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spider-stark · 2 months ago

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SAME SIN

pairing | frank castle x reader

summary | in your darkest hour, matt doesn't answer the phone. but frank does.

warnings | blood, death, violence, attempted robbery, religious trauma, possible infidelity, matt's lowkey kind of a bitch in this but that's ok, probably deviates from canon at times but fuck it we ball, MDNI 18+

word count | 3.5k

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

Blood wept from your fingertips, dripping onto the asphalt.

It had soaked through the man’s shirt. Oozed from the scattered holes in his chest, pooling around his torso. His lungs breathed no air. His eyes didn’t blink, gazing sightless up towards the Heavens.

Sickness hit in a crushing wave.

You doubled over, clutching your stomach as bile surged up your throat, burning over your tongue. The gagging continued long after there was nothing left, saliva dribbling from your bottom lip.

Then there was stillness.

Not the stillness of calm, or peace. But punishment. Sentencing. The solemn gaze of an all-forgiving Father as he stands before you, stone in-hand.

[To kill is a violation of Faith—]

{—You or them?}

The gun had still been smoking when it’d clattered at your feet.

Regret felt like a wet blanket on your shoulders, suffocating in its weight. You couldn’t stand it.

Couldn’t stand.

Asphalt dug into your knees, crumpling at the man's side. Your hands had been shaking as you grabbed his wrist, searching for a pulse, praying for it in the way a sinner prays for absolution.

You found none.

No pulse. No absolution.

Still, you tried. Locked your fingers over his chest—pressing and pressing, trying and trying. Until thick ribs cracked and caved, until your palms were drenched in warmth and death and–

Rain.

It was raining.

Little drops, softly pattering all throughout the alleyway. You watched, dazed, as they slid down the lit-up screen in your hands.

You didn’t remember pulling out your phone, but you remembered making the call.

Calls.

In the Bible, the number seven is considered sacred. Symbolic of divine oaths and promises, of perfection in the purest, most angelic sense.

Seven times you called the Devil.

Seven times he didn’t answer.

You tilted your head back. The rain fell faster, cool drops steady rolling down your cheeks. The sky was a yawning, starless expanse. In the past, you’d always said that’s why you hated the city. The lack of stars—veiled by pollution and human selfishness, replaced by a twinkling skyline made of artificial hope.

But tonight was different. Tonight, you were glad for their absence.

At least the stars hadn’t seen what you’d done.

Blood smeared across the phone screen as you dialed your eighth call. A different tone than before; a number not saved but remembered.

A number you’d promised Matt you’d never call again.

{In case you ever need it—}

[—I don’t trust him.]

What is trust?

Once, it felt like the comfort of sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. Sitting amidst the oaken pews with a man at your side—a soft man dressed in a sharp suit, his glasses tinted red and his heart pure gold.

Now, trust felt like the relief of a call that rang only once. Of cold fear melting into the gruff warmth of another’s voice, heavy with concern as they answered: “You alright?”

You almost laughed.

No. Of course not—because why would you call Frank Castle if you were anything other than desperate?

“Are you busy?” you asked, awkward and hesitant.

In hindsight, the question felt stupid. There was a body lying in front of you, and certainly no amount of busyness took precedence over that. But then, Matt must’ve been busy. Playing dutiful layer or God’s lone soldier. That’s why he hadn’t answered.

Unless…

[Elektra’s just a friend—]

{—That what we are?}

On the other end of the line, Frank urged, “C’mon now, doll, you gotta answer me, alright?” Had he asked something? You hadn’t noticed. “Where’re you at?”

“An alley.”

A rough, humorless chuckle. “Little more specific, sweetheart.”

Five blocks from Matt’s apartment, you thought.

“Off West 51st,” you said.

“Don’t move.” There was the sound of a door slamming, of boots pounding down a flight of stairs. “I’m on my way.”

Panic thrashed in your veins, anticipating the sharp click of a call gone dead. “Wait!” A cry, a plea—but for what? You had no clue what to say next.

You hadn’t told him about the man, or the gun, or the sin.

And Frank hadn’t asked. You knew this was because the Why? for your call hadn’t mattered to him.

Only that you had.

{You call, I come—}

[—Frank Castle is a murderer.]

Your eyes squeezed shut. You went to rub them, then remembered the blood dripping from your hands.

So am I, you thought. So am I.

Frank said your name. Once, twice.

Quietly, you asked, “Will you stay on the phone?”

The sound of another door pushing open, a great whoosh! of air as the city unfolded around him: sirens screaming, traffic blaring. With your eyes closed, you could almost see—shoving from his apartment building, marching down darkened sidewalks with a determined clench in his jaw.

It wasn’t a man coming to save you, nor a vigilante.

It was a soldier.

After drawing in a breath, Frank uttered, “‘Course.”

Time dragged.

Hell’s Kitchen droned around you. Occasionally, Frank would ask: You good? to which you replied: How far are you? At some point, you drifted further from the man’s body. Ended up sitting on the ground, your back pressed to a brick wall.

Your emotions were still fuzzy, as dull as the blunt edge of a knife. But your nerves… those were razor sharp.

You watched both ends of the alleyway. Vigilant, afraid. Your muscles tensed whenever a car door shut too loud, whenever a stranger passed beneath the distant, buzzing streetlights.

What if someone noticed?

Gunshots weren’t such a strange thing in the Kitchen. The Devil couldn’t be everywhere at once, and the cops were either too busy or too lazy to investigate every bang! in the night.

But if someone noticed you like this—curled on the ground, a dead man at your feet and violent red on your skin…

He started it, you reminded yourself. Self-defense is absolvable.

[To a judge? Or to God?—]

God doesn’t matter.

[—Why didn’t you call 9-1-1?]

Why didn’t you answer?

Your grip tightened around the phone. “How far now?”

“Check your nine.” In the second it took for you to envision a clock, Frank had already amended, “Left, sweetheart.” There was the barest hint of a smile in his voice. “Look left.”

You did.

Frank was little more than a formless figure approaching. He was dressed in all black, his hood up against the rain. You couldn’t see his face, but you didn’t need to. His presence was enough to ease the frantic beat of your pulse.

When he was close enough to hear, you hung up the phone. Wiped your nose on your sleeve and sniffed, “Took you long enough.”

Cool and calculating—two descriptors that fit Frank best as he scanned the scene. He took note of the discarded gun, the puddle of watered down blood, the man with three bullets in his chest.

You were the last thing he noted, and the only one to put a crack in his stern exterior.

“Smart enough to practice law,” Frank lightly joked, “but not to read a goddamn clock, huh?”

A laugh sputtered past your lips, melding into a broken sob.

“Paralegals don’t practice,” you argued, ignoring the tears wetting your cheeks. “And I can read a clock just fine, asshole.”

There was a softness to his face, one brow raising. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” So long as it’s in front of you, and you’re telling time and not direction.

Frank hummed, his knees popping as he crouched down beside you. “Well I ain’t got a watch,” he said, “so I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”

Another weak laugh faded into quiet.

Then, more hesitant than you’d ever heard him before, Frank asked, “You wanna tell me what happened?”

Something about the way he said it struck you as odd. Like it was a choice—that you didn’t have to explain. If you wanted, the secrets of tonight could remain just that: Secrets, known only by you and a man who had no voice to share them.

[Do you remember Psalm 80:9?—]

Even secret sins are exposed in His light.

{—How do you deal with it? All Red’s Catholic bullshit?}

By believing in it.

Frank took your silence for an answer. Shifted as if he might reach out, offer comfort. Instead, his fingers curled into loose fists.

“How ‘bout you go wait around the corner,” he offered, “and let me take care of all this?”

You weren’t sure what Frank’s version of ‘taking care of this’ entailed, but you knew you were comfortable with never finding out.

Frank followed suit as you pushed off the ground. His movements were precise and easy, while yours were graceless and weighted. Standing, the world seemed to shift beneath your feet. Your mind was still hazy, your bones tired.

Existence had become an arduous task.

“When you’re… done,” you managed, your arms curled tight around your waist, “what then?”

You didn’t want to go home—or to Matt’s.

You didn’t want to feel alone.

As if he understood this, Frank simply answered, “I’ll take you back to my place. Get you cleaned up, let you rest awhile.” His head tilted slightly. “You like pizza?”

The world was ending.

And yet here stood Frank—no Bible quotes or Hail Mary’s, no judgement for the sin you’d committed or the mess he had to clean. He offered only calm, only patience—and pizza of all things.

[What do you see in him?—]

{—Let me take care of all this.}

You nodded.

Frank’s apartment was bleak.

One room total—unless you counted the cramped shoebox of a bathroom, which you did not. The front door opened into a shoddy kitchenette, connected to a living room that clearly doubled as his bedroom.

He owned minimal furnishings. There was a lumpy couch, a small table with one chair, an old doormat that read Stay Awhile! except the Awhile had been all but completely rubbed off. You assumed that’s why it was inside instead of out—because even indirectly, Frank Castle wasn’t the type to ask anyone to Stay.

Behind you, Frank grunted as he kicked his boots off onto the mat. You wondered if you should do the same, but didn’t.

It felt strange to be in Frank’s apartment. Not because it made you uncomfortable, but because it didn’t. You felt fine. Still shaken, still a little sick—but safe.

Would Matt be able to tell? Would he smell the gunpowder and Old Spice clinging to your skin and know that you’d been with Frank?

That’s how you knew when he’d been with Elektra. You didn’t need super senses to smell her perfume—a heady mix of cloves and something citrus, lingering on his shirts as plain as if it were lipstick on the collar.

Unthinking, you said, “You should get a bird.”

Frank chuckled. “Yeah? And why’s that?”

You weren’t sure. It was just the first thing that had come to mind, a means of evicting Elektra from your thoughts.

“It could liven the place up,” you suggested. Though, after taking another glance around, you realized that might be asking too much of one little bird.

He’d need a flock.

Frank slipped past you, warmth crawling up your spine at the slight brush of his hand against your back. You told yourself it was unintentional—no more intimate than someone scooting past you in a crowded bar or a grocery store aisle.

Still, the warmth lingered.

“Don’t think I’m much of a bird guy,” Frank admitted from the kitchenette. Then, nodding towards the couch, he added, “Sit.”

You drifted that way and sank into the cushions. The springs were practically nonexistent, and the brown leather peeled like a bad sunburn—impossible not to pick at.

“What kind of guy are you, then?” you asked, more interested in a distraction than his answer.

Frank dug around in the cabinets, grabbed a plastic mixing bowl, and went to the sink. “I like dogs,” he told you, loud enough to be heard over the running water filling the bowl.

You pretended not to hear him anyway.

After starting at Nelson & Murdock, you’d planned to get a dog. It seemed like the right time. You had your own place, your own income—and you knew Foggy would love having something cute and furry around the office. But then you got closer to Matt, and the dream died before it ever began.

Dogs were too much for Matt. Too many smells, too many sounds, too many textures. Back then, you’d thought it was a reasonable sacrifice. No dog in exchange for an incredible boyfriend.

You knew better now.

You should’ve picked the dog.

Dragging the lone chair from the table, Frank settled in front of you with the bowl of steaming water and a thin cloth. His eyes went straight to your hand. You assumed it was because of the dried blood until he said, “You’re fucking up my couch.”

You stopped picking, dusting the flakes of leather onto the floor. “It was already fucked,” you defended.

“So you gotta make it worse?”

You fixed him with a blank stare. “Nothing could make this couch worse.” Short of setting it on fire, that is.

“That how we’re gonna play this?” Frank looked like he was holding in a laugh. “I let you in, offer you food—and you pay me back by talkin’ shit about my couch?”

“It’s not just the couch,” you stated plainly. “It’s the whole apartment.”

It reminded you of prison—a place that you, Foggy, and Matt had worked hard to keep Frank out of. Even if the trial hadn’t gone as expected, you hated the idea that all that fight had been for this: A peeling couch, a faded doormat, a lonely little chair.

Frank deserved better than that.

[Have you forgotten?—]

[Castle was charged with 37 counts of murder]

[—Why are you so attached to this case?]

With the bowl balanced on top of his legs, Frank dipped the cloth in and wrung it out as he joked, “Guess I need that bird.”

Your lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.

“Guess so.”

Frank held out an open palm. Without thinking, you laid your hand against his.

The water was too hot. Not quite burning, but still uncomfortable as he pressed the cloth to your wrist. But you didn’t flinch, utterly motionless as he wiped in slow, circular motions.

His touch was far lighter than you’d imagined.

Not that you ever had imagined it.

As the cloth moved down to your fingers, Frank’s focus grew more intent. He was meticulous in cleaning every line of your knuckles, the dried blood caked under your nails.

Only when the water in the bowl had turned the color of rust, the cloth stained and your skin spotless, did Frank trade one of your hands for the other.

Only then did you confess.

“He had a knife.”

Half a second—that’s how long Frank’s movements faltered before he kept on cleaning. You were thankful he didn’t try to look you in the eye. That he didn’t have to for you to know he was listening.

“Foggy has a deposition in the morning,” you continued shakily. “He always forgets to print his motion, so I stopped by the office to do it for him and… I don’t know. On the way back home, I could just feel it, you know? That someone was there. That they were following me.”

An understanding nod as Frank moved the cloth to your index finger.

“I know it’s stupid,” you told him. “But I thought if I cut through the alley, got closer to Matt’s, then–”

He’d hear it, if the worst happened. The Devil would come. Your boyfriend—if you could even still call him that—would save you.

But that had been a stupid, childish thought.

“I figured I could lose him,” you said instead. “That I could turn the corner and just run in circles until he gave up. But he was fast. I wasn’t even halfway down the alley when he ran up behind me, when grabbed my shoulder and–”

Your breath caught. Frank’s touch moved slower, gentler—a feat you wouldn’t have thought possible. His eyes caught yours in a concerned glance. Only then did you remember how to breathe.

“It was just a knife, Frank. A knife—and I pulled out a gun!” A short, hollow laugh. “I should have let him rob me,” you rationalized. “At least a wallet can be replaced. But him, his life–”

Frank cut you off. “How do you know?”

Your brows furrowed in answer.

His hand went still against yours, holding the cloth wrapped around your ring finger. “That that’s all he wanted,” Frank gruffly clarified. “To rob you.”

“I don’t, but–”

“You remember what I told you? When I taught you how to shoot?”

{You or them?—}

Frustrated, you insisted, “It’s not that easy, Frank. It’s not my choice!”

[—It’s up to God, who lives and who dies.]

Frank shook his head. “That’s the Catholic in you,” he argued.

“I’m not Catholic,” you snapped, low but harsh. Frank looked confused, and you fought to keep the shame from your voice as you muttered, “Not anymore.”

Religion, you’ve learned, is a funny sort of thing. Even when you stop believing, it never truly goes away. God becomes a ghost under your skin, a divine haunting that borders on insanity. You will always think in terms of Sinners and Saints. You will always know that no amount of repentance will ever mold your soul into something more like the latter.

Frank wasn’t the type to pry any further.

Instead, he adjusted your hand. Carefully dragged the cloth along the curve of your fingernail. The water had cooled, now too cold where it was once too hot.

“It doesn’t matter what he was going to do,” you decided. “It only matters that I killed him.”

This time, it was Frank’s breath that hitched.

“No you didn’t,” he said, and you had never heard someone tell a lie so matter-of-fact.

“I did–”

He looked up. A muscle feathered in his jaw, and when he spoke, it was with the steely resolve of a Marine.

“No. I did.”

You blinked at him.

“I gave you that gun,” he continued. “Gave you that goddamn advice, too. That no matter what, you always gotta pick you. And see, I don’t regret that shit either because all that? It kept you alive. Kept you breathing. And if some no-good prick’s gotta so you get to live? Fine. Good.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but stare at him.

“But if someone’s gotta bear the weight of that guy’s miserable life,” Frank told you, “then let it be me, alright?” His gaze fell, lingering on your lips a moment too long before he uttered, “‘Cause I ain’t gonna let it be you.”

[You care about him—]

[—Don’t you?]

Do you care about her?

[Elektra’s just a friend—]

…

[—Can you say the same about Frank?]

You studied the man before you.

Frank Castle. The Punisher.

The one you shouldn’t call, shouldn’t trust. A murderer and a felon, a crack in your already crumbling relationship. Someone you tried to stay away from, tried to forget.

A number not saved, but remembered.

No, you thought, and wondered if Matt already knew. I can’t.

Swallowing, you looked down at your joined hands. The blood was almost all gone now, washed away by someone far more damned than you.

“Okay,” you said. There was no need to say anything else, no need to keep bearing the crushing weight of your newly acquired sin—not when God was a ghost and the Devil had abandoned you, not when a Soldier was so willing to bear it for you.

“You know,” you said, deftly changing the subject, “my brain’s a little hazy, but I’m pretty sure you promised me pizza.”

Frank fought the subtle curve of his lips. “Did I?”

You nodded, and he chuckled.

“Fine–” he refocused, back to cleaning off the last of the blood–“but you’re placin’ the order.”

You mocked him, Fine!, while sliding your phone from your pocket. The screen lit up with two missed calls and one text.

Matthew: Sorry, got caught up with something. Everything OK?

Your thumb hovered over the message.

In the Bible, the number eight is symbolic of many things. Resurrection is one of them; something dead brought back into eternal life. Once, you would’ve seen Matt’s text—a string of eight words—and wondered if that meant something. If maybe there was something left of your love to be resurrected.

Now, you stole a glance at Frank—your eighth call—and thought of new beginnings. Of choosing your own path.

You cleared Matt’s message.

Tapped on the Safari icon and asked, “Do you want somewhere specific?”

“Ever been to Lombardi’s?” suggested Frank.

You shook your head. “Is it good?”

Frank cut you a look. “‘Course it’s good. But knowin’ you, you’ll probably shit talk it the same way you did my couch.”

A smile tugged at your lips. “Keep it up,” you teased, already typing the restaurant into the search, “and your only company’s gonna be the couch and the bird.”

He chuckled. “I ain’t gettin’ a bird.”

You'd just pressed the phone to your ear, already listening to it ring when you built up the nerve to ask, "What about a dog?"

Frank set the cloth in the bowl. Gave your hand a gentle squeeze.

“Maybe a dog.”

a/n - this has been sitting in my drafts literally since january. i can't decide if i like it or hate it, but i've gotten into too much of a habit of writing, overthinking, and then never posting---so, here it is! thank you to anyone who takes the time to read it <3

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huda-pls · 8 months ago

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Save What's Left of My Family in Gaza.

In the heart of Gaza, where daily life has become a constant challenge amidst the siege and continuous bombing, we experienced unforgettable moments, filled with love and hope despite the pain. This is my story, and the story of my family, which may not differ from hundreds of other families in Gaza, but it holds special memories that will forever be etched in our minds.

Yazan, my dear nephew, was always a symbol of courage and joy in our family. Since childhood, he loved to wear his elegant blue suit, always made sure his hair was neatly styled, and smiled at the world as if to tell us that tomorrow would be better. On the day of a family member's wedding, Yazan stood proudly beside us, radiating happiness, sharing his smiles with everyone, as if he knew that these moments would be among the last memories we would have of him. Just a few days later, in a merciless airstrike, we lost Yazan. He left us while dreaming of a tomorrow filled with peace and joy, leaving behind a void and indescribable pain.

As for Suheir, my beloved niece, she is the sun that rises in our lives every day. Suheir is still with us, full of life and hope, dreaming of wearing her white dress on her special day and living a life filled with joy and success. Despite the harsh circumstances, Suheir carries the spirit of childhood and is the source of hope that we cling to amidst all this pain. Every time I see her, I feel that life still offers us a chance to witness its beauty and happiness.

We lost Yazan, but we thank God that Suheir is still with us. She is a symbol of hope and resilience. Although life has become more difficult and harsh, I believe there is always light at the end of the tunnel. We have endured these bitter experiences together as a family, but we still carry in our hearts a passion for life, seeking safety and the opportunities that can grant us a new beginning.

For this reason, I have launched a fundraising campaign to help my family escape this harsh reality. My goal is to secure a better future for those of us who remain, especially the children who deserve to live their lives without fear of bombings and airstrikes. All I ask for is a chance to give them a future filled with peace and opportunities, far from wars and destruction.

With hope and faith, I ask everyone who reads these words to contribute to our cause. Together, we can build a better future for our children, keep Yazan's memory alive as a symbol of courage and hope, and continue to support Suheir so that she can live the life she dreams of, filled with safety and happiness.

Vetted by @gaza-evacuation-funds @nabulsi @irhabiya @bilal-salah0

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artstaeus3600 · 5 months ago

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So some people have requested a part two for the Danny is Conner's Dad prompt/one shot? I did and it's been in my head since I'd written it so here ya go!

Danny's been living in Central City for almost a year now and things have been great with Conner! Dan finally gets to meet the little ghostie and finds him acceptable (read adorable) Conner seems to love going outside and napping so they have been doing that for nap time, he's finally seen the "Flashes" that Dan and Clockwork were complaining about so much and he gets it, it's a little irritating figuring out what changes in the timeline when he goes places.

Dani came by with her latest gift, a blue and red wrap with stars on it, that Danny now wears everywhere with Conner, so when Danny and Conner were having their nap walk around the City Danny got Summoned by a cult just from the smell of blood it's not going to be great... So Danny in his more eldritch form of endless stars and glowing green eyes and fire crown (still human sized), with the bonus of baby Conner with his wrap, he gets pulled to the summoning and finds the cult wearing green robes with some of the superheros he's seen around beating them up and suddenly stops when they notice him and the baby.

The leader of the cult who for some reason was still conscious starts speaking

"Oh Great One, Ghost King, Ancient of Space we ask for you to cleanse our world of the filth that has...", and that's as far as he got before the Superhero with a Kryptonian symbol for hope knocked him finally unconscious, then all focus is back on Danny with the baby and well Danny didn't really wanna reveal his human identity to the heros cause he can just tell the edgy dark one is a nosey type of hero, and he's finally having a semi peaceful life and he's rather not get involved with heros again, so he breaks the summoning circle faster than they can protest and dips out only leaving a green sticky note with a summoning for him and written "use only for emergency"

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Hopefully this is good for part two? This was what I was imagining for the Justice League to figure out Danny and Conner and trying to track him down.

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yutarot · 1 month ago

Text

1999. l.mk

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ husband!mark, assassin au, romance, enemies to lovers

wc. 10k

warnings. violence, suggestive, lots of fighting, they literally spend half the fic tryna kill eachother idk, mention of alcohol, guns, angst, heavily inspired by +82 pressin and mr and mrs smith (2005)

synopsis. after accidentally nearly killing another assassin, you both get assigned the task of taking eachother out. but what happens when the assassin you’re after turns out to be a lot closer to you than you had ever expected? do you ignore your feelings? or do you listen to your heart, risking both of your lives in the process.

notes — hiii!! i rlly enjoyed writing this it was sooo much fun. i sorta got this idea after seeing the mv for +82 pressin and ive been wanting to write something based on mr and mrs smith for a whileee so it sorta worked perfectly in my head. i hope u enjoy!!! (p.s. thank u @sungbites for being my writing motivation hehe love u)

it’s a night like all the rest, darkness falling through the window like a shadow with nowhere to go: lost, helpless. you’ve always liked night-time, enjoyed the tranquility of the silent hours as thoughts pass through your mind with no clear destination. you lie there, a moment of peace stilling within you as you slowly begin to fall into slumber.

your peace is cut short, all tranquility lost when a voice from beside you arises. ‘babe, can you turn off the light please?’

you roll your eyes in a secretive protest before turning to face your husband, a smile now plastered on your face.

‘of course, honey.’

you hate mark. every single moment of every day, you spend each waking hour questioning yourself of why you ever married him. whether in detestation or disgust, you hate him. but your marriage isn't based on love or hate, so you do what you must: you hide it, conceal your hate behind joyful smiles and the blissful art of routine. after all, you’re good at keeping secrets.

abruptly, he rolls back over to face away from you and you do the same.

‘goodnight, babe.’ he murmurs.

‘goodnight.’

you don’t acknowledge each other again, drifting to sleep in nothing but your own mind.

a night like all the rest.

each morning is always the same: wake up at 7, cook breakfast at 7:30, wave off your husband as he leaves for work at 8, always accompanied by a quick kiss as he walks through the door, and each morning you suppress your hatred just as much as the last. this morning was no different.

as you sit at the dining table, your breakfast laid out before you, you both eat in silence. this is how it’s always been, this marriage, days of simple routine and empty discussion. you don’t know anything about him, not really. yes, you know where he grew up, what movies he likes, what his favourite kind of bread is, but you don’t know what goes on in his mind. evidently, you're okay with that, because it means that he doesn’t need to know what goes on in yours. it’s a marriage of mutuality, an understanding that your life is your life, and weirdly neither of you question it. neither of you question if the love is fake, or if it just isn’t there at all.

however, there’s one, tiny detail which you know you’ll never share with him, a side of your life untouched, undisturbed. on the outside, you’re the symbol of a perfect housewife, compliant, clean and kept, staying home during the day whilst he’s out at work, tidying the furniture and cooking up dinner by the time he gets home. that’s all he sees, thats all he knows. but what he doesn’t know, is that you’re none of that, not a single bit.

after finishing your breakfast and placing down your cutlery, you look up at your husband.

‘delicious, sweetheart, just like always.’ he says, reaching for a napkin to wipe the corner of his mouth. he always did sound patronising when he compliments your cooking, but you give him the benefit of the doubt; its the only thing, besides your looks, that he can compliment you for. it's the only talent you show him.

you feign a smile in response, ‘i know just how you like it.’

‘you do.’ he grins back.

you’re not sure how much longer you can keep up this act, pretending like you’re in a happy marriage, and you wonder how much longer he can do the same. but you have to, you’ve done it for the past four years, you can suffer the restriction of a few more.

all for the sake of concealment.

mark gets up from his seat at the table, ‘i had better go, baby, i can't be late; we had this huge data crash at work last night, and there’s lots to fix.’

‘of course, honey. i'll make your favourite for you tonight.’ you lean in to give him a kiss on the cheek as you hand him his jacket, waving him out the door.

its tiring, the act of deception. you watch as his car reverses off of the drive of your house before driving around the corner. you wait a few moments, making sure he really is and truly gone out of your sight. or more importantly, you're out of his.

and once you are, your real day begins.

untying the apron around your waist, you walk steadily and with purpose, climbing the stairs and walking into the room which you call your closet. only it's not only a closet, not really.

pulling back a few items of clothing, you expose the keypay at the back of the room, pressing in the passcode.

0417. the date you got married.

the lock springs open, giving you access to your secret, and highly personal safe.

as always, laid inside are two items of significant importance.

your work phone, and a gun.

you pocket the gun before picking up the phone and selecting the first number in your phone book.

‘agency.’

you hold the phone to your ear, it doesn’t even ring once before the other end picks up; they expect your call, just as they do each morning.

‘i am now alone, will be there in 15.’ you speak, before hanging up and placing the phone in your other back pocket.

the agency is a grand, foreboding building, dark shadows cascading between its outer walls and falling over its glass panels like a shroud. you walk inside, scanning your keycard through the main entrance before making your way to the front desk.

‘yn lee.’ you recite your name. ‘im clocking in.’

the receptionist nods. ‘mrs K wants to see you in her office.’

‘what for?’ you ask.

the receptionist shrugs, implying that whatever your boss wants you for is confidential, and therefore, important.

after a quick journey to the 10th floor via the elevator, you make your way through the white lined corridor, the shiny black marble at your feet causing each step to echo, bouncing off every wall as you step further and further towards the door looming ahead of you.

you knock the door twice before she calls for you to come inside, which you do so quickly, closing it behind you.

she motions for you to sit down, her short, black and perfectly cut hair framing her face and emphasising the gap between her neck and the shoulders of her pristine, grey suit.

you sit, looking at the woman in the desk in front of you as she speaks.

‘it’s an interesting life you lead, agent lee.’ she says, head tilting to the side.

presuming she’s talking about the faux relationship with your husband, you respond quickly. ‘i’d get lonely in that house by myself.’

‘that’s not what i'm implying.’

oh?

she speaks again, standing from her desk as she does so.

‘this job; you’ve been a level 2 agent with us for four years, and despite countless attempts at recruiting you for level 1, you’ve always declined. why is that?’

you take a moment to ponder her question, to truly decipher what she's asking of you.

‘i'm comfortable.’ you reply.

‘nothing about this job is comfortable.’

she’s right. your job is to kill. being a level 1 just means you have to do it alone, estranged from working in groups, harder jobs and more secretive clients. you stay silent as she continues.

‘the reason i wanted you here, mrs lee, is because our agency has discovered an almost identical rival agency in the market. same jobs, same asking price and same level agents. what i mean, in short, is that we now have competition, and that doesn’t happen by coincidence.’

‘you think someone’s leaking intel to a rival agency?’

‘not think, know.’ the red of her lips twist into a scorn of seriousness, as if shes trying to intimidate you.

‘and you think i have something to do with it?’ you ask, disbelief briefly cascading over your thoughts.

she sits back down behind her desk, reaching for a drawer and shuffling through files and files of paper.

‘quite the contrary.’ she replies, and you look at her in confusion before she continues. ‘actually, you're one of the few that i know don't have something to do with it.’

finishing her sentence, she slides an envelope across the desk, nodding for you to take it.

she gets back up from her desk, looking you directly in your eyes, a shift of tone in the air around you.

‘once i've left the room, you’re going to open the envelope, mrs lee. i have two armed gunmen outside the door, under my command, waiting for you to leave. think of it as a little test of what that envelope contains. and, agent lee?’

you don't say a word, looking back at her to continue.

‘this time, i'm not asking.’

her smile is sickening. but you have no time to reproach her before she's out of the room, leaving you with nothing but the cold envelope in your hands and the ever-impending threat of death which falls over you.

after your limited amount of time, frozen in your seat, alone in your bosses office, your mind finally goes back to the envelope in your hand. you open it, pulling out the contents inside. your mind is a state of anger; in your hand lies two pieces of paper, one, a picture of a man in his late 50’s, a cool, silver moustache lining his lip, and one, a letter, addressed directly to you.

agent 1270.

with this letter, i have enclosed a portrait of your first job as a level 1 agent. configurations confirmed him a regular gambler at the artemis casino on 34th street. don’t fuck this up. if you do, i won't hesitate to get rid of you; we have a lot on the line.

p.s. my gunmen are inpatient.

moments after you even get a chance to finish the last word of the letter, two men in black suits burst through the door of the office. you roll under the desk, pocketing both items as gunshots ring out around you.

‘shit.’ you hiss, reaching for the gun in your back pocket. with no time to waste, you emerge from the side of the desk, aiming your gun at the head of the man furthest to you, using your momentum to swing your heel swiftly into the closest man's chest as your first bullet flies through the air. with one man down and the other one winded on the floor, you take your opportunity, walking up to him as he struggles to breathe.

you kick the gun out of his hand.

‘why is she doing this? why make me a level 1 agent?’ you ask, the gun pointed towards the man below you.

he gasps for air, shaking his head. with nothing but raw frustration and pent up hatred at the woman forcing you to do this, you pull the trigger.

anger boils within you, years of working for the agency and never have you stooped so low as to have been forced to kill one of your own. she’s testing you, seeing what you can do, and you’re going to find out why.

you find your way to elevator, pressing the button for the 5th floor. checking your freshly ironed suit for any specks of blood or evidence of your previous fight, you step out of the elevator. you’re instantly met with the level 1 offices, people in suits everywhere, some sat at desks and some engaging with conversation. everyone notices you, but noone says a word. its a very private industry, the industry of assassination, no questions are asked and none are answered.

you walk over to what looks like the main desk of the floor and the woman checks you in, showing you swiftly to your new office. the walls are a pristine white, with a glass desk and an illumination of light that's almost blinding. you set down the documents from K’s letter, examining the mans face. you don't know who he is, you never do, and it’s in your best interest not to care. all that matters is getting the job done, and under current circumstances, it matters more than ever. since, unlike before, it's not only the hidden identity from your husband that's on the line, but as is your life.

you’re not sat at your desk for long, K’s threat looming over you.

you check your watch. 3.14pm, exactly 14 minutes since the artemis casino opened its doors for the evening. tonight, you’ll make sure that someone will never leave them.

after being assigned your own personal assistant, who you've learned to know as agent 4916, you request only three items for your plan to work smoothly and quickly. a dark red satin dress, a vial of poison and it’s respective antidote - not that you expect it to go wrong, but you can never assume the best in a job like yours. even so, you've never once failed a mission, and you were not about to take the risk of failing on the only mission where you don’t give yourself a backup plan; that’s what the knife strapped to your thigh is for.

you thank your assistant with a nod as you step into the taxi you ordered, covering your shoulders with a thick fur coat you acquired secretly from the evidence room.

‘where are y’ headed?’ the taxi man asks, puffing an exhale of cigarette smoke out of the window.

‘artemis casino, please.’

the man grins, ‘you a golddigger, huh?’

you roll your eyes, ‘im married.’ men like this disgust you, always assuming the worst of women. if only he knew.

‘what does he do?’ he asks. it’s at this where your confidence is knocked; you can't exactly say ‘i dont know.’..

so instead you pause, waiting until the car comes to a halt outside the front of the casino before stepping out, replying back with a sly yet dismissive response as you pass him his money through the front window.

‘none of your business.’

the casino is a lot busier than you had hoped, groups of old men and rich couples sauntering amongst the tables. there’s an indistinct mumble of voices, layering perfectly over the chime of jazz music, not enough to drown it out, but just enough to make you listen out for the instruments.

you keep your mind fixated on the picture of the man you're looking for, but as you wander around, a sharp eye scanning all the faces, you spot him, sitting and smiling cruelly in a circle around a poker table. you label this as a perfect opportunity; there’s nothing like the emotion of overconfidence to blind a man's senses.

walking over, you lean a hand on the back of his chair.

‘that’s interesting.’ you say as you peak over his shoulder at his cards.

you catch his attention as he looks up at you.

you continue, ‘i won’t expose you,’ you giggle, feigning emotion comes natural to you now, ‘don’t worry.’ continuing your act, you walk off and head straight over to the bar.

just as you planned, he walks after you.

‘what are you playing at?’ he asks. you ignore him.

the bartender looks at you expectantly, waiting for your order.

‘vodka. neat.’ the bartender nods but the man beside you turns to you in disgust.

you laugh at his reaction before catching the bartender's attention, ‘make that two.’ you say.

the man speaks up. ‘wai-’

‘unless.. this man can't handle his drink?’

he stops talking.

after a moment of silence the bartender brings you your drinks.

you stand up, your drink in hand. you’ve done this many times before and each is as flawless as the last.

you walk around him, slowly, and as if unplanned, you trip, your drink flying straight across his blazer, soaking its expensive lining with the sweet stickiness of the clear liquid.

he stands up, a suppressed rage emerging from within him.

‘oops,’ you say innocently, ‘here, have mine.’

he nods in reply. ‘leave it on the side.’ he says, before storming off to the bathroom to clean himself up.

perfect.

it's then that you set the final action of your plan into place, it's then that you slip the poison into his drink.

not wanting to be with him when the poison takes action, you hurry yourself out of view, climbing to the second balcony floor and placing yourself with perfect vision of the bar you were just at, the drink sitting there, a note you placed reading ‘bottoms up, pussy. i'll be watching’, tucked under the glass in attempts to urge him on.

you watch for a minute, then two, and when it gets to the third, you begin to grow anxious.

but it’s not the extent of time that makes your worry flutter; it's the sudden man sitting at the bar, at the exact seat where the glass is placed.

the wrong man.

you can’t see the stranger's face, only the sharp outline of his back as he slumps over the drink, reading the note you placed under it.

you watch intently as he looks around, his face still under too much shadow to properly decipher his features. the shine of his all black suit glimmers from the point of his shoulders as he reaches for the drink. your stomach drops.

shit.

you stand up in vigour as his lips touch the glass.

you were about to kill the wrong man.

you were about to kill yourself.

clenching your jaw with an abandonment of your mission, you stealthily follow the man from the bar as he clutches his stomach, breathing heavily as he swings himself into a bathroom cubicle. you stand outside the door, listening to his laboured breaths and the sudden bang as his body slumps over the toilet bowl. you can’t see him, but you decide suddenly that you can’t let him die, you can’t fuck up this job and kill the wrong guy, you’d look like a fool.

you slide the antidote under the door of the cubicle with your foot, hearing a breathless, pained whisper of ‘the fuck?’ from the other side, but you don't stick around to exchange pleasantries, not when you nearly killed the man.

you turn to leave, but just as you take a step towards the main door of the bathroom, something on the floor catches your eye, something that the man had dropped in his haste to reach the cubicle.

a business card.

you pick it up, slowly peeling it from the floor.

your face grows stern.

dread envelopes you. your legs grow weak, feeling as it tries to weigh you down.

on one side is a logo you know all too well, the rival agency your boss had warned you about.

on the other side, one word and one number.

agent 1999.

the man you had nearly killed was another assassin.

an assassin from a rival agency.

and he had just fucked up your job.

you’ve been sat at your dinner table in silence for the last ten minutes and mark hasn’t come home yet. part of you is relieved, not having to uphold your character as his wife under all the stress that you're under after failing your mission. however, there’s a part of you that’s waiting for him, the abruption in your daily routine throwing you off, despite how much you hate him.

that’s when you hear the front door click shut, mark coming through to the dining room.

‘honey? what are you doing awake?’ he asks, setting down his briefcase, the tie to match his brown, tartan suit loose around his neck, top button undone. he looks dishevelled, whatever had made him late had ruined him.

you stand up, rubbing your eyes out of exhaustion. ‘you can’t just come home late like this.’

‘im sorry, baby. a lot happened at work, okay?’ he says, walking up to you. he leans forward to catch your eye contact. ‘some idiot sent me the wrong file and the whole network crashed.’

you nod, pushing in the dining table chair as you prepare to leave the room and go to bed.

‘goodnight, yn.’

‘goodnight.’

you can’t help but feel that something is off.

like usual, you wake up at 7, cook breakfast at 7:30 and wave your husband off as he leaves for work. each morning is the same, a list of routined actions you perform, a pretend life you wish you could lead. only this morning, you fear it could be your last.

as you tread down the white hall of the 10th floor of the agency, eventually standing at your bosses door in anticipation, you knock.

she calls you in and you shut the door behind you. there she sits, black bob swaying above her shoulders and thin, red lips pressed into a straight line of discontent. the bullet holes on the desk from yesterday still remain, a reminder of what your boss had promised would happen to you if you had failed to complete the job.

not only had you done that very thing but to make matters even worse, you had also accidentally held an attempt of assassination on a man from the rival agency.

‘good morning, agent lee.’ her voice is stern, deep.

you nod, taking a seat.

‘you know why you're here? yes?’

you nod, not daring to say a word.

‘then i believe you understand the vitality of the situation we are now in because of your mistake.’

again, you nod.

‘words, mrs lee.’ her voice raises, causing you to sit up in your seat.

‘yes.’

she nods, crossing one leg over the other. ‘good. then you shall be pleased to know that i'm giving you a chance to redeem yourself.’

your mind is going a million miles an hour, thoughts racing each other in a swirl of confusion. the perplexion must have been evident on your face as K begins to explain. ‘the agent that intercepted your mission is agent 1999 of the sparta agency. we have reason to believe that he is the source feeding our information to his agency, that’s how he knew you were going to be there.’

it all makes so much sense yet none at all. why would a random stranger pick up an unattended drink at a casino and drink it? unless..

a thought sparks in your mind. ‘you think he drank the vial on purpose?’

a small grin peaks at the corner of K’s upper lip before she continues. ‘he gambled that whoever was on the mission would have had an antidote on them. sparta agency aren’t to be messed with, agent lee, they will use any means to intercept our missions, and with this intel they are our biggest liability.’ she rises from her seat, walking to move over to her wall-panel window, scouring the view that lays beyond it. ‘after this, whoever agent 1999 is will most likely be given the task to kill you; they can’t risk the fact that you might know what he looks like.’

her back is still facing you as you reply. ‘but i don't know what he looks like, i didn’t see his face.’

she turns in your direction, a smirk which you haven’t seen before now plastering her features. ‘and he didn't see yours either. that’s why i'm giving you the task of taking him out, it’s a race of who can find and kill who first, if he’s smart, he’ll always be where you are, it only makes your job easier.’

to take out a criminal is one thing, but to take out a highly skilled assassin is another. you stay silent, conflict in your mind overwhelming you. you love your agency, and you love your job, but you fear that this task is nothing but fated suicide.

K steps back to behind her desk, sitting again to face you as she speaks. ‘if you do this, mrs lee, you would have regained my approval.’ she shuffles through the files on her desk, looking up at you through her brow at her next words. ‘not just anyone can take out two of my men with just a pistol and two bullets. i'm trusting you with this. you have 24 hours to complete the job.’

you check your watch, it’s 10:45 am.

12 hours.

12 hours to take out a high class, heavily skilled assassin.

she really was testing you.

you waste absolutely no time deciding what you’re going to do, rushing to your office and calling for your assistant.

‘give me whereabouts on agent 1999 of the sparta agency, i want all the information you can find.’ you say, and she nods before scurrying out the room.

you’ve never questioned a kill before, knowing nothing but their faces, merciless in all aspects. but there’s something incredibly ironic about this one, something that you’ve never had to deal with before.

he’s just like you.

your assistant returns and you sort through the printed files until you find his personal profile. like the rest of your jobs, you expect to see his face, printed in the top corner, usually a CCTV picture or a mugshot if you're lucky. but much to your surprise, you’re faced with nothing but a grey square, a question mark placed in the middle, almost mocking your lack of knowledge.

you look up at your assistant, a brow raised.

‘there’s no record of what he looks like. not a trace.’ she says.

you nod, a forced sense of acceptance. this man knows what he’s doing.

continuing to search the files, one catches your attention: his previous kills.

671.

‘he uses a revolver..’ you murmur to yourself.

this fact, this small, minor detail, changes everything; revolvers are exceptionally loud guns. meaning almost each and every one of his kills would have been done in private, in basements, elevators.

if you want to lure him in, get him somewhere he will follow, you need to find somewhere private, somewhere you can confront him one on one.

that’s when the perfect idea hits you.

you grab your car keys from your desk drawer, pocketing them in the inner pocket of your blazer. a motel, somewhere far enough from the city but somewhere close enough that he will follow you there.

you’re just hoping that, right now, he’s sat outside your agency waiting for you to leave, waiting to follow you home.

but you’re not going home. not today.

your suspicions are correct when you reach the border of the city, a blacked out mercedes maintaining its speed a few cars behind you. you know it’s him, agent 1999, you don’t need to see his face to be sure.

you pull up to the first motel you see, the lack of cars in the parking lot signalling a perfect place for the job you're about to undertake.

before he can swing into the motel behind you, you step out the car, sprinting to the reception.

you push open the door in eagerness, rushing to the front desk. the receptionist looks up upon hearing the bell on the door ring at your arrival.

‘one night. please.’ you say before sliding a $100 bill across the desk. ‘keep the change.’

the receptionist looks at you in disbelief as she hands you a key with the number 8 engraved on it.

you waste no time, rushing round the corner to the stairwell. it’s just as you make it past the line of sight that you hear the reception bell ring, that agent 1999 has come through the front door.

your curiosity is screaming at you to peek around the corner, to find out who this man is that you’ve been given the task of killing before he kills you. but you refrain, your urge to survive overwhelming you as you begin to climb the stairs, past room 6, past room 7 and past room 8. instead, you go to room 9, placing a gamble that it’s that room that the receptionist will assign him.

you don’t move, don’t waver from your stance outside his door.

not even as you hear the door to the stairwell open, not even as you hear the slow, antagonising echo of his footsteps.

not even as he comes around the corner.

fear.

not the kind that paralyses you, but the kind that makes you regret. that’s what you feel when you see him, that’s what you feel when you look down the barrel of his gun: fear.

but it’s not the gun that scares you.

it’s who's holding it.

the assassin you’ve been hired to kill, the man who's been hunting you down, is none other than the man you had least expected it to be.

your husband..

you lock eyes with him, but you see none of his usual warmth, his usual empathy. all you see is the eyes of the man trying to kill you.

‘mark.’ you breath, raising your gun at him, a mirror of his pose.

slightly, ever so slightly, you see him flinch as you say his name. he’s holding back.

‘babe.’ he says, sarcasm lining his tone. ‘why aren’t you at home?’

a smile of annoyance lines your lips, eyes rolling. ‘could ask the same of you.’

you’re ever so aware of the guns you have pointed at each other. his eyes never leaving yours, he speaks again. ‘i have important business to attend to.’

of course you do, you think to yourself.

its a pity you never liked him, never got to know him. atleast now, you understand why.

‘as do i.’

suddenly, gunshots blast through the air.

amidst the confusion and fear of who shot who, you run to the door labelled ‘8’, turning the key and quickly running inside. but your attempts to shut mark out are quickly abandoned when he swiftly places his foot between the closing door and it’s frame.

you jump back, reaching in your back pocket for the small knife you stashed earlier, hiding around the corner of the room. he kicks the door open, standing in the doorway, gun still in hand. he walks in slowly, treading lightly as he scans the room with his aim.

but just as he gets into the room, you stop him, grabbing his arms from behind him and twisting the gun out of his hand.

he attempts to kick you off his back, mind increasingly aware of the knife you have placed to his throat.

hesitantly, he turns, putting his hands up.

once you’re face to face, you take no time in tackling him. he grunts, the wind knocking right out of him as he hits the floor.

straddling his waist, both of your faces are emotionless, void of any of the pretend love you were used to maintaining.

‘did you know?’ he grunts, breathless, eyes glancing slightly at the blade you have pressed to his throat. ‘did you know it was me?’

you push the knife closer to his skin and he winces.

‘answer me, yn.’ his voice is hoarse, struggling to speak.

you take a deep breath, deciding to tell him the truth.

‘no.’ you say, but curiosity peaks in you again, and this time, you’re taking no chances at missing out. ‘did you?’

his jaw clenches.

with a sudden sense of energy, he kicks you, causing you to fall on top of him, your knife going slack in your hand as he knocks it to the side. he flips you both over in the process so that he’s now above you, taking a hold of both of your wrists.

‘no,’ he says, anger lining his words. ‘well,’ he chuckles, ‘i knew one thing.’

you furrow your brows.

he continues, ‘you’ve always hated me. i’ve always been able to see it in your eyes. you detest the thought of ever marrying me.’

you go to speak, but before you can reply, he cuts you off.

‘i wouldn’t worry, it’s a mutual feeling.’

with that, you reciprocate his anger. all those years of marriage, of putting up with a man you hate in order to give yourself a sense of security, all of it, has come down to this. pushing him off of you, you crawl to his revolver, laid out across the other side of the room.

your hands gain purchase to it, lifting it up to point at him.

your finger rests on the trigger. he’s in perfect shot. there’s no one around, you would complete your mission and regain your boss's trust back. but somehow, something stops you.

as you look into his eyes, the deep brown hue of his pupils looking at you in disgust and anger, you snap.

you just can’t do it.

because whilst his eyes may be looking at you in a new light, it’s those same eyes you have grown accustomed to seeing everyday. nearly every other set of eyes you see, looking back at you, you only get to see once before they’re closed forever, no one being granted the experience of ever viewing them again. but his, you’ve always known that, no matter what, you’d see them at the end of the day, that you’d wake up to them after every nightmare.

you just don’t think that you could let them go.

that you could let him go.

he notices your hesitation, a hint of a smile now making it’s way to his features.

‘you can’t do it, can you?’

you stay silent, finger still hovering over the trigger.

‘over five-hundred kills and now you’re hesitating.’ he taunts.

you stay still, shaking with anger. ‘you’ve done your research.’

‘had to make sure i knew what i was dealing with. although, nothing could have prepared me for this.’ he laughs, as if this whole situation is funny to him.

‘okay then,’ you say, lowering the gun. turning it in your palm, extending the handle out towards him. ‘kill me.’

he looks at you, a stern expression on his face, as he takes the gun from your hand.

but what he’s not expecting is for you to put your palm to his shoulder, making him sit himself down on the bed as you climb to straddle his lap.

he looks up at you, a mix of hatred and annoyance lining his features. slowly, you take his left wrist, guiding his hand to hold the small of your back. his eyes travel to the curve of your waist before looking back up. even slower, you take his right wrist, the one holding the gun, moving it so that the barrel presses firmly against your temple.

you let go of his wrists, the index finger of his left hand drawing circles on your skin, something he used to do years ago, in the age where you used to cuddle up to each other to watch movies. then, you accepted it because you had to make eachother think you loved the other. now, he’s doing it because he knows you don’t.

his face is close enough to yours now that you see the golden specks of his eyes as he looks at you, they swim in the pool of colour, drowning in the light that reflects off of them.

gun still pressed to your temple, mark lets out a deep breath. ‘you really want this?’ he whispers.

barely there, you nod, eyes falling to his lips.

he chuckles, hand at your waist now tracing its way up to the back of your neck.

his eyes flutter as he leans in. it's smooth, gentle but so incredibly angry as he kisses you. in all the years of your marriage, you’ve never kissed mark like this, never shown him enough emotion to be able to connect this deeply with him. your mind soars into a place of nothingness, beyond your world of killing and death, but it’s quickly brought back when you hear a sudden click from the pressure at your temple.

the gun.

you pull away, marks face a look of irritation as his eyes travel between the empty gun and you.

he had tried to distract you.

he had tried to kill you.

you slap the gun out of his hand before climbing off of him, dashing for the half open door.

you hear his footsteps clamber after you, chasing you down the motel hall. sprinting down the stairs, knowing he’s behind you, you keep running and running and running.

but it's not the fear of death that's urging you on, it’s the fear of knowing you didn’t have it in you to kill him.

and he did.

you didn’t go home to cook dinner that night, the image of his eyes on you scarring your memory, the feeling of his lips invading your mind.

instead, you go home with nothing but one intention.

this time you’re not going to let him distract you. this time you’re not going to let him leave.

his eyes were not going to stop you.

driving down your street, an invigorating anger consumes you. a resurgence of betrayal floods your actions as you press down on the gas pedal as though your life depends on it. all because now it’s evident that if you don't kill him, he will kill you.

pulling your car sharply around the corner and onto your driveway, you step out the car, pistol in either hand. you scan the building with your eyes, the warm exterior of your house now a cold shell, a place for death.

someone, tonight, is going to die here, and you will not let it be you.

as you creep around the house towards the back door, silence swarming you, you see a sudden flicker of light from the kitchen.

there he is, usual home comfort clothing, usual messy hair. to him, you’re not a threat; he’s seen it first hand, witnessed your hesitation.

but not anymore, not after he had tried to kill you. you won’t let him take your life away from you anymore than he already has.

you slowly walk towards the back door, twisting the handle to pop it open, but just as you do, the kitchen light switches off. the entire house turns to black.

he knows you’re here.

you walk inside, past your immaculate kitchen, past the stairwell. but it’s when you get to the living room that you hear a shuffle amongst the furniture.

and you’re right next to the light switch.

you reach your hand towards the switch, inches away from turning the light on before a hand clasps around your wrists. you twist, shooting blindly at the figure behind you, an attempt to defend yourself.

‘nice try, honey.’ you hear his voice whisper from beside you.

you turn again, trying to gain an idea of where he is, but before your eyes can focus, a rally of gunshots explode at the wall beside you. unfortunately for mark, he misses, similarly blinded by the darkness surrounding you, but fortunately for you, the fire of his revolver illuminates from the barrel, signaling exactly where he’s positioned from across the room.

moving before you can even think, you run towards him, launching yourself in his direction. you meet the hardness of his shoulder as you knock you both onto the floor, rolling away from each other. you attempt to regain your balance on your feet, but a sound from across the room stops you in your tracks: the chilling swipe of a knife being drawn from the kitchen drawer.

mark has never deviated from his selected weapon before.

he is desperate.

still unable to see each other, you speak out as you eventually stand up.

‘have you ever considered couple’s therapy, sweetie?’ you taunt, hoping a joke would distract him as you crawl across the room to find one of your pistols.

he laughs in reply, ‘with you, or the fake wife i’ve been married to for four years?’

‘i have no idea what you're talking about.’ your voice is sweet, an innocent persona you’ve been willing to upkeep.

his voice sounds closer, raspier. ‘you know, i always wondered why you hated me.’ he says, the sound of his words circling you as you freeze. ‘i thought, maybe you knew what i did for a living, that you despised me for it.’ he stops walking. ‘but now i know that you really do just hate me.’

with that, he lunges in your direction, circulating his arms around you from behind, knife held firmly against the front of your neck. you feel his breath on your cheek, hear his heartbeat.

and it’s racing.

‘you won’t do it.’ you say, fear consuming you.

you feel his lips twitch into a smile from beside you.

‘you’re naive, baby.’

‘then do it.’

there’s a moment of stillness, mark’s breath halting, his heart still pounding.

the pressure at your throat lingers, but it doesn’t increase.

instead, it’s the silence that speaks volumes.

the knife drops to the floor, clattering at your feet, his arms still enveloping you.

he turns your body by your shoulders, and the stillness of the room allows your eyes to focus.

there he is, hair dishevelled as he looks down on you. it’s almost impossible to tell, but amongst the flood of darkness you think you see a hint of a smile in his eyes.

he looks down at the floor, his arms falling to his sides.

‘im sorry, yn.’ he says.

you furrow your brows in confusion.

‘wh-’

but before you could ask what he means, you feel the warm embrace of his arms around you, head falling into his chest as he pulls you towards him, a hand running through your hair.

you stay like that for a moment, basking in each other's comfort, memories of the start of your marriage flooding back to you.

it’s now that you realise the extent of your fear, it's now that you realise what you really feel.

it’s not mark’s eyes that reel you in, not the warm brown or the golden specks that you urge to drift away with, no, it’s just him.

the man you have despised for all these years, for this entire marriage, is the man you don’t.

before you could have it in your heart to figure out why, a high pitched screech blurs around you, a whistle you both know all too well.

‘yn!’ mark pleads, pulling your wrist towards him as he ducks behind the wine cabinet, its bronze structure serving as the perfect shield as he holds your body towards him.

you don’t know why, but you trust his embrace.

as if perfectly timed, the hot surge of the explosion traces your skin as the kitchen falls to ruin, the cabinet protecting you both from the heat of the blast. it’s only a small explosion, erupting only a meter within itself, but your heart pounds at the nature of it.

you look up at mark as you pull away from each other.

‘that wasn’t me-’ you begin, but a shock in mark’s eyes stop you from talking.

you turn, facing the direction of the explosion.

emerging within the rubble of your kitchen wall, is a figure.

the smoke conceals them, hiding the details of their features from you.

but as the second figure emerges from the dust, you recognise their silhouette almost immediately.

agent K. your boss.

‘fuck.’ mark mumbles to himself as he holds an eye contact with the first person so extreme that it has you questioning. meanwhile, you do all you can to avoid K’s glare, feeling her eyes burn into your skull.

both yours and marks.

K and the man you don’t recognise both stand in what’s left of your kitchen, eyes trained on the proximity of you and the man beside you.

you don’t dare to speak first.

‘agent 1270. agent 1999.’ K begins, breaking the silence.

you check your watch, fear and terror consuming you as you read the steady pace of the clock hands.

10:44 pm.

it’s been exactly 11 hours and 59 minutes.

you’re completely and utterly fucked.

K continues, ‘there's a little someone i would like you to meet.’

after her cue, two men in black walk towards you, dragging a half limp man between them, black cloth over his head as they place him on his knees ahead of you.

after receiving a nod from K, one of the two men reach for his hood, lifting it off his head and revealing the terrifyingly familiar face of the man it belongs to.

he smiles, his silver moustache smiling with him.

it’s him, the man you were supposed to poison when you had accidently poisoned mark instead.

mark clenches his jaw beside you, hands digging in his pockets as he glares at the man in front of him.

and suddenly it all pieces together.

your mind draws back to your conversation with your boss.

‘it’s a race of who can find and kill who first.’

that is what she told you when she gave you the task of killing mark, that is why she gave you the job.

because he was set to kill you too.

you were set to take out eachother.

‘this was your plan all along.’ you say, eyes flickering between K and the stranger beside her, completely ignoring the man as he gets dragged away again out of sight. ‘this is what you’d hoped for. you knew, this whole time, what you wanted.’

mark looks at you, and you can see the pieces falling together in his head.

K looks angry, livid even, but it only adds fuel to your flame, so you continue.

‘there was never a rivalry between our agencies, was there?’ you ask, not waiting for the answer; you already know what it will be. ‘there was never any competition.’

K’s anger slowly morphs into a smug look of distaste as she begins to speak, slowly walking towards you.

‘mrs lee, do you really think i would have assigned you such a task? you, an inexperienced solo assassin set to murder a gambler at a casino?’ her eyes search yours. ‘it was all under the plan i had constructed. i instructed you to slip poison into the gentlemans drink, under oath that if you fucked up i would get rid of you, and agent H here,’ she points at marks boss beside her, ‘was to instruct agent 1999 to take a sip of the drink, reasoning it as an interception of rival plans and promising him an antidote he wasn’t going to receive. killing both of you in the process.’ you feel the anger in mark shift beside you. ‘what we didn’t expect, however, was for you to give it to him yourself. so, by all due means, we had to improvise. if we couldn’t take you out, then you would have to take out each other.’

by this point, K is directly in front of you, the scent of her navy suit filling the air around you with an aroma of sweet spice.

but as you look into her eyes, you decide that, really, you’re not scared of her.

you peek at mark beside you, his attention elsewhere, trained on his boss as he remains across the other side of the room, a smug look on his face.

mark speaks up. ‘why? why go through all that trouble to kill us?’ he says, directly aimed at his boss.

agent H comes forward, until eventually, he is side by side with agent K.

your boss smiles, ‘because marriage is a dangerous sport, agent 1999.’

your heart thumps in your chest, your skin crawls.

she knew.

she knew everything.

‘a distraction.’ she sneers, ‘a liability.’

you don’t say anything, you can’t.

‘and though you liked to pretend you hated it, mrs lee, i knew, truly, deep down, there was a vow more important to you than any job you could have been given.’

the silence is deafening, scorching the air around you.

but its not K that finishes the sentence, it's the voice of the man beside you, the voice of the reason behind all of this.

he’s breathless, but the words are laced with nothing but raw honesty as he whispers them, a realisation sparking from within him.

and now he’s finally aware.

‘till death do us part.’

it’s only after those words are uttered that the whole world breaks loose.

shots erupt from wall to wall, glass smashing around you as you follow mark, his hand wrapped firmly around your wrist.

you both burst out the door, his hand letting loose of yours so that you can sprint your way over to mark’s car.

‘get in!’ he yells at you from the driver's seat, but your mind betrays you, a plan of strategy forming in your wits.

‘hang on.’ you yell back at him and with little time to spare, mark rolls his eyes.

he rolls down the window. ‘we don’t really have time for this, yn.’ mark grunts through his teeth, anger enticing him to just drive off without you, to let you die. but he can’t, not like this.

you ignore him, legs close to giving in as you run to the keypad on the gate to your driveway. urging mark to drive through, you press in the numbers, closing the gate before climbing over, jumping into his car on the other side.

‘go, go, go.’ you yell, gunfire belting off the metal of the cars exterior and you shut the door.

skidding the car round the exit of the street, the rubber of the tyres producing a thick layer of smoke behind you, mark calls over to you, ‘what did you d-’

but before he could finish his sentence, your entire house explodes in a massacre of flames.

you grin at him in succession, ‘self destruction code.’

he laughs back at you, ‘you’re crazy.’

‘i know.’

as you begin to gain speed on the highway, mark sliding the car skillfully between the cars around you, you start to notice three other cars doing the same behind you, gaining speed, and the familiar black tint of each window signalling who they belong to.

‘shit, they’re after us.’ you wince, mark looking in the rearview mirror and cursing at the sight. but before he can suggest anything, he peeks over at you, watching as you reach under the seat and find yourself a set of machine guns.

noticing his questioning look, you turn to him, ‘what? that’s where they are in my car, so i could only guess.’ you shrug.

he laughs, in awe at this new version of his wife, ‘i think i can get used to this side of you.’

‘you’d better.’ you reply, before reaching up at the sunroof and pulling it across, making a gap for you to emerge out of. manoeuvring yourself so that you're kneeling on the centre console of the car, you push your upper body out the top of the car, aiming the gun at the cars chasing after you.

beginning to fire your guns, aiming for the cars’ tyres and successfully stalling one of the drivers, you seem to start to lose your balance.

‘mark!’ you call.

‘you okay, baby?’ he yells back, noticing your struggle.

you roll your eyes. ‘you’re driving like a coward’

‘you’re kidding, right?’

you look down at him, peeking your head back through the sunroof. ‘let me drive.’

he sighs in acceptance before you reach your legs over to his side of the car, swapping places with him.

but mark has better ideas.

‘open the trunk.’ he demands, picking up both machine guns from the passenger seat and climbing to the back.

you press the button, the trunk opening up and giving mark a full view of the cars behind him.

you speed up the car, weaving through the traffic in an attempt to divert their bullets.

‘it’s too busy, babe, i can’t aim like this.’ he yells back to you.

‘hang on.’ you call as you speed past cars until you find a junction in the road. you turn the car, slipping across it and nearly flipping the car in the process.

‘holy shit.’ mark yells, clinging onto the handle on the car roof.

you laugh, ‘sorry.’

now with a clear aim of the cars behind you, mark crawls on the backseat, shooting desperately after them.

you begin to grow eager, listening as mark wastes all the bullets you have at your disposal. that’s when an idea begins to form in your head, an impossible yet incredibly daring plan.

amidst all the chaos, you call for him again. ‘mark!’

‘yeah?’ he says, ducking behind the seats to avoid the other cars’ oncoming gunfire, panting in exhaustion.

‘you got any explosives?’

mark’s head tilts, ‘under your seat. why?’

you reach under your seat, grabbing the grenade and passing it back to mark.

‘i need you to open the left door at the back.’ you yell, and he does so, other hand holding on by the seat belt to keep himself upright.

you continue, ‘when i tell you to, throw it out that door.’

‘shit, okay.’ he replies, leaning back against the seat, wincing in pain at the strength to keep himself going.

noticing a straight length of road up ahead, you ready your hand on the car’s parking brake. when you gain enough speed, you quickly turn the steering wheel to the left, forcing the car to a stop in the process. in a whirl of gravity, the car spins on its side as the cars behind you are forced to stop. it's then that you call for mark to throw the explosive.

a bright white light erupts from beside you, a hot breeze brushing past your skin.

the cars go up in flames, both of your bosses inside them.

it's over.

everything is over.

after a few moments of tranquility, mark is already outside the car, pulling you from the driver's seat and bringing you to your feet.

‘you okay?’ he turns to you, eyes searching yours in a second of sincerity that you’ve never seen from him before.

it’s cruel, the way he looks at you, as though nothing has changed, as though you're still that same innocent wife you once were. the thick atmosphere of reality struggles to set in between you as you look back at the damage you’ve made.

both physical and not.

‘they’re gone’ you whisper, ‘it’s all gone.’

he feels everything you feel, he always has, every thought, every emotion, all of it. so he does what he knows he also needs the most, as he pulls you into his chest, resting his chin on the top of your head and wrapping his arms around you in warmth. he knows you're hurting, and for once in his life, he has the power to stop it.

side by side, you walk. not a word is uttered, not a thought exchanged. you don’t need to, you both understand. it’s bittersweet, but yet terribly foreboding, so you don’t say a word.

you had managed to find yourselves in a nearby town, not a care where you had ended up, home no longer a fortified place, destroyed and abandoned. you stand, complete yet broken, at the front of the town's local church, looking up at the grand design of its wooden doors.

it’s as if you both had gravitated here by some external form of fate, woven into your lives, repeated like a mantra, forcing back to you everything you had seemed to have forgotten. that’s how you find yourselves where you are now, feet facing each other as you stand at the altar at the front of the church hall, the echo of the stone walls reflecting your silence.

for once in your life, you look into his eyes knowing that they’re his.

‘till death do us part.’ you whisper, and you know K was right; you do mean it.

he smiles back at you, dimples showing.

‘till death do us part.’

mark looks at you, really looks at you, a softness in his features and a new found sincerity in his heart.

it was at that exact moment that you realised why you had hated marrying mark lee.

it was attachment: something so incredibly forbidden yet increasingly enticing. all you wanted, all you really wanted, was to love in honesty, but it wasn’t mark that you wanted to love.

it was agent 1999.

two weeks later

the room is plastered in an ugly hue of grey, carpet stained and window forcing a breeze to flow through the curtains. mark sits beside you, listening to the question of the woman before you.

‘so, what made you both want to come here for couples therapy?’

mark turns to you, a smirk lining his lips. you smile, trying to conceal your laugh.

‘i guess you could say we kept a few secrets. isn’t that right, mark?’

he looks at you, eyes wide and heart full.

‘something like that.’

#nct #mark lee #nct 127 #nct dream #mark nct #nct x reader #nct fanfic #mark lee x reader #mark x reader #mark lee fanfic #nct mark #nct scenarios #nct u #nct imagines #nct fluff

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logaenhowlett · 6 months ago

Text

TEACH YOU HOW TO GET TO PUREST HELL - L.H.

Summary: On the way to one of his cage fights, Logan's truck begins to break down and that's how he meets you, the owner of a repair shop in Northern Alberta. He promises to pay you with his winnings - but what he ultimately offers is far more interesting.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut 18+ only, Fluff, Flirting, Dirty talk, Praise kink, Fingering, Unprotected sex (against the cage), Aftercare, Logan's a snarky motherfucker (but secretly a softie)

A/N: The filthiest 4k I've ever written. I just know he was a menace during his cage fighter era. It's okay though, I'll still be clawing at the enclosure. Title creds to Radiohead. Hope you enjoy!

MASTERLIST

Smoke curls around him, bearing a semblance of warmth against the biting wind. Logan's grip on the steering wheel is loose, the other arm draped lazily across the window. He flicks his fingertips ever so often, the ashes of his cigar disappearing into the falling snow. Mile after mile, the same barren landscape stretches before him.

He's lost amidst the silence, having turned the radio all the way down in frustration at the nonsense plaguing the stations earlier. As sunshine glares through the windshield, he scrunches his eyebrows, vaguely entertaining some ideas swirling in his mind.

Hours pass by painfully slow. He tries to ignore the low rumbling that interrupts his flow of thoughts, body firmly protesting against this all-alcohol diet he'd unintentionally adopted. Logan skims a hand into the glove compartment, clicking his tongue when he discovers only a few wrappers lying inside. Slumping back into the seat, he takes another drag, disappointment etching onto his features.

An orange, flashing icon on the dashboard snaps his attention. His eyes dart to the blinking light, a sense of irritation washing over him when he recognises the ‘check engine’ symbol. In a haste, he pulls the truck over, slamming the door shut behind him as he ventures into the cold to inspect the issue. Though he has an extensive knowledge of motorcycles, by no means does that expertise carry over to whatever mess he finds beneath the hood. Logan returns with a sigh, recalling a faded road sign he'd passed ages ago - at least he isn't awfully far from his destination.

In the distance, the town welcome monument brings him some sort of peace. After driving by plenty of dimly lit diners and pubs, he reluctantly asks a stranger for directions to the nearest repair shop. Logan arrives shortly thereafter, parking at the entrance of this seemingly empty building. Curious, he scans the place, sliding out of his seat in search of anyone.

The distinct ring of metal hitting the floor has him spinning around. He fights back the amused huff at the sight of you, bottom lip slightly caught between his teeth in an attempt to stop the smirk threatening to break free. His eyes rake over your figure as you come closer - appreciating the way your overalls perfectly capture the slopes and curves of your body - before finally, rising to meet your unimpressed expression.

"What're you here for?"

There's a smidge of annoyance in your words, a reaction he very much enjoys being the reason for. He nods towards the truck parked out front, "Problem with the engine."

When you brush past him, Logan spots a name neatly embroidered onto your otherwise soiled clothes. Smiling, he follows after you, shamelessly dropping his gaze to your ass for a moment.

Waiting patiently while you poke around the hood, he steals glances at your profile, filled with the sudden urge to wipe away the grease stain remnants off your cheeks, "Yeah... looks like the head gasket needs replacing."

Logan groans to himself before agreeing with your judgment. He runs a hand across his face, stilling in brief confusion when you chuckle quietly.

"Somethin' funny?" He asks, noting how you browse the insides of his camper with a flair of barely-masked mockery.

"Just admiring the interior design."

That one almost draws a scoff out of him. Logan knows his living quarters are rather bare-bones in nature, at best, providing decent shelter for when he's on the go. Inside, a makeshift bed large enough for a man of his size and basic kitchen appliances - though he rarely uses those. It's all he cares for anyway, yet there's a tinge of self-consciousness he shakes before gruffly responding, "You can do it by tonight?"

"Tonight?" Your eyebrows raise in surprise, "Fine... but it's gonna set you back about three grand."

"I got half for now."

A sharp laugh pierces his ears. And even though it's undoubtedly fake, he thinks you look pretty like this - shooting what can't be anything less than a deadly glare just for him. The corners of his lips tilt up when your tone suddenly becomes stern, "That's not how it works, buddy."

"Listen, I got a fight later, I'll be good for it."

"What? You that sure you're gonna win?"

You're teasing him. You know it, and so does he. Logan studies the way your hand rests against your hip, a challenging glint behind your eyes while you consider this ridiculous suggestion. He moves one step closer and proudly welcomes the surge of satisfaction at the slight crack of your demeanour.

"Darlin', I always win." It's a whisper that leaves him, hushed and dangerously low. Giving your shoulder a playful nudge as he walks by, he circles to the trailer behind the truck, retrieving his motorcycle. He smirks, pleased to witness such a glimpse of weakness, "Eleven-thirty. O'Malley's. I'll see you there."

The engine revs with each twist of his wrist, the movement so precise and natural. As he sinks onto the bike, the suspension adjusting to his weight, he sends you a wink.

"And if you lose?" You shout over the blaring sounds.

With one final grin, "Just fix my truck, alright."

Even from outside, O'Malley's is deafeningly loud. The wooden door creaks lightly with the gentlest push, and a mixture of overly enthusiastic yells paired with the clashing of glass greet your presence. You're no regular here whatsoever, but the fights that occur in this bar are usually the talk of the town. And despite its reputation, you've never had much interest in being surrounded by a crowd of angry, intoxicated men - all drowning beneath the crude insults and empty threats tossed into the air.

Some of the patrons, customers you recognise from work, acknowledge you with a polite smile while you settle into a booth near the cage. As you observe the utter chaos around the room, it only cements your distaste for this so-called form of entertainment. The current match's loser staggers past your table, barely walking on two feet even with the support of his friends.

All you can think about is returning home with your hard-earned cash. It was a rather tiring day, running around salvage yards scouring for spare parts to tend to the old piece of junk he'd called a truck. Not to mention the unforgiving weather, which seemed determined to make your day more miserable. And to top it all off, the jerk wanted it done by nightfall - the audacity! Just the simple reminder of today's events has your body tensing from restlessness.

Behind you, a group of men sneer amongst themselves and between their slurring, the words "pretty boy" and "his ass kicked" grasp your attention. Turning around, you watch as they hand over money to some younger fella, taunting others to join the bet. Oh, that makes your blood boil. This Logan had strolled into your shop with nothing but a superficial promise for your services, and now, he's presumed to lose?

You stand up abruptly, peering across the space in search of him. A rush of fury courses through you at the same time you spot him casually lounging in the corner. As you approach, the faint glow of the bulb illuminates his face, a cloud of smoke momentarily hiding the smirk playing on his lips. His chuckle cuts through the hum of the jukebox he's leaning on, eyes crinkling with a kind of smugness at your arrival.

"You're joking." The bottle of whiskey between his fingers shocks you the most, "Are you seriously getting drunk before your fight?"

Logan grins at your concerned expression, eyes tracing you up and down, "You fix it?"

"Yes, I fucking fixed it. Took me all day!" Fists clenching, you stare at him intently, "Look, I did my job - you better do yours."

"Don't worry 'bout it, darlin'. I'm a man of my word." He dismisses you completely, taking a prolonged swig of his drink. A beat passes before he lazily holds up two fingers right to your face, "Scout's honour."

He laughs again when you roughly shove his hand aside, not sparing another second for this cocksure attitude. You grumble under your breath, making your way back to the booth, "It's three fingers, asshole."

A few matches take place over the next hour, and you're only getting more antsy as each of the competitors exits the cage with nothing short of bloody faces and broken bones. The audience roars all of a sudden, some even rattling the fence as this new person strides into the threshold.

Of course, he'd stripped his shirt off and the sight of his muscle-toned chest only serves to further fuel your irritation. Logan's eyes find yours immediately, looking past the crowd of hecklers now whistling at him. With a nod, he throws you a confident smirk and turns to his rival.

The man he's up against is much more burly and has a couple of inches on him. Though that doesn't seem to faze Logan in the slightest, instead he's flexing his arms almost playfully before adopting a fighting stance. Every punch and kick has you twitching in your seat, your feet firmly stuck to the ground in anticipation.

Remembering how he'd chugged an entire bottle of liquor earlier, you're astonished by the ferocity with which he attacks his opponent, dodging most moves with deadly precision. As he lands more jabs, the spectators begin to jeer and boo, swarming the enclosure of the cage in a tantrum. You peek over their shoulders, ducking away from the things they're flinging around. There's a collective gasp when he knocks out the other man, and you sigh in relief.

Leaning towards the cage, a cigar lightly pressed against his mouth, Logan's focus shifts to you. His chest is heaving from all the physical exertion, skin damp from the sweat. As he exhales the smoke, blowing a kiss in your direction, a satisfied expression returns to his face. He runs a hand through his wet hair, leaving the arena with no regard for the protesting crowd.

You follow after him, squeezing through the tightly packed space. He's settling a score with the owner, a wad of rolled cash passing between them as a reward. After a nod of mutual agreement, Logan faces you, tossing his leather jacket on. And while you're ultimately happy he won, there's also this urge to smack the cheeky look that seems to be glowing as you come closer.

What's more upsetting is the fact that he is undeniably gorgeous - especially like this, all sweaty and wound up from the adrenaline rushing inside. And of course, he doesn't miss how your gaze wanders to the sliver of skin peeking through his jacket, every slight movement only revealing more.

Logan grabs a few bills from the roll of money and stuffs them into his back pocket, holding the rest out towards you. As you reach for the cash, he swiftly draws his hand back with a teasing smile, "Have a drink with me."

"No."

"C'mon." He drags out, repeating the same thing when you try again, "No one needs their cute, little mechanic right now."

Watching you sigh triggers a thrill of excitement, an unspoken victory he claims with no shame. With a simple gesture, he leads you towards a secluded booth, determined to make this a worthwhile exchange. Despite your hesitation, he maintains a sort of relaxed energy, draping his arm along the seat - his eyes not straying from yours.

Two shots of vodka are placed on the table and Logan mirrors your action, slowly raising the glass to his lips. In no time, the air of unease dissipates, replaced by a comfortable silence while the drinks keep coming. As the night wears on, casual conversation flows between you and he asks a few things like how long you've lived here, why you became a mechanic and eventually, when he slides you the money, "What now, darlin'? You gonna leave?"

His voice, dripping with honeyed sweetness, sends a shiver down your spine. You can't exactly place the feeling, but it's a tangle of exasperation and something else - something you're not quite ready to define. Instead, you blame it on the drinks, the late hour, and the fact that there's an incredibly attractive man just inches away.

As frustration envelops your thoughts, you suddenly excuse yourself and head towards the bathroom. The alcohol, previously a gentle companion, now seems to be taking its toll. Looking at your reflection in the mirror, you try to fight against the sensations running through your body. The splash of cold water does little to your state of mind, yet you're back outside in what feels like a tilted world, using all your strength to walk straight.

As you brush past the cage, someone collides into you. Desperate for balance, you reach out to grip the fence, but a strong hand lays steady on your lower back. With a gasp and a tilt of your head, you're caught off-guard when Logan comes into your view. His arm snakes around to gently hold your waist, his body now pressing into yours.

Overwhelmed by the sudden proximity, you tear your attention away from him and glance at the wire pricking your fingers, "This is fucking sharp."

He doesn't break the eye contact. A low hum vibrates through his chest as he leans in, the warmth of his breath dancing with yours. The space between you slowly shrinks, whatever lighthearted facade he'd worn earlier vanishes only to be replaced by something raw and inexplicable.

"How're you not bruised?" You whisper, remembering the way he'd been thrown against the cage earlier.

"Call it a special talent."

Despite your better judgment, you find yourself captivated by him, the intensity of his gaze reeling you in. And so, you decide to play his game, "Can you teach me?"

Logan pauses, "You wanna learn... how to fight?"

"Just a little punch or something."

A faint smile spreads across his face, you're absolutely sure he can feel the way your heart is pounding. When his lips lightly brush against your ear, a quiet rumble escapes and something flickers in your gut - a twist of exhilaration laced with a hint of caution.

There's barely anyone left in the bar at this point besides the one or two stragglers hanging around. Logan and you stand alone in the cage, seemingly tucked away in a little pocket of your own. He doesn't wander too far, remaining within an arm's distance while demonstrating the proper technique for a jab - the motion so fluid and effortless.

Your initial attempts to mimic his movements are clumsy and awkward, his amusement only growing more evident with each try. Slipping behind you, he sheds the jacket, once again exposing his glorious muscles and the thought of tracing his vein-riddled biceps with your tongue leaves you dazed for a moment. This time, he circles his arms around you and guides your hands into the correct position.

As you practice, your bodies nudge against each other, his breath fans across your neck and ignites a fire within you. The tension is palpable, the air thick with implicit desire. You can almost feel his gaze burning into you, every second posing a challenge to cross this imaginary line.

The rest of the patrons are ushered out the door, the owner nodding at Logan before disappearing into the back room. And the silence settles in, a stark contrast to all the commotion that lingered for hours prior. You notice the difference, inching towards the exit, "Looks like they're closing up."

Before you can move away, Logan's hand shoots out to catch your wrist, "And we got it all to ourselves."

"What?"

"Might've slipped the owner a little somethin’."

His fingers trail up your arm, thumb gently pushing your soft skin. Slowly, he brings you closer, his words just a whisper of heat on your cheek. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest, a rhythm echoing your own racing heart. Your voice, hoarse and strained, barely manages a response, "Is this how you budget? No wonder you're broke."

It's his laughter that breaks you at first, followed by, "You got a smart mouth, darlin'. Tell me, what else can it do?"

His lips hover mere inches above yours, there's a moment of hesitation hanging in the air - an out, if you don't want this. But, temptation is a dangerous siren and you're already ensnared by her song.

Fuck it.

Logan's dog tags hang pretty between the slopes of your breasts, his mouth moving against yours in a rough, demanding fashion. It's sloppy. It's wet. And it's goddamn heavenly when his fingers thread through your hair, the gap between you now completely erased. You cling to him as if he's an anchor, nails digging into his shoulders while he pins you to the cool metal of the cage.

He wants to touch you. To feel the warmth radiating straight off your body. The straps of your overalls fall from his force, he takes the opportunity to slide one hand through the side, kneading your waist with a kind of tenderness that surprises him too. When you take a second to breathe, Logan peppers kisses along your jawline, then some beneath your ear before grazing his lips on your neck.

The pulsing vein he finds nearly has him growling in pleasure, "Fuck, darlin'... feel so good already... can't wait to taste you when I'm done..."

He stills when you gasp, glancing up through his lashes and then quietly chuckling at your flustered expression. Yet, he can't revel in his victory for any longer than a blink, your palm tilts his head back before you fiercely capture his mouth once more.

His name rolls out your lips, drawn out and glazed with an obvious need. Taking a deep inhale, Logan feels the bulge in his jeans growing with each passing moment. You're only getting restless as his hands roam over your body, becoming nothing more than a whimpering mess all from his doing.

"Lemme hear you for real, baby... don't be shy." His fingers latch onto the cage, using it to thrust forward and deepen the kiss. Your clothes end up pooling at your feet, the barriers between you peeling away with every layer gone. Now, skin to skin, sweat glistening on your brow, you're left bare and vulnerable to his touch.

Logan reaches down, spreading your thighs wide enough till he can push your panties aside, stroking the outside of your entrance. Clenching his jaw when he's met with a distinct wetness, "Hidin' all this for me?" He almost laughs at how you curl forward and then whine his name, craving for any part of him to be inside you, "Hm... what'd you say to me before? Three fingers?

With no warning, he slides exactly three inside your cunt, pumping in and out as best as he can, "So fuckin' tight, darlin'... c'mon... show me you're ready for the real thing." He knows he's doing something right when you squirm at his actions, jumping at the invitation to delicately flick your clit before sinking his fingers back into you.

"Logan-"

Pain consumes you as he continues, tears springing to your eyes. You've never felt pleasure like this, so intense and so profound, words lost amongst the moans trembling out your lips. Your knees begin to shake under the pressure, and his free hand immediately cups your thigh, securing your body to his. As you call out for him, urging him to fuck you senseless, he tugs his fingers away.

The belt flies, jeans tossed behind in an instant and he grunts, freeing his hard length from his boxers. The tip of his cock teases your folds, the precum slicking down from the head. His nose presses against your cheek when your hand runs up and down - getting him all nice and ready. Breath hitching at the sensation, Logan involuntarily bucks his hips, your eagerness carrying him over the edge.

He's careless about lining himself up, giving it no more than a fleeting thought before thrusting into you. Whatever floods your brain at that moment is much more potent than anything you've ever experienced. It's vigorous, almost animalistic in nature, how hard he fucks you. The veins on his arms become more apparent as he hoists you up, pushing you against the cage. He can hear the little fibers of your skin tearing because of the friction, yet he does little to ease that pain, knowing you're enjoying the hurricane of emotions whisking you away.

Logan pants into your tits, nipping at the soft flesh, "Wanted to ruin that pussy since I saw you this mornin'... all dirty and pissed off at me - god. Thought 'bout somethin' else on your face too."

"Logan - don't... fucking stop. Feels amazing... wanna feel all of you." The words escape you - laboured and breathless - your eyes soften in delight, watching this sort of enraptured expression wash across his face, "So good for me, Logan."

So good.

For me.

And boy, if that doesn't spur him on.

Picking up speed, his movements turn greedy, grinding into you with a degree of passion he's never felt before. As you tug his hair, fingers raking through the dark tresses in a frenzy, Logan taps into the primal energy swelling within. His hands squeeze you further, your thighs constricting his waist as he drives up into you, "That's it baby... fuckin' perfect. Takin' all of me like a good girl... mhmm."

The way your body helplessly arches has him grinning, but that quickly gets swept away when his cock twitches inside you, aching to burst at any given moment. He tries his hardest to control himself, longing for your cries of pleasure as you finish. Thrusts weakening to a leisurely pace, Logan grunts into your neck, mumbling a string of curses while he rides out this wave. Thankfully, you're on the precipice as well, your body reaching its peak with a shiver.

His cum trickles out of you, thighs getting sticky as it seeps lower and lower. Lost in a daze, Logan thinks he can see the damn sun in your eyes. With a gentle swipe of your cunt, he sheepishly licks his own fingertips, a smile brightening his face.

The mattress, once a source of great discomfort, now feels like paradise as you cuddle into the crook of his neck, the soft rhythm of your breath soothing him to a state of peace. He'd carried you to his truck earlier, threatening you with a barrage of kisses when you dangled his keys in front of him. There was a rather short game of tag before you relented and collapsed into his embrace, tiredly blinking up at him. He'd tucked the loose strands of your hair back then tenderly caressed your cheek. It took all but one affectionate grin to convince you to spend the night in his camper.

Not a single inch of your body is free from his touch. He pulls you even closer, tracing patterns around the tiny scratches spreading across your shoulders. If you'd asked him yesterday, he would tell you he has no plans of sticking around this town, grown used to a life of impermanence. Yet, as he rests, tangled in your arms, Logan finds a reason to stay.

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sculptorofcrimson · 1 year ago

Text

The dildo of consequences rarely arrives lubed.

Now not even in death can duty end…

Snowfields

Synopsis: A cold walk atop the mountain with Valdor.

Relations: Valdor x female Emperor shard

Warnings: Suicide attempt

This is relatively tame for what I write, and I wrote it in one sitting when I had roughly 20 minutes to spare. Ty for your time!

“Do you remember Ararat, my liege?”

No. No, she didn’t remember Ararat. She has never heard the name before. But she will. By the gods, she will.

The air was cold. It rattled through her lungs when she tried to breathe. The white seemed to stretch forever, like malignant bones, the wind laid bare and rattling its screams. It would rise like a frosty howl around the two of them, wailing like a soldier who had lost a limb, weeping its cries for eternity. The cold bit at her, tore at her, the snow would have frozen mortal blood solid in mortal veins. Thunder grumbles in the distance. A crack of lightning splits the sky in half, purplish white against the ghoulish grey.

His cloak was warm when he wrapped it around her. But his touch, without doubt, without even question, was unfathomably cold. Without even thinking of it, she had shrunk away.

Valdor’s grip had only tightened then. He fastened the clasp of the too-large cloak, the stench of incense and parchment wafting from the silk. A small smile, the emotionless movement perfected by a mind that could not actually smile, flashed briefly across his visage as he took her wrist, trapped it so effortlessly between his fingers and kissed the soft skin there.

“There was a Primarch once. A magnificent man. One that even I respected, in some regards.” Valdor led her, slowly and patiently, holding her up when she stumbled through the knee-high snow. The mountaintop seemed to rage against her. Well, too damn bad. She hated mountains, and she hated snow, and she was about to teach him a lesson out of spite. It was pure pettiness, but it was hers, it was one last plan she held to herself, one last wish she was certain was hers and not his, and if she was going to die, drowned limb by limb into the unseeing gold, she wished to at least pain him with it.

How had it gone so wrong? How had angels of such glorious aurite turned into nightmares wrapped in gold and crimson?

She yanked her arm away. Valdor let her go without struggle, simply rising back with a singular, elegant motion, as if he were a dancer performing a long-awaited waltz. When she stumbles over another snow-covered rock mere moments later, he was there, as if he had never left, one arm gently wrapped around her waist as he hauls her upright. This time, when she tries to pull away, his grip only tightens, as if he was defying the very storm itself.

“The snow reminds me of him. The Cataegis Primarch of the IVth legion. You watched us duel atop a mountain not so unlike this one, my liege, when the storm ended. It felt like the top of the world. We were in a deadlock when you appeared, your attention straying just for a moment to our fight. I snapped his wrist with a twisting motion, and slammed him into the ground hard enough to snap part of his spine. Your attention had departed by then, but it was enough. You still remember the frost, do you not?”

No. No. She didn’t. She couldn’t. Valdor’s hand, so gentle, so damnably gentle, placed itself under her chin. It stroked her hair, his gauntlets’ touch heavy yet tender, the jewels flashing dully through strands of hair that were quickly becoming darker, swallowed first by brown and then by black. He had not forbidden her to cut it. Out of spite, she had ordered him to cut it for her.

It didn’t matter.

The strands had grown back, with an unrelenting zeal, glossy and luxurious and flowing like ink over water. She was innocent once, she was mortal, she lived among men and walked amongst mortals, and she will never be again. She will never live again, and that truth was simply so jagged, so broken, so horrifyingly caught between her chest and her throat that it was as if something broke a little further every time she took a breath. Valdor had only quietly polished, brushed and glossed over her hair, his movements methodical and calculated, even when silent tears rolled their way down her cheeks, her vision blurred by the salt and the water but just visible enough to see the flakes of gold swirling in her pupils. Still clear enough to see herself die.

She had felt Valdor’s fingers through her hair then, braiding it carefully in an intricate style she had never seen before, but one that tugged at familiar roots she had never felt before.

Her hair. Some mewling, broken part of her(was it her dream or His? Was there a difference anymore?) instinctively felt like it should be darker. Longer. Wreathed with gold, and weighed down by a crown. But it was her hair. It was her hair, once upon a time, and she had lost it strand by strand, inch by inch, as the gold swam up through her vision and blocked out her eyes.

A rock clattered over the side of the mountain, followed by dull, distant thunder. It jolted her back to her mind, to her body, to the world that she did not rule over and should have never ruled.

Numbly, she felt herself shake her head. Valdor only raised an eyebrow, and adjusted the clasp.

“I remember the rock, my master.” Valdor was saying. His voice rose and fell like a litany, carefully retracing steps the Emperor had once guided him through, when He was a king and gods walked the earth. She felt so small against him, so tired, so far from the invincible god-warrior he had once served, but that was alright, He had returned to him, and he would shepherd Him, guide Him, protect Him, through this life and through this death till the last. “Even the rocks felt cold. It was black, and it glistened like oil whenever the sun shone. There were storms every day of that campaign, as if the heavens themselves were against us, as if the gods had conspired to strike you down, but yet you gave us the order to march. And the wind. You told me that you heard it screaming. Malcador jokingly asked that if you should live again, you would choose to enact Ararat during the summer instead, if only out of sheer annoyance from the wind.” Valdor’s smile was nothing more than a reflex. There was no humor in it, nor human emotion. “Do you remember it then, my master?”

The wind. Had it screamed then, as it screams now? Had it screamed, beneath the weight of the betrayal, wailing with the sheer horror of what it had taken? Did it scream, singing a threnody with the thunder, as the skies growl and hail shudders from overcast clouds ahead? She shivers underneath her layers. The finest climate suits had been prepared, coupled with the Custodian cloak over her shoulders, but she felt cold, so unspeakably cold that it was nearly painful.

Oh Throne. She was cold, so cold.

“Constantin?” she rasps. Her voice was not her own. It was rusty from disuse, and cracked, and weak, but yet some part of it resonated, it echoed like the tongue of a god, speaking through the plaintive shell of a mortal, just enough to hiss like a shadowy undertone. It should have been more sonorous, it should have been softer, it should have been the voice of a conqueror, it should have been the voice of a girl snatched away from her home by an angel and transformed into a god. It should have been hers, but it was His instead. She licks her lips and tries again. “Constantin.”

“Yes, my lord?” he was at her side(was he always so close?), the memory jarringly left unfinished. The hand once gently guiding her and became more insistent as he knelt down until they were eye to eye.

“I don’t remember the mountain.” she replied flatly. Her voice was weaker than a whisper. She didn’t care. She knew he’d hear it anyway. And if he didn’t, she no longer cared enough to ensure he did. She no longer believed she had the strength to stomach that voice any longer.

The cliff looked dizzyingly as she peered over the edge. She wondered if even a Custodian could survive a fall at such a height.

“I don’t remember the snow, Constantin.”

“That is alright, my liege.” He was so sweet, so sickeningly sweet, so unerringly gentle. It made her want to claw at him, to crack him, to see what could finally burrow under that invincible flesh and make him howl. It made her wonder how the Emperor broke him to make him the man he had become, how deeply He must have laid His tongs in the forge of flesh and fire.

She wondered what his screams would sound like, if he could scream at all.

“Do not trouble yourself, my liege. Your form is still young.” Of course, he could afford to wait. He had waited for ten thousand years, and he would gladly wait for ten thousand more. In that broken, delusional mind of his, it was only just, after all. He’d speak litanies of loyalty, roaring them over the screams of her brethren, he’d speak praises so numerous that they’d drown out the sobs of her family. “Your memories will return, when given due time. I can tell you about them. The preliminaries, the campaigns, the plans you undertook.”

Of course. They’d have to return. They must return. They will return, and He will live again, born out of this mortal shell under Valdor’s guidance. Valdor simply could not be, must not be, could not accept, could not live in a world where his liege has fallen forever.

The snow was no longer biting her. It seemed to have been cowed, laid low beneath the vengeful eye of its rightful master. Even the storm seems to have settled, briefly, at least for now. For the eye of the King, the Emperor, the god-sorceror.

It was so cruel, the revelation, the realization that welled up in her when she gazed dully back at him with listless eyes. The revelation that came for her, and not for him, for he would be nothing if not for his delusion. How quickly she understood the truth beneath why she had called him here, why she had suddenly finally accepted his offer to visit the mountain, when she had been delaying it, dreading it, putting it off for weeks upon months.

The edge.

The end. (And not the death).

She wondered if even a Custodes could survive a fall from this height. She wondered if it mattered anymore.

The plan had been formulating itself for weeks now, brewing like boiled flesh in a cyst, nursing itself, grieving its wounds, growing stronger, gaining weight. First she had refused to eat, then to bathe, then to move at all, all the dreary, listless days crushed into the same monotony as brass as she had sat still upon a throne she did not want and stared off into oblivion, as he occasionally knelt by her and asked for her commands while she numbly stared off in the distance, her eyes a thousand yards away. Her gaze had been lost in a time beyond time, beyond memory itself, and not even dreams could steal her away.

First it had only been how she stopped even trying to hide from him. She simply let him follow her, on her aimless, little walks aboard the massive ship that had become her only location. Then it had been how her tongue had stalled and she no longer even greeted the serfs that occasionally came by to deliver her food she did not eat, water she did not want, utensils she did not use, how she simply stared ahead, as reactive as a corpse, about as conscious to the world as the dead. Valdor had cared after her then, when even her memory had failed her, when she lay still and sullen like ash, the weight of the world upon broken shoulders, silent, painful tears trickling a cheerless trail from her eyes to her duvet. How he had lifted her up and cradled her to him, asking which stories she wished to hear, which glories she wished him to recount. Which memories that were not hers but soon will be, tales he regaled her of His conquests, of His victories and His lessons, His mantras drilled into her bones as they have been drilled into his.

She had left the world, bit by bit, husk by husk, until she felt as if she weighed no more than one of His eagles’ feathers did, frailly clinging onto the world with a whisper and a dream. It was as if she was sinking into some calm, clear, colorless water and feeling the waves close in above her, but there was no sensation of drowning, no voiceless cry in the deep. Simply the noiseless struggle in her own dreams, as she prepared herself for the final breath before oblivion.

(Did she have the strength? Did it matter any longer, when he could overpower her no matter the answer?)

It was so beautiful, up here, at the edge of the sky. She could hear the storm breathing in the clouds. It was close enough that she could close her eyes, and dream of Ararat, listening to Valdor’s words. An end. An end, just like the Thunder Warriors He(and she?) slaughtered so long ago. The final unraveling. She didn’t want to die, but was she truly living? An immortality without life, without passion, without even joy itself, was that truly living when she was little more than a corpse, kept alive through obsession?

If the Emperor had loved them, He would have never created them at all. What merciful god would create such grotesque angels?

If the Four were merciful, they would have sought Valdor, as they sought the Primarchs. They would have whisked him away, upon winds of change, tainted him with their mark, made sure He would never accept him as a servant again. They would have saved him, corrupted him, broken him, taught him what it felt like to dream, before the golden light shone again, and His dream took over his.

But he was a servant, not a master. He was not a leader. He knelt, instead of ruling, and the Emperor had sunk in His claws so deep even the Four could not pry it out. And so he was His, forevermore.

He died ten thousand years ago. And somewhere, inside that twisted, broken Palace that was a mind, His dog was still waiting loyally at the door, waiting for Him to return.

He was kneeling beside her now. She had never even heard him move. With infinite reverence, he cups her features, admiring the black strands falling over his gauntlets, the golden eyes - so broken, so gorgeous, so His - staring back at him.

“It was the end of the Unification Wars, my liege. And the start of your rule. The Imperium was born that day, your coronation happened atop that bloodstained snowfield, when Malcador held up that laurel, and crowned you King. How could you forget how I, the first of your Custodes, knelt first and rose last, when the ceremony ended?”

So careful. So gentle as not to hurt her.

“Tell me about them.” a small, cruel smile had found its way onto her face. She was no longer looking at him, instead smiling serenely, blankly staring out upon the sky. The mountain truly was beautiful. It was such a shame this was where she would die. She should have felt something then. A sense of guilt, perhaps. A moment of horror for what she had become, for taking advantage of something so deeply broken into him that it was written into his very bones. Obedience was carved into his blood, seared into his marrow. He would know no other way but to obey.

“The Unification Wars?” Valdor asks, the question poised so effortlessly, head tilted like a loyal dog, perfectly prepared to obey his master’s every word.

It would be almost easier, she thought, if he had been a crueller man. Easier to break him, easier to hate him, easier to gaze upon that perfect, immaculate features and wonder what if he had lost those duels. If he had been taught to be mortal, what his screams would’ve sounded like, what sounds of pain he might wheeze out when his perfect, immaculate dancer’s grace falters and he learns, he learns the price for immortality.

He was never meant to love.

Not for the first time, she wonders if he can feel pain. If she’ll even care, if it’ll even matter. For a creature who loved no one but his master, would it even be a sin?A sin, to teach him what it meant to fear? To taste the copper tang of terror, to twist the knife in him as he had twisted the knife in her. And to die, exalted, knowing she would have hurt him, knowing she brought down a demigod.

You can’t reason with a mad dog. You can’t plead with someone who knows they’re right. You can’t gaze into the eyes of Constantin Valdor and expect to see reason back, when his master was right in front of him and alive, so sickeningly alive he would rather kill than forget Him again.

Would he even mourn this time? Did he even know what mourning felt like? She had an inkling that he did, however twisted it may be. Because, for him, the tale isn't over yet, the tale must not be over. His Emperor is not dead, it cannot be, he cannot be, in a world without the Emperor, it simply is not possible. Without Valdor, the Emperor could not lead His Custodes, but without Him, the Custodes could not live.

“No.” she replies. “The mountain. Tell me of them.” The smile that stretched across her face felt nothing like her. It did not belong to this life. It was too old, too heavy, too sad and too cruel for a face that was once joyous and wide with mischief. She had an inkling of the words Valdor was about to say, the bitter, treacherous words she would weep to hear, and regret ever having forced him to speak.

“The Thunder Warriors.” she murmured. She had closed her eyes again by then. The plan was formulating, inking itself together with the same mindlessness of crawling, squirming things beneath the earth. And she didn’t want to see what the ground would look like when she fell. She didn’t want to see what it felt like to die a second time. This was only a distraction, a charade, a pitiful illusion built by a mind almost broken. There was no one here but a madman, a broken girl, and the ghosts of the storm calling out its mournful rage overhead.

“Tell me what became of them. Of that Primarch you spoke so highly of. And no lies.” she sighs, and the voice that whistles out of her is too old, too broken. She brushes his hand away. This time, he doesn’t even insist on remaining. “Tell me what happened on Ararat. I want to hear the truth from your lips.”

If there had been anything left of her heart, she might have mourned for him. For what he had become, living not for himself but for another. Living His life for Him. And when He died, what could become of him? What could become of him except to endure? When he had slaughtered brothers, lovers, children upon the snowfields, betrayed loyalists and watched life fade from their eyes, all in the name of Him, what could be left of him if not to serve?

He served, and loyalty was its own reward. Loyalty, unyielding, unbreaking, even in death his duty would not end.

Valdor tilts his head like a confused dog. “What good will it do now?”

She utters a dry, raspy laugh. It had no inflection within it, no actual human emotion.

“I command you, Valdor.” she spoke. There was nothing behind it, nothing even when the command hurt him. It stirred nothing but a deep, dull ache and the brief knife of guilt, which was quickly surpassed by the lasting numbness that did not seem to leave her bones. “I command you to speak of them. On Ararat. What happened on Ararat?”

She turns from him, walking slowly, and without care. She needed to be on a ledge. Distantly, thunder shrieks, and the storm crashes down. Lightning briefly illuminates her features, skin half-tanned, black hair flowing and golden eyes peering through the brume, and in that radiant flare of lightning she looked positively divine, a half-god caught on earth, if not for the weary, haunted gaze of a hunted animal. Her shoulders were hunched, her movements withered, as if her bones could no longer support her weight. She walked without a singular care in the world, and Valdor trailed immediately afterwards. She knew to jump was no longer an option. Even the stormclouds seemed to mock her. It was foolish, so foolish, she knew. He could not let her die. He would move faster than she could even think, he could catch her, snatch her around her waist and carry her to a safe distance before she could even advance an inch towards the edge.

She could not die here. He would not allow her to die.

And they both knew that.

Voicelessly, soundlessly, she gazes up upon the stormladen sky. Its grey dances across her golden irises, the stormwind playing with her hair. Thunder crashes, and she feels herself scream back, wordlessly, soundlessly, without even conscious thought. Dully, she knew she was raging, screaming, that her mind was seizing at the clouds and tearing at them, begging them to save her, but physically she made not even a single move. Her body was frozen, the snow pelting her shoulders, Valdor’s cloak swirling from the wind. She felt frozen, too. Her mind was no longer wreathed with such self-pity it once had, it was churning, clawing, raging like a caught rabbit in a trap, desperately wishing the ground would open up and swallow it whole, not as a kind of freedom, but as a final form of spite to the hunter.

Thunder crashes around the two of them. Neither of them move. The edge was close, so dizzyingly close that she could feel the wind gusting around her. Valdor was watching her closely, the same way a starved wolf may watch a weakened deer.

When Valdor finally speaks, unable to resist the bluntness of her command, his eyes were still distantly focused on the memories of Ararat. And his voice was passionlessly dull, carefully kept neutral and utterly without pity.

“I slit his throat.” he confesses dully, flatly, without even a hint of inflection. “The Primarch. I slit his throat on Ararat, from ear to ear, then from ear to clavicle. I only stopped when I felt bone scraping against the edge of my knife.”

Surprisingly she laughed, and the sound was garbled, as grim and as dry as bones. “I suppose you killed him then?” she asked. One more step. One more step and she would be at the edge. He would not let her. He would move faster than the earth could drag her down anyways. But it did not matter. Slowly, incredulously, she could feel herself smiling. It was going to be alright. She could feel it in her bones, the static, the storm. Even the snow seemed to be on her side. For a moment, she felt like a god, standing at the top of the world, the conquered earth groveling beneath Him, knowing that even the elements would fall beneath His gaze.

She could taste the ichor then, sweet and lifeless and pouring from the sky along with the snow, the charge in the sky and the thunder. The vengeance it held. The sheer rage, an echo of her own. She would rule them. She did not want to rule. She would rule, for one singular moment in her wretched life, she would rule, and she would hurt him, as he had hurt her. For the serfs he terrorized, for the Sisters he slaughtered, for the martyrs he first betrayed and then hung out to die. All in her name. All for her wishes. She no longer wished to wish. She no longer wished to reign.

Let her abdicate the throne of skulls. Just once. Just once, she prayed.

“No.” Valdor shook his head. He was already moving, one hand reaching out to grasp her arm and drag her back before she could approach the edge. “It would have been a kinder fate if he had died then. It would have been a kinder fate if-”

“-if you had granted him an honorable death.” she finished for him. She spoke softly, plaintively, as if this was a comfort. She had turned her face a little, just enough to see him, just enough to see his elegant features illuminated by the storm. To gaze upon him, one last time. The way he held himself, like a dancer, his lean features accentuated by the lightning as the thunderbolt carved the sky open and struck the ledge beside her. The way his auramite had shuddered from the lightning as he had, for the first time in her memory, stumbled, his gait not utterly perfect before the divine rage. The first word she had heard him say that was not perfectly calculated.

The lightning snaps the ledge like bone.

The surprised intake of breath she had uttered, a squeal that was nearly a gasp as the rock beneath her feet had caved in, and then crumbled as she had desperately hoped, the weathered stone no longer capable of supporting its own weight bending and breaking and shattering as the lightning arced through it, the smite separating the ledge like the same way Valdor had carved through that serf. That poor, poor serf who had slipped her a kiss upon her request. It was little more than a peck, that poor thing. And he hadn’t even been able to scream when Valdor separated his bones like paper.

In a silent vow to him, in a wordless vow to them all, the corpses he laid so she could climb atop her throne, she promised she wouldn’t scream as she fell.

Grimly, lips drawn in a tight line, she only felt the distant thunder as she descended like a one-winged eagle, her face utterly expressionless, lightning briefly dancing sparks against her hair as if in reverence.

Valdor’s cloak, still wrapped around her, its silk as crimson as spilled blood, unfurled around her as she fell.

Distantly, from somewhere beyond the mountaintop, thunder roared.

~~~~

It was warm, when she finally awoke. She muttered something, tried to turn, and decided to burrow deeper against the warmth instead. There was a rumble, a purr-like sound, and the slow, drifting scent of incense as one titanic hand came up to rest against her hair.

With careful reverence, it adjusted the master’s laurel.

“Welcome back, by lord.” the voice purred. “You expressed quite the interest in the Cataegis Primarch.”

She groaned. Golden irises flickered back and forth, as if in distress, beneath her lids. Valdor’s other hand reached up to stroke through her hair, careful not to upset the laurel.

“I had thought you would have recognized him, my lord. It was, after all, his grave that I showed you that night upon the mountain.”

He makes a long, slow chuckle, almost like amusement, if he had been capable of it. “I had expected you’ve greeted him already, my master. You were standing atop his bones.”

Somewhere, distantly, thunder growled. And without even being conscious of it, she shivered, and tried to burrow closer to his warmth.

Pinglist(checks notes, holy fuck!): @nonus-secundus @badbobdooley @bleedingichorhearts @starfrost740 @katie-faye1 @sigtamds @troylovesdoomguy @the-pure-angel @metronix36-blog @krynnmeridia @distantmoonbeam @futuristicchaospoetry @liar-anubiass-blog @subtle-like-a-brick-to-the-face @squishyowl @slaanesh @absent-still @sharenadraculea @idonotknowhowtochoosenames

#It was so absolutely hilarious and poetic and horrible how the shard is LITERALLY standing on Ushotan’s bones #Valdor buries everyone beneath the snowfields #but refuses to bury HER #he’s symbolized with snowfields now #it’s where he betrayed his only friend and where he slaughtered the Thunder Warriors #the snow runs thick with blood and he’s the one making sculptures out of it #He already died and went on vacation #He used up all his death vacation days #“only in death does duty end #boss said so”#she can’t even die in peace #can’t have shit on Terra these days #they took away her ability to die!#there’s always the Ushotan method #fight Valdor and hope he stabs you to put you out of your misery #oh WAIT A MINUTE-#Valdor’s not even a parasite at this point #he has nominated himself as her emotional support dog #except he’s the reason WHY she needs emotional support #he fucked himself over so thoroughly with the Custodes that even part of his soul that escaped the Forever Chair can’t die in peace

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surielstea · 3 months ago

Text

Embers Entwined

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Fem!Reader

Summary: Reader was one of the most affected by Beron’s rule, after his death Eris was crowned High Lord and Reader became his personal servant by extension, what happens when she begins to recognize Eris for his kindness and not his cruelty?

Warnings: Beron being a right asshole as usual, and some kissing (*gasp* the scandal!)

A.Note: Sorry it’s been forever!! This one took me awhile but I’m pretty happy with it. Hope you guys enjoy too! Some Azriel smut coming out in a few days also! 💋💋

Word count: 7.9k

The ball was decadent, far grander than in previous years, though I supposed tonight warranted the excess. A special occasion, one that carried far more meaning than the usual frivolous gatherings meant only to remind the rich of their own wealth.

Tonight, the Autumn Court celebrated the coronation of Eris Vanserra. More importantly to me, we celebrated Beron's death.

I would never say such a thing aloud, never give voice to the hatred that simmered in my veins. But I knew I was not alone in my sentiments. Most despised that wretched male—just not enough to ever act against him. Beron had been cruel, but only to those within his grasp. His wife. His sons. His staff. Me, in particular—his personal courtier.

It had been my duty to obey him without question, to smile and nod and endure, no matter what vile thing he asked of me. The words he'd spoken to me, the way he'd toyed with me, broken me, forced me into submission—I would never find peace after him. I knew that.

I stood against the wall of the ballroom, my hands clasped in front of me, a pleasant, vacant smile painted on my lips. The same as always. My black dress marked me as staff, distinguishing me from the nobles twirling beneath the golden glow of the chandeliers. It wasn't an ugly dress—not physically—but the symbolism it carried made my stomach churn.

I was meant to be invisible. To stand for hours, heels biting into my feet, lips aching from feigned delight, waiting. Always waiting for the High Lord's command. That was my place.

But tonight, for the first time at an event like this, someone spoke to me. Not just someone. The newly crowned High Lord.

"Do you not wish to dance?"

His voice was smoother than I expected, rich and effortless, as though the words required no thought. When I turned my head, Eris Vanserra stood before me, resplendent in his deep forest green attire, gold-threaded embroidery glinting beneath the chandeliers. Rings adorned his fingers, catching the light as he gestured vaguely toward the center of the ballroom.

I had known Eris Vanserra since I was a girl—back when my father served as Beron's personal courtier and I trained under him, shadowing his every move. In those early years, Eris and I spent countless hours in the kennels, where I had been sent to feed the hounds, and he had sought my company. Even then, I knew better than to refuse a Vanserra. But it hadn't felt like an order. Not when he spoke so passionately about his dogs, his amber eyes alight with something rare and unguarded.

I had listened, quietly captivated, as he ran his hands through thick fur, naming each hound like they were something precious, something his father could not tarnish. And though I rarely spoke, I knew he never minded.

But time had a way of reshaping things. Our duties grew heavier, our paths diverged, and whatever thread had once tied us together frayed beneath the weight of expectation. I often wondered if he remembered—the girl who once sat beside him in the straw-covered kennels, listening in rapt silence as he spoke of things he loved. Or if I had faded into nothing more than a ghost of his childhood, long forgotten.

I snapped back to the present when I realized my hesitation, startled by his presence, by his question. By him.

I glanced at him only briefly before averting my gaze. I had long since learned better than to expect kindness from the Vanserras, Eris or not. "I'm working, my lord," I answered smoothly, forcing the usual mask into place. "Besides, the late Lord Beron was always particular about the servantry enjoying themselves at these sorts of things."

A flicker of something crossed Eris's face at my words. Perhaps it was amusement, perhaps something else. I wasn't certain. Then, he did something I never would have expected. He extended his hand to me, palm up. A silent command. I stared at it, my heart stuttering.

Was this a trick? A test? Was he waiting for me to disobey so he could remind me of my place? "Well," he mused, tilting his head, "I'm not Beron, am I?"

I swallowed thickly, but I did not take his hand. His amber eyes gleamed as he studied me, something unreadable lurking beneath their molten depths. "You were my father's personal courtier, yes?"

"Correct, my lord."

"And now that he's gone, you're mine." A statement, not a question.

I nodded.

"And you're required to do as I say."

Another nod.

"Then take my hand." His voice was softer now, quieter. "Dance with me." My breath caught in my throat. I hesitated. Was he attempting to humiliate me?

I had seen what his brothers were capable of, how they had reveled in Beron's cruelty, how they had wielded it against others for their own entertainment. I had heard the stories about Eris—his ruthlessness, his ambition, his callous disregard for those beneath him. I had no reason to believe he was any different.

Yet something about the way he stood there, hand still outstretched, gaze unwavering, made my stomach tighten. He wasn't forcing me. He wasn't demanding. He was patient. I hated him for that. For making me doubt my own certainty.

But in the end, I had no choice. With a deep inhale, I placed my hand in his. His fingers curled around mine—warm, steady. Not gripping. But I knew better than to believe in illusions.

Eris Vanserra was his father's son. And I would never trust him.

The moment my hand settled in his, a hush seemed to fall over the space around us—not total silence, but a ripple in the atmosphere, a shift in attention that pressed against my skin like a physical thing.

They were watching. The nobles, the courtiers, the sycophants who had spent years learning to fear and obey Beron, and by extension, his eldest son. They watched, likely waiting for me to make a mistake, waiting to see what game Eris Vanserra was playing.

I was waiting, too. But if this was some cruel trick, he did not let it show.

Eris led me toward the dance floor with unhurried ease, his grip firm but not forceful. A reminder, perhaps, that I was following him willingly. I didn't know what unsettled me more—that he had given me a real choice, or that, despite knowing better, a part of me wanted to believe he truly meant no harm.

The moment we stepped onto the floor, the nearest dancers shifted subtly away, giving us space without making it obvious. No one wanted to be caught in the High Lord's wake, in whatever he was planning.

He turned to face me, releasing my hand only to settle one warm palm against my waist, the other clasping mine once more. I stiffened beneath his touch, the weight of it burning even through the fabric of my dress.

"Relax," he murmured, amusement curling through his tone. "It's a dance, not an execution."

I forced my muscles to remain neutral, my expression placid, though I could still feel the weight of a hundred gazes searing into me. "That remains to be seen."

His lips curved slightly. "If I wanted to make a spectacle of you, I'd have chosen something far more dramatic." He guided me into movement, a slow, fluid step that I had no choice but to follow. "But I much prefer this."

I nearly scoffed, but reeled in my tone, replacing it with a polite one. "Dancing?"

His gaze flickered down to mine, something unreadable within it. "Yes," he admitted, voice quieter now. "It's one of the few things I enjoy."

I arched a brow at him, skepticism bleeding into my tone. "Truly?"

"Truly." A small pause, then, "My mother taught me."

His hold on my waist remained steady, his movements effortless as he guided me through the waltz. "She used to say that knowing how to dance was just as important as knowing how to wield a blade. Both would assist me on a battle field."

I couldn't stop the flicker of surprise at his admission. Not because I doubted his mother's wisdom—if anything, I had always pitied the Lady of Autumn, the horrors she must have endured under Beron's rule—but because I had not expected Eris to share something so personal.

And yet, before I could decide how to respond, he added, "It was the one thing Beron couldn't take from me."

I swallowed, focusing on my movements, on the way his body angled just to keep me steady, to keep the dance seamless.

He was watching me closely, I could feel it. I hated that I could feel it.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, my voice quieter than before, as if the words might shatter between us.

His lips twitched, though there was something different in his expression now. A quiet sort of challenge. "Because you're expecting me to be my father."

I stiffened.

"I'm not," he continued, tone smooth, unwavering. "And I think you already know that."

I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing down the retort that sat at the edge of my tongue. I wanted to deny it.

Wanted to tell him he was wrong, that I had no reason to believe him, that I had no reason to trust him. That, after what I had endured, I had no space left in me for blind hope. But I couldn't. Because, for the first time, I allowed myself to see him—not the heir of Beron Vanserra, not the male who had stood by and done nothing while his father ruled with malice, but the High Lord before me now.

Eris Vanserra was dangerous, cunning, and far too quick-witted for his own good. But he was not his father. And as much as I hated it, as much as it made something twist deep in my chest—

He was also undeniably beautiful.

His russet hair gleamed beneath the chandelier light, his sharp, angular features like something carved from fine marble. And those eyes—deep amber, filled with fire and calculation, but not cruelty. Never cruelty. It unnerved me.

I averted my gaze, the pressure in my throat tightening. "I don't know anything."

His fingers flexed slightly against my waist, the only indication that he had caught the tremor in my voice.

"You will," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. A promise.

I did not know whether it was a comfort or a threat. But I did know one thing—

The game, whatever it was, had only just begun.

As the waltz came to an end, Eris's grip on me loosened, but he did not immediately step away. His amber eyes remained locked onto mine, searching, calculating—always calculating.

I did not look away. I refused to.

Even as my heart pounded against my ribs, even as my throat tightened with the weight of memories that clawed at the back of my mind, I held his gaze.

He exhaled softly, something almost amused flickering in his expression before he lifted my hand, his touch lingering just enough to send a sharp jolt of awareness through me.

Then, with a deliberate slowness that sent heat curling in my gut, Eris pressed a kiss to the back of my hand.

A calculated move. A display of power.

And yet—his lips were warm. Gentle.

He let my hand slip from his grasp, stepping back with an air of ease, as though he had not just sent my already-frazzled mind into chaos.

"Thank you for the dance," he murmured, voice like silk and embers.

I said nothing. Because I couldn't. I simply bowed my head and turned away, ignoring the stares, the whispers that followed me as I slipped back into the shadows of the ballroom.

Eris Vanserra was dangerous. And not for the reasons I had always believed.

I had not been able to get him out of my head.

I hated it.

No matter how much I tried to shove the thoughts away—to remind myself of the horrors I had endured under Beron, of the way his sons had stood idly by for years, of the haunting whispers that surrounded Eris himself—I couldn't stop replaying that moment in my mind.

The warmth of his touch. The softness of his voice. The way he had looked at me, not with hatred, not with indifference, but with something else entirely.

It was a trick. Had to be. And yet, I found myself watching him more than I should have.

Every time he called for something, every time I had to be in his presence, I bowed low, just as I had always done for Beron. I kept my voice neutral, my head down, my routine unchanged.

As if nothing had changed at all. As if I had not danced with him. As if his hands had not burned against my skin. As if I had not spent the past few days wondering, against all reason, if perhaps he was not as evil as I had once believed.

I would not let myself believe it. Not when I had learned, time and time again, that kindness was a dangerous illusion.

So when one of the guards found me in the halls, stopping me with a clipped, "The High Lord is requesting you," a cold dread curled in my stomach.

Requesting me. Not a general summons for any courtiers. Not a task that could have been handled by anyone else. Me.

For a moment, I couldn't move. Memories crashed through me—memories of Beron's summons, of being called for with no warning, no explanation. Of standing before him, knowing what was coming but never being able to predict just how bad it would be.

My hands clenched at my sides. I swallowed hard, pushing down the panic, shoving it deep beneath layers of practiced control.

This was not Beron. I knew that. And yet, my body did not.

With carefully measured steps, I made my way to Eris's study, every inch of me wound tight.

My mind whispered warnings, my heart pounded against my ribs. I forced my hands to remain steady as I knocked once, then pushed the heavy wooden door open.

And there he was—seated behind a grand desk, amber eyes lifting to meet mine the second I entered.

Eris Vanserra, High Lord of Autumn.

And the male who, for reasons I could not begin to understand, had called for me.

I braced myself, preparing for whatever awaited me next. And prayed that I was not about to be proven a fool.

The door shut behind me with a soft thud, the sound too final, too reminiscent of a past I wanted to claw away from.

I stayed near the entrance, hands clasped in front of me, chin dipped ever so slightly—not meek, but neutral. Just as I had been trained to be.

Eris sat at his desk, one elbow braced on the armrest of his chair, fingers resting against his temple as he watched me. Not impatient. Not cruel. Just watching. Then, with that signature tilt of his head, he asked, "What's your name?"

I blinked. "My name?"

He arched a golden brow, the flickering candlelight making the sharp angles of his face seem all the more severe.

"I'd like to know who to call for to keep my company, so yes, your name."

Company. Was this a game? A test?

I studied him, searching for the trap, but found nothing except expectation.

I told him my name carefully, waiting for the moment his expression would shift, for him to sneer or mock or twist the knowledge into something mean.

But he only smiled slightly, a soft curve of his lips that felt almost out of place on a face like his.

Before I could think better of it, before I could convince myself to stay silent, I blurted, "Have you been lonely, my lord?"

Eris's head tilted further, amusement flashing in his amber eyes.

I stiffened immediately. "Forgive me for asking. That was incredibly impolite. I'm so—"

"I have." He cut me off smoothly, his voice quieter now, but no less firm.

I swallowed.

"I imagined being High Lord would be quite different," he mused, gaze flickering to the stacks of papers on his desk, the glowing hearth, the empty room around us. "Nevertheless, here we are." He nodded as if conceding something to himself.

My lips parted slightly, but I had nothing to say to that. Nothing that wouldn't cross a line I was still hesitant to even approach.

Instead, I dropped into another practiced bow. "Will that be all, my lord?"

His eyes snapped back to me, something unreadable stirring behind them.

"Eris," he corrected.

I hesitated.

"I am not my father," he said, voice quiet but edged with finality, as if he were daring me to argue. "Nor do I wish to become him. So please, call me Eris."

I nodded slowly. "...Well then, Lord Eris."

"Just Eris, my dear," he corrected again, leaning back slightly. "Like friends."

I didn't know what startled me more—that he wanted me to call him by his name, or that he had referred to me as a friend.

Still, I tried to ignore the warmth curling in my stomach as I forced myself to say, "Eris."

His lips twitched, something satisfied gleaming in his gaze. "Good girl."

The praise sent something unfamiliar down my spine, not in the way it had whenever Beron complimented me... this was different.

"Now come, get comfortable." He gestured toward the plush green chairs adjacent to his desk.

I stared at him. "You want me to sit?"

"Stand, lean, lay, I don't care." He waved a lazy hand. "Just relax."

"My lord—Eris," I corrected, still trying to wrap my mind around the strangeness of this entire interaction. "I don't get paid to... relax."

He smirked. "No, you get paid to follow my orders. And I am ordering you to get comfortable."

I stared at him for a long moment, my heart hammering in my chest as I tried to decipher the true meaning behind all of this.

But I saw no malice in his expression. No cruel intent. Just anticipation.

I swallowed and, slowly, I did as he said. I sat stiffly, hands clasped in my lap, my back straight as if Beron himself was still lurking behind me, waiting to scold me for stepping out of line.

Eris, however, did not acknowledge my rigid posture. He only let out a pleased hum, as if my mere presence was enough to meet whatever unspoken standard he had set for this moment. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he returned his focus to the parchment before him.

The only sounds in the room were the quiet scratching of his quill and the faint crackling of the candlelight.

I should have been grateful for the silence. It was better than savage words, better than commands meant to humiliate me. But instead, an odd tension settled in my chest, as if I were waiting for the real reason he'd called me here to be revealed.

Minutes passed. Then—

"You're staring," Eris murmured without looking up.

I blinked, feeling heat creep up my neck. "I am not."

His lips curved slightly, and he flipped to another parchment. "You are."

"I was merely looking in your direction." It was wrong of me to talk back, but something about him let my tongue a little looser, he didn't seem displeased by it in the slightest.

He hummed, unconvinced, dipping his quill back into ink. "And why, pray tell, were you looking in my direction?"

I hesitated. "...I was thinking."

Amber eyes flicked up from the page. "Dangerous habit."

That small smirk still played on his lips, but something about it was softer than usual, teasing rather than taunting.

I frowned, not ready for this interaction to feel comfortable, for me to feel comfortable. "I don't find it particularly dangerous."

"That's because you've never played with fire." He twirled the quill between his fingers before dragging the tip across the parchment again. "Not the kind that burns."

I scoffed. "You forget who I served before you."

He paused at that, glancing at me fully and my heart rate spiked. Too far, I'd gone too far, just a few words and the walls I built were crumbling before my very eyes.

Something unreadable flickered in his expression, but it was gone before I could place it. Instead, he dipped his head slightly, understanding the point. "Then I imagine you know better than most that fire, when wielded incorrectly, only ever destroys."

I stiffened, his words striking something deep within me.

Is that what I was? A thing destroyed? Is that what he saw when looking at me, or himself?

Eris exhaled, shifting his focus back to his work. "For what it's worth," he murmured, quieter now, "I don't intend to wield it incorrectly."

I studied him carefully, as I had done many times before, searching for the game, for the cruel edge I knew so well from his father.

But there was no trick. Only a High Lord—no, a male—focused on his work, offering me something I had never once been granted in Beron's court.

Peace.

I swallowed, forcing myself to look away, to ignore the unfamiliar warmth creeping into my bones.

Minutes passed again in silence, but this time, it didn't feel quite so heavy.

"I was serious, you know," Eris mused, not bothering to look up as he broke the quiet.

I frowned. "About what?"

"Keeping my company." He flipped to another document, signing something at the bottom. "I'd prefer your presence over my advisors any day. They're old and dull. You, at least, have some spirit."

I scoffed. "I think you are confusing obedience for spirit."

"Oh no, my dear." His lips curved in a knowing smirk. "You and I both know you're anything but obedient."

I bristled, opening my mouth to argue, but he held up a hand. "It's alright. I find it... refreshing."

I wasn't sure what unsettled me more—the implication, or the way my stomach twisted at his words. Beron preferred all the servantry to have a fiery spirit, which makes it more fun to break, but he never really could stomp my flames out, and now Eris was sparking the embers. It was dangerous, so dangerous.

Silence fell between us once more.

For a moment, I thought that would be the end of it. That I would sit there, a piece of furniture in this room while he worked, just as I had been in Beron's court.

But then, without looking away from his parchment, Eris murmured, "Tell me something, Fawn."

The way he said that nickname—so deliberate, like he was testing the way it felt on his tongue—sent something sharp down my spine.

"Tell you what?" I asked carefully.

He leaned back slightly, fingers steepled in thought. "Something real."

I hesitated. "That's vague."

"Intentionally so." He arched a brow. "Consider it a challenge."

I narrowed my eyes at him, but he only waited, watching me with that same expectant look, as if he truly wanted to hear something about me.

I exhaled. "I don't like the cold."

His lips twitched. "A courtier of Autumn who doesn't like the cold? Shocking, really." His voice was sarcastic, but something in his eyes told me he knew what I meant.

I shrugged, explaining anyway. "It reminds me of your father." The words left me before I could stop them, before I could think better of them.

Eris didn't flinch, but something in his expression shifted. "I hate the cold, too," he admitted after a beat.

I blinked, caught off guard by his honesty.

He returned his attention to the paper in front of him, but his next words were soft, almost contemplative.

"It's why I keep the fire going."

And despite everything I had come to know about Eris Vanserra—despite everything I feared—those words stayed with me long after I left his study that night.

It became routine.

Every evening, after the day's duties were done, I was summoned to Eris's study. At first, I had thought it was some kind of test, some trick to lull me into a false sense of security before he reminded me of my place. But the days passed, and the cruel words never came. The taunts never sharpened into something harsher.

Instead, I found myself sitting across from him as he worked, the fire crackling between us, filling the silence in ways neither of us felt the need to.

And I was learning things.

Not just about him—but about myself.

I learned that despite being raised under Beron's thumb, Eris did not rule with a hand of iron. He listened—to his advisors, to the reports of the court, to me, even. And when I spoke, he truly listened, as if my words meant something.

More recently I learned that he was—Gods help me—attractive.

That fact had been easy enough to ignore when I hated him, when I thought he was just another Beron in the making. But the more time I spent with him, the more I noticed things I shouldn't—like the sharp angles of his face, the golden hue of his eyes, the way his hands moved across parchment with effortless precision.

It was incredibly inappropriate.

He was a High Lord, for the Gods' sake. I was a mere servant. A courtier, yes, but still beneath him in every sense of the word.

But there were moments—subtle, fleeting—where I felt that he didn't see it that way.

Like when he'd catch me staring and smirk, as if he knew exactly where my thoughts had gone. Like when his fingers would brush against mine as he handed me a book, a touch so brief it might have been an accident, but my traitorous body knew better. Like when he said my name—not the way Beron used to, as if I were an object, a thing that existed for his whims, but as if I were someone worth hearing.

It was dangerous. He was dangerous. And yet, I kept returning to his study, night after night, drawn to him in ways I did not understand.

I was comfortable around him now. Too comfortable. And I wasn't sure if that terrified me or eased me more.

The fire crackled behind him, casting golden light over the room as I sat at his desk, scanning over the trade agreements he had asked me to review. Eris stood in front of the hearth, a glass of whiskey in his hand, watching the flames with a contemplative expression.

"They're bleeding the smaller villages dry," I murmured, flipping to the next page. "The tariffs are nearly double what they should be."

Eris hummed in response, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "And what do you suggest, fawn?" His voice was rich, edged with amusement.

I exhaled sharply through my nose, biting back a smile at the teasing lilt in his tone. "Lowering them would be a start."

He took a slow sip of whiskey, then turned, his gaze burning even hotter than the fire behind him. "Very well. Lower them."

I blinked. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." He smirked, as if amused by my surprise. "You have a sharp mind. It would be a waste not to use it."

A compliment. A genuine one.

I busied myself with the documents, ignoring the warmth that curled in my stomach. But before I could shift to the next matter, I felt it—him.

The space between us disappeared in a breath. Eris leaned over my shoulder, one hand bracing against the desk as he peered down at the papers with me.

His warmth seeped through the thin fabric of my dress, his scent—smoke, cedar, spice—curling around me, intoxicating. I stiffened, my fingers tightening around the quill.

"See?" His voice was softer now, smooth like velvet. "That wasn't so hard."

I swallowed, forcing my focus back to the parchment. "I assume the next set of reports won't be as easy."

His chuckle was low, deep. "Unfortunately, no."

We worked through the rest of it together, his proximity never wavering, his breath occasionally ghosting against my cheek as he murmured his thoughts. It should have been unbearable. It was unbearable. And yet, I didn't pull away.

Not even when he poured me a glass of whiskey.

I had refused at first, telling him I was technically working but he had simply raised an eyebrow and said, "I won't tell the high lord if you don't."

It burned going down, leaving warmth in its wake, emboldening me just enough to loosen the tight grip I always held on myself.

Perhaps that was why, when we finally leaned back in our chairs, the tension of duty momentarily relieved, I dared to meet his gaze with something close to ease.

"You're a better High Lord than I expected," I admitted, surprising myself with the honesty.

He turned his glass between his fingers, watching me over the rim. "High praise, coming from you."

I rolled my eyes, but the smallest of smiles played at my lips. "Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late," he quipped, grinning.

I shook my head, but I wasn't fast enough to hide the way my lips twitched in amusement.

Eris noticed. Of course, he did. And he leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming. "Careful, fawn. Keep looking at me like that, and I'll think you actually enjoy my company."

I should have ignored the remark. Should have cut the moment short, should have reminded myself that this was Eris, that I was his courtier and nothing more.

But the whiskey hummed in my blood, and I found myself tilting my chin up slightly, arching a brow.

"Who said I don't?"

His gaze darkened, a flicker of something wicked dancing in those golden eyes.

The air between us tightened, the tension shifting into something heavier, something dangerous.

And for the first time, I wasn't entirely sure if I wanted to run from it.

The room was suffocating with heat—not just from the fire, but from him. From the way he looked at me, like he could see through every carefully placed wall I had built around myself.

I should have left. Should have bowed my head, murmured a polite good night, and returned to the servantry quarters where I belonged.

But I didn't.

Instead, I stayed, rooted in place, watching the way Eris's eyes flickered between my lips and my eyes. The tension stretched unbearably tight, wound so thin that one more word, one more breath, would surely snap it.

And then it did.

One moment, we were speaking, our words slow and softened by whiskey. The next—I was in his arms, and his mouth was on mine.

It was a collision, a wildfire consuming everything in its path.

His lips were searing, his hands gripping my waist as if he couldn't bear to let go, pulling me flush against him. I gasped into the kiss, and he took full advantage, deepening it, his tongue sweeping over mine in a way that made my knees threaten to buckle.

He groaned, low and guttural, and something inside me snapped.

I met his fervor with my own, fingers tangling in his hair, feeling the silk of it between my fingertips as he backed me into the desk. The papers we had worked so hard on crumpled beneath us, utterly forgotten.

He exhaled a quiet curse against my lips as his hands gripped my hips tighter, and I—I didn't stop him. I arched into him, into the warmth, the danger of it.

And then—it happened.

A tether snapped into place.

Invisible, undeniable, unyielding.

My entire body locked up as a force stronger than anything I had ever known latched onto my very soul. The bond—a mating bond—solidified between us like molten steel cooling into iron, a force so absolute it stole the air from my lungs.

No, no, no.

I stumbled back so fast I nearly tripped over my own feet, my hand flying to my lips as if I could erase what had just happened.

Eris reached for me, eyes wide, something dangerously close to awe written across his sharp features. "Wait—"

But I didn't.

I turned and ran.

I ignored the way his voice followed me, calling my name, ignored the way my heart thundered in my chest, the way my mind screamed at me that this was impossible, that it couldn't be real, that it shouldn't be real.

Because if it was—if it was real—then it meant I was bound to him. To him.

Not just the male who had been slipping under my skin, infiltrating the cold emptiness I had built to protect myself. But Beron's son. Beron's heir. A Vanserra. A High Lord.

By the time I reached the servantry quarters, my breaths were ragged, my hands shaking as I shoved my door closed behind me, locking it with trembling fingers.

I pressed my back against the wood, squeezing my eyes shut.

This couldn't be happening. It was a mistake. A trick. A cruel, cruel joke.

I was nothing.

A courtier, a servant.

I did not get to have mates.

And certainly not him.

I curled onto my cot, my hands gripping the fabric of my dress as if I could anchor myself back to reality. I forced my breathing to slow, willed myself to forget the feeling of his lips, the taste of whiskey on his tongue, the way his hands had fit so perfectly against my waist.

I did not sleep that night.

I had been avoiding him.

Days had passed, and I hadn't stepped foot in his study again. I hadn't so much as looked in his direction, even as the court whispered about me, about us, about the undeniable scent of a bond snapping into place.

They all knew.

I could feel their stares, the pity in some, the amusement in others. I knew what they thought—that it was only a matter of time before I bent, before I folded myself into the neat little role fate had carved out for me at Eris's side.

I refused.

I stayed tucked away, keeping to my duties, bowing as I always had when in his presence, keeping my head low, silent. I had done it for years under Beron. I could do it again.

Or at least, I thought I could.

The bond had other plans.

It had been clawing at me, a sick, twisting thing in my chest, gnawing at my ribs every time I kept my distance. The more I ignored it, the worse it became, a restless, aching pressure that built until my hands trembled with the need to do something—run to him, scream, sob. I didn't know which.

I was too caught up in my own mind, too focused on fighting the invisible thread tethering me to him, that I didn't notice the male approaching me until it was too late.

"You've been rather elusive, haven't you?"

I turned sharply, expecting him, expecting Eris—

But it wasn't him.

It was Kyden.

My stomach twisted.

Kyden Vanserra had always taken the most after Beron compared to the rest of his brothers, cruel for the sake of cruelty, sneering down at those he deemed beneath him. Which unfortunately included me.

His smirk was slow, predatory. "I almost mistook you for one of the nobility, standing there all stiff and proper. But then I remembered—you're just a servant, aren't you?"

I forced my body not to react, not to let the memories claw their way up my throat. He had that same look in his tawny eyes that Beron always had on one of the particularly hard days.

Kyden stepped closer, voice a lazy drawl. "And yet, despite your lowly position, you managed to ensnare a High Lord." His lips curled, eyes gleaming with something dark. "Or rather, the bond did. Funny, isn't it? How fate makes fools of us all."

I kept my chin high, my hands at my sides. I would not cower.

He leaned in, his breath brushing against my ear. "You reek of him."

I flinched. Kyden chuckled. "It's amusing, really. Eris, of all people, shackled to someone like you." His gaze flickered over me, assessing, and I knew that look—I had seen it before, a lifetime ago, picking apart my worth, deciding how best to use me.

"What do you think he'll do?" Kyden mused. "Surely, you don't believe he'll actually keep you. A High Lord's mate should be powerful, worthy." He tutted. "You are neither."

The words hit their mark, sinking into my skin like tiny blades, because deep down I knew he was right. This is why I've been avoiding Eris, avoiding having that confrontation that will only result in rejection and sorrow.

"I wonder," he continued, tilting his head, "how long it will take before he grows bored of you. Before he realizes you're nothing more than the same little courtier Beron used to—"

A deep, guttural snarl split the air.

And then Kyden was no longer in my space, no longer crowding me like a looming shadow.

Eris had him by the collar, dragging him back, his teeth bared in a vicious snarl beside his brother's throat.

"Say another word," Eris hissed, voice like fire crackling over dry wood, "and I will tear out your fucking tongue."

Kyden, to his credit, did not flinch. He only grinned. "Touched a nerve, did I?"

Eris's fingers tightened, the flames in the nearby sconces flaring wildly.

"Walk away, Kyden," Eris said, voice quieter now, deadlier. "I raised you better than this."

A beat of silence. Then Kyden huffed a laugh, shoving Eris off him with a roll of his shoulders.

"As you wish, brother." He turned to me, and there was something smug in his eyes, something knowing. "See you around, little courtier."

And then he was gone.

Eris exhaled harshly, running a hand through his hair before turning to me.

"Are you—"

I shook my head, stepping back. "Don't."

His jaw tensed.

I couldn't do this. Not here. Not now.

The hallway was silent except for the distant clatter of pots and the hushed murmurs of servants slipping past us, their eyes darting away the moment they caught sight of Eris. I could still feel the ghost of Kyden's words slithering over my skin, the way he had looked at me, spoken to me. But more than that—I could feel the weight of Eris's gaze, burning into me as if he were unraveling every thought in my head.

I didn't want to look at him. Didn't want to feel the way I did when he looked at me.

His amber eyes flickered with something unreadable, something heavy and tense. He hadn't moved since Kyden left, his hands clenched at his sides, as if he was still fighting the urge to chase his brother down and finish what he started.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. We stood nearly a yard away from each other in the servants' passages, the house was so vast that to get from place to place quicker in the manor there were secret paths to take. It was odd for the High Lord to even know about them.

I swallowed hard, then whispered, "Why are you here?"

Eris blinked, as if startled by the question. And then, with the ghost of a smirk, he drawled, "It's my house, isn't it?"

I narrowed my eyes. "You know what I mean."

More silence.

His smirk faded.

"I was looking for you," he admitted finally.

I stared at him, heart hammering against my ribs. "You could've called for me."

His expression darkened, and he took a step closer. "Would you have come?"

I said nothing.

He huffed a bitter laugh. "That's what I thought."

I clenched my hands into fists, nails biting into my palms. "It's my job, Eris," I whispered.

His jaw flexed. His fingers twitched—like he wanted to reach for me, wanted to touch me—but he didn't. Instead, he just stood there, looking more defeated than I'd ever imagined a Vanserra could.

"Can we go somewhere more private?" I asked, my voice quieter now, because we were standing a distance apart with maids and cooks scuttling silently past us, pretending they weren't listening, pretending they couldn't see the invisible string between us.

Eris studied me for a long moment, then nodded. Without another word, he turned on his heel, leading the way.

I followed.

The room he brought me to was small, tucked away in one of the unused wings of the estate. A study, maybe, or a reading room—the kind of place someone could go to disappear.

He shut the door behind me, and then we were alone.

Eris exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. "Are you alright?"

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "I don't know."

His jaw tightened. "Kyden—"

"I don't want to talk about Kyden."

He stared at me for a moment, then nodded. "Then talk to me about something else."

I let out a breath. "About what, Eris?"

He stepped closer, slow and careful, as if I were something fragile. "About why you've been avoiding me."

I scoffed. "You know why."

"I want to hear you say it."

I met his gaze, and the heat in his eyes sent a shiver down my spine. "Because this—" I gestured between us. "—isn't supposed to happen. Because you're a High Lord, and I'm a servant, and this bond—" I swallowed hard. "It's cruel."

Eris's expression was unreadable, but his fingers twitched again, and I wondered if he even realized he kept doing that—kept stopping himself from touching me. "You think the Mother is cruel?"

I hesitated. "I think fate is."

Eris exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Do you hate it that much?"

I didn't answer.

Did I?

Hate was easy. Hate was something I understood, something I could hold onto. Hate had kept me alive under Beron's rule, had hardened me, protected me.

But this? This tether between us, this thing that hummed in my chest, that made my body ache to close the distance between us—

I didn't have a name for it. And that scared me more than anything.

Eris watched me carefully, as if searching for something in my expression. He let out another sigh and retreated, taking a seat on the small leather couch adjacent to the popping fireplace. I watched him silently, still standing by the door.

"I never wanted this either," he admitted, voice softer now. "I spent years ensuring I would never be bound to someone who could be used against me. And yet..." His lips quirked into something bitter. "Yet here we are."

My throat felt tight. "Do you hate it?"

His amber eyes burned. "No."

The breath I took was unsteady.

"You never answered?" he looked up at me.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Shook my head. "I don't know."

Eris nodded once, as if that answer was enough.

Silence stretched between us again.

Finally, he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "You don't have to accept it," he said. "Not now. Not ever, if that's what you choose." He met my gaze, something like resignation flickering in his eyes. "But I won't apologize for it."

He wanted to keep it? Wanted me to accept it?

I swallowed against the lump in my throat.

He tilted his head, considering me. "So what now?"

I shook my head. "I don't know."

A slow, knowing smirk curved his lips. "That's twice now."

I scowled. "Shut up."

He chuckled. "I suppose I should be grateful I got anything out of you at all."

I rolled my eyes, but there was no bite to it.

Eris studied me again, quieter this time. "I meant what I said," he murmured. "I was looking for you."

I looked away. "I know."

Silence settled between us again, but it was different now. Less suffocating.

More dangerous.

Because I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep pretending I didn't want him to find me. I approached his side quietly and sat.

The leather couch was cool against my skin as I sank into it beside him, the silence between us thick with unspoken words. The bond thrummed like a second heartbeat, relentless and inescapable.

The son of the man I loathed most in this world was the one I was expected to love beyond reason.

Fate was a sick, twisted thing.

I sighed, tired of thinking, tired of fighting, tired of everything. Slowly, hesitantly, I tilted my head, letting it rest against his shoulder. His body stiffened for a fraction of a second before he relaxed, exhaling a breath I might've imagined.

It was enough for now.

"I'm High Lord," he said after a beat.

"Painfully aware," I murmured.

"Meaning—there are rules of the Autumn Court that I can... simply get rid of."

I huffed a soft, tired laugh. "You're a lord, not a king."

"Mm, true," he mused, tilting his head back against the couch, "but if Rhysand can bend the rules to marry his mate, so can I."

I hesitated. "His court is much more pliable. Autumn is notorious for its... old-fashioned ways."

"Well, the Autumn Court has a new High Lord." His voice was steady, sure. "Let's just hope I'm changing it for the better."

I smiled faintly, my eyes fluttering shut. "You are, 'Ris."

The name slipped out before I could think better of it, before I could remind myself that familiarity with him was dangerous.

His body went still beneath me.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he looked down at me, amber eyes burning with something I couldn't name.

We stared at each other for a long moment, really seeing each other.

And then, quietly, almost reverently, he murmured, "I'm going to kiss you now."

I nodded.

And then he did.

His lips pressed against mine, slow and deep, as if we had all the time in the world. As if the bond wasn't something to be feared but something to be savored. His hand lifted to my jaw, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone before sliding into my hair, tilting my face up, pressing deeper.

I sighed into him, gripping the front of his tunic as the bond pulsed between us, as the warmth of his body and the scent of campfire and rainy mornings wrapped around me like something familiar, something I could fall into.

It should have scared me.

But all I could do was kiss him back.

Eris pulled away just enough to rest his forehead against mine, his breath warm against my lips. My heart pounded, my thoughts a chaotic mess, but the bond hummed in quiet contentment—as if it had known all along that this was inevitable.

His fingers stayed tangled in my hair, his other hand still cupping my jaw, holding me there, keeping me grounded. "We'll figure this out," he murmured, voice low, steady. Sure.

I let out a slow breath, my hands still fisted in his tunic. "You make it sound so simple."

"It doesn't have to be complicated."

I swallowed hard, my mind already spinning with the realities of what this meant, what it could mean. But as I looked at him, at the quiet determination in his gaze, at the warmth that had nothing to do with the firelight flickering around us, I found myself wanting—just for a moment—to believe him.

So I nodded, just barely.

His lips brushed my temple, lingering there for a heartbeat before he leaned back, his hand finally slipping from my hair. "One step at a time, my dear."

I exhaled, my pulse still thrumming in my throat, and echoed, "One step at a time."

And maybe, just maybe, we'd find our way through this. Together.

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