds booming through the place. You get lost in the moment, allowing your body to move however you wanted it to, almost forgetting your task at hand. Your hair covers your face, but you can see your surroundings, and you notice one of his men and another childhood friend, Hendery, approaching you with his hand for you to shake.

“Come on, Hendery, we’re not strangers,” you forgo his hand and give him a hug. “How have you been? How’s your mom?”

“She’s good. Stubborn as ever,” he adjusts his tie, trying to hide his goofy grin. “Kun wanted me to bring you up to him.”

“I know,” you say, cocking an eyebrow at him. You look up in his direction, and Kun is smirking at you, holding a glass and lifting it up in your direction.

“If he wants me, he’ll have to come down here and fetch me himself,” you shrug, going back to the music. “It was nice seeing you again.”

Hendery nods and goes back to Kun, who gazes at you once more before removing the women’s hands touching his shoulders and making his way towards you. You liked this cat and mouse game, making him chase you around until he finally caught up and had his way. It’s unfortunate that you have to end his life in order to be the boss, but you’re not looking for love; you just want his body one last time.

Kun approaches you, and oddly the wind almost gets knocked out of you; he’s more handsome than the last time you saw him, and you can tell his very expensive suit was tailored just for him.

“Y/N… It’s been a while,” he greets me, kissing my left cheek.

“Yes, yes it has,” you agree, fluffing your hair off your shoulder.

“You look good,” his eyes wander all over your dress, biting his bottom lip.

“I know I do,” you grin seductively, pulling him to the crowd. “Dance with me.”

You take his hand and guide him to a spot on the dance floor, seducing him as you grind your body on his, allowing his hands to grace your hips. His cologne is strong enough to fill your senses of him, but you can still keep aware of what’s going on around you. His men are entertained by the women in their view; the security is placed at each exit door, making it harder for you to sneak off without being seen.

“What are you doing here, Y/N?” Kun questions you, your heart skipping a beat.

“I’m dancing, “ you respond coyly, turning around to face him.

“You don’t miss me?”

He scoffs and pulls you closer to him, his hands firmly on your ass.

“It’s been three years, and you just show up here? I don’t buy it,” he challenges you, matching your rhythm to the beat.

You look deep into his eyes, and you know he means business, but you keep your poker face focused on the mission at hand.

“What if I was here to see you?” You whisper into his ear.

“How would that make you feel?”

“You’d have to show me that you wanted to see me,” he buffers.

“How are you going to do that?”

You lean in and kiss him, slightly tugging on his suit, pulling him closer and under your spell. Your tongue makes magic with his, your body burning up from the sexual tension you have been harboring.

“Does that answer your question?” You tease him, nibbling the bottom of his lip.

“Maybe…” Kun trails off, motioning to his right-hand man, Ten. “I’ll need more convincing at my place. Meet me in the back alley; there is already a car there.”

You watch him say something to Ten before grabbing his coat, and you make your way to the back entrance, a black car already heated and ready to go. Kun has never been a man of a lot of words, but you know the steamy dance session has him wanting you, and you would be a liar if you didn’t admit you wanted him too. You might be holding some small feelings for him, being an old lover and someone you grew up with, but the family business comes first, no matter the cost… right?

“Are you ready?” Kun’s hand brushes your back, chills taking over your body.

You nod as our feet touched the cold ground, his home was calling.

“Your place is nice,” you observe as you walk into Kun’s penthouse.

You take off your heels and set them on the hardwood floor, walking into the spacious living room with a grand view of the city. The kitchen isn’t too far with a built-in bar attached and just based on what’s in front of you, you know this place isn’t cheap. Kun is rummaging through his wine rack and comes with a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

“Thank you. Are you thirsty?” Kun asks, pouring some in his glass.

“Yeah. I’ll take a little sip,” you grab and sit on one of the stools.

He pours some wine in a gold-trimmed glass, and you thank him, taking a small sip like you promised. You don’t like wine much, but you need something to calm your nerves and the heat brewing in your core.

“So, are you finally going to be honest with me?” Kun interrogates you, almost catching you off guard.

You stay composed and take another sip, finishing it entirely and setting it down on the island bar.

“What makes you think I’m not being honest with you?” You counter, slowly walking towards him.

“Come on, Y/N,” he scoffs, brushing his hair back with his hands. “It’s been years, and I haven’t heard from you. Let alone a goodbye, and now you just show up here and flirt with me? I know you better than that.”

You know he’s making sense, and you think of a quick lie to cover your tracks. You taking over the family business is on the line, and despite the small feelings you still hold for him, you cannot fuck this up.

“I promise I came to see you,” you swear, waving your hands dramatically. It is the truth after all.

“Do you still have feelings for me?” Kun starts, loosening his tie. “I told you years ago I’m not the relationship type. That hasn’t changed.”

It is your turn to scoff, letting out a hearty laugh from the pit of your soul.

“I’m in town because I have some family stuff to attend to. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, and I wanted to see what’s been up with you,” you wave him off. “But obviously, this is a lot for you, so I’m going to go.”

You make your way to the door and grab your shoes, willing to walk outside in the cold barefooted until your ride came. That didn’t happen, however, as Kun grabs your arm, backing you into the wall.

“You’re still dramatic as ever,” Kun states before bringing his lips to yours.

You kiss him back, tearing open his shirt, buttons flying everywhere as your hands rub across his chest. His big hands lift you up, carrying you to his massive bedroom and setting you down on the bed,

“Strip,” Kun demands, unbuckling his belt.

You get up, slowly lowering each strap on your dress, pulling your dress down until your breasts and thong were exposed. Kun pulls you to him, kissing you once more, leaning you back onto the bed. His lips trail to your stomach, leaving soft marks while he lowers your panties with his other hand.

“You’re the same way I remembered you years ago,” he whispers. “You are still as beautiful as ever.”

“Yeah yeah,” you brush off his words, your breath hitching as his lips meet your sweet spot.

Kun smirks and leaves a sensual kiss, your back arching as he is tasting your sweet nectar. Your hands are grasping for his hair; the rapturous way he makes your body feel is astral projecting you into paradise. His tongue takes a long swipe on your sweet pussy, his ravenous lust coming out of his pores as he tongue fucks you.

“My god-” you choke on air, your stomach coiling under pressure at your release. His nails dig into your ass, and you come undone, your honeyed essence dripping down his chin as he drinks you in. You beg him to stop, but he continues his onslaught, causing you to cum again shortly after.

“You are going to suck me dry,” you rasp, out of breath.

He finally pulls away, licking his lips, a sly grin plastered on his face as he lifts your leg up, slowly rubbing his shaft.

“Wait,” you attempt to sit up. “You don’t want me to do it?”

“No,” he eases himself inside of you. “I don’t have time for that. I need to feel you.”

You know you should have asked him to put on a condom, but the moment he climbed over and plowed into you, your sense of reasoning went out the door. He fucks you likes he missed you, rapaciously pounding into you like a street whore, and you return his aggression with your nails dug deep into his back. He cups your mouth with his big hands, kissing you and taking your energy away as you reach your peak once more.

“Go ahead,” Kun grits his teeth. “I want to feel you all over me.”

No second later, you splash everywhere, squirting all over him and his sheets, surprising yourself as you have never done that with anyone before. He finishes shortly after, releasing his hot load on your stomach, kissing you tenderly until he was well spent.

“Phew!” You collapse on the bed, your vision blurry, and your energy depleted. You hear him chuckle, and you roll your eyes, slightly annoyed at his arrogance. He’s obviously picked up a thing or two while you were gone, and you wouldn’t mind doing this with him again if only you didn’t have to kill him. You hear him leave and go into the bathroom, and you sit up, looking around for what you can find on him before he gets out. You notice a planner on the nightstand, and you rummage through it, finding his schedule of the week, and you make mental notes. You hear the sink water come on, and you quickly put it back and get back into the position before he comes out.

“Are you tired?” He comes out with a hand towel, taking care to wipe his semen off of my stomach.

“A little,” you admit, your body sinking comfortably into the bed.

“Well, stay the night,” he suggests, disposing of the hand towel and coming back into bed.

“Eh,” you sound unsure. “I’m not trying to put you out of your bed, and I don’t want you getting ideas.”

Kun shakes his head, pulls you closer to him, and you lay back down. “I’m not the one who was in love years ago. As long as you know this isn’t going to be more than this, you can stay as many nights as you want.”

“Yeah, sure,” you say sarcastically, nuzzling into the pillow. “I’m not the same girl you grew up with. You’ll see.”

It’s been five months since that night, and things started to change. He was still the Kun you grew up with, but softer. He was still a shrewd mafia boss and ran his business with an iron fist, but with you, he was sweet. His eyes shined when you walked into the room; he continued to fuck you mercilessly and doted on you like a princess after. It became more than fuck sessions, the calls wanting to know about your day and randomly showing up with dinner. If you didn’t know better, you would think he was falling in love with you.

You would be a liar if you didn’t admit to yourself that you started to have some feelings for him and you enjoyed his company, but as much as you want that companionship, the mafia comes first, and he has to go. You’ve been getting heat from your family, who wants this charade to end so you can finally take your place at the head of the Zodiacs. You pushed it off longer than you’d realize, and after the insistent nagging in every meeting, you decided tonight was the night.

“Hey,” you let Kun into your condo, dressed in a white tee and gray sweatpants. You invited him over, making up a lie about someone following you home. Your hair is pinned into a bun, and you just got out of the shower. You have had to kill before, but this was different; you never had to kill someone you cared about.

“Where did you say he was following you,” Kun asks, looking out your window.

“I was leaving the warehouse, and I noticed this sedan was following me,” you fake a sigh, more so to calm your nerves. “I went a long way home and was able to lose them, thank God.”

“Mmhmm,” is all he says, and he continues to look outside and around your place, checking to see if anyone else was inside. You act completely natural, flipping through the channels until you find something semi-decent to put on the tv, not that you’ll be watching it much.

“You know you didn’t have to call me over here,” Kun plops on the couch next to you, laying his head on your nap. “You could’ve called one of your guards here.”

“I know,” you shrug, playing in his hair. “But I wanted you over here. Is that such a bad thing?”

He perks his lips up, and you kiss him, the sweet taste lingering on his lips that has you wanting more. His hands take out your bun, allowing your hair to fall down your face.

“I’m glad you asked me over,” Kun whispers, leaving the last kiss on your nose. Your heart is touched, and you start to feel tears form, so you make a motion that you are getting up and go into the bathroom, leaning against the door. You wish there was another way to be in charge and still have him. You went into this cold-hearted and not wanting love, but here he is, sucking you in again like years before. You take a long look in the mirror before reaching underneath the sink for the pistol you kept hidden there. Your hands are searching for it before you bend and look for yourself, grabbing it and taking it out of its case. You take a deep breath and open the door, Kun on the other side startling you.

“Jesus!” You exclaim, clutching your shirt. “You scared the shit out of me.”

You walk past him into the kitchen for a glass of water. You feel your face hot from embarrassment, and you gulp your water down, ready to face what’s to come.

“Are you okay?” you hear Kun behind you. “You seem a bit off.”

It’s now or never, you say to yourself. You clear your throat and pull out the gun from behind you, aiming for Kun’s head. Instead of looking shocked, he sighs heavily, taking a seat on one of the stools.

“It was only a matter of time, I suppose,” he surmises, raking his hands through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” your voice is small, fighting back the tears. “I wish this could have ended differently.”

“It can be different,” he pleads. “Let’s leave this life behind. Run away with me.”

You look at him incredulously before bursting into laughter, your voice bellowing throughout your kitchen. You two were both born into the mafia families; it’s either them or death. No way you can just leave without being hunted down.

“You sound crazy,” you scoff, scratching your left temple with your gun. “You are just saying that to get out of this.” You cock the safety back, ready to pull the trigger.

“Have you ever known me to be a liar, Y/N?” he asks, slowly getting off of the stool. “I knew you were sent to kill me the day you showed up at my club. No way you just randomly showed up to see me.”

You keep your poker face, but your heart is pounding at his revelation. You thought you covered your tracks, keeping your i’s dotted and your t’s crossed. What happened?

“Come on, I’m in the business Y/N. I already know how this goes,” he points out, moving closer to you.

“So if you knew, why haven’t you stopped me?” You move your finger to the trigger, something he notices and stops dead in his tracks.

“I fell in love with you,” he confesses. “I went into this thinking that I could have a little fun before we eventually would have to square off, but you made me want love… You reminded me of the times we were kids and growing up together, and it feels good. I don’t want to lose that.”

The silence is deafening, the tears you were blocking pouring out of your eyes.

“I know you feel the same,” Kun steps slowly to you again, entering your personal space. “I know you want to leave this life behind.”

You hate that he is right, and if you had the strength, you would end it right here and now. But his eyes are showing a vision of love, an alternate reality where you two can be together without having to look over your shoulders; A life of leisure with your childhood sweetheart, the love of your life.

“But how could this even work—”

You’re cut off with his lips pressed against yours, almost knocking you out your senses. You give in to his feelings, setting the gun on the counter and placing your hands on his neck, deepening the kiss.

“Let’s find a way to end this together,” Kun’s voice is shaky, his eyes peering into your soul.

You nod, sniffling as you turn around and reach for a paper towel to dry your face.

“I love you, Y/N.”

That’s the last thing you remember before the gun went off and everything faded to black.

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booksnmore · 4 years ago

Photo

Chapter One

Series Summary || In the cutthroat world of mergers and acquisitions, Feyre Archeron has to try and keep her head when caught between duty and a man that might have stolen her heart. (Modern Day ACOTAR AU)

Chapter Summary || After career-altering news at work, Feyre visits her favorite bar and finds someone to distract her for the night.

Word Count || 5348

A/N || Mature themes that are not appropriate for readers under the age of 18. Includes graphic depictions of sex. Reader beware. 18+

Tagged Crew: @highqueenofelfhame

Feyre tossed her keys in the bowl to the left of the front door and kicked off her shoes, one too-tall heel after the other, grinning slightly at the satisfying ‘thunk’ they made as they collided with the wall. She bent over and rubbed at the red lines pressed into her feet from the uncomfortable footwear all day, and cursed, not for the first time, the strict dress code enforced at her job.

“Women should wear appropriate skirts and shoes,” she muttered as she padded down the hallway into the kitchen, making it clear what she thought of their ‘appropriate’ standards. The apartment was quiet, her cat napping on the couch not bothering to wake up and greet her.

“Hello to you too, Jiji,” she said, ruffling the black cat’s fur as she walked past and ignoring his indignant ‘mrr?” of protest. She pulled the pins out of her hair as she walked past the coffee pot and pulled out a bag of tea, groaning as her long, strawberry-blonde hair tumbled free of its tight constraints.

Flicking on the T.V. while her kettle came to a boil, she absently thumbed through the channels, ignoring the doom and gloom the news was preaching, and settled on an old re-run of Golden Girls. Ah, she could always rely on Dorothy to tell it how it was. The kettle kicked off, and she poured the water over her teabag, inhaling the bite of the black tea as it steeped.

Her phone pinged from the couch where she’d set it, so with tea in one hand and remote in the other, she walked over to see what it was. If Lucien thought he could text her after hours and ask her to do more work off the clock, she was tempted to tell him where he could shove his brief. It was hard to believe that her drunken 3am application to the agrochemical company as a paralegal had panned out at all. After all, she’d been a recent grad with only her stellar 4.0 GPA and a few semesters of volunteer work at a local tax office for low income residents to commend her to the position. The HR lady had claimed that she was just the fresh perspective the company needed, and being naive enough to trust this, Feyre’d jumped at the chance to move to California. After all, she knew she was just one face among thousands, looking for a job. The salary they paid was enough for her to just manage to afford an apartment all to herself, if she ignored that some walk-in closets were bigger than the whole place.

She swiped open the message on her phone and, sure enough, it was a message from Lucien, the corporate lawyer she worked under. It wasn’t that he was a bad guy, not entirely. He was easy-going and gave Feyre opportunities to learn first-hand, and never pushed his workload onto her like she knew some of the other lawyers for the company did with their paralegals. He was interesting to look at; not necessarily conventionally attractive, not with the glass eye and scar down his cheek, or the perpetual frown he seemed to wear around their boss Tamlin, but something about him drew the eye in a way a model’s perfect proportions couldn’t. They had an easy-going enough relationship, and though they were friendly with each other he was always careful to keep things professional, and she never felt weird or creeped out around him. Not the way she felt around Tamlin.

The son of the CEO, and a chairman in his own right, Tamlin seemed to have a special affection for Feyre, and tended to offer her and Lucien workloads that were more interesting, or easier, and laved attention on her at work to the annoyance of her coworkers. She didn’t return the feelings, but how would she ever say that to her boss? So she smiled, and gritted her teeth, and bore the condescending little comments about how cute she was that day, how that skirt made her look luscious, how that blouse really did need something under it, as he could see her bra quite clearly, though it didn’t bother him.

No, those inappropriate comments were just made for the betterment of the company. If she wore that skirt that clung to her hips when they met with the judge, he was sure the court would rule in their favor. If she just smiled more, the judge would be a little more lenient. She tried to ignore the way she could feel his eyes crawling over her, or the way his brow would pucker when she wore a top buttoned all the way up. The only good thing about their relationship was that they rarely met in person. Lucien was aware of it, and did his best to help, in his own way. He and Tamlin apparently went way back to Yale together, but despite that he tried to field any in-person meetings with Tamlin that he could, and seemed to always have something for Feyre to be doing out of the office when Tamlin would drop by. She was silently grateful, not wanting to say anything and risk disturbing the fragile peace they’d found.

She read the brief message, eyes narrowing. Come into the office now. We have a problem. Though he was only a few years older than her, he texted like an old man, she thought with a small grin, then groaned loudly at the thought of shoving her feet back into her shoes after just freeing them. Since Tamlin required them to turn read receipts on for the company chat, he knew she’d seen his message and would expect her soon. Glancing ruefully at her tea, she stood up and slipped on her favorite pair of flats. She would just ignore the snide comments about how her shoes just weren’t professional enough. If he wanted her in overtime, she’d wear what she damn well pleased.

“Guess I’ll see you later, Jiji,” she said, kissing the cat’s head despite his grumpy yawn. “Hold down the fort for me, won’t you?” The traffic was terrible - she’d only just gotten home in a cab after a 45 minute commute spent almost entirely sitting still. Paying for an extra cab wasn’t in the budget, and she suspected that Tamlin would want her in sooner than that anyway, so she pulled on a jacket and grabbed her purse. It was only ten blocks or so; she’d walk.

The streets were overrun with people, but at least with them she could slip past, using her smaller frame to get through where others couldn’t. She hated the way people would look down on her, using her height as a way to intimidate her, but decided in that instance that it was for the best. Autumn was in full swing, and the brisk nip of the breeze was turning to a more biting cold. Tugging her jacket more tightly against her, she almost regretted her decision to walk. However, when the looming office building stood just ahead and she looked down at her watch, she knew she’d made the right choice. Closer to 15 minutes than 45, and she did feel less sleepy after the walk.

Pushing the doors open, she waved at Jackson sitting behind the security desk, and the gray-headed man gave her a sympathetic look back. “He’s in a fine mood tonight, Ms. Archeron,” he warned, knocking his head towards the upstairs offices. “Best to just nod and get back to your beau at home.”

No matter what Feyre told Jackson, he was convinced she must have a boyfriend, and had dreamed up the fantasy that she was engaged and totally in love, and had a dog and two cats. All she had to say was that the old man had too much time on his hands, and a far too active imagination.

“Thanks for the heads up, Jackson,” she said, hitting the button for the elevator doors and taking that moment to compose herself. She knew her cheeks were flushed from the walk and the wind, so she instead used the reflection of the elevator doors to try and fix her windblown hair into something resembling a bun. She only had her emergency hair tie and none of the bobby pins required to keep the stray curls around her face from springing loose, so she did what she could before the doors dinged, then pressed the button that would deliver her to whatever Tamlin had needed her for so desperately that night.

When she stepped off the elevators, she knew something was very wrong. It wasn’t just Tamlin and Lucien that were gathered around the large table in their conference room. Standing beside them was Aamon Verne, Tamlin’s father and CEO of Viridis Agrochemicals, and Nikoli Hybern, the Chief Strategy Officer. The three men together were never a good omen. Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, she walked up and rapped sharply on the glass door. There, in the chairs towards the back, next to Lucien, sat Nuala and Cerridwen, her two fellow paralegals, who offered her a look that was both encouraging and warning.

“Yes, come in girl,” said the elder Verne with a sweep of his hand. Despite his age, he still looked every bit the powerful man he was in his youth. Aamon Verne was a name that was both respected and feared in the industry, though Feyre had more loathing than respect for the man. He saw those around him only as tools for his use, and she’d heard him and Tamlin speaking about Nuala and Cerridwen while at lunch once in a way that made her skin crawl.

Still, he was her boss and she dipped her head briefly at both him and Nikoli, resolutally ignoring Tamlin as much as possible. All three of the men had deep-set frowns, and only paused in their argument long enough for Tamlin to wave her over and push a stack of papers into her hand that seemed identical to what Nuala and Ceridwen were holding. He waved her away carelessly and she took a seat next to her co-workers, thumbing through the papers even as her ears revealed what was happening.

“Who does this Rhysand think he is?” thundered Aamon, though no one was dumb enough to answer. “Buying out our shareholders, and our company out from under us? I knew this would happen if we went public. It was bound to happen eventually.” Nikoli didn’t look perturbed by his boss’ behavior. Only Tamlin of the three had turned a shade paler, though in his defence his face showed nothing of his emotion.

“We could still reach out to the shareholders,” began Tamlin, but his father quickly cut him off.

“And what? Beg them for our jobs? They aren’t fools. They knew we would throw everything we have at them the moment we found out.” Sneering at his son, Aamon turned to Lucien who stoically met his gaze. “Take your people and figure something out. Find us a way out of this, and I’ll give you double your wages as a Christmas bonus.” The unspoken threat was clear: if you don’t, none of us will have a job.

Feyre’s head was spinning. A hostile takeover? Of their company? Feyre quickly went over the figures in their head. Since they were a publicly held company, they had thousands of shareholders, but not nearly enough that a tender offer wouldn’t work. She thumbed through the brief she’d been handed and, sure enough, Caeles Enterprises had offered to buy out their shareholders with a tender bid high above the price of the stock itself. It seemed the enough shareholders had sold, because at the moment, Caeles held the majority of Viridis’ shares of the stock, making them a majority shareholder. Feyre finally understood why the three heads of the company were so riled up. It really could be the end of their time at the company.

Leaning over to Nuala, Feyre asked, “What do we know about Caeles?” She pulled a pen out of her small leather portfolio and began to jot notes down as Ceridwen answered. “They’re relatively new, founded about ten years ago by Rhysand Neri and his cousin Morrigan. Apparently they mostly focus on renewable food sources, though it seems more broadly the company is focused on genetically modified agriculture. They have their hands in, uh, just a sec.” Ceridwen thumbed through the pile of paper, though Feyre found it before she did.

“Looks like their most recent focus is on soy crops in the Central Valley region. That explains why they're trying to take us over, at least.” Feyre’s gaze shuttered at that, knowing just how brutal Viridis’ policies towards competitors was. She and Lucien had just finished filing a lawsuit against the Growers of the Valley, requiring them to turn over 20% of their profits, as it had been ‘anonymously’ discovered that a large portion of their crops seeds were from Viridis’ own stores. She knew those farmers in the Growers of the Valley association couldn’t afford the 20% tariff, but per her company’s procedures it was a required case to take.

She ignored the growls and curses from the three heads of the company and continued to thumb through the papers, before turning to Lucien. “Whitemail? Do we have enough capital to cover the shares it would take to tip the balance back in our favor?” She watched the gears in his mind turning, but scribbled a few other options on her notepad as well.

“Let’s talk whitemail,” he finally said, standing up and motioning to the three of them to follow him out of the main office. “We’ll just be in the other room so you three can talk freely,” he said with a careless wave, already ushering them out of the room before Aamon could protest.

“Thank the gods we’re free of that,” said Nuala with a huffy laugh, giving Ceridwen a look. “If I had to stay in that testosterone-filled room for another moment, I think I’d have suffocated.” Feyre gave her friend a look of agreement, and even Lucien couldn’t hide his grin.

“What Feyre suggested might work,” he said, sitting down at the table and spreading the company’s bylaws out on the table. “Each of you grab a section, and let’s see what anti-takeover measures we can take. The likelihood that the new guy’ll fire all of us is pretty high, so work as though it were your ass on the line because, let’s face it, it probably is.”

So they hunted, heads down and fingers flying across the keyboard, for hours, until Feyre’s neck was sore and Nuala was yawning for the third time in as many minutes. Glancing down at her watch, she gave a resolute yawn of her own and sat down her pen, tip practically chewed up from that night’s frantic search.

“Lucien, respectfully, we’re all exhausted. Nuala can barely keep her eyes open, and I think I’ve seen Ceridwen misspell the word ‘thorough’ at least four times. With spellcheck on,” she added, cutting off what would have been Ceridwen’s excuse. “I’m going to finish up for the night. It’s 12am, and I doubt the partners are going to let us sleep in tomorrow morning.” Though she might let Tamlin walk all over her, she knew her limits. She could feel a headache just starting in her temple, and her stomach rumbled in complaint at its negligence.

Lucien threw up his hands, the picture of exasperation, but Feyre could see through it to the real exhaustion below the surface on him too. “Fine, you lazy lot. Go home and curl up with your teddy bears for all I care. I’m going to stay and see if I can find a way to keep Aamon from killing and eating me tomorrow morning. Night, ladies.” With little more than a glance up as their chairs scraped against the ground, Lucien continued flipping through pages, jotting notes in his messy handwriting, and biting his lip. If it were any other situation, she might have found him cute, but he was her superior and that was just too complicated for her. Shaking the errant thought from her head, she grabbed her jacket, tucked her portfolio under her arm, and headed out into the now decidedly frigid October air.

The cold instantly snapped her awake as she stepped out onto the street, hands jammed in her coat pockets. Glancing back the way she came, she made a snap decision to instead head east, ducking into a bar just down the road from work she wasn’t at all unfamiliar with. Her first few months working with Tamlin’s condescending and sleazy comments had seen her, Ceridwen, and Nuala at the bar more often than she might’ve liked, but in moments like this as she slipped inside and was greeted with a smile by Ressina from behind the bar, she knew there were worse places she could end up.

“You’re not normally here on the weekdays babe,” said Ressina in the way of a greeting, wincing in sympathy at Feyre’s sour expression. Without prompting, she made up Feyre’s drink of choice - a vodka cranberry - and passed it over before leaning on the bar, expression expectant.

Feyre took a long drink before giving a huffy laugh at Ressina. “You are probably one of the only bartenders in the city that actually wants to hear what her patrons have to moan about, you know that?” The bar was mostly empty, save for a couple that looked like they were only moments away from leaving and finding a room somewhere. Feyre was surprised to find that the idea actually held some appeal to her, as well. Brushing that aside, she glanced down the bar at a lone figure staring into his drink, and decided it was safe enough to tell her friend.

“You know where I work, right? Well, let’s just say none of us might work there any longer. There’s new blood coming in and apparently trying to clean house. I don’t know how much longer I have a job.” She gave a mirthless laugh and finished the rest of her drink in one go, motioning for a second one as Ressina made comforting noises.

“That’s rough kiddo,” said the barkeep as she stirred up another drink for Feyre without prompting, tisking under her breath. “I swear, the way they use you there with no gratitude, this might just be the thing to kick your ass in gear and get you to actually find a place that values you.”

Feyre just shook her head and pulled out her portfolio, now nursing her new drink as she scribbled new strategies to prevent the takeover. Ressina took this for the break in conversation it was and began to clean up behind the bar, preparing for closing while humming to the music under her breath. The woman really was beautiful, and Feyre found herself distracted watching the way her inky hair swayed with her as she went about cleaning up and closing out tabs. Feyre’s fingers itched to draw her, already imagining the lines curving around her figure, the strokes it would take to convey the feather-fine hair. After a few minutes, however, she forced herself to get back to work. That was, ostensibly, why she was at the bar after all. She began to jot down counter strategies, leaving little notes to herself later on to explain what she was talking about, and found herself so absorbed in her work that she didn’t notice the man at the end of the bar studying her until Ressina cleared her through and tossed her head in his direction.

“Uh,” she began, unsure how to spark a conversation with a man that clearly felt no shame at drinking her up like he was parched. “Hi?” Her cheeks were flushed from the alcohol and cold, and she knew she’d had just enough to drink to loosen up by the heat radiating off of her ears.

The man took a long sip of his drink before standing up and walking over, never taking his gaze off of Feyre. She felt goosebumps rise on her arms, but tamped down on the feeling and forced herself to keep a neutral enough expression. He was better looking in the light, his raven hair almost purple in the neon of the bar and mouth curved in what she could only imagine to be a smile promising filthy things.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, sitting down so close that their thighs touched. She felt warmth spread down her neck, though she forced herself to meet his gaze steadily, ignoring the quickening of her breath. He, however, didn’t ignore it and watched the way her breasts rose and fell under her blouse, drinking in the sight before looking back up with a smirk.

“Do I even know you?” Feyre asked, brow cocked. “I bet you use that line on all the girls.” She turned away, a deliberate move in that dance as old as time. Parry and riposte, ebb and flow. The heat in her veins made her bolder than normal, but he didn’t seem to mind. “I don’t even know your name, stranger.”

A funny look crossed his face so quickly that Feyre decided she imagined it, before he answered easily, “Daemon. And yours, my beauty?”

Feyre laughed, rolling her eyes at him, though she felt herself more at ease with what was clearly a teasing compliment. “Laying it on a little thick, don’t you think Daemon?” She tucked a curl behind her ear that had fallen out of her haphazard bun, noticing the way his eyes followed her every movement with the laziness of a predator that knows it has its prey cornered.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Beautiful woman like you, alone on a cold night like this? You should be curled up in furs next to some lucky guy somewhere.” His tone was light, but the hungry light in his eyes couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than lust.

“Work,” she replied, expression tightening slightly at the reminder. “Don’t suppose you know anything about that, do you?” She nodded down at his midnight suit, well-fitted and beyond anything she could ever afford, and cocked a brow. The challenge was clear in her gaze. She reached out and took his hand, ignoring the spark at their connection that caused Daemon to raise an eyebrow, and turned it palm-up. “Not a callus to be seen, just as I suspected,” she said, giving a theatrical sigh. “Bet your silver spoon is tucked away in that fancy suit too, isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer, instead taking her hand and placing it on his chest where she could feel his heart pounding beneath the silky fabric. His other hand slid into her hair, massaging the back of her head and drawing an unintended moan from her. The tension from that day seemed to loosen and slide away. She’d always loved getting her head massaged, and it was almost as though he’d known this when he began. Her hands bunched the fabric of his lapel, eyes glazed until he drew his hand down to her cheek and began to draw close.

She realized where this was going, chastised herself for being too easy, and then met his lips with her own. It was utter possession. His kiss was firm and commanding, taking and giving in equal measure. She felt his chest rumble when she slipped her tongue past his lips, tanging with his own, and would have kept going if not for a pointed cough from behind the bar.

Pulling away, Feyre felt her face turn scarlet and had to force herself to ignore Daemon’s self-satisfied smirk as he straightened his clothing.

“You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here,” said Ressina with a knowing look, glancing between the rapid rise and fall of Feyre’s chest and the lipstick staining the corner of Daemon’s mouth. “Go on, lovebirds. Don’t make an old woman long for something she can’t have.” She turned her back to them to clean the glasses sitting out, but not before Feyre saw her grin.

Turning back to Daemon, she was at a loss for words. She wasn’t a one-night-stand kinda gal. Not that there was anything wrong with it, but she just...tended to not have time for relationships, and being the pragmatic girl she was, took care of any needs with brisk efficiency and the help of a not-inexpensive vibrator she’d gifted herself as a housewarming present when she moved to Cali. This guy, though… He almost seemed worth the trouble of bringing him home. She looked between him and the door, though her question was apparently written plainly enough on her face for him to make the one to suggest it.

He leaned in, nuzzling her neck and pressing kisses behind her ear. “I’d ask my place or yours, but I’m all the way across the city. You live closer?” His words were a torment of warm breath against one of her most sensitive places, drawing goosebumps up along her neck. Her head swam as though she was drunk, but she hadn’t had enough to go beyond a buzz and knew it must all be him.

“Yeah,” she breathed, tilting her head to the side to give him better access.

“Then let’s go, Feyre darling. Don’t make me wait.”

He didn’t have to ask twice, not with the heat in her stomach dropping lower, lower, until she felt her thighs squeeze together unconsciously. She quickly paid for her drink and ignored the salacious looks her friend was giving her, before grabbing her portfolio and keys, nearly stumbling after Daemon as he stood and took her hand. If the bulge in his pants was any indication, it seemed like he wanted her as badly as she wanted him.

The trip home was a blur of scorching hot kisses and freezing wind, the combination almost driving her wild. They stumbled up the steps to her apartment and, with clumsy hands, she unlocked the door. Daemon pressed her back against the door, slamming it closed behind them, and began to ravish kisses up her throat, along her cheek, until he possessed her mouth entirely. Their kisses weren’t sweet, but a clashing of natural phenomena: a tidal wave against a sheer cliff, the inexorable pull of gravity on a falling stone. Their breath mixed as she pulled at his clothing, forgetting in the moment that the silk falling to the ground around them likely cost more than she made in a month.

“More,” she demanded, biting his lip petulantly when he pulled away in order to unbutton her blouse. He flashed a promising grin her way, in that moment being the picture of boyish pleasure and nothing like the foreboding man she’d first seen at the bar. The moment the chilled air hit her breasts, she arched her back and he took the opportunity to fill his hands with her, mercilessly brushing his thumb over her nipples until they rose in stiff peaks.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, against her skin, lowering his head to taste the rosy buds that now stood erect between them. “Divine.” He laved his tongue over her breasts, then down the valley between them until she couldn’t keep herself from pulling him back up to her mouth. Her hands snaking down his chest, undoing the buttons as she went until she could press her hands against his bare skin, teasing her fingers down his side until she reached his belt.

“Gods,” she groaned, clumsily undoing the buckle and shoving her hands into his trousers where she took possession of his cock, hard as steel and nearly as big around as her fingers could reach. She felt a shudder roll through him as she slowly teased him, swiping the bead of liquid from his tip and using it to help her hand glide up and down his length. “You’re so big, I-”

“Bedroom,” he bit out, cutting her off. He seemed to strain against her hand, nipping down her throat and along the tops of her breasts. “Unless you want to have sex against this door.”

The thought appealed to Feyre, but she managed to surface from her heady lust long enough to lead them both to her bedroom. She didn’t bother turning on the light, instead toppling into bed with him. “Condom?” she asked breathlessly, the thought only now crossing her mind. She was on birth control, but something about a one-night-stand seemed to require protection from a different sort of danger.

“My wallet,” he groaned, the sound turning into a growl as she slid her hand around his hips to dip into his back pocket, giving his ass a grope before returning with the foil-covered square. He squeezed his eyes shut as she rolled the condom down the length of him, then his control seemed to snap.

Rolling her beneath him, he poured kisses down her body until he reached the edge of her skirt, which he roughly pushed down until she was bare to him in only her pink flower underwear and tan bra. She hadn’t planned on getting laid when she got dressed that morning, but couldn’t muster enough concentration to worry about what he thought as he yanked the two pieces of fabric hiding her from him. His mouth slide lower, lower, pressing kisses to the delicate skin of her hips and inside of her thighs, before he sat up and pressed a thumb over her nub, rubbing once, twice, as she groaned beneath him.

“Yes, yes,” she breathed, hips bucking as he continued, adding first one, then two fingers inside her as she struggled against the wave rising higher and higher inside of her.

“So tight,” he growled, withdrawing his fingers and, in an act that had her melting, licked off each of his fingers, before lowering his face and feasting. A rumble of pleasure vibrated against her, causing her to alternate pushing against his head and pulling him closer, thighs squeezing against his shoulders.

“I’ve got you,” he promised, seeming to know what she needed but couldn’t say aloud. “Ready…?” He took her cry of pleasure as a yes, then said lowly, “Then come for me, Feyre darling.”

He drew her nub between his lips and sucked, laving his tongue over the sensitive bundle of nerves as she convulsed beneath him, finding herself soaring up and up until her pleasure broke on a knife’s edge, sending her shattering down back to earth.

Panting, Daemon gave her no time to recover, propping her hips up and lining himself up before driving in with a thrust. The pressure was intense, and this time her cry was tinged with discomfort, though he remained still until she began to slowly rock against him, moaning his name under her breath.

He took this as the permission that it was and began to move, slowly at first, then more quickly, angling himself so that he hit that one spot inside of her that caused her legs to clench so tightly around him that she thought he would complain.

She kept up the quiet litany under her breath of “yes, yes, yes,” as he drove into her, hips pistoning until she felt his control shatter and his pace grew frantic. The heat inside of her roared up again, rising like a furnace, until she felt him thrust deep inside of her and groan, his pleasure sparking her own until they were both tumbling down, down, into each other and the orgasm they shared. She felt her eyes closing when the bed dipped under him as he stood. The sink ran in the bathroom, then he returned, sliding under the covers with her and petting her hair with a lazy, unhurried pace. Her eyelid began to grow heavy, until finally she gave into sleep.

#books #bookish #reading #booklr #studyblr #english lit #ivory tower #IT #acotar #acotar au #acotar fanfic #feyre x rhysand #highqueenofelfhame

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the-darklings · 5 years ago

Text

—𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒆;

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

word count: 10.9k+

summary: You wait for the relief, for the triumph, to hit you but it doesn’t come.

warnings: swearing, strong violence/blood, angst.

notes: *giggles* ENJOY!!

children of ares series: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | . . | 08 |

Tarasov laughs, low and deep, his hands coming up to cup your cheeks. Your muscles are so tense they tremble, and it’s an effort to not break his arms but you manage to contain yourself, your expression carefully blank. He grins at you widely, and his clear pride turns your stomach.

“Aye, aye, all these years,” he mutters thoughtfully, turning your head slightly from side to side. “And it is now—pretty last fucking minute too—that you go ahead and make me proud, eh?”

For a moment you both simply gaze at each other, considering, assessing.

“Little viper,” he hums in Russian, rolling the sounds with quiet approval. “My vicious little viper. Seems like my faith has been rewarded after all. Well done, well done. You went ahead and brought me back Baba Yaga himself.”

He pats your cheek once, his touch a gentle mockery of the last time he did it years ago, and his hands drop away.

You then realise why.

John is awake.

He’s coming around slowly—a side effect of the solution you know he inhaled before he went down—but he will be fully awake soon enough. Blood stains his temple and his chin turns slightly from side to side. He’s trying to gather himself, subtly checking for wounds, and testing how tight his binds are.

You know because he was the one to teach you these things.

It’s an interesting reversal of situations.

Avi pulls out a chair for Tarasov and the man shrugs off his coat, sitting himself down in front of his old associate.

“There is,” he begins snippily. “A certain audacity about you. Though I admit, you are still the John Wick of the old.”

Tarasov chuckles under his breath, but John doesn’t seem to be listening to what the man is saying. Instead, his dark eyes rise over his face, then his shoulder, and lock straight onto you.

“Why?”

Tarasov falls quiet. The hanger itself falls under a peculiar sort of hush; as dangerous as it is fragile.

You don’t look away from him. Your eyes remain locked because you are not ashamed, not afraid. But you do see hurt there. Betrayal. Something hidden and pained that he guards carefully.

“Because when you left, I went through hell because of you,” you tell him simply, your voice devoid of emotion. “And now, you will know what that feels like.”

Tarasov laughs deeply, leaning back in his chair. John’s eyes remain locked with yours.

“Goodness, John,” he says, amused, and glances at Avi as if to see if the man finds it just as funny. “Even I know the old saying ‘hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’. You left her for another woman, got married, and now what? Did you expect her to run back into your loving arms again? Let’s not be naive here. People don’t change. Times they do. Some hurts never heal though and hers…”

Tarasov pauses, exhaling, and regards John with a thoughtful frown.

“You got out,” he continues. “Got married. And I had my son. Yours was a far better deal, I reassure you. But the way you did it. By lying to yourself that your past doesn’t hold sway over the future. Lying to yourself that you have moved on, found peace. But, we are often rewarded for our misdeeds. Which is why God took your wife, John. And then unleashed you upon me.”

Tarasov glances over his shoulder and your eyes meet for a second. He shakes his head slightly with a small smile. “But life has also rewarded me by giving me one of the very few capable of making you bleed. The Last Task and the Impossible Task. It ends how it began. Fine irony in that, don’t you think?”

John doesn’t answer him. His expression is guarded, composed, but his eyes keep flickering up to you. You meet his stare every time, unmoved.

Tarasov leans closer, his voice calmer now. “This life, John, it follows you,” he insists tightly. “It clings to you, affecting everyone who comes close. It’s a slow-acting poison that eats away at everything you love till there’s nothing left. We are cursed, the three of us,” he whispers, pointing his finger at each of you when he briefly glances in your direction again.

You feel yourself swallow.

He’s not wrong.

“On that,” John’s soft voice fills the air. “We agree.”

Tarasov makes a small sound of surprise, leaning back sharply as he stares at John in disbelief. “Finally. Common ground.”

John’s attention, for the first time, seems to focus solely on Tarasov and you know that this will not go down well before he even speaks. “Step aside, let me have your son.”

You almost shake your head. Hasn’t he listened to a single thing you said to him? Iosef might be a good-for-nothing waste of space but he’s still Viggo’s son. His blood. Tarasov might not be Giovanni D’Antonio when it comes to the sheer ferocity with which he protects his own family, but you have seen enough of Tarasov to know that unless he has no other choice, he will protect his son.

The man hums, quiet and mocking, “John Wick, hm? Baba Yaga.”

He rises to his feet abruptly, his chair sliding back a few inches, and grabs his coat with enough force to make the material flutter. “It was just a fucking car. It was just a fucking dog.”

“Just a dog,” John echoes, sounding almost dazed. “Viggo.”

To his benefit, the Russian clearly still has enough respect for the assassin that he stops and lets him speak, his hands on his hips as he stares at the man expectantly.

“When Helen died, I lost everything,” John admits, his voice frayed with pain, and you see the potent grief in his eyes. For the first time, it also rings in his voice; a heart-wrenching symphony of loss. “I had nothing till that dog arrived on my doorstep; a final gift from my wife. Her gift of hope. A chance to grieve unalone when I realised that I had no one left.”

For a split second your eyes meet, and you recall that night too. His plea for you to stay, and you walking away from him. And despite everything, you still don’t regret it. Because this just confirms what you already guessed at then.

He wanted you to stay not because he needed you but because he didn’t want to be alone. If you had stayed, it would have destroyed you. You would have been trapped in a space that is not your own—could never be your own—and lived a lie. Pretending that you’re fine with the fact that he’s grieving for a woman he married and loved while you were hunted across the world. A woman he left you for even if it had been for your own protection too.

You would have wasted away, day after day, trying to live up to her ghost.

“But your son,” John continues and your skin crawls when, for the first time in a long time, you see pure fury split his stoic demeanour. “Took that from me, stole that from me, killed that from me.”

Tarasov turns to you with an irritated sigh and shoots you a look.

“People have been asking me if I’m back and I haven’t really had an answer for them,” John snarls, low and furious, and you realise that you have never seen his facade crack like this. Shatter and splinter so completely. “But now, yeah, I’m thinkin’ I’m back. So you can either hand over your son or you can die screaming alongside him!”

Tarasov’s men grab him when he jumps up from his seat and you release a shuddering breath, staring at him in mute shock.

The older man’s hand lands on your shoulder, purposeful, but his expression is serious, unforgiving. “All yours, little viper,” he informs you, and glances at the still struggling John one last time. “Make sure he suffers. Then, consider your debt repaid in full. Perhaps we can still discuss business after. What do you say?”

Your lips curl in disdain as you observe John, and when your eyes lift to Tarasov’s you have just the answer for him. “Sounds good, boss.”

Tarasov smiles, pleased, and pats your shoulder before shrugging on his coat and leaving the hanger with Avi. The latter man gives you a small nod when he passes of what—if you didn’t know any better—you would have considered respect, and follows after his boss.

One of the guards, having grown tired of the still struggling John, drags a plastic bag over his head, cutting off his air supply. You stare at the sight before you for a moment, trying to imagine what he must be feeling right now. You know very well the horrifying swell of panic that locks your muscles when you don’t have enough oxygen.

Kishi made sure you carry that fear with you to this day.

The burning of your lungs, the dizziness, the pressure in your head. The sheer agony of having life being slowly drawn out of you—the feeling of your cells dying, of your blood vessels rupturing.

The most sickening part is the fact that at first you don’t feel it, you simply know it’s happening, and that makes it so much worse.

“Enough,” you tell them. “We don’t want him dead just yet.”

The guard obeys, loosening the bag before he takes it off and John gasps, sucking in sharp breaths of oxygen. Kirill’s expectant stare follows you as you step closer to John.

“(Name),” he gasps, breathing heavily. “I’m…sorry.”

You laugh in disbelief, turning away from him, and spin your face towards the window that allows light to stream inside.

“Oh, John,” you whisper sadly. “You’re always sorry. But it doesn’t change anything.”

You rub your nose once, grinning slightly.

A shot whistles through the room, hitting the second guard right in the head, his blood exploding everywhere. Kirill grabs his gun but one of your blades sinks into his throat before he can fire and he gapes at you, swaying. He takes a step closer and another, but you approach him calmly, and grabbing the blade still inside his neck drag it to one side viciously. Blood rains to the floor in a river of startling crimson and you step back, avoiding the deluge.

His shock is stark even when gravity finally drags him backward and he falls with a heavy thud to the floor. Your blade is still in your hand, now covered in blood, only free of its host.

Your head dips towards the window and you salute with it.

Marcus, as always, never misses his shots.

After all, who else were you going to ask for help? Despite not being on friendly terms, you still have John connecting you both. Despite everything, you’re both still individuals of loyalty above all else.

When you rang him, Marcus divulged how Tarasov came to him personally, asking him to kill John. Almost the same way he came to you, except he did not phrase it like an offer to you. No, Tarasov looked you in the eyes and told you a simple truth.

“John Wick is your last job. Kill him and you’re free.”

What other choice did you have than to play along till the time was right? What use would you have been to John when you were killed or hunted? Possibly made Excommunicado for this betrayal? If Tarasov caught up to him, you would have been his only shot of getting out alive. So you played along with the Russian, telling him that it will be your pleasure to kill John. That you want him to feel betrayed, hurt, broken as you have been. Tarasov believed you because you didn’t need to fake your anger or hurt. Those have been real.

But the moment Tarasov learns of what you have done here, he will go straight to the High Table. Demand a hunt. And the rules of the old world will swing in the favour of your parents' killer. Because a debt remains unpaid.

One job. One simple, fucking job.

A job that is John Wick.

A job worth failing.

“(Name),” is his gentle exhale of your name. “Why?”

Your head turns in his direction and you approach him slowly, going for his leg binds first. Even though he asked the exact same question no more than fifteen minutes ago, his tone couldn’t be more different. His first had been more of a demand, hidden hurt lacing his tone. His eyes raging with betrayal and confusion. Now, an understanding, disbelief. Sadness. Warmth.

“You were my dream once,” you admit quietly, your voice strangled. “The depth of my devotion to you…it had no bounds. You could have asked me anything and I would have done it because I loved you that much.”

Your head rises, and you look him right in the eye. You’ve long since passed the point of feeling ashamed of your feelings.

“For me, happiness was being with you, John,” you admit and note how his expression creases with subtle, unspoken pain. You’re ripping into an old wound but you can’t find it in yourself to care. Not right now. Not when this might be your only chance to say it. “I always chose you. So choose me now. When Tarasov learns what happened here—he will hunt us. You know he will. The High Table will demand my blood for breaking the contract before the debt was repaid.”

You stand, and lay your hands on his, gripping them tightly. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Go somewhere no one is going to find us. Start a new life together.”

John gazes at you for a tense moment and then rises to his feet awkwardly. He doesn’t drop your hands, cradling them carefully in his own. You stare up at him, your heart galloping in your chest, and you don’t know what it is he sees on your face but you can only imagine the fragile hope.

“I have to finish this.”

He might as well have screamed it. As loud and as wild as he did earlier with Tarasov.

But it’s a murmur. Because he always talks with you with a softness of a lover as he cuts into you, deeper and deeper each time.

Your expression drops and you swallow thickly, trying for a smile.

“I know you do.”

Tugging your hands back, you step away from him, half-turning.

“I promise to you,” he declares firmly. “I will kill Tarasov.”

You smile wider, but it feels brittle on your lips; a broken, forced thing.

“You won’t,” you breathe knowingly, and continue on before he can argue otherwise. “Because the only way to get to Iosef now is through his father, and you can’t kill Tarasov until you find him.”

John remains quiet and you chuckle though it sounds hollow in your own ears. “By which time it will already be too late,” you note weakly, turning away from him.

“(Name)—”

“Don’t.”

It’s a snarl; a wild, vicious noise that tears from deep within.

This time there will be no tears. You’ve stopped shedding those a long time ago, especially for him. And by this point, perhaps, you know better than to expect anything. Not from John who is so clearly still in love with his dead wife.

Revenge above all else—even you.

Your feet carry you away from him one steady step at a time.

“You will be free. I swear to you.”

You pause.

Free?

You don’t even know what that is anymore.

You walk away without a word.

Winston,

If you’re reading this I’m dead. Don’t roll your eyes either, I’m allowed to be dramatic. I think. I never had to sit on my ass waiting for the final count but here we are. I don’t even know why I’m writing this. Maybe I’ve watched one too many movies. That’s what people do, isn’t it? Leave notes behind? I could run, of course, but how far would I really get? How many people would have to die as a result? I’ve ran for a long time, Winston. It’s all I know and I’m tired. I’m so tired. I think deep down I always knew that my story can only end one way. At least it wasn’t all bad. I’ve met some good people along the way, and isn’t that what life is all about?

God, am I getting philosophical? I guess you’ve rubbed off on me, old man. But I’m grateful. Despite everything, I think I will miss you quite a lot. My father cared but I don’t think he ever truly understood me. Not the way you do. Or did, I suppose. I’m grateful for all you have done for me. For the advice you gave me and the tough love I needed. I’m thankful that despite not liking Santino, you told me to take the Chicago job that day. That you understood how very close I had come to the edge when no one else did. That you were there for me in your own grumpy way, always.

Thank you. Just thank you.

Everything I have, I leave to you. The formulas, the solutions, the poisons—everything that I am, that I have become, is yours now. You will find the vault codes on the other side of this letter. It’s the only way I know how to repay you. A gift of death. But it will keep you safe for a while longer. Keep our city in order, too, if you’re smart about this and I know that you are, you old bastard.

But I suppose, if I could get one last wish from you, then I would ask you this: take my poison, go to the High Table, and feed it to the lot of them. Make them choke on it.

I know it’s unlikely you will ever take this kind of risk. But it sure as hell feels nice writing it.

We had a good run, you and I.

If I see you too soon though, you’ll never hear the end of it.

See you in hell, old man.

— your favourite little hatchling.

P. S. I know you don’t like him. But please, next time you see Santino, give him the second letter. And tell him I’m sorry.

Your fingers loosen around the pen and you sigh, your eyes fluttering shut.

Slowly, gently, you fold the piece of paper, slotting it into the crisp envelope before you. Taking the pen again, you scribble Winnie on the front and place it next to another already sealed letter reading Hey, Santi.

Then, you take a moment to breathe. Simply count the beats of your own heart. Appreciate the seconds in which you are still, miraculously, alive. Maybe not whole. But still alive.

Of course, you could run. Of course, you could hide. Even fight.

But for how long?

Alone against the High Table. The highest power there is. How long would you last?

And you know better than that. You know that you won’t be alone.

Maybe Winston would hide you for as long as he could, get you out of the city, or help you in some other way. Santino sure as hell wouldn’t let this go. He would do something about it—something as drastic and as volatile as his nature. Ares, for once, would not try to argue him out of it, either.

And where would it all lead?

Even with all that help, it would still not be enough.

The High Table would punish them—if not outright kill them—for helping you, for covering for you, and you can’t let that happen.

That’s the one last thing you can still do for them. Keep them safe. Not give them the chance to get involved in this till it’s already too late. A clean break.

They’re yours—your people; as odd and as twisted as you are—and you want to keep them away from this fallout.

Tarasov is a vengeful man. He will come to collect his dues soon enough in some shape or form.

Let him have it. Let him indulge.

His son will be dead soon enough because there’s no stopping John now.

John.

You didn’t write a letter to him.

Most things that could’ve been said between you have already been said.

What’s the point of causing more hurt?

No, you don’t want to think about the bad. Not right now.

Right now there is no Kishi, no Tarasov, no pain or loneliness.

“I think that you are lonely. I think that you are in pain but do not show it.”

Santino.

And Winston. And Ares. And Charon. Cassian and Gianna. Roberto. The Four.

Even John.

Your friends. At some point or another. The only people you’ve ever cared about.

You will miss them—even if some of them may not miss you back.

Standing, you wander towards the loveseat, sitting down heavily, and stare at the phone in your hand.

It’s an odd thing. There is no fear, not really. There is a feeling of sadness though. Like there is not enough time to do everything you want to do; a cold sense of things unfulfilled, and dreams undreamt. A part of you wishes you had enough time to visit the people that keep jumping through your mind. Give them all a proper goodbye. You don’t like the idea of leaving them grasping onto distant memories of you. But what else can you offer them now?

Sighing, you dial the first number in your Recents and hold your breath.

It rings once and the line crackles to life.

It makes you smile. So predictable.

“Ciao, cara mia.”

His voice lacks the familiar sly edge. In fact, he sounds more subdued, guarded. But given your last conversation, perhaps it shouldn’t be that surprising. Santino has never bothered hiding his thoughts in regards to John. None of those thoughts are kind. In any capacity. After everything you’ve gone through, experienced, it’s perhaps no wonder Santino dislikes him as much as he does.

He has seen the worst of the aftermath John’s departure caused.

He knows. He understands.

“Hey,” you breathe quietly, and remind yourself that you can’t give anything away. “Can you talk or—”

“I always have time for you,” he cuts in smoothly but his voice is still flat in comparison to his usual teasing. “I am, however, surprised to hear from you.”

Ouch. You deserve that one though. You never did call him back yesterday. Even if he was the one to end your call, he must have expected…something after. Anything.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him honestly, swallowing. “Things got out of hand yesterday. I—when are you coming back to New York?”

For a moment, the other end of the line is quiet. Then, a slow, chilly, “Are you well, bella? Did something happen?”

You have to nibble on your lips forcefully to stop yourself from breaking your composed demeanour. You know how he would react if you told him what has happened and it’s easier this way. By the time he’s back, you will likely be gone, and even though he will rage, he will be kept away from this. You don’t want to involve him more after the blow he suffered just days ago.

“Always and no,” you mutter with a slight laugh, and press the phone closer to your ear, your next words hushed. “Hey, so I was thinking. You keep nagging me about Paris for years but I just realised that you’ve never even told me anything about it. Besides the fact that I apparently never seen your Paris. Whatever that means.”

“You want to make plans for Paris?”

Surprised, soft.

Your eyes close, pained, and you force loftiness into your voice. “Why won’t I?” you pose playfully, swallowing again. “Any places in particular you plan to take me?”

An exhale; and when Santino speaks next, you hear that hint of achingly familiar deviousness back in his voice again. “Well, amore. The first place we’ll go to is this cafe called Le New York—do not laugh at the name—it is a rather lovely spot overlooking both the Seine and the Eiffel Tower. After enjoying some fine food and above-average wine, we will go—”

You listen to him. Phone pressed tightly against your ear, you let Santino’s low, pleased voice wrap around you like a comforting blanket. Sink into your bones. There is a clear trace of excitement in his voice he’s trying to smother, and he’s as animated and as haughty as you’re used to hearing him be. He paints Paris in a new light, telling you about the many spots you had no idea even existed.

“It sounds nice,” you whisper when he finishes speaking, as if realising that perhaps he has continued on for a while longer than anticipated. “I look forward to it.”

Silence answers, and then a quiet, “One more job, amore,” he reminds you, and you can’t quite place his tone. “Just one more job and then you are free. We can go anywhere you want. Anywhere at all. I am no longer an heir. You will no longer be tied to New York. Let me show it to you. Everything there is. Just us.”

The silence between you stretches, and your fingers rise to brush against the silver chain around your neck, tangling it in-between your fingers. It’s the only present from Santino that you have ever accepted. Perhaps because it, unlike dozens of others before it, was not given to you during a fancy dinner or an event. It had been just you two at his home, enjoying the breeze from the Gulf on the rooftop terrace. He had pulled it out of his pocket—no box, no extravagant delivery—and placed it in your hand, closing your fingers around it. A simple, silver chain which—while uniquely made—did not stand out in any way. He never said where it came from or why he chose to give it to you, but you knew from the moment he passed it to you that it was important to him.

You put it around your neck that evening, and it has never come off in the year since you’ve had it.

Maybe because it had felt more like him and not an attempt to show off or impress you.

“Okay. We can see it all when you get back. Promise.”

I wish we had more time. I wish we could see Paris. I wish I could help you take the power I know you want. I wish—

Silence.

A quiet breath and you can read the conflict there.

“I’ll be back in New York by 1am tonight,” he informs you and you can hear a note of urgency, of yearning, in his low accented voice. “Come to the penthouse, cara mia. I have missed you.”

Your expression crumbles, and you rub your forehead with the heel of your palm to clear your mind. Breathing deeply, you stare at the carpet beneath your feet.

He is important. After all these years, he is.

That’s why you part your lips and lie.

“I’ll be there.”

A gentle exhale greets you—perhaps of relief, after all, how many times have you rejected these offers in the past—and it only makes you feel sadder.

“Ah, then I suppose I should order some wine.”

“Trying to get me drunk?”

A chuckle, warm and mischievous. “Why, cara, I would never. As if I require alcohol to charm you.”

“You are such a cocky bastard,” you mutter with a subdued groan. ”I have told you, right?”

Santino laughs this time. You try to memorise, immortalise, the sound in your mind. “Often, cara mia. Daily, I believe.”

Hesitating, you filter through everything and anything you could say to him. What words you could give to him that he would remember you by.

“I’ll see you around, Santi,” you whisper gently. “Don’t do anything stupid without me, got it?”

“Oh, I imagine it will be quite the arduous task but I shall endeavour to try, amore,” he tells you, and it hits you even harder right then that you will miss him. More than you ever would have expected. “For you. I will see you soon, yes?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, breathless and soft and devastated. “I’ll speak to you soon.”

The call ends and you lower the phone slowly, your other hand still tangled in the silver chain and you press it lightly against your lips.

A goodbye. The best you could offer him given the circumstances.

Rising to your feet, you try to force back the dull ache in your chest and inhale deeply.

Before you can take another step, your phone starts buzzing between your fingers. Your brows furrowing, you look at the name displayed on the screen and feel your expression slacken.

Marcus

Accepting the call, you speak before he can, “Before you remind me that I’m an idiot,” you bite out, trying to keep your voice cool. “I would like to remind you that you agreed to help me. So we’re both idiots. I always knew the risks. And maybe now you can finally stop insisting that I still owe John.”

“(Name),” a familiar, deep voice rolls your name and you feel your heart jump to your throat. “So good to hear from you again.”

“Tarasov.”

The man clicks his tongue, displeased. “I am…saddened, I must admit. When the news came to me, I insisted that they were wrong. No, I said, my little viper is loyal. She looks at me with rage but she is loyal. And yet, here we are.”

Your hand trembles and you tighten your grip on the phone, suddenly worried you’re going to drop it. “Where is Marcus?”

Tarasov exhales and he sounds almost upset which just makes you more worried. “You know how I do business, (Name). Traitors only meet one fate. But I am so disappointed. After everything I have done for you. I made you. You are who you are today because of me.”

His voice is practically a yell by the end, bristling with that infamous rage you know him for. The Ruthless Russian.

Marcus. No, no. It was supposed to be you. That’s why you stayed on-site, that’s why you told Tarasov to his face you will finish this. All so that he would never suspect Marcus was involved. So that he would assume that the man in question simply wasn’t quick enough in completing the hit as agreed. That John getting away was your doing and yours alone.

A strangled breath rattles from your lungs, and years of pent-up rage bubbles from deep within you. “You didn’t make me,” you snarl, low and furious, as you stand in the middle of your too empty room. “I made me. And unlike your son, I will live to see another sunrise.”

Tarasov laughs but it’s a terrible sound that sinks into you like a sharpened blade. “Yes, yes, my son…is gone. My blood. Now, I shall demand payment in blood from John,” he speaks, his words icy and hoarse with victory. “Just like your parents, you will die like a dog.”

Something hits you from behind.

The phone sails from your hand and you fall to the floor, rolling, as your knees knock against the coffee table. Dizzy, you fumble for a blade, throwing it blindly to give yourself room, and know it has missed the target by the sound of footsteps hurrying towards you.

Gripping the side of the coffee table, you jerk it with your entire upper body strength and it hits the assailant in the legs, giving you just enough time to stagger back onto your feet.

Perkins launches herself at you with her teeth bared.

You crash to the ground heavily, and she punches you in the jaw, wrapping her hands around your neck. The contact rattles your teeth and she leers down at you. “Surprised to see me?”

Snarling, you jerk your hips upwards, throwing her gravitational point off as you shove her to the side. She holds onto you, dragging your weight with her, and her fingers sink into the sensitive skin of your neck as you strike her in the ribs. Once, twice.

Her fingers scratch against your skin, drawing blood and you abandon your original plan in favour of striking her straight in the throat. She jerks upon contact, gasping, and her fingers finally release your neck. Immediately, she swipes her arms viciously over the side of your face, focusing on the temple to no doubt knock you out, and you fall to the side, groaning. You blink the dancing, vivid spots from your eyes and crawl to your knees, dizzy. Your work table is just across the room. On it, a thousand and five ways to kill Perkins in some of the most painful ways you can think of.

Clearly, she’s aware of this too.

She falls on top of you, her arms wrapping around your neck from behind, her bodyweight holding you in place.

“Breaking into someone’s room,” you wheeze, struggling to throw her off. Not for the first time, you wish you had Ares’ core strength, but speed has always been your greatest ally. “Classy t-till the end, Perkins.”

“The end?” she titters into your ear, scornful, as her arms tighten around you. “Maybe yours. You know, I told Viggo I would do this free of charge. That I will enjoy it. Not so deadly without your poison, are you? Time to die now.”

You press your forehead against the carpet, inhaling as deeply as you can through her grip. “M-Maybe,” you choke out, your words weak and muffled. “But not by your hand.”

The back of your head smashes into her face and her grip on you loosens. The back of your head explodes with burning pain, and you don’t know if the skin split but you don’t have the time to wonder about it. Using Perkins’ momentarily vulnerability, you jerk upwards, throwing her over your body as she collapses heavily in front of you. Misbalanced, you collapse to one side too, hissing from pain, and hurriedly try to locate her. She’s just slightly ahead of you, on her elbows, trying to get back to her feet and you kick at her ankle. She pivots to the side sharply and you pounce.

Your fingers tangle in her hair from behind and you drive your fist into her neck. Her elbow strikes back, getting you in the stomach, and air whooshes out of you upon impact. She does it again and you raise your leg, driving your knee into her lower back with all the strength still left in you.

Perkins collapses forward, halfway out of the ajar door and you move after her, your knees quivering. Your eyes snag on an object to the side and you hastily stumble towards it. Your blade sits buried deep in the carpet, and not having more on you inside your hotel room has been an ugly oversight on your part.

Clearly, if Perkins is fine with attacking John in his room, on Continental grounds, she would have no trouble attacking you as well. You, even more so than others. It makes you realise that there is only one thing that could have happened to Harry if she’s here to attack you. That she is likely how Tarasov found out about Marcus. Because she would have followed either you or John, or both.

Your knees creaking, you lower your body to grab the blade, ripping it free from the floor, and turn to Perkins.

The dark-haired woman is on her back, moving backwards to create distance between you as quickly as she can. She reaches inside her jacket and you feel your laboured breaths stop when you realise that there is a gun in her hand.

A gun.

This entire time she had a gun.

But she thought that she could—and would—kill you with her bare hands.

That it would be enough. That you were weak enough, and she deserving of taking your life.

Deserving of humiliating you.

You see red.

The blade in your hand slices through the air like a bullet and you know it hits on target even before Perkins lets out a strangled gasp of agony.

Her gun falls to the carpeted floor, and you stalk towards her, your expression making her crawl backward as she cradles her hand. Your blade has gone clean through her palm, sticking out the other end and blood flows across her pale, smooth skin.

You cut the distance between you and she seems to come out of her shock, trying to desperately reach for her fallen gun with her other hand.

Falling on top of her, you punch her in the face. And again. Your knuckles ache and you can already feel the bruised skin starting to swell. You straddle her, not letting her get away as you glare down at her bruised face. Baring your teeth, you grab the blade still stuck inside her hand and yank.

Perkins chokes on a pained groan, blinking rapidly as she tries to wiggle from beneath your unyielding grip. Turning the blade slowly in your hand, you meet her stare, raising your hand over your head.

“(Name)!”

You freeze. A breath rattles out of you and your lips press shut tightly.

“Don’t get involved, Winston,” you state, breathless and dangerously gentle, your words thick with fury. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Perkins makes a small noise of pain and your fingers wrap around her throat, your other hand still raised and ready to strike—ready to end her.

“Stop and think,” Winston’s voice cuts in from ahead of you, his words firm and laced with seriousness you rarely hear. “You know where you are, and you know what the consequences for doing this will be. (Name), look at me.”

You hesitate.

The urgency in his voice makes you glance up at him. The older man stands with one hand raised in a pacifying manner and Charon lingers just behind him, morose and serious, too.

“Trust me,” Winston urges again, but seems a bit calmer now that he has your attention. “Lower the blade.”

You stare at him for a moment. Then your eyes slide back down towards Perkins.

She’s grinning because she knows what this means. That she gets to live.

You bring the blade down with one merciless stroke.

For a moment, you simply stare blankly at the sight before you before awkwardly rising to your feet, swaying a little. Your eyes lift to Winston and his expression is slack with disbelief. He sighs and levels you with a flat stare, his features drawn.

As if remembering she needs oxygen, Perkins sucks in a startled breath. Her head turns slightly and she winces at the cut against her throat, the blade sticking into the carpet millimeters from her throat.

Winston looks at you knowingly when you come to a stop before him. “They haven’t been informed yet,” he states, and noting your disbelieving expression, gives you a pointed look. “You still have time.”

“Where?”

“The docks,” he divulges dispassionately. “If you hurry you might still make it.”

You nod, stiff, and glance briefly over your shoulder.

“Do not worry,” he intones with chilling calmness in his voice. “Ms. Perkins is now in the company’s care.”

Your eyes meet for a second and you nod, moving past him without another word.

That’s all you need to know.

You will never see her again—not alive, anyway—and that’s just fine by you.

It’s started raining.

The downpour began about halfway through your journey and by the time you get to the docks, the deluge is so heavy that you can barely see in front of you. Above-head thunder roars, bright flashes of lightning splitting the sky open, and you wince at the harsh beat of water against your skin. It’s freezing, soaking your clothes in a matter of seconds as you stumble blindly ahead.

The helicopter.

Of course, Tarasov would get out of the city first before sicking the High Table onto you, and possibly John too. He would remove himself from the situation because no matter how powerful he might be, going up against one of you would already be impossible enough, much less two.

You always figured that he would not waste time and inform the High Table of your betrayal first. To put you down quickly and not give you time to plan ahead or get away.

That has been true to an extent, you realise, except Tarasov sent Perkins because he wanted to catch you off guard and most importantly humiliate you.

Bodies.

You pause in your step, recognising Tarasov’s guards if only by their faces. The smashed cars tell an interesting tale of a futile struggle, and you change direction, following the path of death. Tightening your grip on your pistol, you move as quickly as you can, blinking the water from your eyes as you stagger ahead.

And stop abruptly.

Avi.

Dead too.

You know of only one man capable of such a level of effortless carnage. Your head lifts, scanning the area for any sign of Tarasov or John, and in the distance a faint sound of a struggle reaches you. The downpour muffles the sound greatly, but you still hurry in the general direction, your muscles tensing with every step closer.

But the time you find them, the two men who have haunted your life for years lay on opposite sides of the platform, facing each other.

They both turn towards you.

John, bloodied and shivering, stares at you, his expression soft. Accepting.

Tarasov sees you and chuckles.

It’s a weak sound but he still manages to sound magnanimous.

“Little viper,” he drawls in Russian over the sound of pouring rain and you approach them few, intent steps at the time. “My vicious, brilliant viper. Kill him, (Name). Kill him and all will be forgiven. Your debt? Repaid in full. In fact, I will give you the original contract. I will double it. Triple it if you want. 8 million for John Wick’s head. For you to start a new life. He broke you. He left you. You are nothing to him. He chose his revenge over you.”

Tarasov is out of breath by the time he’s done and for a long, unperturbed moment you simply stare at him.

Then you raise your gun in John’s direction.

His expression slackens, rain running down his features and he looks devastated but doesn’t try to fight back. He doesn’t say anything either. You don’t know if it’s because, perhaps, he had a feeling that this is how it will end for him—that he’s accepted it. His hand presses against his stomach where you see him bleeding heavily. It pours like a dark river over his fingers and that degree of blood loss will kill him quickly if he doesn’t do something about it.

Perhaps, it would be kinder just to leave him out here. Let him bleed out and join his wife.

“He’s right,” you breathe, your words almost drowned out by the rumble of thunder. “You left me even though I loved you.”

“I’m sorry, (Name).”

You smile at him. “No, you’re not, John. Because you got the life you always wanted.”

Tarasov laughs under his breath. “Seems like I get the last laugh, after all, John.”

You straighten, turning slowly and line the barrel of your gun with Tarasov’s head, your expression cold.

“But,” you whisper harshly, and revel in the flash of raw fear you see reflecting in his blue eyes. Finally, after all these years, he fears you. You swore to yourself that one day he will, and now it has finally come. “You took everything from me, including my freedom.”

Tarasov’s hand lifts little by little, cautious, as he looks into your eyes. From where you stand he looks small and weak. Not at all like the nightmare of a man you always knew him to be. “(Name),” he begins, his voice catching slightly. “Do not be so hasty. I know you are upset but the High Table will kill you—”

“I don’t care,” you insist softly, and it swells inside you; all those years of abuse, of neglect, of him, robbing you of everything. Of all the times he purposely kept you away from the few people who still brought you any semblance of happiness after John left. When he forced you to kill for him regardless of who the person was or what they’ve done. Because of him, you can no longer take baths. Because of him, you cannot stomach the thought of being underground for longer than mere minutes. Because of him, you shrink away from physical contact out of gut-deep terror of being hurt again. Because of him your hands and nightmares are soaked and gushing with blood. Innocent and guilty alike. Because of him you no longer have parents or a future. “What is that you said? You will die like a dog?”

“(Name)—”

BANG

Tarasov jerks to the side, collapsing to the floor as blood pours from his forehead, and for a long moment, you don’t move a muscle, simply staring at his motionless body. You wait for him to get back up, wait for him to wake up, and let yourself accept that this is all a dream but it doesn’t come. The sky roars; a triumphant symphony of raw energy and nature’s fury, matching your laboured breaths and thundering heart.

Your arm, trembling and bruised, suddenly gives out like someone cut the invisible string holding it up.

Cold rain trickles down your neck and lips, fills your eyes until they sting. You wonder if perhaps it’s tears, but there is nothing inside your chest—certainly no emotion of grief or even happiness.

Tarasov is dead.

After his terrible shadow has loomed over you for close to a decade, you are finally free of him. He’s dead by your hand. The revenge that you have dreamt of for so long is complete.

He died alone and afraid just like you always imagined he would. The vengeance you have chased for so long is in your hands at long last.

You wait for the relief, for the triumph, to hit you but it doesn’t come.

Your head lowers and then you turn away from the body, forcing your legs to obey you.

“(Name).”

You don’t look in his direction.

It would be easier to walk away.

His dark eyes find yours, and you can see the blood loss starting to take its toll. He should have left long ago to seek assistance.

His hands are red with blood. It’s not a new sight to you but it is the first time you’ve seen so much of his blood.

Blood.

There’s been so much of it spilled over the last 24 hours.

Iosef, Viggo, Harry, Marcus, Perkins soon, if not already.

Forcing the gun away from sight, you grab John by the shoulder, shaking him. “Get up.”

His hand rests on top of yours, almost desperate, and he breathes shakily. “Stay with me.”

Your expression twists and you shake him again, harder. “I said get up.”

John’s attention focus on you. He hesitates, his gaze searching, before dipping his head once and struggling to his feet. You let him lean into you, your body sagging under his additional weight but one step at the time, you begin walking.

“I’m not gonna make it,” he states, his voice gruff with acceptance and your teeth grit.

You know the odds are terrible at best.

You don’t answer him but mentally run through all the possible places where he could receive immediate care. First, blood loss. That’s going to kill him first before anything else.

The Continental? It’s on the other side of the city, you will never make it in time.

Doc’s clinic? Too far just like the Continental.

The nearest hospital is a solid ten-minute drive away and with New York traffic and this storm, you doubt there will be enough time to spare.

Desperation forces you to move quicker and John groans slightly under his breath but follows you willingly, trusting you to lead him—not like he has much of a choice in the matter. The pavement is slick with rain which slows you both down but you keep going.

“Keep pressure on the wound,” you order harshly, and although John doesn’t answer, you do notice that he presses his hand harder against his abdomen. “Get in.”

You force him towards the car and he moves his body inside, heavy and clumsy. It’s disturbing to see him as such but you don’t comment, hurriedly slamming the door behind him.

You move on automatic, wiping your trembling hand across your face to clear the water still clinging to your lashes and watch your swollen, bruised fingers wrap around the steering wheel.

You have to at least try and reach the nearest hospital.

Driving blindly, you know you’re being more dangerous than orderly, but you don’t exactly have the time to obey the speed limit. From the corner of your eye, you notice John reach inside his jacket but don’t bother asking what’s so important.

“What are you doing, John?”

“Looking at you.”

Blinking, you tighten your grip on the steering wheel. He’s—

He thinks that he will not make it.

So he’s spending his last moments listening and remembering Helen instead. The video plays on and it gets harder and harder to listen to it. Harder to hear their gentle exchange of words. John sounds so loving, so adoring when he speaks with her.

It reminds you of Santino—

You jerk your head to the side, trying to clear your mind, and that’s when you catch a glimpse of a sign on the building you’re passing. Turning the wheel dangerously to the right, you swerve the car into the back alley slamming on the breaks.

John jerks in his seat, almost collapsing against the dashboard but you steady him with your arm and he winces.

“Sorry,” you mumble hurriedly, pushing him back more gently. “But I have an idea.”

Throwing the car door open, you step outside, shivering from the cold that immediately bites into you. The rain has let up and your soaked clothes cling uncomfortably to your skin as you round the car, throwing the passenger door open.

“Come on,” you urge, leaning to inside to help him get out. He clings to the phone in his hand, his blood smeared across the screen and you carefully push it back into his jacket pocket. “We have to stop the bleeding. Come on, John. She won’t want you to die here.”

His eyes lift to you, full of simmering pain, and you give him a stern, almost harsh glare in return.

He blinks.

And just like that, John is gone and only Baba Yaga remains.

He rises and you help him.

Breaking into an animal shelter is easier than it looks.

You never thought you’d be here again.

Here in this house, here helping John.

Scrubbing your hands with soap, you watch the pink water swirl down the drain with a numb sort of detachment.

A whine sounds from beside you, and you blink, glancing down. The dog—you should have checked the chart damnit, surely he has an actual name—wiggles his tail when he realises that he has your full attention.

You have no idea why John insisted on taking him with you.

No—that’s not right. You do know.

It’s symbolic in a way. A bittersweet lament and a way for him to have something else again. Something that hopefully, with time, he can grow to love.

Turning the tap off, you dry your hands and your eyes slide towards the bathroom mirror.

A haunted, gaunt stare greets you and you look away, your grip on the sink counter tightening for a brief moment.

Betraying Tarasov had nothing to do with John.

Asking to run away from everything had nothing to do with love, either.

It’s make-believe. A happy, distant dream you have clung to for years despite your best effort to let go. His wife had passed only a week ago. Whatever John might or might not feel, you would never settle for it—never settle for being a ghost, a bargain-basement stand-in for someone else.

He loves her. Maybe in death, he loves her even more.

Acceptance took years but you understand it now.

You didn’t save John for him. You saved him only because you hated Tarasov more. Forgiveness does not come easy, not after what you’ve been forced to go through. It’s its own form of punishment, you figure, helping him live another day. Making him live on now that he has nothing and his vengeance is complete.

You straighten but find breathing…difficult.

You keep hearing the deafening sound of rain in your ears, the sound of the gunshot ripping through the air when you pulled the trigger. You keep hearing, and feeling, and tasting the moment in which you saw Tarasov collapse to the ground.

He’s dead.

You’re free.

“I’m free,” you mumble under your breath.

And again. And again.

But you don’t feel free.

You don’t feel much of anything and it terrifies you.

You’ve been doing so well. So damn well.

Since Chicago, it’s been a steady, slow rise to where you are today. Been.

You can feel that hard-fought ease and stability chip and crumble away with every haggard breath. Fear curdles your stomach—fear of the future, of the High Table, of what will happen now—and your palm slams against the marble counter, making you wince immediately. Your hands are heavily bruised but you ignore the dull twinge in favour of taking deep, steadying breaths.

“Count with me,” a memory urges, gentle but firm; insistent. “Uno, due, tre…”

The dog whines again, nudging his nose against your shin as if sensing your distress, and you squeeze your eyes closed before opening them again.

Bending down, you pat him on the head, rubbing his ear. “Good dog,” you tell him, hushed, and give him another few pets that he seems to lap up, wagging his tail happily.

You stand to your full height, and leave the bathroom, entering John’s bedroom.

He lays under the covers, his breaths shallow but steady. Sweat clings to his skin but when you take his wrist to check his pulse his vitals hold steady. Painkillers, liquids, and rest—that’s what he needs right now. Time to heal. It’s a damn miracle you managed to stop the bleeding when you did. You have no idea what you would have done if he had needed a transfusion.

The animal shelter appeared in your path like an oasis, a miracle. Perhaps, if the afterlife is real after all, Helen is watching out for her husband from somewhere out there. A guardian angel.

The dog jumps on the bed, curling against his new owner’s feet and you stare at John’s peaceful face for a few minutes.

Have you forgiven him?

No. No, you have not.

But you saved him because you had to prove to yourself that there’s more to you than what others say—more than what Kishi’s ghost keeps insisting you are. Dead to the world. John’s life would have just been another life needlessly lost and perhaps…

Perhaps you are no longer kind enough to let him have his peace.

As if sensing your scrutiny—or perhaps just your touch when you checked him—his eyes crack open. He looks bleary-eyed and disorientated and you place a glass of water against his lips. He takes a gulp but you force him to take more. He needs it.

You turn to place the glass back on the counter but John’s shaking fingers come to rest lightly around your wrist.

“I owe you a debt—”

“Stop,” you insist quietly, and take his hand in yours, lowering it back on top of the covers. “Just rest.”

He squints and you know he’s finding it hard to stay alert, focused. “A life debt—”

“John,” you cut him off, your voice hard. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Your voice cracks and his expression looks sad.

Your love ended a long time ago, didn’t it? He shouldn’t look this sad about the thought of you dying. At least unlike before, you will be going without regrets.

“I will not let…” his voice fades a little, heavy with exhaustion and you look away from him. “I will repay this debt.”

You don’t have any words for him. Every moment with John is like reaching into the dark and always coming away empty. It didn’t even hurt as much as it should have when he rejected your earlier offer to get the hell out of New York together.

A part of you expected it.

And maybe he still cares for you—maybe even loves you—but his love has never come in a form that you can understand. Never came in a form that doesn’t make you feel more alone.

He left you. It broke something inside you, but you rebuilt. Piece by piece.

Does it make you weak, you wonder distantly, the fact that despite everything he still clings to you. That you still can’t shake him fully. Has he really sunk in so deep that you can’t get him out no matter how much time passes?

“Don’t go.”

It’s such a simple request but you feel something inside you clamp up at his words.

As if it’s that simple. As if his pain is the only pain that matters. As if you haven’t just—

As if there isn’t just one way this can all end now.

As if he wasn’t the first one to leave.

You’re so lost in your own mind, you don’t even notice his eyes flutter shut again, and can’t help but feel grateful when you notice they have.

What good is a life debt when you have no future to begin with?

The High Table is no doubt already launching an investigation into what happened with Tarasov.

They will come for you. Sooner or later.

“But you will never fail me again, isn’t that right?”

You shiver as Tarasov’s ghost whispers those familiar words in your ear, making your fingers tremble.

“Do you hope this John will save you? He won’t. You’re dead to the world.”

Dead.

You stumble from the seat blindly, gasping for breath while pressing your palm against your chest as if you could still your galloping heart by touch alone.

Your chest feels like it’s being crushed, a rapid numbness spreading through your limbs, and you feel like crying but can’t force any emotion forward.

The phantom feeling of blood coating you clings to your hands and you tremble, tangling your fingers together as you stumble towards the bathroom.

You just want to be free. Free of your past, free of the pain and the uncertainty—

Just free.

Your stomach cramps painfully but nothing happens. You dry heave a few times, your skin clammy but freezing too.

A cold, wet nose suddenly nudges your cheek and you jerk up. Glancing over your folded arms, you can’t help but chuckle weakly.

“You’re a good dog, aren’t you?” you croak hoarsely and your shaking hand settles on his head. “Protect him, will you? Keep him safe.”

Because you can’t stay here.

This house is just another prison. Another searing knife burying deep between your ribs. You don’t want to stand here and pretend that you’re fine when you’re not. Because this space is smothering you one minute at a time.

Because it represents everything you could have had.

If things had gone just a little bit different.

Clumsily, you check your watch and swallow. What are the chances that the High Table already knows? What are the chances of you making it to the city without someone coming for your head?

All you have on you is two vials of paralyser and your pistol with a clip that’s now missing a single bullet.

Ignoring the splitting headache that’s starting to drum against your temples, you stagger to your feet, dizzy and nauseous.

John is still asleep but looks better than he did before. Some colour is finally starting to come back to his face and his breaths have evened out.

“Keep him safe,” you repeat in a whisper and give the dog another pat on the head. He wags his tail in reply, licking your palm as if in agreement and you crack a smile.

Your eyes settle on one of many pictures of John and Helen—this one of them with their arms wrapped around each other and caught mid-laugh—and it’s just another stinging reminder that you don’t belong here. Or anywhere.

You’re dead to the world.

Your eyes sting unexpectedly and you blink rapidly, trying to clear your blurry sight.

You turn away from the picture and don’t look back when you walk out of the door.

Flavio greets you with a guarded glare.

He’s lucky to be alive. He was the only guard to survive the warehouse attack from those that got injured. The attackers wanted the element of surprise so simply shot him and left him to bleed out.

Appears like he’s still holding a grudge about his little scratch though. Oh well.

Roberto, who is busy explaining something to him, turns when he notices Flavio’s attention focus on you. His expression relaxes when he realises that it’s you, but then you watch how his face goes slack with shock as he takes you in properly.

“V? What happened?” he demands and walks hurriedly towards you, looking around as if expecting someone to magically appear in the lobby and attack you. “Who did—”

“Santino…is he back?”

Roberto’s expression creases and even beneath the strong beard you can see his lips press together tightly. He looks worried. Numbly, you wonder just how bad you must look to move a serious man like Roberto to fret. Your hands wrecked, and the scratches on your neck no doubt angry and raw, you must hardly make a pretty picture. Clothes soggy and appearance more dishevelled than he’s used to seeing. The look in your eyes is no doubt distant and glazed too.

“Boss is back,” he states slowly, hesitant. “He’s been waiting for you. But he’s not in the best mood today. Who hurt you? V, if Boss sees you like this he will—”

“I need to see him,” you breathe weakly, and move around Roberto, your knees weak. As if sensing it, he moves to your side but wisely doesn’t touch you, simply hovering near in case you need to reach out for support. You can’t remember ever being more grateful for his position as one of Santino’s regular guards. “I need—”

You promised.

Seems like you get to keep your promise of seeing him again after all.

And…

And you didn’t know who else you could go to.

If it comes down to this being your last few hours left alive—

You at least want to spend them with your friend.

Your hand snaps out, gripping onto Roberto’s elbow and you hear the man release a startled breath. Ignoring his anxious stare, you both walk past Flavio who has now lost his glare, looking at you in confusion. The elevator ride is quick and silent, tense. Roberto is practically fidgeting in his crisp suit and you feel a stab of guilt for involving him without giving him any answers.

The penthouse button lights up and the elevator halts, the metal door opening silently to a familiar hallway.

You give Roberto’s arm a squeeze and release your grip on him.

“Go back downstairs.”

He frowns. “Boss will have my head if—”

“I will handle it. Go.”

You step outside and hear the elevator door close with a small creak.

Your eyes focus on the white door ahead but you don’t get a chance to knock. The door opens on its own accord, and it’s then that you realise Flavio must have informed Santino you have arrived.

His expression is serious when you first catch the first glimpse of it.

Then it’s a rapid spiral downwards.

It’s late—or early—and it explains the fact that he’s only clad in a white dress shirt and tie, oppose to his signature three-piece. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, his Rolex gleaming, and you see his grip on the door constricts suddenly, the lean muscle coiling under his sun-kissed skin.

His eyes roam over your features dangerously slow, then your neck—lingering, lingering, lingering—and finally your hands.

Then, his green eyes slowly come back to your face and it’s like being burned by a green flame so hot it almost hitches your breath. His grip on the door tightens till you can see his knuckles straining under his skin.

“(Name).”

It’s not a greeting. It’s a warning, a demand, a worry, and rage all wrapped in one quiet exhale of your name.

Your voice is choked and weak when you confess the truth.

“I k-killed Tarasov. They’re coming for me, Santino, and they’re going to kill me.”

. . .

an: I actually like Tarasov but by god was that cathartic to write. But hooo, so much happened this chapter. Thoughts? Theories? I have a feeling like you’ll have some things to say about John/V after this heh. As always, you guys are the best, most encouraging people ever and I adore you all. Thank you for reading <33

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick imagine #santino d'antonio x reader #john wick fic #santino d'antonio #keanu reeves #riccardo scamarcio #fic: children of ares

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