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littlefreya · 4 years ago

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August’s Box of Mystery

Summary: He left you all alone in his great castle by the sea and requested that you shan't touch yourself... can you keep your loyalty?

Prompted by @gotnofucks: “How do you feel August would react to knowing his girl uses sex toys when he is away? Would he feel jealous? Angry? Turned on?More importantly, what does he do? 👀”

Pairing: August Walker x Female Reader (No description of ethnicity or body type)

Words: 3k

Warning: 18+, smut + romance and fluff in the end. Female masturbation with a sex toy, voyeurism, sex-tape, cockwarming, mildly rough unprotected sex, breeding, breeding as punishment if to be exact, slight denial, MaleDom, creampie, a lot of it. Read the warnings properly, please.

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, or parts it and claiming it as your own.

A/N: I am anxious about this one and hope you’ll enjoy, i’ve been rather influenced by Angela Carter writings. Many thanks to @the-soot-sprite @wondersofdreaming for feedback and @agniavateira for her review. Added notes and credits in the end!

Please reblog and comment if you enjoyed my work. 🖤

August’s Box of Mystery

Outside the bedroom window, the waves roared in a tempest's rage. Torrent after torrent, the sea unleashed brutal tentacles onto the salty iron rocks in a keen, vindictive urge to dismantle them to nought.

It was your own unruly longing that the ocean sensed: forlorn and listless, lying on your bed, the blue mist cloaking your heart.

August's sea-fort was a gilded cage. He had given you everything: diamonds brighter than the moon, sheets made of the softest golden silk, and even a ring to bind you to his unbreakable siege.

His only demand was that you will always wait for him, not only by flesh but soul as well. Despite his dark ambitions, trust and loyalty were qualities August valued beyond anything else.

But soon, you grew tired of watching the reflection of the tides refract upon the naked ceiling. A woman with fire for blood, you were forever tormented by your sultry nature and daydreams of that would make the devil blush.

Frustration gnawed at your bawls until—enough! You shot up from your bed—a storm of silky linen whirling around you like Venus emerging from spume on shore; and just as the goddess of love and beauty, you too yearned to be penetrated. Nibbling your nails, you glanced at the open door, your mind seeing beyond thick walls into his office where he kept a chest filled with illicit delights.

Every now and then—when August's muse struck—he would bring one of his toys to the bedroom, but you weren’t allowed to play on your own.

Body.

Soul.

‘Certainly, August won’t be able to tell if I would be careful?’ You hoped and followed the oceanic breeze hymning from the corridors.

Sand stuck to your bare feet, the wooden planks gently wept beneath your stride. Tipping on your toes, you snuck into his cavernous study, the key stolen from his nightstand already seized between shaky fingers. Though August was absent, your heart thrummed with ire upon setting foot onto the furry rug, as if he was to appear behind you at any given moment.

It was a room that reeked of debaucheries of all kinds: "borrowed" works of art depicting naked nymphs adorned the cherry-wood shelves, divine entities hung onto the wainscoting, and trophies he kept from his victims were encased in a fancy vitrine. Even the slate-blue view felt different from this spot; the rocky piers seemed like a pathway to a marine graveyard.

You paid no mind. You knew who you married and gained nothing but ethereal bliss whenever August fucked you against the window for the shark and whales to see.

Like a girl crawling into the rabbit’s hole, you took half a twirl. There, below the large monitor plastered to the wall, stood the locked chest. Black and gold roses ornamented its exterior and a trident crest was engraved on the lock. Only a fool would overlook such blatant temptation, and though you were no foolish girl, you were feeble at the face of seduction.

Falling to your knees, you made haste to unlock the chest, your heart drumming in your ears with the notion that you defied the words of your strenuous lover. But the same muscle that pumped you with fear, pounded wickedness into your blood.

If only you were blessed with a shred of your husband’s patience.

All the toys inside were placed in order, sanitised, and appropriately boxed in such fashion that you knew August would notice if something was misplaced. The man had the capability of finding an eyelash on the carpet. Still, unrelenting desire strung the cunning finger you ran over the loot, carefully picking one of the familiar vibrators he used on you before.

'Here?'

Standing at the centre of his tidy office you contemplated, suddenly aware of how the room leaked of his entity; scented notes of old leather binding and his woodsy cologne threatened to adhere to your skin, making this mischief taste like a crime. It was best to keep all disobedient whims in an isolated location, you assumed and allowed your eyes to further drift and glide upon the large monitor and the antique desk where August kept the remote. An abrupt wicked idea swam into your mind, reminding you of his private collection.

Catalogued alphabetically, he kept them on his streaming device.

'It should make things quick...' you convinced yourself whilst nibbling on your bottom lip. How worse could it be, anyway? You already rummaged through his chest. Taking a gander at his not-so-secret directory was puny in comparison.

With your lungs in fists, you slipped your panties to your ankles and settled on the cosy leather chair in front of his desk. Ignoring the red flag waved by your anxiety, you reached for the remote and clicked the button.

August made no effort to hide his recordings, simply naming the directory as "Films," as if it contained ordinary Hollywood blockbusters. Impatient, you scrolled down the list, trying to keep the jealousy from simmering in your bawls. August wedded you in this fort, but he never captured you on film like he did his girls. All lovers from the past, of course, but still it almost irked you; yet you brushed these concerns away and picked a file with the name you liked most and pressed “play”.

The ocean's lament was instantly swallowed by guttural howls and grunts that took every empty space within the chamber. Before your flaring eyes appeared the most forbidden of spectacles— your husband taking a different woman. It was odd to hear the familiar timbre of his groans laced with the voice of another. It was even stranger to sense the unmistakable spark of desire jittering in your cove.

Poseidon himself could not compete with the glory of the man, naked and drenched, all muscles and might. Furious, he took her on her knees, his fingers cradling her skull, pushing her head to the pillows while restraining her wrists above the small of her back. She wasn't you and still you clenched, aroused by the sight of the sweat glistening the fur of his torso and by the lack of mercy in the violent motion that ended with the dutiful grind of his sac against her swollen lips.

You hadn't even realised how shamefully you dripped upon the oxen leather of the seat, your thoughts focused on the odd mixture of envy and lust that penetrated your blood.

Desperate to unleash the monstrosity building within your core, you spread your legs over the desk and pressed the toy between your slippery petals. A shuddering whine rode your breath at the brush of the buzzing device, the pleasure so unimaginable it nearly drowned your senses. Gasping, you fought to maintain a hooded gaze upon your lover and his ‘whore,’ and imagined that the rosy silicon phallus that entered your anticipating hole was his swollen cock.

Your walls quickly clenched around the toy in true longing while the window trembled under the muffled rumbling of thunder. Perhaps your passions thickened the clouds. Or maybe it was the immoral streak of ecstasy laced by danger. Whichever it was, it urged you faster toward imminent bliss.

The other woman’s moans entwined with yours while your wayward hand mimicked the rhythm of bodies slamming together in the same frantic chaos that swept you.

Sweat-riddled, your ankles lost way across the smooth surface of the desk, leaving oily markings in a frenzy as climax drew close.

‘Almost…’

‘So close…’

‘August!’

"Enjoying yourself, my little princess?"

Lightning painted the room bright purple, announcing the thunder that tore through the ocean. It wasn’t half as frightening as the low timbre of his voice, which cruelly withheld your ecstasy. The fervour in your veins turned glacial; one moment you ascended to the heavens and the next, got rejected at its golden gates. All the while the growls of his reflection on the monitor echoed through the chamber along with the buzzing toy still buried inside you.

It granted no pleasure now, but further stretched the guilt.

Calm and forebodingly stoic, August reached a curious hand between your quaking thighs, seizing the toy and flicking the switch off. Unable to lift your gaze to meet his severe face, you struggled to swallow and kept your eyes glued to the monitor. Yet, there was no escape from his reflection—the “real” him present in the room peered back at you through the glassy screen. Standing behind you, he etched his fingers around the headrest of the chair and tutted.

“Do you like watching me with others, sweetling? Did this video make you wet?” he asked curiously.

Before any words formed on your quivering lips, his hand fell to your mound. An intrigued “hmm,” flowed from his throat as he found you overflowing with arousal. Like a whore, you couldn’t help but squirm into his touch, your body still enraged of being denied pleasure, and so was the sky that now threatened to turn the ocean upside down.

You nearly gasped at the heavy patter of rain that began to hit the window.

“I…”

“Disobeyed me,” he completed the sentence, his voice mellow and pleasant though the caress of his breath on your face burned.

“...missed you.”

Your attempt to pacify him did not go unnoticed. Lips stretching to a slanted grin, he dared to replace the toy with two fingers that drove inside your gaping hole—sensing how you wrapped and suckled around his long digits like a carnivore plant.

“Such a sweet gesture,” he retorted, “and still, my love, my dear wife who I’ve given everything to, has defied me like a lawless brat…unable to wait for her husband to return from his very important meetings.” His dainty fingers pumped crudely deeper, not to please you but remind you who you belonged to.

Writhing in your seat, you fluttered your eyes shut. “Where were you?”

Ignoring your question, he leaned down, his lips mere inches from your ear and whispered, “I think it’s time I’ll tame my bratty woman for good, don’t you?”

You shuddered to think what punishment he had in mind, your heart sinking to a dark pit at the deadly kiss he offered next to your ear; but then, he took your wrist and in a surprising tenderness guided you from the chair to bend over the desk.

Predictably, the movie had run its course and started again from the beginning, her promiscuous moans and the pounding of their flesh stealing your attention for a split second.

Having you at a disadvantage, August drew an invisible line from your spine to the curve of your behind, his fingers mimicking lines drawn on soaked sand. “All this sea salt in the air around us and your skin is still so tender,” he murmured lovingly and secured a hand around your nape, holding your head forward.

It excited you to watch them before and now with his groin hot and hard against your bare crease you were nothing but craving his cock.

“Is this going to hurt? Will you spank me? Treat me like that whore on your film?” you asked naively, smoothing your sweaty palms across the antique wood with dark anticipation.

“No, my beautiful angel.” his belt clicked and dangled like a set of heavy keys of a warden toying with his captive, “You are not my whore, but my wife. Which is why I’m going to put my child in your reckless womb to end your wicked ways once and for all.”

A gasp of shock left your throat, dazed by his threat you turned to protest. But the air drowned in your chest and your entire body stiffened as August’s ‘leviathan’ split your succulent flesh. Vulgarly you were penetrated, his size stuffing you so deeply, you felt the aching pressure in the pit of your belly.

August stilled for a moment, lingering at the sensation of your hot cove fitting around him in both a strenuous protest and the pathetic defeat in which your body seized the beast, milking it in an attempt to rope him into your womb forever.

“Oh, my sweet wife, I will stretch your little cunt to sheath me that not even these toys will please you. You see, everything here belongs to me, even your defiant womb. And I will leave a piece in me there to teach you a lesson.”

“I don’t think I am ready!” You whined, but the thought of being bred and carrying his child made your cunt unwittingly twitch. Your canal sucked him even deeper if it was even possible.

August sensed your convulsion and growled, his hips pressed unfathomably tight against your rear, making your cheeks ache from the press of his bones. It was torture with the film playing right in front of you; falling into a lucid delirium, your mind replaced her with yourself, yet your August refused to move, withholding your pleasure, owning it, owning you.

His cock anchored hot and thick inside you, its throb as powerful as the thunder hammering the ocean.

You wanted to cry.

“August, please! I need you! I missed you!”

With a harsh pull, he drew back and bludgeoned your crease, his might so vulgar the tip of your toes levitated from the ground. Again, and then again… he grunted at the choke of your flesh around him. Paying you no courtesy, he shook and pounded you almost terrifyingly as meticulously as he did this woman.

His fingers burnt around your waist, so harshly you thought you’d never be able to sense anything but his grip under your skin.

“Oh!” fat tears rolled down your cheeks, your breath a wheeze. Piteously you crumbled onto the desk. Thunders, cries, sounds of rutting flesh, and grunts surrounded you in this cavern of sin; you didn’t know which were yours and which were from the recording. All you knew was that he never took you so zealously before, you were at the brink of either rapture or falling to the abyss.

“You’re too deep! Too rough!” you wailed, unable to adjust to his pace but truthfully you didn’t want him to slow down. Currents of bliss submerged your loins the rougher he fucked you. The hot tingle in your core stormed with every collision of his cock with your cervix.

August reached from your neck to your jaw then and held your face to the screen.

“You wanted to watch her while touching yourself. Do you want to be her?” he growled and increased the pace, splitting through your body the way Dagon ripped open the waves.

Even if you had words, you couldn’t bring yourself to speak.

“You can never be her my darling,” August said and removed his hand from your hip. There was a quick drag of his drawer behind you and a rummaging sound. “Here, I’ll make us a short film; memorise this moment when you conceive me an heir.”

Struck by his words, you turned to stare. The sight of him behind you, inside you, was far more worthy than any film: sweat trickled down his messy curls and arduously strained face, his cerulean shirt damp and his mouth open as his fingers clutched the camera that was directed to the point where you were joint.

Unrelenting, your orgasm flooded through every muscle like a wave of destruction that wrecked every organ within you until you felt nothing but bliss. You felt August’s heart beating in yours.

There it was. Euphoria.

You drowned in it. The maelstrom inside you swallowed and sank his ship as well. With a loud shout of surprise, he broke apart and erupted inside you, his creamy gift ploughing your womb until it overflowed and dripped down your quaking thighs.

The rumbling from outside eased now, the clouded sky groaned with a release, their tears melding into the ocean never to be seen again.

August remained inside you, his breath thick, his hips gingerly grinding into yours to make sure his seed will take.

“There you go, my special girl.” his voice came huskily. “Now you will never be alone, unlike these women I can’t even remember.”

Your hand instinctively snapped to your lower belly, soothingly caressing it in a reverie. You felt battered, full, and disgustingly and arousingly dirty as he swam inside you.

Yet the thought that he impregnated you made your heart flutter.

Was there a more eternal symbolism of love than a legacy?

“August…” you whispered. Beneath you, the desk slightly shook, little tremors vibrated against the delicate pads of your fingers. Turning your head back, you offered him an enamoured glance and reached a hand in plea to lace fingers with his.

His storm-kissed eyes softened and he broke into a sigh at the sight of his wife at her best submissive behaviour. The greatest of all delights was to refine a crude rock into a fine delicate diamond. Proudly, he took your hand in his, entangling your fingers together, yet he kept the video-camera aimed at your joint bodies.

“Don’t move,” he breathed behind you and carefully pulled out his shaft from your flooded hole. A velvety chuckle played on his tongue, impressed by the wet plop and thickness of the cream that leaked off your entrance. Your cheeks burnt as you realised what he has done; your lips parted open to complain but then, with his cock already fully rigid and thick, he plugged you once more, shoving his seed back inside you.

“What are you doing?”

“Waste not, my angel,” he tutted and remained still, brushing his knuckles up and down the curve of your rump.

“Oh, how long?” you whined, uncertain if you are capable of staying this way with him throbbing between your taut walls.

“Until the sky clear up?...” he suggested, voice haunted by lingering satisfaction.

The waves of your previous orgasm were yet to ebb, and now stronger tides began to emerge. Frustration grew within once again and sadly, August’s will had the mettle of an anchor.

“At least tell me where you were!” you yelped.

August scoffed, and wrapped his hands around your waist, only slightly guiding you back into his hips. “No, no, my love. Every marriage needs a little bit of mystery, as you’ve already learned. But now do me a favour,” he uttered and placed the remote next to your hand.

“Play us another one? We might be here a while.”

Credits: Dividers by @firefly-graphics. Themes Inspired by Angela Carter’s Bloody Chamber. Leviathan inspired by @sillyrabbit81!!

Disclaimer: I don’t own August Walker or Mission Impossible.

#henry cavill #august walker #august walker x reader #august walker fanfiction #henry cavill x reader

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aspiring-bl-writer · 3 years ago

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Rage

Notice me.

I stride ankle-deep over mounds of corpses, heaps of offal trailing in my wake. My dual chainaxes sing discordant music as their teeth rend armour like flesh. My charred crimson plate is the same shade as the mists of blood bursting from every hack, every chop. I no longer recall who the enemy is, save that they are fools still in thrall to the carcass sat upon the Golden Throne. Their colours, their heraldry are trivial details. All that matters is my Primarch’s favour.

Notice me.

The Red Angel walks amongst us. He is a prince of the Lord of Rage, a behemoth of barbed bronze. Yet despite his daemonic ascension, his horrible and grotesque form, he is still essentially the same: wild, vicious, constantly consumed by heedless fury. With one swing his massive blade slices into a squad of our foes, cleaving their bodies in twain. He howls a guttural, dreadful roar, the stuff of nightmares. This is his calling: to lose himself in the hot passion of slaughter.

So ardent is his appetite for destruction that to steal his attention, just for the briefest of moments, is a highly coveted prestige among his children. A nod of respect, a growl of recognition implies a commendation tantamount to a blessing from the Blood God. It is a prize I have chased for centuries.

Notice me!

I must further increase the pace of my murder. I shove one of my brothers aside as I seek out more victims. We of the Grim Dawn are all World Eaters, each purified by eons of war, savage, reckless, bloodthirsty, brutal. We kill side by side, but truly, there is no kinship between us. Our weapons fall together, but without thought, without care. Camaraderie was just another emotion expunged sting by sting by the butcher’s nails. Even now I feel them whirring in my head, increasing my aggression, adding more and more momentum to my frenzy.

I spy a massive war-machine ahead. Its pilot is a maimed Astartes, an ancestor revered by his Loyalist comrades. Its armour is scorched black by innumerable dents and blasts. It lumbers toward us, a walking tank. It would make a fine prize.

Servos whine as its articulated power fist reaches for my swinging axe. I let the Dreadnought catch it, crumpling the metal blade in its grasp, while charging with my remaining axe raised. I aim for the nest of cables exposed underneath its elephantine metal chest suspended above a narrow waist and trunk-like legs. With revving ferocity, the teeth chew deep.

Notice me!

I duel the entombed warrior for… Hours? Minutes? Time is so subjective in the Warp. His strikes fly in sweeping arcs, chasing a death blow. He is plodding, precise. Meanwhile I am surrendering consciousness to the mechanical tendrils vibrating inside my brain. As my enemy grows exasperated, frustrated, I grow calm with the oxygen and adrenaline pumping in my bloodstream. The butcher’s nails are no torture device. They sharpen the senses and dull pain. They give clarity.

That is why our dead hearts so revere the Primarch. Yes, he is a privileged son of Khorne, but he gifted us serenity when he ordered the nails installed in all our heads. We will never know peace; that word is anathema to us. But the mental state induced by the thumping needles creates an ecstasy only the enraged can understand. The intensity of our fury is so great it washes everything away, lowers the volume, removes all distractions. I meander in a rose-tinted trance, a lullaby sung by the nails, the Taker of Skulls their conductor.

NOTICE ME!

At last, I have the upper hand. The goliath stumbles as it turns. I leap, axe lowered, and slam into the Dreadnought’s torso. My axe sinks far but not enough. As I hug the chassis I hack over and over, eliciting sparks and split wires until, finally, I find the Astartes revenant inside. I give him his overdue death, the mercy killing he was owed ages past.

I look up. The Red Angel has his back to me. His enormous bat-like wings lift his impossible bulk to convey him to some other corner of the battlefield. I watch in silence. All is now quiet. There are no more enemies here to slay. They all lay dead around me. It is only now that I survey them closer.

Their armour is covered in blood, or so it seems. I soon realize the armour is indeed painted the colour of blood, with subtle scorched trimmings of brass. Some of them wear Imperial insignia, but scratched, ruined, and not in battle. A good few wear the inimitable mark of Khorne. The Dreadnought is no different. It occurs to me these are fellow World Eaters. More than that, they are—were—my fellow members of the Grim Dawn.

In my mania I have killed my warband. There is no trace of Loyalist Astartes, living or dead. Had Angron presided over the massacre of his own children? Did he even still consider himself a father to us, or only Khorne’s chosen son? Had he been a product of my delirium, my ambition for his praise willing him into existence? These questions bring only pain.

I feel no remorse. I have felt very little for a long, long time, save for the perpetual hum of anger. All else is cauterized away, thanks to the nails. They permit me to feel the extremes of my default state. Rage is my religion, the calm at the centre of the storm, my paradise. I will never stop chasing it. Just as I will never stop chasing the blessing of the Red Angel who liberated me and my kindred.

I walk on. There are other battles. Of that, I am sure. Where blood flows, the Blood God looks, and where the blood flows deepest, the Red Angel appears. I will be there too.

You will notice me.

#warhammer 40k #warhammer #40k #40k fanfic #40k fiction #wh 40k #khorne #chaos #world eaters #angron #red angel #primarch #butcher's nails #warhammer 40000 #space marines #chaos space marines

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yamagucji · 4 years ago

Text

Reacting to their s/o breaking down

ft. atsumu, oikawa, aone, and sakusa

warnings. little angst, lots of crying but lots of fluff

ATSUMU

when he saw you sprinting to your bedroom as soon as you came home, he was enraged to say the least

because those are definitely tears on your eyes, and atsumu’s now wondering as to who might’ve hurt you

he straight up panicks at first, because he doesn’t know if it’s a good time to approach you or not. so he does what he’s done to comfort his brother before— by giving you company outside your door

“angel?” he knocked lightly, sliding down to the floor and leaning his head against the door. he can hear your muffled sobs, it hurts. he wishes it were him instead of you

“if ya wanna talk just let me know, but... if not, i’ll be here waiting for you.”

so atsumu waits. he waits for as long as you need; 30 minutes, 1 hours, to a couple hours. it doesn’t matter, because when you open the door he’ll be there

after calming down a bit, you called out to him under your bedroom sheets. “tsumu...?”

he replies, almost instantly. “yeah? what do you need?”

“...you.”

and just like that he barges into your room, nearly jumping into bed and engulfing you in his arms

“feelin’ better?” he mumbled against you, rubbing the back of your head with his palm

atsumu will do his best not to barge you with his questions, waiting for you to open up at your own pace

now this man will literally turn into a whole COMEDIAN trying to make you feel better afterwards

yes put a red plush on his nose and call him clown atsumu <3

would also offer to take you to a convenience store

“ice cream? chips? what else d’you want babe?” atsumu peeked from the aisle over, his arms already loaded with goods

it’s 2 in the morning but atsumu doesn’t give a F!CK especially after seeing you so distraught a while ago. he’ll do anything to make you feel better quickly

OIKAWA

you never meant to break down over such a small accident, but you slipping on the floor along with your plate of food had made you tip over

out of such a terrible week, even your food couldn’t be spared

oikawa had watched you from the couch and was about to break into laughter (whole heartedly) if it wasn’t for the sight of you bringing your knees against your chest and sobbing

“love?” oikawa rushed over to you. “hey it’s alright, i can prepare you another plate of food” he cooed, feeling guilty of what had happened

he saves the cleaning for later, leaving the spilled food on the floor

“ah, come on look at me,” he pulled your head out of your knees, realizing now that your cause of breakdown wasn’t just because of the food

oikawa knows just how it feels to have a bad day, and on top of that, to eventually tip over because of all the heavy weight. so he makes you talk it out with him

tears, hiccups and probably snot running down your nose— oikawa will listen to every word you muster to say to him

“is that why? why didn’t you tell me earlier?” he wipes a tear off your face, his gentle voice cradling you

“b- because,” you hiccuped, “i didnt want to bother you with my problems” :(

he’ll wipe every tear off your face, giving you a few headpats and soft kisses on your forehead

“you’ll never bother me,” he mumbled against you. “next time, don’t be afraid to tell me what’s wrong okay?”

he sits with you for a little while longer, letting you pour everything you’ve bottled up out of you. and once you’ve finally calmed down does he start cleaning up

of course, all you need to do is get comfortable on the dining chair while he does the rest of the work

oikawa will put on the silly apron that you got him with pride, making sure to show it off and ease up your mood

“ha! don’t i look good?”

you huffed out a laugh, finally letting out your first smile of the night

whatever it is you want to eat, he’ll cook it for you <3

even though he’s already eaten just a couple hours ago, oikawa will also make a plate for himself so you don’t have to eat alone

AONE

you’ve been trying to get through your school work for hours now, but it’s just too difficult

“one more,” you told aone, bouncing to another question on your paper only to find that it’s even more difficult to answer than the rest

he sat quietly beside you; finally giving you space after asking if he could help you a few times before

you see... you definitely needed his help and although you’re sure aone was doing pretty well in this subject, you didn’t want to bother him nor show him that you were struggling :(

but before you knew it, tears were pooling down your face and onto your workbook

“hey,” aone mumbled, immediately soothing gentle motions over your back. “let’s take a break.” you know there’s no point in arguing— not with the way he’s closing up your materials

but you do, anyway. “but i- i have to finish this,” you huffed out defeatedly

seeing aone’s concerned expression makes you cry out more, and it doesn’t help when he starts to pull your face closer to his, wiping away at your cheeks

“hm, we’ll do it together, okay love? i am positive you’ll be able to get through this,”

“but right now,” he takes your hand, coaxing you over to his bed. “i think it’s time for a break”

the two of you will lay together on his bed, with your head on aone’s chest and his palms running over your back

it’s more of a quiet moment— save for your muffled sobbing

though once in a while aone will put his lips close to your ear and whisper words of affirmations to you

“im proud of you today. you should be, too,”

“i can see that you work really hard on your studies... but it’s okay to take a break sometimes”

he pulls your head slightly away from his chest, slipping a kiss to your forehead. “taking a break just means you’ll become even more stronger,”

and you know just how much those words weigh, especially coming from aone

aone won’t mind if you fall asleep. he’ll actually be more than grateful— to finally see you at peace

so the next time you get through with your work, he’ll be there with you <3

(he’ll even offer to have you sit on his lap as the two of you do work but only if you’re comfy)

SAKUSA

sakusa’s a very careful person, but his words can be jarring at times

you know that as his s/o, he never has an intent to hurt you. but this time... he’d struck a nerve without meaning to

“i just don’t see why it’s such a serious matter to you,” he replied, staring straight ahead on the pathway ahead of him

the two of you were talking about something from your past— something that continues to bother you

you took his words as: why are you so sensitive about it?

when sakusa had actually meant: there’s no need to be so worried

it had felt as if sakusa didn’t care about your situation, so you left the conversation there and sulked in silence for the rest of your walk home

he certainly noticed

just as he was unlocking the entrance door with his keys, sakusa had mumbled in frustration. “what’s going on with you today...”

and that was the last straw

you turned to him with frustration, too, the build-up tears finally escaping your eyes

“what do you mean-” you hiccuped, “what do you mean what’s going on with me today? i tried to tell you but it seemed like...”

sakusa lets go of the keys, the entrance door still closed. “like what?” he dared to whisper

“like you didn’t care, omi...”

he paused for a moment, watching as you looked down from him; hiding your face and your feelings

sakusa doesn’t know what overcame him— it’s not like him to act on instinct but he did just now

he brings you to his arms, taking off his mask in the process and leaning his cheek beside your head

“i dont,” he says cautiously this time. “i don’t know what made you think that, but i can assure you that i care about you,”

“the most,” sakusa added

he was hugging you a bit tighter than usual, his chest beathing in a frenzy against your ears

sakusa will clarify to you what he had said earlier, making sure to voice out his true intentions and feelings

and yes, you’re sobbing in his arms outside the house but he doesn’t give any care to that at all

sakusa presses a kiss on top of your head, gently pulling you off of him after your sobbing had calmed down

“let’s come in,” his fingers intertwines with yours, finally pulling you inside

ah, but you remembered something. “oh, sorry... i took a lot of time out of our chores today”

sakusa turns back to you, scruffling your head

“don’t worry about it. i’m taking care of you today.”

please send an ask to be added to my taglist!

#atsumu x reader #oikawa x reader #sakusa x reader #aone x reader #haikyuu headcanons #atsumu miya #oikawa tooru #sakusa kiyoomi #aone takanobu #haikyuu x reader #atsumu headcanons #oikawa headcanons #sakusa headcanons #aone headcanons #haikyuu #haikyuu!!

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shepard-ram · 4 years ago

Note

The whole discussion of Disney Princess made me realize how easily you could combine Cinderella and yandere techno.

The Arctic Empire's holding a tournament in order to scout out potential army leaders for an upcoming conquest with the winner having to fight being against the crown prince Technoblade for 1st place. While the prize for 2nd isn't anything to laugh at the first prize is truly exorbitant like you could buy a palace levels of wealth because they need to give some incentive for people to not just instantly forfeit in the final round. You need money and fast in order to leave before the conscription goes out you want no part in this upcoming war and unfortunately getting the at least the 3rd place prize is required if your mental calculations on how much both the boat passage and setting up your new shop/home will cost are accurate but a higher place will give you more wiggle room. In order to not just get nabbed after the tournament you decide that a disguise is in order so you purchase a fairly durable mask (don't want it falling off or breaking during a match) and sign up under a false but believe name Ian moone, you did chuckle at the thought of the person who worked out that names message. The preliminary matches were a breeze after all just because you hated fighting didn't mean you were bad at it and if beating up a few noble brats who's only taste of combat was against their tutor's ment you didn't have to kill anyone in a war that was a compromise your morals would have to make. Once there were only 16 of you left however they introduced a new rule you couldn't forfeit before 10 minutes passed, ok them change of plans you would have to try and drag the last match before the prince so you could grab the 3rd place prize and run, with this in mind you made sure to end fights quickly in order to have enough strength to stall for the 10 minutes. There was one problem with this plan your opponent in the finals didn't conserve their strength so only a few minutes in to the fight they collapsed meaning you won by default, you would have to fight Technoblade and so you react they way any sane person would be cursing every god you could think of. You were going to throw the match that was the sane thing to do then you saw the pink haired prince's look of pure arrogance and heard the Emperor's speech about how glorious the upcoming war would be and that to fight for the empire is something every citizen should strive to do,well let's just say you were a bit ticked off. Your sudden burst of speed across the arena caught everyone off guard as your sword smashed into his shield with it splintering as if you had struck with a axe, if the royals wanted to glorify the frenzied close combat of war that their citizen would have to face while they directed the war from their palace an ocean away from the front well you'd be glad to knock them down a peg or two. The prince upon seeing his shield get split in half with a single strike ducked behind one of the obsidian walls in the arena that wouldn't help him though as instead of coming around the corner into the path of his crossbow you stopped on the other side of the wall putting your full strength behind your swing and sliced through the obsidian , through the prince's armour and only stopping once you shattered the bone in his upper right arm your iron sword shattering in the process, the prince forfeited,finishing the fight. You had ended the match with two blows, the arena was silent before erupting into cheers as you came down from the combat high to realise that you needed to leave now. As you were lead to your prize guards flanking once you were in the room alone you immediately looked for a way out and found a small window that lead out to a alleyway jackpot stashing as much of your prize as possible into your travel bag you shoved the bag through the window taking your mask off and placing it in the floor and squeezing yourself out of the window grabbed your bag and headed for the docks to catch a boat out of the empire before they were the royals were any the wiser.

Unfortunately as the boat was setting sail the Emperor and his eldest son finally entered the guarded room where you should have been only to find your mask and the prize money you couldn't fit in your bag. Technoblade liked to think that despite the voice he was a calm person but at this moment in time he was two steps away from murdering the incompetent guards that his father set to guard the masked fighter who bested him, who managed to stun even the voices into silence with your show of strength who would be stunned thought not only had you split his shield in two with an iron sword but you managed to slice through obsidian, his enchanted neatherite armour and would have cut off his arm if your sword didn't break. How had he never found you before, someone of you caliber should be known far and wide that fight though short made his heart race like never before he needed to face you again both the voices and surprisingly his pigling instincts demanded it to fight you, test you, to make you his. Grabbing his fighters mask he rushed past his stunned father to find your entrance form ( he hadn't be listening when the announcer said your name so sure you would be defeated with ease) he searched for his fighters name ah there it was Ian Moone and as soon as the voices hear it they erupted some bellowing with laughter, others applauding your cleverness,a few however became enraged that you wouldn't even gift them your real name. Having no patients for his confusion the voices yelled at him to rearrange the letters and like magic Ian Moone became I am no one, oh that's how you wanted to play you wanted to test him his pigling instincts surmised you wanted him to show his devotion before submitting as his mate, the voices upon hearing this chimed in saying you weren't in the empire you left by boat for once their limited omniscient helping him. As his fingers traced the details of your mask it didn't matter that you weren't in the empire anymore he would find you no matter how far you ran he would bring you to home and he wouldn't allow you to leave again.

Ender-anon

OK YES???

Just the whole concept of defeating Techno only for it to spawn a little crush is so good- the fact that you left behind your mask yet no one spotted you probable drives him crazy ksksjjdsj

#ask #ender anon #tw. death mention #c: techno

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sweetestlamb · 4 years ago

Text

Still, I Rise

Summary: Damn teenagers and their angst.

Author's Note: Back with another chapter, if you didn’t already know it I will be revealing our mystery character from the last chapter LOL please put down the bats and weapons (jk take them out it’s hilarious!) With this chapter we are getting closer to the “climax” and I am so excited to write the fun chapters I have planned ahead, one scene that I am really looking forward to writing is the camping trip, I had so much plans and events that I wanted to see that didn’t because TVN woke up and chose basic, we hate to see it. I can’t wait to rewrite history honestly also can’t wait to just move to onto regular schmegular teen problems, I swearrrrrrr.

"Don't you dare embarrass me this time. You aren't ugly why can't you get these damn little rich brats to like you? Are you truly this useless? Don't come home if you can't make this one fall for you!"

Those had been his father's final words right before his hand split his lower lip open with a razor sharp blow that made his head whip in recoil. His father's footsteps faded as he walked away leaving him crumpled on the ground, anger and embarrassment raging in his blood. He hadn't chosen this life at all, never wanted to be a bargaining chip for that despicable man. First with Eun Dan Oh and now this new girl, Kang Sujin.

She'd initially stood him up and he had felt foolish sitting in the lavish restaurant by himself, checking his phone but no calls or messages arrived.

His father had been livid that night, more vicious than usual his stepmother's weak screams served as the soundtrack for his brutal beating. Why couldn’t she just be quiet? Did it make her feel better when she acted as if she actually gave a shit about him? His brother coming into his room after with those pathetic weeping eyes and a bandage had only made him angrier, he shoved him away slamming the door in his face, refusing his help. He didn't need anyone, nobody could save him from his horrible fate.

It hadn't taken much research to find out her school and on impulse he'd gone there without her knowledge, watching from afar at first. A tiny girl with short hair framing her face had ran giggling into a taller girl with long dark hair and a classically beautiful face, they walked side by side smiling and laughing and that's when he'd heard her call out , "Sujin we should get something to eat!"

It wasn't love at first sight or anything ridiculous and disgustingly romantic like that, but he felt a connection to the girl for some inconceivable reason as if they were kindred spirits or something, maybe it was the remnant of a bruise he saw on her wrist hidden beneath her sweater.

It seemed they had more in common then he had initially believed, it was a grim similarity.

He'd gone home feeling less burdened than before, and his father's smile had been terrifying when he'd told him that he would work hard to win the girl over, only because he knew how quickly that smile could evaporate and his father could become the monster he was accustomed to. He tried not to flinch as the older man clapped him on the shoulder, his body already in fight or flight mode.

His father had merely smirked at his apparent fear.

Bastard.

So he'd taken to following the other girl around, she was going to be his fiancé anyway so he saw nothing wrong with it. And that was how he learned about the other boy, a tall slender boy who looked like someone that would grace an idol magazine cover. They were together more often than he liked, and it seemed more than platonic if the glances and subtle touches were a sign.

He wasn't jealous per se, but this would be a roadblock in his plan that he couldn't afford. He was getting used to not being beaten.

The day he'd followed them to the hospital presented another challenge for him, he hated hospitals and what they represented with every fiber of his being. He'd spent too much time in them growing up and then again for a girl who couldn't care less about him, she was another reminder that he wasn't worthy of love. He had thought he loved her but still hurt her whenever she disobeyed him, he knew he was no better than his father.

Unexpectedly Sujin had burst through the hospital doors, surprising him and forcing him to hide lest she spot him, peeking out from his hiding place behind a tree he saw her distraught and near tears running the opposite direction. He stood in shock merely watching and waiting to see if the unknown boy would follow her, but thankfully he never came.

Pushing down his own wariness and discomfort he walked into the hospital immediately feeling a cold chill on his skin, he refused to call it trauma that made it sound like something was wrong with him. He was fine and he could do this.

Thankfully the nurses were too busy and nobody noticed him walking by and he froze when he spotted another man who was capable of making him flinch. Doctor Kang, he looked anything but approachable in his gleaming white lab coat and he remembered watching the man laugh with his father as they both sold their children without remorse. Instinctively he hid watching the man glare into a hospital room, he almost feared for whomever was the recipient of the ice cold gaze.

Minutes melted by before the doctor finally walked away, his steps clipped and echoing on the linoleum floors and he finally let out a sigh of relief when the other man disappeared around the corner.

Stealthily he rounded the corner and took the doctor's abandoned spot, peeking into the room through the small window in the door. It was that boy again, the idol wannabe but this time he wasn't alone there was a young girl with a bouquet in her arms and a older woman lovingly patting him on his cheeks.

His mother.

A loving one, at that.

His blood seared watching the domestic scene, jealousy ripping through him like a tornado. There was no way he was letting this asshole have Sujin too, he already had too much. More than he, Baekyung would ever have.

The motorcycle roars under her thighs as they whip down the road. It only serves to remind her of the first time she was on a bike with another boy, his cologne and the scent of leather infiltrating her senses and making her heart jump through hoops. This time she feels nothing but annoyance and extreme frustration, barely holding onto the stranger in front of her as she leans forward to yell above the engine, "Pullover!"

She knows he heard her based on the immediate tension in his body but he continues to ride ignoring her request demand. With a grunt she grabs onto his waist only to bodily drag them to the side not caring if they both crash at this point she cannot stand another second on this bike with him, instantly he straightens them before skidding to the side and finally pulling the brakes bringing the motorcycle to a halt, the moment the bike stops she hops off in a frenzy.

Thrusting the bottom piece of his helmet up he screams at her, "Are you insane? You could have hurt us!"

She bares her teeth at him, ready to unleash her full anger on him now without an audience.

"Who the fuck are you? And why did you come to my school?" She bellows glaring poisonously at the strange idiot who had single handedly upended her day.

Moving calmer than she's feeling, he dismounts finally pulling his helmet off and then squeezing it under his arm looking down at her.

With a condescending look he stares at her, "You know exactly who I am, don't play dumb it's beneath you."

He's right. She does know who he is although she had never seen him or known his name, she had truly thought she could ignore him and he would disappear. Just like with her father that was proving to be an erroneous dream that would never come true.

"But I'll formally introduce myself since we are going to be engaged soon after all, Baekyung. You can call me oppa though."

Engaged soon.

Her head spins from his words, she feels terror shift over her like a thick suffocating blanket.

"You don't even know me. Why would you even agree to this?" She stares at him in disbelief, at a loss to his acquiesce to their tragic fate.

The look in his eyes haunt her, it's like staring in a mirror and gazing back at the person she was months ago. Somehow without her knowledge or consent she'd changed, grown even and therefore started believing that her life was just that, hers.

"You act like we have a choice. Don't be stupid, we have to just do as we're told. It's easier this way for everyone." He repeats those words that she herself had uttered to Seojun not so long ago, a sense of deja vu washes over her.

"How is letting ourselves be used easier? Don't you have your own dreams or aspirations? Isn't there someone you actually like?" She knows the error of her argument immediately as she says it, his eyes narrow into thin enraged slits and she can practically feel the anger vibrating off him.

"Don't pretend to care about me. This is about you and your little boyfriend," he spits the word like acid and immediately she remembers those chilling words he had whispered in her eyes earlier, "Do you think he'll be safe?" That was all it had taken for her to go with him, he couldn't get hurt she wouldn't allow that to happen ever. She had no idea what those ominous words meant and how this boy could pose a threat to Seojun but she knew she had to hear him out and protect Seojun anyway she possibly could.

"He's not the only one you should be worried about." The smug bastard continues with a humorless grin on his face and suddenly the dots connect, her father outside of Ms. Han's hospital room and that calculating look on his face. Her stomach drops.

"Leave them out of it!" She screams embarrassed at the urgent plea in her voice but she can't help it, she's so scared more than she's ever been for herself.

"Well that all depends on you doesn't it? Your dear father will have no reason to do anything to them if you listen like a good daughter and date me as expected."

She stands frozen once again feeling helpless, it kills her inside all her growth slipping down the drain in a matter of seconds.

"Why are you doing this?"

He stills at her question, his cold mask dropping and leaving something numb and unreadable in its place. It feels familiar to her, she awaits his answer with bated breath.

"I want to live, even if I have no control over it. I'd rather be alive."

Thunder clashes above them, the previously sunny day shifting into a gray dark distortion, heavy storm clouds ominously loom above them and the first raindrops land perfectly on her cheeks, crying the tears that she refuses to let fall. She has no more left to cry.

Confusion is an understatement to express Su-ah's true feelings following the mysterious boy on the motorcycle, when she finally gets Sujin on the phone the other girl is quiet and mumbling, evading all her questions and as soon as she mentions Seojun, Sujin shuts down hastily ending their conversation with some nonsensical excuse.

That was not going to be the end, Sujin might want to play dumb about the true nature of their relationship but she wasn't part of the circus. She was no clown, she had eyes and it was clear that they liked each other and it was only growing the more time they spent together. She wouldn't let her best friend sabotage something that could be great for her, she deserved happiness and Seojun made her happy. So it was truly that simple.

Stomping up the slight incline to school, she huffs and puffs determined. She was going to talk some sense into the other girl.

Those thoughts come crashing all around her when she sees Sujin coming out of a car, a car that she has never seen before and her questions are answered when the boy from yesterday steps out after her. Every eye in a ten mile radius is watching them, captivated by this new school scandal. Girls already squealing and giggling, envious of Sujin and doing very little to hide their true feelings.

“Why is he with her? She isn’t even that pretty. He should be with me.”

The lies people told themselves to sleep at nights, sad.

Accidentally knocking the gossiping girl to the side with a rough shoulder check, ignoring her dramatic cry she sprints the rest of the way, once again pushing through the crowd to get to Sujin.

Immediately their eyes lock and she begs Sujin for a answers, What happened? Why are you doing this? What’s going?, she flinches at the cold emotionless stare she gets in response. She watches in dismay as the tall boy bends down as if to hug Sujin and that's when a loud grumble fills the air, she turns around to the all too familiar sight of Seojun on his motorcycle. He revs the handle bar causing the crowd to part like the Red Sea, then he rides slowly until he's right next to Sujin bike inches away from touching her.

With a practiced motion he tugs off his helmet, those sloping feline eyes already on Sujin in a hard stare.

The tension is insurmountable and cloying and Su-ah watches transfixed before Sujin breaks the impasse, tugging her bookbag over her shoulder she stomps into the school without a word to either boys. But then the interloping boy calls out, “Have a good day. Princess,” and Sujin stops immediately at the word, turning around with a ferocious look in her eyes, “Don’t call me that. My name is Kang Sujin to you. That’s all.” Su-ah sees the way that Sujin’s eyes almost subconsciously seek out a certain cat eyed boy and feels like she misses an entire conversation between the two before Sujin finally walks away.

The mysterious boy glares at her retreating back before shooting a cold glare at Seojun and then promptly hopping back into his car, the backseat as he's chauffeured away.

"Oh my god! That was so hot! Princess?”

"Who is that? Does Kang Sujin have a boyfriend? Wow, she’s mean to her boyfriend too. What a bitch.”

Why do you think Seojun looked so angry?"

"Maybe he's worried about losing his bad boy title!"

The crowd erupts around them in loud voices, all curious about what they've witnessed and already creating rumors to appease their curiosity. Suddenly a loud motorcycle screech causes them all to jump silence falling over the crowd before Seojun rides away, the tight clench in his jaw visible even from her distance.

Lunch is a step above awkward, bordering into painful. The easy conversation that used to be a staple of the table is all but decimated, instead everyone eats quietly chilled by the cold air permeating from both Seojun and Sujin. They only speak when spoken to and avoid all eye contact, especially each others. It's painful to be a witness to and she notes regretfully that neither are eating home made lunch today, opting for the school lunch instead.

Sujin had never officially told her but she knew that they were making food for each other, their smiles watching the other eat made it too obvious.

This was serious. Looking at them now they looked like complete strangers, everyone was too nervous to question the elephant in the room. Everyone except poor Chorong.

"Why is everyone was so awkward today? What did you two fight or something? Why do we all have to suffer because of your lover's quarrel? Just kiss and make up already."

The table all looked on with opened mouths except Suho and herself who both looked worried instead.

And people thought she was slow, how had they all not realized what was happening? It was clear as day.

She flinches at his well-meaning words that are evidently not well received by either teen, watching them both glare at the table unmoving and the silence drags out painfully before Seojun breaks the stalemate. Standing without preamble he glares at Chorong before placing the stare on Sujin, it does nothing to change her unaffected stare. With a loud sigh he stomps away, despite his friends dismayed shouts of his name.

She continues to eat her lunch, watching Sujin in her peripheral.

She looks like she has the weight of the world on her shoulder and Su-ah for the first time in their friendship has no idea what to do.

But when they all start to funnel out of the cafeteria she follows the other girl anyway, tugging her into an enclave where they are hidden from the rest of their classmates Sujin cries out at the sudden jerk but loses her defensive stance when she realizes it’s just her.

“What?”

“What’s going on? Why are you letting that punk bring you to school and why are you and Han Seojun acting like you broke up before you even started officially dating? Sujin-ah, please tell me what’s going on.” She pleads latching onto the other girl’s arm peering up at her with puppy dog eyes, they have never failed her before.

“I can’t tell you yet, I’m sorry.”

There’s a first time for everything and she frowns at Sujin feeling like there is a mountain between them. She can’t help the hurt that she feels knowing the other girl doesn’t trust her enough to tell her what’s going on. She thought they had moved past all the secrets and hiding but obviously she was wrong.

“I really am sorry. But I will tell you everything soon enough.”

She releases Sujin’s arm, ready to walk away. She hates being in the dark. But before she can walk away, she feels Sujin hand on the bottom of her sweater tugging her backwards, she looks back with a perplexed glare.

“Do you trust me?”

She stares at Sujin and the soft tilt of her head as she asks the question, and her answer is easy, although she has no idea what’s going on and none of this makes any sense to her she doesn’t have to think about that answer.

"You shouldn't do this to him. It's too cruel." Suho expects a biting retort or even a call for him to mind this damn business, so he's shocked breathless when instead the other girl smiles at him, a tiny almost indecipherable thing that makes her lips thinner.

"You two have come a long way." Sujin responds unexpectedly shaking her head and walking over to the couch, before beckoning him over too.

He stares feeling suspicious but ultimately he follows, curiosity winning.

"I think I'm ready." Sujin expels a deep breath, twisting her hands nervously in her lap. Before he can ask her what exactly she's ready for she continues, "I want to tell your father what happened if you really think he'll help me."

He's too late to swallow the strangled gasp that escapes from his lungs and he leans back in surprise. He wants to continue his conversation about Seojun but he’s scared to do anything to make the other girl retreat or change her mind now. That conversation will have to wait for another day.

Sorry Seojun.

"Are you sure? You're really ready to do this?"

There's a long pause and he watches a myriad of emotions run across Sujin's usually expressionless face until something that looks suspiciously like hope blossoms making her glow brighter than the sun.

"Yes. I want to try living just for me."

Blinking away the moisture in his eyes, he pulls out his cellphone sending his father a message.

Please come over.

It only takes seconds but it feels like an eternity before his father replies, he smiles at the message.

On my way.

He stands up to put the kettle on the fire, he knows that tonight will be a long night and he needs something to keep his hands occupied.

When his doorbell rings he's shocked when Sujin stands up looking at him with a serene gaze, "I'll get it." He only nods at her in reply, watching as she greets his father and man recovers quickly at the unexpected visitor, smiling warmly at Sujin before pulling her into a warm embrace.

Even more surprisingly Sujin doesn't flinch, allowing herself to be wrapped up.

His father embraces him as well, patting him on the back and again on the head when they break apart. He can feel Sujin's eyes on them and he moves away guiltily. Now isn’t the time to rub his burgeoning relationship with his father in her face.

"Have a seat Dad, thank you for coming so quickly."

His father lifts an eyebrow at the sudden serious tone of his voice but he follows his directions nonetheless folding his hands on his lap and looking inquisitively between the two teenagers.

"Is there something you both want to tell me? Perhaps you two are....." His father motions vaguely between them and he stares back not comprehending until his father smiles slyly and Sujin beats him to it, protesting ardently.

"No! No, it's nothing like that. There's someone else...I mean no. That's what what we wanted to talk about."

He raises an eyebrow at Sujin's slip and his father chuckles at her stuttering and the red blaze across her cheeks.

His father waves his arms in appeal, apologetic grin on his face. "Sorry I didn't mean to embarrass you both. I just always hoped you two might one day. A father can dream."

He scoffs at his father, "Give up on that dream she's like family to me. We would never see each other that day."

Sujin nods passionately in agreement and his father shrugs easily, now looking even more curious than before.

"So what did you want to talk about?"

Sujin stills on her spot on the couch, the determination in her bones seeming to melt away with every passing minute. He fears this won't go as planned and he has no idea how to motivate her.

Then a loud vibration rumbles from the couch and it takes Sujin a moment to realize it's her phone, he watches curiously as she looks at the message and then a single tear runs down her round cheek. The determination curls back around her like armor, he watches in amazement as she sits taller turning to look at his father with newfound courage or maybe it wasn’t newfound but suddenly uncovered by whatever she had seen on her phone.

“Suho asked you for help for me. I’m really the one who needs your help.” He can hear the slight quiver and hitches in her words but she gets them all out and instantly she has his father’s undivided attention, he even turns his body to fully face the girl. Pride swells in his chest at the sight, he was worried his father would only be adamant about helping him directly as a way to get closer to him but now he can see that he was wrong about the other man. Genuine concern fills every line and wrinkle of time on his face.

“What is wrong? What do you need help with and why can’t you tell your parents?” It’s a innocent question, and logical too but he fears Sujin’s reaction, when she feels like she is backed into a corner in the past that has led to her lashing out with dagger sharp remarks, he watches with his heart lodged in his throat.

“Because they are the ones hurting me.”

His lungs deflate releasing all the air that was trapped in the sacs, she said the truth without hesitation and he turns to glance at his father watching him process the bomb that she has just dropped on him. His father opens and closes his mouth several times, before finding his voice it is but a whisper when he responds to Sujin.

“That time you needed a doctor.” The statement is directed to Suho and with a sober nod he confirms what his father already knows, with a loud sigh his father sinks into the couch quiet rage on his face. “I should have known, you always seemed so scared of him but I thought it was just his parenting style I never thought...never expected that he would....I should have done something!”

Sujin laughs, it is pained and small but he hears it and immediately turns to look at her, “He sounds just like you like father like son I guess,” Sujin directs that at him and he blushes in memory, he can’t deny the claims. Then she turns back to his father with surprisingly soft eyes, “Don’t blame yourself, just help me now if you can.”

“I will use all of my resources to make sure he spends his life in jail.”

Suho jumps in his seat looking over at Sujin, that is way more than they had ever discussed that was what he truly wanted for the monstrous man but it always seemed like too much to ask for but here was his father saying it as if it was completely plausible.

“Jail? Do you really think he can go to jail? It would be his word against mine, I never took any pictures. I was stupid.” Sujin berates herself, and before he can dismiss the self inflicted insult his father is already moving closer and putting a large hand on her trembling shoulder, only then does he realize how the girl is shaking like a new leaf.

“No, it will be my word against his. I will also get that report from Doctor Kim, that could be used as evidence. You’re just a kid and a victim, I’ll handle this you don’t need to do anything else. You’ve handled enough on your own, we got you now.” His father looks over at him as if waiting for his approval and he moves onto the couch with them both, after a moment’s pause putting his hand on Sujin’s other shoulder.

“We got you.”

Jukyeong glances over nervously at Seojun the aroma of coffee thick in the air as she sweeps up the beans she had clumsily spilled on the ground, she waited for Seojun to playfully scold her as he often did when she messed up at work but the reprimand never came and when she glanced over at him he had been staring longing at his cellphone.

Su-ah had been the first to notice how weird him and Sujin acted around each other and despite not having a lot of experience with relationships, especially those of the romantic kind she could see that they didn’t hate each other as much as Sujin tried to drive the deceptive point home. They were always teasing each other and Seojun found any excuse to be near Sujin and soon he wasn’t the only one, they just seemed to naturally gravitate to each other at times bickering so much it was like they were the only two people in the room.

But all that had come to an abrupt end with the sudden appearance of the boy on the motorcycle, the entire school was in a uproar over him, Baek Kyung, she had heard the other girls whispering his name. On paper he seemed very similar to Han Seojun, same bad boy persona and affinity for motorcycles and glares. But the biggest difference she noticed was Sujin's reaction to them both, she had heard from some gossiping girls how vehemently Sujin had declared that Baek Kyung not call her “princess”, a moniker she had commonly heard Seojun use to refer to the girl. Sujin never stopped him these days, instead rolling her eyes and speeding up to escape from him, he would chase after all calling her the sweet nickname all the way.

When Seojun would use it to refer to her in passing such as, “Are you gonna eat that princess?” Those were times that Sujin didn’t react at all, simply handing him whatever food in her container had caught his eye that she had ignored.

They were casually domestic in a way that they never seemed to realize and she couldn’t help but categorize. Seojun liked Sujin that was becoming clearer and it seemed like the feeling was mutual, even if the girl wasn’t yet ready to admit it.

Which was why this new development came as a complete shock to her, why was Sujin suddenly giving her attention to someone else?

“Did you guys have a fight? Just tell her you’re sorry.” She offers out of the blue, and Seojun turns to her with a puzzled look drying a mug with a cloth, “What are you talking about now clumsy?”

Thankfully the shop is empty, she quirks at eyebrow at him folding her arm when he continues to play dumb.

“Sujin. You guys clearly had a fight, you’re both so hot tempered. Her temper is probably worst than yours though so just apologize okay? It’s better than fighting.”

He stares at her with a blank face before turning away, rubbing firmer at the mug in his hands and she worries for its safety.

“Why should I apologize when she’s the one who’s with another guy? Don’t worry about me, I will be fine. Clearly this was one-sided. She doesn’t like me.”

She openly laughs at him now, looking at him like he has two heads. “What are you talking about? If she didn’t like you then why did she follow you to your mom’s hospital? She tried to be all sneaky but Chorong told us everything. Plus she always gets jealous when other girls give you food at school and don’t think we don’t all know that you guys make food for each other!”

He whips around looking at her with huge eyes, “Wait you all knew? So when I said that someone special made it for me? You knew?”

She smiles brightly, “Yep. It wasn’t subtle at all.”

He sighs in annoyance, turning away to hide the pink on his face.

“I’m not apologizing. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

She sighs at the boy’s words, knowing that this fight might go on longer than it needs to and she wishes she could just shake some sense into both of them, why were they choosing to suffer like this?

Damn teenagers and their angst.

Grumbling she goes to take a customer’s order, glancing over at Seojun with a final sad smile.

Hopefully they can figure this out without falling apart.

Time seems to move slower than usual today and he almost pumps a fist in triumph when he sees that it’s finally eight and they are free to leave.

“Do you want to me to walk you to the bus stop?” He offers Jukyeong out of politeness but she shakes her head no, telling him that she is going to meet with her older sister for dinner running out before him and hailing a cab, he smiles at the sight that’s one girl who loves to eat.

Turning off the lights in the shop, he turns over the “open” sign and locks the door behind him. The cool spring night air brushes against his cheeks and he makes his way to his motorcycle, mounting in one motion and sighing as it purrs to life before he speeds off his destination already in mind. He bobs and weaves through traffic, smirking at idiot drivers who blare their horns at him when he inches too close to their precious car but even they are not enough to rain on his parade.

When he finally arrives, he bounces off the bike throwing the helmet onto the handlebar carelessly before bounding over to the figure he sees waiting.

He can’t help the smile that tugs against his lips, ultimately setting it free as the figure turns around at the sound of his boot stomping on the ground.

“Did you wait long?” He asks moving closer until he can feel the heat wafting off the body in front of him.

“No, I only just got here too. Why are you smiling like that? You look deranged.”

He smiles wider, feeling mischievous after what a certain klutz had revealed to him with a smirk he leans closer to her, grinning harder when she leans back looking at him with a confused glare.

“I heard from a certain birdie that you followed me to the hospital and that you get jealous when other girls give me food. Is that true princess?”

Sujin growls at him, shoving his shoulder hard before stomping away to the park bench. He eagerly follows after her, throwing his arm over her shoulder smiling at her wearing yet another one of his sweaters, this time a black one that reaches the bottom of her knees and completely hides whatever she is wearing underneath. She looks equally sexy as adorable and it makes his blood boil in a way he has been trying harder and harder to suppress around her.

“I knew you would try to milk the situation. This isn’t why I told you everything.”

He smiles recalling what Sujin is referring to.

Just a day go.....

He stares angrily at his phone in utter disbelief that she would have the gall to call him after what had just happened. She had left on another boy’s motorcycle even though he had asked her not to, he didn’t know what was going on but seeing her leave like that, he wished he knew how to turn off all his feelings for her. No other human should have this kind of power or control over him but here he was ready to burst because she had picked someone else over him.

“What do you want?” He barks out answering the call with a hard press of his finger and immediately he starts to lose some of his fire when he hears her soft staggered breaths on the other line.

“Seojun, can you meet me somewhere?”

He wants to say no, to bitterly hang up on her and tell her that he has someone new too but that would be a lie and he desperately wants to see her and hold her and find out why she decided to rip his heart out and stomp on it.

Feeling pathethic he answers her with a sigh, “Where are you?”

Songnisan park. It’s not too far from their school and he hangs up without answering hopping on his bike and riding to her. Maybe it’s stupid but he can’t turn his back on her just yet, he still wants to hear her out even if she’s going to break his heart.

By the time he reaches the park it’s raining, pouring down in sheets despite the warm weather and he immediately sees Sujin sitting under the downpour while other park goers are running and using picnic blankets as makeshift umbrellas.

The scenes feels all too familiar and he wonders if this will be their end? Would life be that poetic to have them end the same way they became?

Sighing he tugs his sweater off, walking quickly to close the gap between them before sitting beside her and thrusting his sweater above both their heads, protecting them from the rain.

She turns to him with a gasp and he realizes how closely they are sitting beside each other, he can feel her breath when she exhales and it washes over in an intoxicating breeze. He has to forcibly put some distance between them before he does something that he knows he shouldn’t, especially not now.

“My father knows about us. He saw me at the hospital and I’m scared he saw your mother and sister too. I don’t think I should visit anymore.”

He pauses to process her words and he feels his chest tighten with anger at the mention of that sub-human, if he ever tried to harm a hair on his family’s head that would be the last thing he ever did. But once the rage passes by he thinks of the rest of Sujin’s sentence, my father knows about us.

They were an us.

There was an us for people to know about?

“Us?” He replies stupidly, unable to stop his heart from fluttering.

With a sound of exasperation she looks over at him, “How is that the most important thing that I said?” The pretty blush on her face does not go unnoticed but he responds to her statement staying focused, “My mom was discharged today. They said it was just a scare and nothing serious. He can’t do anything to us, if he tries I’ll kill him.”

He means it, every single word falling from his lips.

He’s not prepared for Sujin to sob and drop her head onto his shoulder, he drops their sweater umbrella at the sudden pleasant weight feeling the rain drench his hair and shirt instantly.

“I’m so happy to hear that. I was so worried about all of you.”

A bubble of happiness explodes in his chest and he’s so close to just letting go of all his anger and holding her, seeing her so worried about his family is almost enough to undo him.

But, he can’t forget the image of her riding off with someone else. His heart will never forget that ache, that indescribable pain.

“So you care about me now? Is that why you left me like that today? Because you care so much?”

He is being petty, he knows that but he can’t stop the jealousy that is fueling him right now. His green eyed monster is raring its ugly head.

“That’s the guy you told me to stand up, remember? That’s the guy my father is trying to sell me to. He’s been following us and he knew about you, he threatened you. I did what I had to, I have to do this until I speak to Suho’s father. I think.....No. I’m ready now. I’m going to tell him everything and ask for his help.”

His heart is pounding erratically in his chest, he can barely hear the rain over the loud thumping of the organ and he can’t believe he ever doubted her, feels guilt twist around him but he pushes that aside to take in everything she has confessed to him, without saying the words she has all but confirmed everything Jukyeong carelessly exposed to him in the coffee shop, she cares about him too enough to want to protect him at any cost. But most importantly she was starting to care about herself, she no longer saw her life as expendable and was willing to ask for help even at the expense of revealing her darkest secret and getting her hopes up.

Fuck she was the bravest person he knew.

Without thinking he tugs her into his arms, wrapping her in a tight hug before he realizes what he’s doing but by the time he starts to move back she’s already hugging him back, her arms tight around his shoulder and her head in the dip of his neck and it’s too perfect to stop now. Absently he strokes her wet silky smooth hair and when they finally draw apart, the barest amount of space between them he takes another risk, glancing at her eyes pleading and then smiling when she nods, giving him permission even without knowing what he plans to do, simply trusting him, he leans forward and plants a soft butterfly kiss on her forehead, she hisses in response but instead of moving away she latches on to him tighter.

“I’m so proud of you baby.” He kisses her again, firmer this time putting all the love and pride he feels for her in that gentle kiss to her brow.

He expects a lot of things in response to his bold move and the new nickname, a punch, a kick, her loud denial and rejection, he is emotionally prepared for any and all of those reactions, but instead she steals his breath away when she smiles up at him, looking into his eyes and he realizes that she’s looking for permission too and he nods, nervous and anxious to see what she will do.

With a moment’s hesitation she tugs him down and he goes easily, his heart in his chest and he closes his eyes as her face draws closer to him, his heart is pattering now a crazy thundering mess filled to the brim with anticipation.

He feels her plush lips against his cheek, the rain making the skin slick and he hums in encouragement as the kiss lingers before he opens his eyes and immediately they are lost in each other’s eyes and he can feel their faces moving closer as if opposite ends of a magnet and he waits for her to stop them, to push him away and run off but she is just as lost as him, moving closer too and when only centimeters separate their lips, a loud crash of thunder booms high above their heads making them jump apart, both flying to opposite ends of the bench.

“We should...um get out of this rain before we catch a cold.”

The ride home is awkward and he can barely breathe with how tightly she’s holding his waist but he smiles through the rain, taking care to move carefully on the wet streets not wanting to hurt Sujin and then they are in front of Suho’s apartment, much too fast to his disappointment.

They both sit unmoving for a few seconds before Sujin releases his waist from her death grip and gets off the bike.

“Let’s talk over there for a minute.” He states dismounting too and walking over to the scaffold so they can escape the torrential rain for a moment at least.

They stand awkwardly shivering from the cold in their wet clothes, it’s obvious that Sujin is embarrassed about what happened- their kisses-but he can barely contain his joy, if he were alone right now he would be doing backflips.

This day as made a complete 180 turn for the better.

“I have to pretend to date him. We already agreed to come to school tomorrow. He agreed to stop following me if I let him take me to school and go on dates. He has to put on a show for his father too.” She says talking so fast that the words slur together and he wonders absently if she’s nervous? And if so, why? Was she nervous about his reaction?

He nods in understanding, “Okay. I forgot to say it earlier, but thank you for telling me and not leaving me in the dark. I appreciate it.”

That’s the logical part of his response, he knows what it took for Sujin to involve him in her plan and how huge it is that she hadn’t wanted him to misunderstand her feelings and motives. But she’s still the girl that he likes and he can’t help the illogical things that flood his mind too.

“Not on his motorcycle though.”

She looks at him with a deep searching stare and he simply stares back, nonplussed. He knows what he sounds like, a bargaining jealous boyfriend. That’s exactly what he wants to be so he sees no reason to attempt to explain himself, whatever she’s thinking is true and he isn’t the least bit ashamed to admit it. At his unabashed stare she crumples looking away with a barely hidden smile, “Okay. Not on his bike. Even though I never told you that you were allowed to have conditions, this isn’t a negotiation.” She complains but the sting is gone because she has already agreed to his request, he flashes a smile at her.

“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow. I will have to act jealous, that shouldn’t be too hard.” He winks at her and this time she does try to punch him, he barely dodges her fist.

Such a violent little thing.

“I never said you had to do anything.”

He shrugs, “It makes sense. I like you so it would only make sense that I would be jealous if I thought you were dating someone else, plus he will probably want to see that too.”

She’s as red as a strawberry as she sprints away from him without another word, waving at him over her shoulder.

He smiles all the way home, before falling into bed after a much needed warm shower, his toes and fingers were like ice chips when he finally got home.

Remembering one more thing, he grabs his phone shooting a quick text message.

Don’t let him call you nicknames. Only Sujin.

Reading it back he determines that the message is a bit too...commanding and if he wants to keep a certain boot out of his ass he better fix it so he swiftly adds:

Please.

Present time....

“I didn't do anything. She just suddenly started telling me how much you adore me and how you can’t live without me and that I should just forgive you and take you back.” He sniffles dramatically watching amused as Sujin rolls her eyes, before angrily pulling out her phone, he laughs suddenly worried for Jukyeong so he snatches the object from her hands, much to her chagrin.

“I might have exaggerated about what she said, a teeny tiny bit.” He demonstrates the small amount with his fingers and she glares at him biting out, “Liar,” before snatching back her phone and stuffing it in her pockets with a grumble.

Getting serious he turns to look at her with anticipation, “How did it go? Were you able to tell him everything?” She is staring out at the horizon, despite him boring a hole in the side of her head begging for eye contact.

“I hesitated. I lost my confidence.”

He can hear the defeat in her voice and without a pause he opens his mouth to comfort her and tell her how strong she is and explain why this is just a minor setback but next time they can go together and if she needs him to he will hold her hand the entire time and give her every last drop of his support and--

“But then I got a message and it gave me courage. So I told him everything and he agreed to help me. He wants to send my dad to jail, not just emancipate me.”

She did it.

She really did it.

He smiles at her wider than the ocean.

“You did it, Sujin.”

She stares at him in palpable shock, he immediately knows why it’s not often he uses her name and he expects her to be happy that he isn’t calling her the nickname she is always dismissing, she’s always so adamant that she is not a princess much less his princess.

“Don’t call me that.” She says finally turning to meet his eyes and he stares back confused because he had only said her name, why was that a problem? Wasn’t that what she had been trying to get him to call her since the first time he dubbed her princess?

“What do you want me to call you then?”

He is truly asking but the look she gives him makes him feel like the dunce in the corner of the room and realization unfurls in his body like a slow moving tsunami and he smiles unbridled at the epiphany.

He hasn’t wanted to get his hopes up by making assumptions about what this is but maybe it’s time that he have some confidence now, he was someone important to her. She had already proved that in so many ways these past days.

Taking her hand in his, he smiles brightly at her.

It’s the first time that he has held her hand, and he can feel the damaged skin in his own smoother hand. His heart aches for only a moment, her hands are just like her they might look bruised and pitiful at first glance but beneath the broken surface lurked unimaginable strength and power and just like the rest of her, they were imperfectly perfect. He never wanted to hold another hand, this was the only one he needed.

“Good job, you did it Princess.”

She smiles up at him, looking gorgeous-heart stoppingly so-and he can’t help the way his chest constricts as if he didn’t know it already he knows it now unequivocally .

He, Han Seojun belongs to Kang Sujin.

#true beauty #bmtl #han seojun #kang sujin #extraordinary you crossover #baekyung #lots of povs #another rollercoaster chapter #junjin #true beauty fix it #true beauty kdrama #I had mini heart attacks writing this

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fuchsiagrasshopper · 4 years ago

Text

Contending the Flame V

Author’s Note: Chapter 5, things take a turn for the dramatic and a bit angsty here. I really am having fun getting reacquainted with this story, and I have a lot planned for future chapters and an ending. Thanks for being such a wonderful audience, your feedback is always appreciated!

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Word count: 2307

Warnings: Master/Servant dynamic, mentions of suicide attempt, blood, angst

Ivar was exhausted as he propelled his way forward through the city streets. He had opted to stay up on the walls with his warriors through the cold night. It had served to enliven the men into a frenzy to have his presence, but he had only done so out of avoidance.

As the days went by, it seemed his little nun had less to say to him. The truth of the priest's death weighed heavily on you, and you carried it around like a sickness. You had lost your desire to argue or even to spare a simple word. Ivar was disappointed. He had given up trying to teach you his language when you had refused to repeat everything he taught you. The only way he could spurn a reaction out of you was to address you as Ólaug, but even that enjoyment had waned.

Thoughts of revenge against Lagertha were never far from his mind, nor was Kattegat. The heathen army was not destined to stay in York, but while Ubbe and Hvitserk were fixated on settling in on Saxon farmlands, Ivar had other ambitions. He was torn by the enticing idea to travel and become a conqueror, or return to Norway and have his revenge for his mother's death. His brothers looked to have abandoned that notion, leaving him alone and frustrated with his hatred. They would say it was because they did not want to fight with Bjorn, but Ivar knew it was that they didn't love their mother as much as he had.

Ivar did not like feeling so lost. It made him feel like a boy again, only now Floki wasn't there to give him guidance. He was certain he was fated to cross paths with the rangy lunatic one day, but what madness would lead them back together was not foretold. Without Helga, Floki had become as empty as a horn with no mead. Ragnar had vanished for ten years, yet Ivar could not recall his mother ever being heartsick over his absence. Not all love was meant to last.

The concept of love and marriage was something he had been considering more often as of late. As a leader to his people and a son of Ragnar, it would be expected of him to have a wife and heir. Ubbe was already married, and Hvitserk likely had fathered a brood of children he didn't know about. Where did that leave him? Even if he took a wife, it wouldn't be long before the people would speak about the lack of an heir. Ivar did not consider himself to be nurturing, but for his own children, he would have tried. Now it seemed impossible that they could ever exist.

"Ivar."

He was broken out of his dour thoughts by Hvitserk. It took half of his own stride for his brother to catch up to him. Even with the braces and crutch, his mobility was limited, but he chose to take the muscles he had built as a victory. Though his legs were useless, they no longer hung from his waist like gnarled tree branches. They almost appeared normal, except that they couldn't bear his weight.

"You have news," Ivar guessed to Hvitserk, who had slowed to match his pace.

"Our scouting party has returned with word that the Saxons have made camp south of here. They don't appear to have a plan of attack yet. Maybe now is the best time to negotiate for land when we have the advantage."

Hvitserk's tone was pleading, and Ivar was sure he could get him to grovel with the right persuasion.

"Yes, we have the advantage. So why compromise our position for negotiations that will end in rejection," Ivar said, and he delighted as Hvitserk's face fell. "The Christians do not want us here, brother. If we want land then we'll take it."

"At least let me or Ubbe go. We don't have to give up our position behind the walls, but we can send one of us to negotiate, as a son of Ragnar."

"And risk losing a brother to the enemy? No, that would be foolish and I would appear ill-advised," He said, rounding the corner towards his room with Hvitserk following.

His intention hadn't been to return to his chamber, but with Hvitserk's desperation and his lethargy, fate had brought him back to the familiar door. Thoughts of sleep were welcome, even if he detested retiring during daylight.

"This decision should be made with all three of us. We need to sit down with Ubbe first before anything is final," Hvitserk said, not abandoning his cause.

Ivar let out a sigh before casting a long look at his brother. This was important to him, and to Ubbe. He didn't want to continue to have strife with his brothers, even if they didn't share the same aspirations for the army. "I agree."

"Really?" Hvitserk's mouth hung half opened as if awaiting another argument. "Well...then let's do that."

"Yes, fine." Ivar waved his hand, hoping to banish him from his sight.

Opening the door to his room, he had hoped Hvitserk would take the hint to leave, but instead, they were met with a startling sight. The air stung with the smell of copper, and there was Ólaug, on your knees weeping. The stone floor before you had a puddle of blood, enough to fill a large pitcher, and you were clutching your left wrist. A gash had been cut there, and lying on the ground next to the blood was the weapon. It was a broken piece of a clay plate.

Ivar threw his crutch to the side and dropped to the ground in a heap of twisted bones and metal. His braces were heavy, but he managed to crawl to you quicker than he would have walked. Ignoring any proper thoughts of decency, he pulled you to him to inspect the damage.

"Get a healer, now," He shouted to Hvitserk who had stuck to the doorway, disturbed by what he had witnessed. The order got him moving, and he disappeared to fetch a healer while Ivar tried to stanch the bleeding with his larger hand over yours.

"You stupid Christian, look what you've done," Ivar hissed. He was sitting in your blood, the warmth seeping through his trousers. Your back was held tight to his chest while he tried to keep from jostling you around.

"Forgive me," You uttered over again, and Ivar knew the words were not meant for him.

This was the closest you had been together since the first night you had spoken. You were still devoted to your weak God, and Ivar wasn't certain you had even taken heed of his proximity. To take one's own life was cowardice, and he couldn't understand what had driven you to act on such an impulse. You were pitiful, in need of comfort, and he was enraged. After the courtesy, he had shown you this was how you chose to escape him. His hand clenched tight on your arm, his nails biting into flesh until you whimpered.

Just as he contemplated finishing the work you had started, and it would have been simple to take the clay shard to your throat, Hvitserk returned with a healer.

"You need to move, Prince. I must see what I'm dealing with," said Audhild. She was their most senior healer, a broad woman with wiry blonde hair and shrewd green eyes. With skillful hands, she tended to battle wounds, not Christian thralls. If she had any grievances about being summoned, she hid them behind a stern face of practicality.

Ivar passed you over to Audhild. You had grown cold and quiet, ceasing your own utterances to your God. Hvitserk was at his side with a hand and his crutch to lift him off the floor. The first thing Ivar sought once he got back on his feet was the bucket of tepid, clean water to wash up. He had been covered in the blood of his enemies before, but when his hands hit the water and darkened it to a murk, he felt a strange sadness.

"What happened to her hair?" Hvitserk questioned, coming to stand at Ivar's side.

"She did that to herself," mumbled Ivar. He wasn't in the mood to entertain all of Hvitserk's questions. "Just more Christian nonsense."

"It could have been worse," Hvitserk intoned in a low voice. "At least she didn't keep this hidden and try to kill you in your sleep."

Ivar looked at the jagged piece of clay in Hvitserk's hand before resuming his wash up. He couldn't make out his own reflection through the filth of the water, but he could feel the frown on his face. The thought had never crossed his mind, and he was certain it hadn't crossed his nun's either.

"No, she would never risk the wrath of her God by murdering me," He said, drying his hands on a rag.

"You sound confident." Hvitserk's tone lacked the same strength.

"Yes, here we are," He quipped, tossing the sodden rag at his brother. "This isn't my blood that was spilled."

Hvitserk set the rag aside, along with the makeshift knife. He seemed prepared to argue further but was interrupted by Audhild. She had far less blood on her hands and appeared satisfied with her work.

"The cut was not deep enough to be fatal. A part of her must have wanted to live," said the healer.

"No, it was fear of her God. Sinners go to Hell." It was utter nonsense that kept you alive, he was certain of it.

Audhild's eyes crinkled to a squint, unsure what to make of this information. "Well, her wound will heal, but she'll need to eat and drink to replenish what she lost."

Ivar peered passed Audhild to his thrall. You were whiter than your old virginal robes, and your head was bowed. Except for the rise and fall of your chest, you were still like a statue. He had no kind thoughts towards you at that moment.

"Take her to the kitchen to be fed. She can remain there with the other thralls," said Ivar, turning away.

Hvitserk perked up at the remark and came forward. "You aren't keeping her?"

"No, I have no use for a cowardly slave."

While Hvitserk looked alarmed by his callousness, Audhild appeared thoughtful. "Excuse me my Prince, but before you make that decision, might I inquire about her usefulness? If she was a nun prior to this, then she should have skills to aid me. They tend to their sick and dying, not to goats and pigs."

"Fine then, you take her," Ivar huffed. "Just get her away from me."

Audhild said nothing more, taking her dismissal as she went to collect you from the floor.

You startled from the healer's touch on your shoulder but stood up when you understood you were being ordered away. Ivar fought the need to watch you depart but surrendered to the urge at the last moment. You were looking back at him also, curiosity alight in your sad eyes. And there was fear also. You broke the gaze that lingered between you both, following Audhild out of the room.

"Why did you do that?" Hvitserk asked the moment they were alone.

"I already told you," Ivar bit back, in no mood to have to explain his rationale to his slow-witted brother. "Go and fetch Ubbe. I want to hear what plan you think you have to negotiate with the Saxons."

Hvitserk took on a concerned frown. He must have known there was little hope for their plan of a sit down with the Saxons now. Maybe he wasn't as stupid as Ivar assumed.

He trudged to the door, halting once he got to the entryway to get the last word in. "I have seen these nuns do this before. You shouldn't have been so quick to release her, brother. Something must have happened to make her act on impulse like that."

Maybe something had occurred to spurn such a reaction from you, but at the moment Ivar could not see through his fury to consider such possibilities. You had tried to use death as a means to escape him after he had shared parts of himself with you. He told you of his parents, and you had spoken in kind of your own. By granting you those stories, he had allowed you to know him. It was more than he had given to another in years, and this was how he was rewarded. The Gods were not smiling down on him today.

"I'm not like you, father," He said aloud, with the hope that his words would reach Ragnar in Valhalla. "I can't befriend a Christian."

He staggered over to the abandoned washbasin. It would need emptying by another thrall now. The broken clay shard remained atop the soiled cloth, and Ivar felt it in his hand. His rage had peaked, and he squeezed the piece of clay until it drew blood from his palm. When the sting of the blade ceased, he pitched it across the room, shattering it to pieces.

The silence in the room made it impossible to ignore that he was alone once again. Ivar collapsed onto his pallet of furs, braces still intact on his legs, and the exhaustion returning along with this new hurt squeezing his chest. He was tired of being let down by others. No one ever remained at his side.

Hvitserk was wrong. He couldn't keep you after knowing you would rather die than be his thrall. Lying on his side, Ivar could see the dark stain of your blood on his floor, and he turned away. Yes, he was better off without you tearing everything he had built apart.

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#ivar x reader #ivar x you #ivar the boneless x reader #vikings #vikings ivar #history vikings #ivar the boneless #ivar ragnarsson #ivar lothbrok #ivar imagine #ivar ragnarsson imagine

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gildedmuse · 4 years ago

Text

Room For One More

I wrote this just off the cuff, for no reason. It was inspired in part by conversations with @jhaernyl and @babblebuzz so I encourage you to blame them, even though neither of them asked for this, wanted it, or suspected they were about to get 1000+ words in their messages.

It’s suppose to be Mihawk.x Law x Zoro, but it never got so far. It features Mihawk x Law as a married couple, Zoro as Mihawk’s too young and too cute and too sexy assistant that Law finds just suspicious... And also really fucking hot.

PS: Sorry for the requests I haven’t filled, especially Go To War For You. It’s coming, I swear! I just got out of the hospital and straight back to work, and I lost my train of thought there. But I’m slowly writing it out. Because obviously I love me some MiZoLaw

PPS: See people this is what you message me/converse with me. I just write up 1000 words of nothing. You are to blame.

Room For One More: Get Him Out

Ooohh... Au where Law is married to Mihawk and one day he comes home to find his husband leaning over and around this green haired.... KID (that's what he is, he is a goddamn kid, Law thinks. He may be all of 18. Barely.) Law just stands in the door, utterly unacknowledged as Mihawk continues speaking in that low, sexy voice of his and Law is too upset to even hear what he's saying, but he sure as hell can see the way his husband's mouth is so close to the boy's ear the three gold bars hanging from it jingle together. Like a fucking alarm bell as far as Law is concerned.

Law coughs.

Twice.

That finally does it. Both of them turn as if they just noticed Law when he'd come in mid rant about a patient who just won't take his damn meds and paperwork and yet only know have they managed to notice his existence.

Mihawk smiles even as Law glares him down. "Law, you're home early."

"Actually, I'm home precisely when I was supposed to be."

Mihawk nods, brow furrowing for a mere second, thrown by the snippiness in Law's voice. Oh sorry I sound upset about walking in on your clearly private session with school boy jezebel here, honey. "Which in your case, is early. I can't name the last time you did not stay late at the hospital for one reason or another."

"I had a frustrating day, I wanted to call it an early night. I wasn't aware that we'd have... guests." Law's eyes not so subtly fall to the boy, unable to see him completely since he's still sitting there between his husband's arms. Plus he's gone back to whatever is in front of him on the table. Sure, now he feels a sense of shame.

When his gaze goes back to his husband, Mihawk has an eyebrow raised. Law knows that look. The "I am older and wiser than you and do not understand at times why you behave the way you do" look. Law hates that look, but right at this particular moment it makes him want to stab something.

Preferably something green, cute, and sitting in between his husband's arms like it's no big deal.

"I informed you earlier. Red-Hawk offices are under going heavy renovation and will be unusable for the next two weeks, forcing me to work from home." Yes, Law remembers the conversation. Although, admittedly, only barely. He'd had just gotten off two major surgeries and countless troublesome patients and a 12 hour shift. Mihawk himself had apparently been forced to run meeting after meeting, and all alone thanks to the newly wedded Shanks and Benn having both come down with some undescribed illness, that was on top of his normal work overseeing product development, speaking with potential clients, whatever he did at that office of his, the very description of which always bored Law. He knows it's something sports related, that it makes incredibly good money but also keeps Mihawk constantly busy and nearly as exhausted as Law. Just the other day he ended up sleeping over at the office and...

Oh. Oh, fuck, Law has been so stupid and naïve. And he supposes this boy's name just happens to be At-the-office.

"This is Roronoa Zoro," Mihawk continues, ignoring the narrowing of Law's eyes. "He's one of our interns. He's acting as my temporary assistant while Perona is on vacation."

Right... The pink haired gothic doll that acts as his husband's right hand.... Lolita (that wording had never sounded so wrong to Law. He'd met Perona plenty of times. While the girl gets on his nerves, she is apparently incredibly effective. He's also seen her with Mihawk and there is absolutely nothing going on there.) Her absence is part of what's been adding to his husband's recent stress at work.

Stress he's apparently found a cure for. A very new cure, apparently. Barely old enough to be out of testing.

The boy glances back at Law since the first time since he first interrupted them. His husband stands up, freeing the boy to sit up a little straighter. Law had been right. He is cute. Annoyingly so.

"Hey there," the boy says in such an incredibly causal tone it actually throws Law for a second.

"Roronoa," Mihawk's already low voice seems to dip a little deeper, more authoritative. Usually sexy as hell, goes right to Law's cock. Unless he's exhausted. Or it's being used on his fucking boy toy.

The kid actually rolls his eyes! "Sorry. How do you do, Dracule-san," Zoro says, using his schoolboy on his best behavior voice which, who knows, he may actually still have use for. His voice is lower than Law had assumed, almost expecting him to sound like a child not yet through puberty.

"It's Trafalgar, actually," Law corrects him, and it's a pointed correction. Instead of being relieved that at least the boy knows he is indeed the husband here, he's more annoyed than ever. So Mihawk told him he was married and the boy came anyway?

Zoro shrugs off the mistake, apparently entirely unaffected by Law's rather legendary bad looks. "S-- My apologies, Trafalgar, I was unaware."

Law can't help but notice that despite the still formal language, Zoro has already thrown away the honorific. Much like he already thrown away any respect for the sanctity of Law's wedding vows.

You know what, no. Law's day had been hell and this is simply too much right now. "Excuse me. I'm starving," he mutters. He moves by Mihawk without stopping for their usual kiss, not even looking at his husband as he goes to open the fridge.

It doesn't mean he misses the way his husband's striking golden eyes follow him, just like a hawk's would as it studies its prey. Nor does he miss how eventually the feeling burning into the back of his neck drops away. He hears a low sigh, almost neutral except he knows his husband. He can hear the frustration.

Good. Let him be frustrated..

"Roronoa," Mihawk says, sounding almost as tired as Law feels. "Do you remember when I showed you the study earlier, where I keep all the file logs."

Law is too busy trying to ignore the goddamn child in his kitchen to care what he replies. He does, however, get out some vegetables right at that moment, and so sees the way Zoro turns his head up, exposing a long column of his neck, stretching it above the collar of his undone dress shirt, as he gives his husband a sort of searching look, pausing before he nods.

"Could you take the papers up there, please, and finish the form as instructed. Law is trying to dig out a damn chopping block but does hear the boy say, "Yeah, sure." and the scratch of chair legs along with shuffling papers.

Just as Law has finally found what he needed, right where it was supposed to be but that's not the point, he hears Mihawk approaching. Before he even makes it halfway to Law he's stopped. "Wait."

Law looks up on instinct. Mihawk's deep voice also attracts Zoro, who had finally almost been gone. "Don't start the next form until I am there. Simply file what we've completed."

"Yeah, okay."

"That will be all, Roronoa." Zoro actually has the nerve to roll his eyes before he turns to start leaving again. Not that he gets far. "Roronoa," his husband adds with another sigh. Frustrated still, annoyed and... endeared. Yes, damnit, Law knows Mihawk too well.. "It is the other door." Zoro's shoulders go very stiff. He huffs but says nothing, making a quick turn and marching out of their kitchen. At least.

Law slams the chopping board down on the counter so hard he's surprised neither of them breaks.

"Law.." Mihawk places a heavy hand on Law's shoulder which is quickly dismissed. He picks up a knife - perhaps not the best choice at the moment... For Mihawk - and starts chopping away at some peppers. They are nice and green and easy for him to slice apart. "Law... Darling," Mihawk tries again, this time not attempt to touch him. He is watching Law chop apart the pepper, which is good. One of them should probably be paying attention to the way he wielding a sharp blade around his fingers while exhausted and enraged. "Very well, I can see that you've come to certain conclusions, but let me assure you those assumption are entirely incorrect, likely the result of your long shifts and lack of sleep.

Law ends up embedding the knife in the board. He turns to Mihawk, an aura of pure darkness. Honestly, he loves the man, bit is this the time for one of his "be sensible, I'm right" speeches? Law glares up at him, temped just storm out only that would just make Mihawk feel more confirmed in his believe that Law is over reacting.

Instead, after a deep breath, Law starts in on him, his voice low and logical while still with an edge of danger. "I walked into our kitchen to find you leaning over some boy BARELY out of high school - hopefully! - whispering in his damn ear.... Don't think I don't remember you doing that to me. I believe you later admitted to loving being able to watch my face as you slowly worked me up into a frenzy. Was the boy getting hard for you? Or had you only just started?"

Law's voice is laced with some much bitterness and maybe... Maybe some heartbreak but Law is burying that deep right now. Yet Mihawk's face gives him nothing. His husband leans against the counter with his arms crossed, watching him go off on this rant with neutral and yet somehow analytical expression. That just drives Law temperature even further. Even more than Mihawk's utter lack of an answer.

"Your reaction?" Law's voice is raising with every word, furious that Mihawk is giving him so little when Law has every right to be mad. "Once I get you attention, at least. You're very first comment when I come home exhausted and stressed and find you with some green haired, rude little brat? Surprise that I'm home early."

"I apologize, Hawk-ya, that in interrupted your time with-

Mihawk pulls Law in for a kiss. It's not sensual or deep, but it's sincere. Which... Law can't even understand. It makes no sense. It makes Law want to cry and as that realizes comes Law realized he already has been.

Why is Mihawk doing this to him? Just tell him the truth.

When he pulls back, Mihawk appears at least somewhat contrite. Still, when he finally nods it feels like like an agreement and more like he's acquiescing. "Perhaps it would have given the circumstance to give you more time to adjust to this change, but let me assure you that Roronoa is only here in an official, business capacity. "

"And what's his business? Sucking my husband's cock?" Law bites back, no longer wanting Mihawk to try and disguise what is obvious, like he thinks Law is an idiot or, more likely, so overworked and so rarely home he simply would never notice the indiscretion and would be too exhausted to bother caring if he did.

Is that... Is that how Mihawk sees their relationship?

Mihawk reaches for him again but Law has had enough. He jerks away before Mihawk even gets close to touching him, eyes fire and challenges as he stares up at the older man. “Where did you pick him up? A damn kindergarten?”

“He’s an intern for RedHawk, as I explained earlier,” while Mihawk’s words are still rather simple, straight forward in many ways, his tone is patient. Like he’s dealing with a damn child. “And he is nineteen.” Well, he probably has practice since he’s sleeping with one. “Please, Law, you are clearly exhausted. Let me finish instructing Zoro on some final matters and we’ll both of us lay down. It’s been a hard week and-”

Oh, he’s sure his husband will instruct the boy on all sorts of things. Law swings around, hunger completely forgotten. “You’re right, Hawk-ya,” he spits the old nickname with a venom, storming from the kitchen, his hunger completely forgotten. “I do need rest. And frankly I think that is more likely to happen if I don’t have to share my bed with two other people.”

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the-darklings · 5 years ago

Text

—𝒃𝒖𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅;

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

word count: 13.7k+

summary: There’s only so much you can push a person before something cracks and breaks permanently.

warnings: swearing, angst, strong violence (the usual lol)

notes: ahhhh it’s good to be back! I’ve missed you guys SO MUCH!! And I hope you all missed COA too. As always, thank you for your incredible support. ENJOY!!!

children of ares series: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | . . | 10 |

You move down the staircase quickly, your feet nimble against the concrete as you approach the large, blinding white car.

Across from you, Ares greets you with a subdued grin and hands clasped in front of her. She can no doubt read your expression, read the way your jaw and fingers keep flexing and your eyes shimmer with emotion. Beside Ares, Roberto shifts, clearly wary of how this will go, but moves to open the car door for you.

No other car you recognise is around, and if it had been anyone other than Winston himself telling you about Santino surrounding the place, you won’t have believed them.

It’s peaceful.

Or at least as peaceful as New York City can be at rush hour.

Why would you let him do this? you sign and know that your movements are sharp with anger.

Ares frowns slightly, nonplussed by your display of irritation and gives you a pointed look.

Did you really think we would just stand by and watch?

You have nothing to say in reply to that. Because if the situation had been reversed and it had been Santino, or even Ares herself, you wouldn’t have let it go either. You would have fought for them. But the mere thought of how close it all came to ending very badly cramps your stomach with an anxious, crippling sort of fear.

You don’t want to lose anyone else.

Sharing a long look, you both stand in silence for a moment before you incline your head and slide inside the large vehicle.

Green eyes watch you from behind his folded fingers that rest in front of his face. He looks solemn in a way you rarely see from him. He’s always been on the showy side. Santino likes making spectacles of his power. You imagine it appeals to his egoistical nature—his natural thirst for more, always more.

The world and everything in it is not enough.

In the seconds that take for Roberto to close the door, neither of you speak, silently observing the other with a grave sort of seriousness.

The door slams shut and the stillness between you stretches.

“Of all the stupid things to do, Santino,” you begin eventually, emotionless, direct. “What were you thinking?”

He doesn’t answer you. It takes another prolonged moment to realise what exactly he is doing. He’s drinking in the sight of you. Perhaps because he—even more so than you—realises how much of a close call this has been. Certainly the closest since Chicago.

“Why would you do this?” you demand after another lull of quiet between you, desperate for some sort of clarification.

His silence is starting to make you uncomfortable. Because it drags on and on and on. Because he is here and—

“I gave you my word, (Name). I swore to you,” he says, at last, finally lowering his hands into his lap. He shifts in his seat and the intensity of his regard makes you uneasy. Danger crowds all around you because deep down you know that right now Santino may say something that will crumble that wall between you. “Do you know how many times I have done so, and not gotten rid of the other party immediately after?”

You swallow and shake your head.

“Once,” he reveals to you, his features drawn and voice flat. “Only you. Does that adequately answer your question, carissima?”

“And if it had ended in blood?”

Something flickers across his expression; something cold and vicious and cruel. “Then so be it,” he intones softly; a cutting caress, a purr of his accent that sinks into you. “I would have torn that building apart brick by brick to get to you.”

“Stop.”

His expression creases with confusion.

“Stop,” you repeat, tighter, pained. “You don’t—I know you, Santino. All you care about is power. You will always choose Camorra first, despite what you might think. We both know that.”

His features harden at that, his eyes narrowing. There is nothing he can say because you’re right. It doesn’t make you angry or sad anymore. You have gone through this before. And you know he cares—that there is that small shred of him that’s still capable of good, and he shows it to you.

But John cared too, and he still left.

“It’s okay. They’re your family,” you soothe with a small, forlorn smile. “You’re the blood of Camorra. What was it that you said to me once? Blood for blood? Those are your family’s words. I’m grateful for what you did, I am. More than you know but don’t ever do that again. You don’t risk your position for me.”

He sits up abruptly, his composure cracking around the edges and you instinctively tense before relaxing. His eyes rage as he stares at you, his elbows resting on his thighs and the charged silence between you hangs. His head dips slightly and his lips twist into a slight, biting smile.

“I gave you the word of old Camorra,” he reminds softly, and leans so close you smell him—can feel the heat of him in your space. “I don’t think you quite grasp the severity of such a promise, cara. In the eyes of the High Table, I made an unbreakable vow to protect you. They could never—”

“You would have broken one of their two sacred rules to protect me,” you argue immediately, and that pang of worry you felt earlier sharpens your words. “The table would have outvoted Camorra and consequences of that—”

“I don’t care about the consequences.”

You gaze at him silently. The stubborn tilt of his chin, at that unyielding, wilful look in his eyes, the inherent pride with which he holds himself. Santino usually doesn’t care for consequences, you know that, but this is not like other times.

“Don’t you?” you whisper gently, sadly, and unleash a question that’s been plaguing you for years, knowing full well the damage it will do. “So if it came down to a choice between myself and Camorra?”

He jerks back, his previously parted lips pressing shut tightly at your question. With a flicker, the enraged worry fades and something distant takes its place. You see it happen, watch how he puts up his own wall up brick-by-brick. It empties his expression of that achingly familiar fondness and openness he shows seemingly only to you. The Camorra heir is the only thing left. A shell of a man you know. A shell that he shows others but not you, never you. Not anymore.

Chaos rages in his eyes but he doesn’t speak a word, clearly caught off guard by your purposeful backing into a corner.

There is no correct way to answer this. He cares for you. But he loves Camorra—it’s everything to him. His past, present, and future too. Regardless of how he might feel about his ties and position in it. If he means his words about protecting you, then he would have to sacrifice everything.

So maybe he cares, and maybe he wants to protect you, but you are not worth everything.

At least this time, you are not blindsided by the care of another to see that truth.

“That’s what I thought,” you note quietly and he swallows, unblinking. You try for a smile and reach out, lightly placing your fingers on his still hand, squeezing once. “It’s okay, grumpy. I would never ask you to make that choice anyway.”

You release your hold on him and move to open the door but he intercepts you, his burning fingers latching onto your wrist. Your eyes meet and his stare is frenzied as he peers at you, clearly looking for something to say.

“You. I—”

You can count on one hand the number of times you have seen Santino of all people struggling for words. But they seem to have escaped him, and you wait another moment before freeing your wrist from his hold, giving him a terse smile.

“Please, don’t lie to me,” you request seriously, and open the car door. “Not you.”

He doesn’t try to stop you again.

Unlike the last time you were here, there’s no rain. This time, the sun shines high and bright, its rays warming the skin of your cheek as you stare blankly ahead.

The ceremony is modest but Marcus has never had many friends. Such is the life of an assassin for hire. You are loyal to no one but yourself. Some have friends, others even create families but that rarely ends well unless you have the power to keep them hidden and safe. And even then, accidents happen and misfortune befalls people at most unexpected times and you know that well.

The casket sits surrounded by a sea of flowers, beautiful and lustrous, and your eyes move away, making you shift in your black dress uncomfortably. You never did sort out your problems before he—

The sun shining directly in your eyes makes your head hurt even more, and you blink the blinding rays away. The last three days have been dedicated to your work. To crushing ingredients and extracting necessary compounds for your solutions and poisons. It’s been long hours of boiling, drying and distilling different ingredients. Poison making takes time and precision. Your stock has been running dangerously low due to your busy schedule over these last few months, and this has been as good a time as any. An escape. Besides, you didn’t want to appear suspicious. It’s a known fact that you often disappear for close to a week, completely submerging yourself in work. If the High Table is watching, they will see you simply carrying on with your normal routine.

You’ve also left a message with Charon before disappearing. No one but Winston or the High Table itself is to disturb you.

Not like it has stopped Santino from trying. You haven’t answered any of his calls or texts. Or John’s for that matter. You have left them both with a simple ‘Busy working. Will speak to you soon.’ before going silent. Truthfully, you weren’t in the headspace to deal with either of them, and the many, many complications that come with them.

The last few days have been too destructive on you. Your relapse has struck hard, and you’ve been avoiding sleep unless absolutely necessary which, while hardly a solution, at least allows you time to work. To focus on something other than the abyss inside you, dark and foul. It’s easier to work yourself to the bone till you pass out from exhaustion and only vaguely recall hazy, fervent dreams than to experience them for yourself. Easier to pretend that you are happy and free and fixed now that Tarasov is dead.

Footsteps draw closer towards you from behind, and your fingers snake around a concealed blade in your jacket sleeve.

Your eyes flicker briefly to the side and you pause, the knot between your shoulder blades loosening.

“John. I didn’t expect you to show up,” you greet, a touch wary when he comes to stand beside you clad in one of his customary black suits. “I figured you leaving the Continental meant that you’ve gone back.”

Back to his old life. Gone, possibly, for good.

Sunlight bathes him in a warm glow, giving him an appearance of an ordinary man dragged out from his life in the shadows and into the light. The curve of his shoulders is heavy though as is the subdued glimmer of pain in his eyes as he peers at the casket in front of him. The priest keeps reciting verses and for a second you think he’s not going to answer you at all. That perhaps he didn’t hear you over the loudness of his own mind.

“Marcus was my oldest friend,” he finally says after a period of stillness between you. “It’s the least I can do.”

Indeed he was.

And now he’s gone.

All because of Tarasov. All because you assumed your gamble will pay off without any problems and that Tarasov’s fury will be directed only at you.

“He never should have—it’s not fair,” you breathe thickly, pained, and your tiredness only makes the stinging pain more intense. “In some twisted way it still...it still feels like Tarasov won. He fucking won.”

Because Marcus is dead and you will never get a chance to make things right between you. Will never get a chance to apologise for all the hurtful words you have spoken to him. Or vice versa. It will stay like this forever. Unfinished. He will never know that you’re sorry and that despite you not being the best of friends, he was still someone you respected. Admired, even. At least back in the early days. Back when his and John’s abilities have seemed inhuman to you.

“He didn’t,” John’s quiet voice interrupts your troubled thoughts and you glance at him. But the man is not looking at you. His sad, dark eyes linger on the coffin. “Viggo might have taken lives, our friends, but we’re still here. We have to honour that. Not let it be in vain.”

You can’t help but scoff. Have all those years on the outside really made him this soft? Naive? Both.

“In vain...all deaths are in vain,” you remind him, your words overflowing with resentment. “Tarasov is dead too, and that should make me happy but it doesn’t.”

Because now there’s just nothing. Tarasov, for his many evil deeds and misgivings, has been like an anchor to you for years. He has been a purpose and a drive. A need to become better, deadlier, more feared. If John had been Tarasov’s boogeyman, then you would be the most vicious beast on his chain. So much so that he would go to bed every night with a fear that one day that monster might turn around and bite him instead. You’ve achieved that. The unease, the fear, his death.

Now what?

He’s robbed you of so many years. Has caused so much pain and misery. It feels like killing him thousand times over still won’t be enough. It won’t bring back your parents, won’t erase Tokyo, won’t magically fix what was broken. You thought that it might. Figured that his death would be the key to finally knowing peace.

The last few days have proven that you couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Now, Tarasov is just another ghost haunting you at every corner.

Now, you feel adrift, purposeless.

Beside you, John shifts and you feel his focus on you.

“I know. Me neither.”

His words are a mere whisper; nothing more than a frayed murmur of still too fresh, strangled grief that’s only made worse by the fact that he’s had to bury his wife, puppy, and oldest friend all in a span of few weeks. Your heart clenches when you look at him. His expression falters only for a second before he rearranges it back into that hard, unfeeling mask you’re used to seeing but that second of raw agony breaks your own composure.

“John, I—”

“I’m sorry—” he halts, his voice cracking with sorrow. He blinks up at you before his gaze goes to the ground. “I miss her. It’s still...”

Still painful, still fresh, still a crushing weight that won’t ease no matter what you do.

You know it takes a lot for him to admit that out loud. John has always been withdrawn, mostly living with his emotions in private. It comes from years of living in a cruel world that uses any sign of weakness against you. For a moment, in the shining sun, you don’t see John from now. You see the John you knew. The younger version who would look at you with that look in his eyes. A look you could never decipher but made you feel more cared for than you could ever put into words.

“Don’t apologise,” you force out, your own words coming out a bit strangled. You hesitate before reaching out and taking his hand in your own. You let the resentment, the pain, the bitterness fade for a moment. In that instance, it’s simply about empathy for another human being. Your old friend. It’s about recognising the pain he carries and clearly struggles with processing. You wanted to punish him. Or you thought you did. But now that you’re faced with it…it doesn’t taste as sweet as you had hoped. Seeing his pain just feels as hollow as Tarasov’s death did. “You love her and it never quite leaves you. Death of a loved one. You don’t have to be strong.”

When your parents were killed, it had punctured a wound inside you so deep that it wasn’t until you met him that you realised how lost you’ve been. How you hadn’t been living at all. Tarasov had chained you to his side, and you had considered your life to be over. John reminded you that there’s more.

Once upon a time, he saved you without even realising it.

You stand, hand-in-hand, for a long time before he speaks again. This time, his voice is more placid, his control regained once again.

“You don’t deserve this.”

You can’t quite help your ironic grin, as empty as it is.

“We don’t deserve a great many things,” you remind him, your words mild, melancholic. “They still happen though.”

His fingers twitch and turn to wrap around yours more securely. Together, you watch as the casket gets lowered into the ground bit by bit.

You both know what it means to bury those you love.

What it means to lose and lose.

“Maybe—” he starts before stopping himself and you feel yourself frown.

“Maybe?” you prompt.

John visibly hesitates and you turn to look at him in surprise. He doesn’t hesitate often, if ever. “Maybe you could stop by the house sometime?” he wonders, and his words are cautious, his lips parted and expression guarded as if he’s expecting the worst possible response. “For a cup of coffee or tea. The dog was looking for you too. I think he likes you.”

You feel yourself swallow heavily. This might be an instance of tranquillity between you but it doesn’t change anything. Your initial swell of rage at his return has subsided, and you’re indeed far too exhausted both physically and emotionally to muster up much of an angry response right now. But the pain still exists, no matter how deeply buried. You can’t just up wipe the slate clean. But maybe—

Maybe.

Your eyes go back to the hole in the ground. Your thoughts go to Marcus. Marcus who died. Marcus who you will never see again, never talk to again. You missed the chance to make it right with him. And just how close did you and John both come to losing your lives only days prior? Too close.

Maybe it would be easier to let this go. Let this resentment and anger between you fade.

You don’t know if you’re strong enough for it, don’t know if you can or even will.

But how will you know if you don’t at least try?

“I can’t promise you anything,” you murmur, feeling raw from the honesty of those words. You can’t promise him what he no doubt wants. Absolution. Closure. Some semblance of hope to hold onto. But all you can give him is a chance.

“I know,” he says quietly in return and your eyes meet. “I’m not asking for anything else. Just...company, if you are willing to offer it.”

You gaze at him thoughtfully, caught between refusal and acceptance.

Caught between letting go and being in the present, or clinging to the anger that has fuelled you—rightfully so—for years.

You think about it for a while.

“Okay,” you speak, at last, your voice thin. You give him a tiny nod before letting go of his hand. “Okay, yeah. I can do that.”

John doesn’t smile. He doesn’t show much of an outward reaction. But his eyes lighten, something like relief reflecting back at you. You imagine it means more to him than he lets on even if he doesn’t show it, and that’s fine. You don’t exactly expect him to dance around you in circles from happiness.

Your eyes sweep over the graveyard as the people around start to scatter. “And your car?”

He hesitates again. “I have a lead. Soon,” he reassures. “I don’t want more bloodshed. Just my car and then...”

Your eyebrows arch. John looks exhausted, and you suspect it’s not his healing wounds that are the cause of that exhaustion.

“And then?”

“And then, peace.”

Birds chirp overhead as you stare at him in disbelief.

“Peace?” you echo, your scepticism clear. “You’re going to broker for peace with Abram?”

John dips his head in a nod but doesn’t look surprised by your reaction. Perhaps he knows how it sounds. After the slaughter he has unleashed, it seems tragically funny that John wants peace now. But perhaps you are alike in that sense. The blood-thirst that had originally clouded your judgement has passed, losing its previous intensity. Now, only bone-deep weariness is left.

“Yeah. There’s been enough death in the last few days,” he notes, only confirming your thoughts. “I’ve had enough of it.”

Enough.

You’ve seen so much death that by now you consider it a constant companion. But how much has John lost? He needs time to grieve. Properly. Iosef took that from him and he paid the ultimate price for that. His life.

“And if he declares war on you?” you wonder carefully, knowing that in your world, that’s the more likely scenario. “You killed his only brother and nephew.”

Winston told you bits and pieces of what happened when the news came to the High Table. The Russians, predictably, were making noise. Calling for a hunt. Retribution. The only thing stopping them was the knowledge of who had committed this massacre.

John Wick is known better to the Russians than anyone else. Healthy fear and a show of strength from John’s part are the only things keeping them back. They know better than to make an enemy of the boogeyman.

But the High Table is…wary. Winston didn’t have to say it explicitly for you to read into his deeper implication. John’s return has been an unexpected turn of events. It feels like someone has taken a large rock and thrown it into a too still pond. The ripples of what happened less than a week ago are being felt across the globe. It still concerns you that what may come back in reply will only cause more trouble.

But your conversation with John has eased your mind. He truly has no intention of coming back. He hit like a hurricane, leaving nothing but death and devastation in his wake, and will now retreat back to the other side he has made his home.

Hopefully, with time, everything will settle once again.

“If he is as smart as you said,” he says and there is something frigid about his low words. “He will take the offer of peace and live on another day.”

Or die. It goes unsaid but the implication is clear.

The last of the funeral party disperses, and the diggers get to work as you both watch in silence. The first shovel of dirt hits with a resounding, hollow sound and it pierces right through you. It grinds into your bones, crushing whatever little joy you might have felt about Tarasov and Perkins being dead.

It’s too high of a price to pay.

“He was a good man,” you remark, thoughtful and sad. Memories of his snarky, biting comments come flashing through your mind like a used film reel and you can’t help but snort. “A bastard. But a good man. Let’s not waste it.”

John is already looking at you when you glance his way and he nods his head in agreement. But before he can say anything else, his eyes snag onto something over your shoulder, and you see the previous ease of his expression drain and harden into something else. He switches from man to hunter in a blink of an eye.

The sudden change in the air between you makes you straighten subtly. You don’t have many weapons on you—you came to a funeral, not a battlefield, after all—but you also have your hands.

Battle instincts wash over you, and you push back your exhaustion, your current instability.

Inhaling deeply, you slowly incline your head, sneaking a look over your shoulder discreetly.

For the second time that day, your muscles relax.

Standing in front of a too familiar white Land Rover is Ares who is openly glaring at John. She catches your stare across the graveyard, and her glare drops as she nods her head in a greeting with a slight smirk. On the other side of the car, and facing away from you, stands Roberto. He seems to be scanning the nearby area and the retreating people with the usual scowl he thinks makes him look more ferocious.

It does. To everyone but people who know him. Those that do are perfectly aware that his personality is closer to that of a golden retriever than a wild wolf. A protective golden retriever but hardly a dangerous one unless provoked. He’s one of the very few you’ve never doubted when it comes to loyalty towards Santino. And you know—better than most—how hard it can be to work under the man. How demanding he can be. Perhaps that is why unlike most heirs, Santino doesn’t have an inner circle.

He doesn’t trust people enough to rely on their judgement and council. Nor does he need it, according to him.

“She’s a friend,” you reassure John whose expression, unlike your own, has not relaxed. “And I need to talk with her.”

Santino must have sent her to speak with you.

You have to hold back a sigh at that thought. Sending Ares as a bridge between you is a cheap move, but at least he knows better than to push and come in person.

The thought of Santino seeing John again almost makes you bristle.

You have no idea how a reunion between the two would go. But you doubt it would be anything good.

Ares is Santino’s tested and tried method because you never refuse her. Predictable but clever bastard.

Sighing, you turn towards your old partner and give him a quick, vacant smile. “I’ll see you around, Baba Yaga.”

He hesitates as if he wants to say something else but stops himself. He nods his head once, solemn as always, and you turn to go with one last look in his direction.

Cutting a straight line through the graveyard, you get to the car in a few minutes and your hands are forming signs before you even come to a stop.

Why are you here?

Ares only stares at you as if she’s questioning your intelligence.

He wishes to speak with you.

“I have to work, Ares,” you bite out, coming to a stop before her. “I just buried an old associate of mine. I have other priorities other than Santino as well.”

She sighs, clearly frustrated and even Roberto looks surprised but masks it quickly when you look his way. You’re glad that she only brought him and not the rest of her little pack.

At least talk with him. He does not like it when you are angry at him.

“Then maybe he should have thought of that before putting you, himself, and everyone else in danger because he felt like proving a goddamn point.”

Because that’s what it was.

The only thing it could have been.

Santino may have given you the word of old Camorra but he must have known that if it had come down to it—

It wouldn’t have made a difference. In fact, it likely would have made an already bad situation worse. It was a show of power, of his pride, and perhaps it was ultimately about protecting you but it doesn’t change the fact that him risking everything didn’t make sense.

It makes you feel cold to the very marrow of your damaged soul, thinking about it.

I will never abandon you.

But he almost did. Even if by some miracle both of you had lived, you likely would have been forbidden from ever seeing him again. And that’s the best-case scenario. It would have been as good as losing him forever.

They’ve become important to you. So important. The idea of not seeing him, or Ares, or even Roberto ever again chills you.

Ares seems to have arrived at a similar conclusion judging by her narrowed-eyed almost angry expression.

It terrifies you, she signs with a deep-set frown, the fact that he came through for you. Why?

“Because I swore to myself that I will never be the second choice again,” you choke out because you would like to think that she’s one of the few who can truly understand. Because she knows how badly you suffered. She knows Santino—is one of the few who considers him a genuine friend—and knows all about the depth of his ambition. “Because I—I’m not strong enough to...”

To love. To trust him wholeheartedly. Only to be dropped when it longer feels thrilling for him. When something better comes along. When someone offers him something he can’t refuse in exchange for you, your services, just you.

You’ve been picked apart and used over and over again.

Your life hasn’t felt like your own for so long now.

With Santino, you have always stood as an equal. That’s the one fact that no one seems to fully grasp. Because they don’t know about you and him and things you have gone through together. The blood you’ve shed and the bodies you’ve buried—the hard-won trust and reliance on one another that’s taken years to build. They’ve only heard stories about you, rarely exaggerated but often twisted to fit a different narrative.

If that balance were to ever change he would simply become another individual in a long line of people who’ve tried to abuse you.

You can’t have that.

“We both know what he is,” you tell her softly, and her expression falters, the heat in her gaze cooling a touch. “And I will not ask him to change on my behalf because I know he never will. Santino is Santino, and that’s fine. I like him just how he is.”

Even the selfishness, even the cunning, even the greed.

You’re hardly a saint yourself. In many ways, you’re worse.

Ares stands still for a prolonged stretch of quiet between you. The sun warms her, bathing her face in a soft light that in return softens her features, and you don’t quite understand her expression. She looks caught between understanding and exasperation. Her crisp suit makes no noise and neither does she but what she signs next slices through you like a hot knife, burying itself deep.

He is not like him.

You go still. In the body, in mind, in standing rooted to the ground.

From the corner of your eye, you think you see Roberto wince. He’s been learning ASL for almost two years now so you don’t doubt that he understood exactly what was just conveyed to you.

Ares, as always, holds your gaze, unashamed. She’s too direct to not mean her words or feel sorry for expressing her thoughts on the matter.

Your own expression must be caught between empty and furious.

To compare John and Santino is—

Pressing your mouth into a rigid line, you look away from her, an angry pulse pounding your head with a strength that almost makes you dizzy.

“I will see Santino when I want to see him,” you inform her stiffly. “Not whenever he feels bored and needs entertainment.”

With that said, you turn away from her but Roberto stops you this time, raising his hands in a pacifying motion. “He’s just worried, V,” the man phrases carefully, his brows furrowed. “We all are—”

Your eyes cut to him sharply and he retreats at the look on your face.

Your shoes crunch against the gravel but you don’t look back at either of them as you walk away.

If there is one thing you truly do despise about New York City it’s the traffic.

Most days it’s horrendous, and today it seems to be even more awful than usual.

Your cheek has gone partially numb from leaning against your palm for almost twenty minutes. You stare outside the taxi window, counting your breaths inside your head. The taxi driver—a man in his 50ties with silver hair and a short, stocky build—seems to instinctively pick up on the fact that you’re not in the mood to talk. Or maybe he’s just an asshole. One way or another, you’re grateful for the quiet even if it leaves you to navigate the scary landscape that is your mind.

Your previous minor headache has now transformed into a full-blown pounding monstrosity and your eyes water from exhaustion. You haven’t slept in…too long. Maybe two days. You fully expect yourself to collapse on the hotel bed the moment you get back to the Continental. There are only two blocks left till you get there but you’ve been stuck in this traffic for ten minutes now, unmoving.

He is not him.

The memory comes unbidden and makes your fingers curl into fists.

Of course, they’re not.

They’re so different it’s staggering.

But it’s easier to turn away, to run away from any possibility of happiness because it may lead to pain again. The darkness of your past still clings to you. So many wrong moves, so much shame and failure.

You still feel a phantom of that helplessness when Tarasov told you your parents were dead. Weak. Always too weak and too helpless. A little girl playing at being strong. Something has been taken from deep inside you and that gap, that hole, still makes you feel stuck in that suffocating flat. Kishi’s blood still coats your tongue when you wake up from your nightmares. Sometimes—too often—it feels like no time has passed at all, and you’re simply stuck in that loop of despair.

Helpless. Always helpless. Unable to feel, to move on like other people would be able to.

Santino is not John, and John is not Santino.

But you’ve given one of them power over you once. Trusted and believed.

Where exactly did that lead to?

The taxi crawls towards the intersection and you jolt from your deep thought, wincing at the stab of pain that drums through your head.

You would prefer not to throw up in the taxi.

A sound of screeching tires rips through the air and your head jerks to the side—

The impact slams the taxi to one side, tires screaming across the asphalt as windows shatter on the driver side. Your head slams against the passenger door, your vision going black for a moment. Your ears ring, everything blurring in front of you. The driver slumps towards you, his head covered in blood and you moan low in your throat as you try to reach for him. Your seatbelt holds you back and you reach for it—

The passenger door flies open and someone grabs your arm roughly, jerking you back. The belt cuts harshly into your chest and neck, stopping you, and instinct takes over. The figure trying to drag you out screams when a blade clumsily sinks into their arm.

You twist, every bit of malicious intent happily on display and rip the blade out, letting the blood flow freely. The radial artery bleeds heavily if nicked and the male figure staggers back, trying to ebb the flow while levelling his gun on you. You can’t see his face over the black blur of his mask but that doesn’t matter. He’s pissed and in pain—not the best combo. Using the gap of time to your advantage, you hack the bloody blade against your seatbelt.

“Shit.”

Finally, the material snaps, and you jerk to the side clumsily, a shot missing you by inches. Your blade sinks into the man’s chest but the gear he’s wearing stops it from reaching anything fatal like arteries, heart or lungs. The man staggers back from impact though, grasping at the blade, and you pull out your pistol—a sleek and easy to hide Glock 42—and fire only once. This close up, it would have been embarrassing to miss but it’s still a messy shot.

The man falls to the floor but your victory is short-lived.

Bullets rain against the side of the taxi and you throw yourself out of the car through the open door. Your knees hit the asphalt with a creak and you roll to the side, curling to make yourself a smaller target. If the driver inside wasn’t dead from the impact, then he sure as hell is now. Your ears echo with the loud bangs made only more deafening by the surrounding screams of fleeing people.

Shaking your head vigorously, you try to focus, snap back into now because this isn’t random.

This is an ambush.

And you’re outgunned and exhausted.

Your fingers go to your coat, pulling out the only gas canister you’ve taken with you due to low stock and hurry your fingers when the gunshots suddenly cut out. They either hope they got you, or they know they didn’t.

The vial slots inside and you shake the canister; a few sharp, graceless swings back and forth. You only have five rounds left in your pistol. Too few.

Footsteps crunch on the shattered glass on the other side of the taxi, heading towards you and you curl downwards, waiting.

A foot appears first, hesitant, and you slam another blade into the shoe, cutting right through it and feel the blade sink into flesh, muscle and bone. Another black-clad figure jerks in agony, their aim veering to the side and you jump to your feet, ripping the blade from the attacker’s foot and sinking it into their neck instead.

The body falls towards you.

You grunt under the additional weight but use the body as a meat shield, immediately aiming your pistol at another two approaching figures and shooting them right in the face with a savage sort of speed.

Three rounds left.

When ambushed only two things matter: speed and efficiency.

John has taught you that one person can withstand a tempest and still come out victorious on the other side if they’re smart.

And you have done so again and again. This will be no different.

Someone grabs you from behind, and you careen back, your dead meat shield dropping to the ground when you’re harshly dragged back. Arms lock around your neck and you roll the slippery blade between your fingers before sinking it into the arms holding you. With a loud snarl, you rip the blade out and repeat the motion and again. Blood pours across your chest—hot and slippery—and their grip falters, giving you just enough leeway to twist your arm behind you and fire blindly.

Two left. Shit.

You turn sharply and sink the blade into your attacker’s neck to finish him off.

The body slumps to the side and—

An explosion rips through the air next to you, and you feel the shockwave of heat and smoke throw you back, your head slamming against the dirty pavement.

Everything goes white.

Your stomach coils and your exhausted body slants weakly to one side.

Don’t lose focus. Get up. Get up.

It sounds like a mix of voices, all of them anxious.

Your tongue feels thick and dry in your mouth, and the coldness of pavement sinks into your forehead as you try to roll over. Dizzy and drained and unable to make your muscles obey.

You haven’t slept in two days, hardly eaten or exercised, and your body strains under its natural limits when faced with your ironlike tenacity.

People scream in the far distance.

Move. You’re making yourself into a target. Move.

You brace yourself on your palms, trembling, and gnash your teeth together till your jaw aches. Swaying, you hoist yourself onto your knees.

Not again. Get up. Please, amore—

You straighten, determined.

And feel a cold, hard barrel of a gun push into the back of your skull.

Your body freezes, tense, and you blink, clearing your vision desperately. Ice rushes through your veins when you realise that the explosion has made you lose your pistol. Your hands are terribly empty. You can’t reach for another blade before that trigger is pulled.

“Well, well, who do we have here?” a filtered female voice wonders mockingly, clear French accent lacing her lovely voice. “Seems like we caught ourselves a snake.”

Something crystallises inside you; a shadow, an echo of Tokyo. Of that stillness that made you tear Kishi’s throat out without hesitation, that made you hunt and kill dozens when they made a sport out of hunting you.

That survival instinct that makes you brutal, that makes you terrible.

Mock a snake and you might just get struck down.

“You’re about to make a very big mistake.”

You sound deceptively calm despite your injuries and mounting fury.

“Mistake? No. I think you will—”

Your eyes lift to the car in front of you and the blurry reflection of a figure behind you. On your knees, you appear small. Weak. A downwards angle is a major disadvantage when you have a gun pressed to your head as well.

But it’s either do or die.

You drop to the floor and drive your leg behind you. To put a gun to someone like that one has to stand close and the viciousness of your kick connects just as you suspected. You roll over immediately and reach forward to grab the hand holding the gun.

It fires.

You flinch at the loudness but it misses your head and you push yourself forward, adrenaline surging through your veins.

There is no hesitation to be found in you as you kick the woman in front of you again. This time in her leg and her stance falters, her gun firing twice more, both off-target. You use her moment of unsteadiness to drive your knee up and straight into the pointy end of her elbow.

Your knee explodes with numbing sort of pain but the satisfaction of hearing her olecranon fracture into little pieces is more than worth it. An open break. She will need surgery and weeks of healing, and that’s assuming the joint will ever heal well enough for her to use her arm again.

They wanted the Vipress.

They got her.

The woman howls; a loud, screeching sound and you drive your fist into her delicate face, silencing her. You grapple for her gun, ready to finish her off like you did her buddies earlier, but before you can grab it someone slams into you, their knee connecting with your ribs.

The strength behind the kick jerks you to the side, and you hit the pavement with a shout of pain. You suck in desperate inhales of oxygen, terrified and numb with pain. Air rushes into your lungs, and with it dizzying relief.

Not broken.

“You bitch!”

A male voice drills into your eardrums this time, and your head drags to the side. A tall, lean man hovers around the woman, his blonde hair a halo around his head. His features are sharp, almost aristocratic in their beauty. If the woman is beautiful with her large eyes and full lips, he’s a completely different breed of terrible sort of beauty. But his expression is twisted with such terrifying fury and madness that it knocks the wind out of you even harder than his kick did.

You know them.

Or rather, know of them.

The woman with her equally blonde hair snarls at you like a wild animal, and it’s by the tattoos on their faces that you recognise them.

They both have a heart etched deep into the skin of their left cheek in startling scarlet.

The Lovers.

French hitmen renown for their brutality and utter, toxic dependency on each other. Most considered them too unhinged to hire but those desperate and in need of bloody, dirty work to be done came to them first.

You’ve only heard stories about their blood rituals and the revolting way they handled the bodies they disposed of. The torture they delighted in, and the mayhem they unleashed on anyone who so much as scratched the other.

The man—what is his name; does it even matter—makes a sound at the back of his throat when he sees the severity of the female’s injury, and throws something directly at you. You roll out of the way, your ribs throbbing and you wince, your eyes trying to locate the object that you heard hit the ground not far from you.

Beep. Beep.

Stumbling twice, you scramble onto your feet and dash towards the nearby car, clumsily sliding across the bonnet just as the explosion rips through the air with another deafening bang. The car windows shake from the blow, a few cracking and you crumple onto the pathway, covering your head to avoid any falling glass.

Pyromaniacs. Right. Forgot about that.

“Get back here, you little rat!” the man shouts loudly, his voice cracking with viciousness.

Shots fly above your head, and you reach between your legs, pulling out your last blade from the security of your inner thigh. Your fingers tremble around the familiar cool weight, and you lick your lips shakily, tasting salt and blood. Your weakened muscles twinge and twitch from the overload, and you roll your shoulders, relaxing them as much as you can.

No pain. Pain can come later. Feel nothing right now.

Flipping the blade in your hand, you go to your dress and slide the blade across your thigh, cutting the dark material clinging to your body. If it comes down to hand on hand you need the space and ability to use your legs freely. They’re far stronger than your arms—a rather annoying disadvantage Ares often uses against you in your sparring matches.

Distantly, you hear the female moan in pain and the sound of too many feet rushing closer towards you. The shots cut out and an eerie silence falls over the usually bustling New York street.

“Bring the snake to me!”

How many?

You lean down, peering through the gap between the pavement and the car, and count at least ten.

Shit, shit, shit.

Right.

Desperate measures, then.

Hurriedly, you shrug off your singed coat, pulling out your gas canister. You weren’t going to use it one or two guys. No, the more the merrier.

“You can’t hide from us, snake,” the man shouts, his voice wicked with a promise of delightful violence. “We’ll bleed you dry. Remove that pretty skin of yours piece by piece.”

His accent is not as noticeable as his girlfriend’s, you can’t help but think absentmindedly.

Usually, you would assume something like that to be an empty threat, but hearing the choked, furious bloodlust in the man’s voice makes you think otherwise.

You count your breaths, count in your head. Numb your mind to the pain raging through your side.

Uno. Due—

Sucking in a sharp breath, you throw the canister over the car with all your might. It sails through the air—not as far as you would have liked, and you recognise your mistake the moment you see the figures approaching fully.

The fumes explode from the canister. Perfect as always.

Except the soldiers are wearing goddamn gasmasks. They had known exactly what to expect, what to prepare for, and how to counter. At most, the fumes will cause confusion due to poor visibility and mild air passage irritation. Still usable since it will slow down their reactions but nowhere near good enough. Your paralyser momentarily locks down the airway enzyme functionality, usually without any irreversible damage.

But not if the victim only inhales a filtered version of it.

Panic is fleeting but stinging, and then you hurdle your mind to Plan B.

Simple.

You gamble.

The blade leaves your fingers, finding its target in the closest attacker to your position and you follow behind instantly. The heavy vapour drowns the area and you hear the confused shouts that are followed by a couple of misguided, terrified shots into empty air.

Rules of survival say that you should never part with your weapon.

A weaponless fighter is a dead fighter.

But your blade is only a distraction; another smokescreen for the real target.

You’re fast. That’s always been your greatest asset besides your poison.

You will survive this. You will make it.

Your body crashes into the figure, and you rip the blade stuck in his armour and drive it in his neck instead, grabbing his gun. It happens in a span of seconds and you roll when the body hits the ground. In the confusion, more barrels start seeking you out.

But you know your work. You know the density, the deadliness of it. It is your shroud. It may not paralyse them but it will cloak you like silent death.

You can’t shoot their chests. Ineffective.

But their heads are targets begging to be shot.

You straighten from your crouch and shoot upwards, the bullet knocking the nearest man in front of you straight in the jaw. Blood sprays and you shift out of the way. You grab his gun and others scatter, too worried to shoot in case they hit one another, but realising that you have no intention of coming quietly.

The city is on your side though. No wind reaches the deep concrete jungle street and your vapour holds strong and thick.

With two guns in hand, you turn and run.

Confusion, chaos, and two dead. It will buy you precious seconds of a head start.

You’re proud but not stupid, and not about to risk your life when you’re at such a disadvantage and running on fumes.

The Continental is a holy ground of your world. Your one and only safe haven. No one can touch you there or risk the wrath of the High Table. Your only hope right now.

There’s only a matter of getting there.

You tear through the street, ducking every once in a while and zigzagging just in case any more explosions are aimed your way.

As if that thought conjures a response, a custom made explosion sails over you and hits the ground ahead. You throw yourself to the side and the bang that follows is ear-splitting. Ducking behind a minibus, you answer with your own gunfire but only fire three shots—two hitting and one missing. You know the explosion was about slowing you down, cutting you off. You can’t afford them catching up to you.

And then, even worse, you see the blonde male coming at you with startling speed, his teeth bared as he decreases the distance between you.

You fire but he’s too far away and ducks to the side too.

Your lungs are on fire, your side feels like it’s splitting at the seams, and the knee you used to break the female’s arm quakes.

Despite that, you swallow your inability, your weakness, and leave your momentary shelter, dashing in the direction of the Continental.

You’re close. So close. Just around the corner and then it’s a straight line across the street.

A shot whistles past your ear and you stumble, crashing against a car heavily before unloading an entire clip of continuous fire. Three more masked figures collapse dead, and you throw the empty gun to the side, aiming with another.

Most of the attackers disperse under the threat of bullets and you dash forward again, occasionally firing over your shoulder to keep them at bay.

The Continental walls appear before you, looming and imposing as always, and for a second you choke on sheer relief.

It adds a new spark of life into you and you sprint across the street, the stitch in your side making it hard to breathe evenly. The piercing red uniforms of the doormen greet you, and you take it two steps at a time as you run up the stairs. You crash against the glass door and jerk to the side when a bullet smashes a window right next to your head. Turning around, you fire at the blonde following you, only to be greeted by the horrific click of an empty chamber.

You throw yourself forward, lowering your head as another shot misses you and hear one of the doormen collapse behind you, groaning in agony.

He’s not going to stop.

It’s a horrifying conclusion to arrive at, but you know in your gut that it’s the right one.

For injuring his lover, this man is willing to fire at you even while you stand on Continental grounds.

Slamming your shoulder against the door, you practically fall inside the hotel. The people in the foyer are all rod still, gaping openly at the commotion. But you pay them no heed, sprinting towards the nearest table where a flower vase stands and smashing it against the ground. You grip the largest, sharpest piece of ceramic, and aim the empty gun at the door where the blonde man forces himself inside with strength that makes the glass rattle.

His face splits into a beaming, pleased grin when he spots you and his gun rises immediately, aiming at you.

“Shoot me now, and you’re dead,” you gasp out, your words dripping with agony.

The blonde’s expression only appears more eager at your words, his dark eyes burning.

“I’m going to—”

“Can I help you, sir? A drink perhaps?”

You have never felt more relieved in your life to hear Winston’s smooth voice behind you. His crisp steps come closer and he passes you, coming to stand partially in front of you. He’s in a suit as always and appears completely calm despite the situation, his arms resting at his sides. Charon steps to your side as well and you almost collapse from relief right there and then.

“Move out of my way, pensioner,” the Lover snarls, his excited expression morphing into something dangerous, wild. “The snake is mine.”

You take a hobbling step towards Winston, your invisible hackles rising when the blonde doesn’t lower his gun.

Winston tuts, the sound irritated and displeased.

“Why I am sure that your grievance with dear Vipress is more than founded, I encourage you to remember that no business shall be conducted on Continental grounds,” he states, his words clear and direct; a polite warning. “So I will have to ask you to leave.”

“I said get the fuck out of my way!”

The man’s voice pierces through the deadly silent foyer and you go rigid, rising the sharp shard in your palm slightly. If he so much as tries to hurt Winston—

“Mhm, very well,” the older man remarks, sounding bored. “Let me reiterate that in a way you can understand, then. Either you get out of my hotel right now or I will have you removed. In a body bag.”

A hush falls over the foyer and then a shift.

You don’t need to turn around to hear numerous weapons being drawn. This entire foyer would gladly shoot the blonde for breaking the rules. In fact, the High Table might even reward them for it.

And more importantly than that, the Lovers are outsiders. You are New York. And every single person in this hotel would kill for you as you would for them. It’s a deep running respect and protectiveness for your own lot. New York governs itself. It’s a beast different from any other city and crime family out there.

It’s one of the most cutthroat cities there is.

But an attack on one is an attack on all.

The New York Continental is your home.

And right now you feel its protective embrace once again.

That realisation reflects back on the man’s face, his expression twitching. He looks enraged in an unstable, worrying way but his gun lowers slowly.

“This isn’t over,” he whispers but the foyer is so quiet he might as well have shouted it. His face slackens, his skin glistening with sweat as his dark eyes drill into you. A brief, off-kilter smile twitches his thin lips and you control a shiver. “No. For what you did to my love...I will have your head on a spike, Vipress. I will wear your skin as a trophy. It was personal before but now—now, you made it so much worse. The Black Dragon is coming for you. You and Santino D’Antonio are marked.”

His fingers go to a pocket on his vest cautiously and he pulls out a slim, dark card. He doesn’t drop his stare as he licks it leisurely and drops it to the ground.

Then he turns and wanders out of the hotel without so much as a backwards glance.

A breath rattles out of your lungs, hushed and strangled, and you hate the severity of exhaustion that wants to fold your knees right away. Charon reaches out as if to steady you but you jerk back, unable to hold back your instinctive response. He does not look offended by it but you still spare him an apologetic look.

Winston doesn’t turn around till the male Lover is gone from sight. He gestures for his staff to rush and check the injured doormen before he looks at you. His eyes sweep over your figure, taking in your terrible state and he sighs wearily, his gaze sharp and knowing.

“Making new friends, are we?”

You don’t have enough energy left in your body to answer him—not even a joke or a jibe.

That seems to be all Winston needs to determine where you’re at emotionally, if not physically.

“Come with me.”

The gauze tightens around your waist and you flinch, your jaw clicking.

“Do not move,” Doc chides for the third time in less than ten minutes, shuffling around you as he pulls on the material again. “It needs to be secure, you know that. Goodness me, you were lucky your ribs weren’t broken.”

“Yeah, lucky,” you mutter shortly, wincing again, and stare over Doc’s shoulder, trying to breathe. “Do you think—”

A commotion reaches your ears and you go taut, your mouth snapping shut at once. Your head snaps towards the closed door of Winston’s office as you try to determine what’s going on. Doc lowers your new shirt down and takes a cautious step back too.

Have the Lovers come back for more? What now?

“I apologise Mr D’Antonio but—”

“Get out of my way,” a too-familiar accented voice hisses, furious. “Where is she?”

“Miss Vipress is being seen to—”

“I asked you where is she,” Santino snarls and you hear steps coming closer. “Does Winston only employ incompetent idiots, hm? Fine. Get out of my way. Now.”

The office door slams open with a bang and Santino marches into the room, his body coiled with rage. His charcoal grey suit flows like a dark cloud around his body, and he halts once he notices you seated on the sofa. His expression drops and he takes a second to observe you before he cuts the distance between you. From the corner of your eye, you see Ares step into the room after him, shooting an irritated look at Charon who hovers in the doorway.

But you can’t look away from Santino. Because he wears an expression of that terrible calm and that’s always worrying. He doesn’t seem to notice Doc when he comes to stand in front of you, and the older man politely steps aside.

“Must you be this theatric?” you wonder calmly, but your voice sounds worn, lacking the usual teasing note. Santino says nothing. You breathe audibly through your parted lips before swallowing. You know what you look like: torn, bruised, bloody. It’s not too different from a state you were in seemingly a lifetime ago now. “You should see the other guys. They’re a mess.”

Still nothing.

“Say something,” you breathe, desperate but faint.

Santino’s expression twitches and you see the effort it takes him to keep his face unreadable. He reaches forward cautiously, his Rolex on display, and his fingertips brush against your chin gingerly, tilting your head slightly. His fingers are searing hot against your cooler skin and you hold back a shiver. His thumb traces a little patch of your skin gently, taking in the bruises and the scratches as well as your pinched expression with a rapt sort of grimness.

He asks only one thing, his voice terrible in its coldness. “Who?”

“The Lovers.”

It isn’t you who answers him. Your eyes swing towards the door where Winston now stands, his eyebrows arched as he observes the scene before him.

Santino doesn’t drop his hand right away.

His fingers linger as he continues gazing at you for another few moments. Then his hand drops and he straightens with that arrogant twitch of his mouth, his hands sliding into his pockets as he turns to face the older man. His open worry only moments ago is locked away and now only displeasure remains.

“The Lovers,” Santino repeats softly and tilts his head in consideration. Winston enters the room and goes for his bottle of brandy, pouring himself a generous amount. “Those French maniacs?”

“That,” you begin dryly, recalling their unhinged behaviour. “Is a very apt way of putting it.”

For once, Santino does not find whatever you said amusing. He only looks at Winston and his mouth twists; displeased, irritated.

“You allowed this to happen.”

Your lips part in shock. “Santino.”

“Allowed it?” Winston echoes flatly, looking towards the Italian. “Why Mr D’Antonio I was unaware that besides being a Camorra Spare you’re also a part-time comedian.”

Santino takes a step closer and one of his hands flies out of his pocket. He points at Winston, enraged, and you exhale tiredly with a roll of your eyes.

“Then how do you explain her being attacked at your hotel not once,” he spits out, barely controlled, and it only thickens his accent. “No, not once but twice, hm?”

The older man observes Santino with an emotionless expression before taking a slow swing of his drink. “Mr D’Antonio,” he begins as if talking to a child. “Need I remind you that if it weren’t for the very rules that govern this fine establishment, then we would be looking at far more severe consequences. Besides the attack itself happened outside the Continental grounds.”

“I want their heads.”

Winston gestures vaguely with his hand. “Be my guest,” he deadpans. “Though it seems to me like it’s you two that will be sought out by them. Care to explain this?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slim black card and shows it to you both.

An image of a curling dragon is imprinted deep into the card, its eyes slashed twice and snarling face smeared with two smudges of dried blood.

A calling card. A marking.

You and Santino D’Antonio are marked.

For death.

Santino’s head snaps in your direction, his arm finally lowering, and you meet his stare evenly. In his wild gaze, you see a thousand things and your lips press into an even firmer line. You feel Winston’s eyes burn holes into you and fight to keep your own expression straight.

“I assume you know what the Black Dragon is.”

His expression is stony and you don’t miss the scathing undercurrent in his words.

“Yes,” you say before Santino can no doubt offer something snarkier or provoking in reply. Your eyes connect again, an understanding—realisation—peering back at you. He knows what this is. What it means. “They’re janitors of the High Table. We know.”

Chicago.

Everything, always, inevitably, circles back to Chicago.

“My, my, so it’s not ignorance but stupidity that’s responsible for this,” Winston shoots back at once, his tone and stare cutting, and you see Santino scowl visibly, fighting to control his temper. “My next question then, if I may, is to ask what exactly you have done?”

You should tell him.

But Santino’s words from the warehouse attack halt your tongue.

We broke his precious rules. He will inform those who have the power to punish you.

If you tell Winston, he will be duty-bound to inform the High Table about a breach of rules. This way, at least, you can keep him in the dark and if worse comes to worst, he cannot be held accountable because he doesn’t know anything. You abhor the very idea, but you have no other choice. Not with how recent the Tarasov incident is.

You look back towards Winston again and give him a one-shoulder shrug, trying to appear casual, unbothered. “A situation gone wrong. We’ll sort it out.”

You don’t miss a flash of surprise that contorts Santino’s face briefly before he relaxes.

For a good reason too.

When it comes to these matters, you always take Winston’s side. Keeping things a secret puts a bad taste in your mouth.

A memory of a hotel room, a phone, a message, and a closing door pierces you suddenly, and you fiddle with your fingers.

“Honesty or nothing.”

You exhale sharply, your eyes flying to the older man’s serious face.

It’s an old agreement between you—one you swore to a long time ago. Either you tell each other the honest, unfiltered truth or nothing at all. No lies. It’s the one rule that you’ve always abided by. It’s likely the only reason why he also trusts you with any information at all. Over the years, you have proven yourself to be worthy of his trust. What he tells you stays between you.

Trust, in your world, is the rarest form of currency. You both know that.

For a tense moment you simply peer at each other, and then you offer him a lifeless, “Nothing.”

His expression hardens and he places the card on the table, more forceful than you’re used to seeing, and laces his hands in front of him.

“The Lovers are rabid,” he tells you and his head tilts as he glances from you to Santino and then back to you again. “They barely abide by the rule of the High Table. Being marked by the Black Dragon is even worse. Whatever it is you two did, I suggest you sort it out quickly.”

“Ah, rest assured, Winston, I will have Camorra hunt them down like dogs,” Santino states coldly, his hand sliding back inside his pocket as he peers at the manager with a faint sneer. “There is no place left for them where I won’t find them. È il mio cavallo di battaglia.”

Winston pulls a mock surprised expression. “Do you even have that power anymore, Mr D’Antonio? To command Camorra on a hunt like that?”

Haughtiness melts away from Santino’s expression at that and he notably hesitates.

He doesn’t.

As an heir apparent he would have had that power.

But as a Spare…

His influence now is minimal by comparison.

He may make a plea to Gianna if he believes his life is being threatened but there’s no guarantee she will offer help. Or care for that matter.

“It doesn’t matter,” you cut in when you see the way his expression crumbles, how those words hit exactly where it hurts. “They caught me off guard today. There will be no second time. They’ll be rotting corpses by the end of the week.”

Winston shakes his head, sighing, “You’re not dealing with your average street thugs, dear. You’re dealing with something that’s far above you.”

“And it doesn’t matter,” you say again, harsher, and he takes in the fierce twist of your mouth thoughtfully, considering. “I don’t give a shit who the Lovers are or what the Black Dragon wants. They come for any of us again and they die choking on their own blood.”

A brief glimmer of a smirk appears across the seams of Santino’s mouth but you ignore it.

Winston continues to watch you pensively but doesn’t look surprised by your venomous declaration.

“And your plan?” he prompts curiously, one eyebrow lifting in an open challenge.

Your eyes drift towards the man next to you whose green eyes are guarded when they meet your own, and you force yourself to smile. “The oldest in the book. Bait.”

The penthouse is eerily quiet as you stare at the New York skyline.

The dizzying display of lights twinkle in front of you, and you focus on them. Focus on counting in your head too. With every mental number, you inhale; small, controlled breaths that don’t strain the gauze wrapped firmly around your waist. Doc has been clear. Either you rest your overworked body or he will refuse to order you any new materials.

You didn’t think the old man was capable of blackmail, but then again, you both work with some of the most powerful people on the planet. To survive that, you need to be just as—if not more—cunning.

Santino has been on the phone for almost twenty minutes now, making phonecall after phonecall in the kitchen. The wild mix of different languages has blurred in your ears by this point and you let your mind drift as you stare outside.

You don’t know how you’re still standing.

Adrenaline is only temporarily useful and tends to leave you more exhausted than before.

It seems like you have hit a stage where your body simply refuses to shut down. Perhaps it’s a survival instinct, or perhaps it’s the knowledge that you’re being hunted.

Why they attacked you first and not Santino seems obvious at first glance.

You’re the easier target.

But maybe you’re underestimating the Lovers and whoever else is behind this. They were so organised, prepared—they’ve studied you. Perhaps the reason for such a focused effort to catch you off guard is because the exact opposite is true.

They consider you to be the deadlier of the two.

Your tongue runs unhurriedly over your teeth, and you frown at your blurry reflection. Copper burns your tongue, and you squeeze your eyes shut tightly, reminding yourself that it’s not real.

You’ve brushed your teeth and tongue three times but the taste of blood still won’t fade.

The skin on your neck tingles suddenly and you rub your hand against it, wincing at the sensitivity of it. You had scrubbed your shoulder and neck raw in the shower, wild with desperation to get the blood off your skin.

You could have stayed holed up at the Continental.

But hiding is not how you overcome your enemies.

No, you plan on finding them. Wherever they are.

Neither Santino nor Winston appeared too enthusiastic about your plan but they couldn’t argue your logic.

If the Lovers or the Black Dragon want you and Santino, they will have to come to you and collect.

No rules apply out in the open. For either party.

Forcing your mind to focus on that line of thought, you consider your options.

“Chicago, then.”

You blink out of your stupor, looking over your shoulder at Santino who approaches you leisurely. His suit jacket is off, leaving him in only a shirt and a vest but something about his gait worries you.

He reminds you too much of a caged animal.

For a man like him, being hunted—challenged—like this is insulting. You can feel the restless energy rushing through his veins from across the room.

“Chicago,” you agree lightly, and you stare at each other for a tense minute. “But why now? Why wait so long?”

That’s the one thing that’s been tripping you up. Every time you think about it, that’s the one fact that doesn’t seem to make any sense.

After Chicago, you both waited for months to see if anything would come of it. When nothing did, you both assumed that luck had been on your side. But what was it that Winston said? Luck always runs out?

Still, waiting almost four years seems a little extreme when on a quest for revenge.

“Oh, I have theories, cara,” he says but appears too distracted. His lips part and he comes to stand in front of you. “Are you in pain?”

You shake your head, smiling faintly. “Doc gave me stuff strong enough to numb a horse. I’ll be fine. You know I had worse while sparring. And theories?”

But Santino doesn’t look reassured by your words. He focuses on your neck and your hand drops away.

He clears his throat and glances out towards the city.

“Whoever is behind this likely waited to see if I would become the next head.”

Oh. It would make sense.

Camorra is power. Camorra is the second seat at the table—one of the oldest, founding families of the High Table. Their power is immense. Very few measure up. As a head, Santino would have been a near-impossible target. He could have unleashed hell with a snap of his fingers.

“And I believe that the reason they did not attack you sooner, amore,” he begins shrewdly, his eyebrows furrowing, and you read the fury there. “Is because of Tarasov.”

You let his words sink in and look away, nodding your head slightly. “Of course,” you mumble, and it feels ridiculously obvious now that he’s mentioned it. “I was Tarasov’s most prized possession. He might have sought out retribution if I mysteriously died. Not to mention the fact that the Russians have two seats at the table. They might have demanded that the Dragon is held accountable. But if I’m not attached to anyone…then my death is a clean sweep. No consequences.”

He nods and you exhale deeply, your head dipping tiredly, and he steps even closer.

“They will not touch you,” he states firmly, quietly, and his fingertips hover over your neck. His expression is strained and you reach out, pressing your thumb against the deep, harsh line between his brows. His frown eases immediately and a slight grin twists your mouth, faint but teasing. Your fingers drop away but his own hand catches yours and he presses your fingers to his cheek instead. “Are you still angry at me?”

His question is nothing more than a faint whisper, his gaze as heated as it is guarded, and you shake your head.

“No,” you tell him frankly. “But I do want to know why you did what you did.”

He presses into your palm, even while a sardonic smile twists his mouth. “You would have me weak before you, amore? Hmm? Is that it?”

“I would have you honest.”

The fingers holding your own to his face trail upwards, and he takes your forearm, pressing a lingering kiss against your inner wrist. Something inside your chest sparks to life at the heat of his lips on your skin. He holds your gaze the entire time and for a split second, you see his eyes flicker down. Down towards your lips. It only lasts a second before he blinks, and then his attention drifts back to you. He lowers your wrist from his face but doesn’t let go of your hand.

He regards you seriously, his hesitance clear before his lips finally part.

“All my life,” he begins, his voice thick with…something. Something that you can’t put into words but his tone, the look on his face, all wrap around your heart like a fist. “I’ve been told that I was born to rule Camorra. That it's my only goal and purpose in life. That like my father and his father before him, I will rule an empire. That I had to prove myself worthy of it. Oh, amore, you know very well how I obeyed. I killed, cheated, stole, slept and lied my way through every problem. There were no rules and no price too high to pay for power.”

He pauses and you stare at him as he swallows, working his jaw. His lips twist again but it’s not a smile, not quite. There is something raw about him like this, all vicious whispers and raging eyes.

“Ah, yes. I would have bled this world if it had meant getting that seat because without it—”

He breaks off and your lips thin with silent understanding.

Because without the seat, he feels like a failure. Like everything he’s done in his life has been for nothing. It’s a matter of adjusting to life after the goal—the dream—he’s been chasing for over thirty years is taken away.

Santino clicks his tongue and looks back at you. His green eyes roam over your features slowly and the look on his face—

“Then you came along,” he remarks mildly, and there is something arresting—downright intimate—about the way he gazes at you. This man—this wonderful, terrible man—who you’ve cursed, and laughed, and cried and bled with looks at you like you’re an answer to a lifelong prayer. Like it hurts to look at you but he still does it anyway. “Crashed right into my life, didn’t you, (Name)? And I wanted you from the moment I saw you, and every moment since then.”

His words are like hands around your throat.

They are divine, and they are terrible.

“Santino—”

“Hear me,” he insists, and his free hand comes to rest against the curve of your cheek; an anchor, a rope. “This is the truth you wanted from me, bella. And the truth is this: I lost the title, but I have no intention of losing you too. So, to answer your question from the other day…neither. I have no intention of choosing between you and Camorra.”

Because he wants everything.

Years ago, back when you first started working together on odd jobs now and again, you asked him what he wanted. Back when you felt nothing but mild disdain for him, his answer had come as no surprise.

“I want everything,” he had divulged to you through heavy cigar smoke and a devilish, self-assured smirk. “And I plan to take it. One way or another.”

Selfish, cruel man.

“Men like my brother are not capable of love. But if they find it, you will never be loved like that again.”

Gianna had warned you.

You pull away from him, half-turning as his hands drop away from you, and glance back at him.

He doesn’t look surprised.

He never does anymore.

What, if anything, can you offer in response to that?

“We—” you choke on your words—on the excuses, the insecurities, the lies that would be easier to tell—and clear your throat weakly, trying and failing to get rid of the lump there. “We should prepare…for…if it comes to war…”

“Call in your life debt.”

Something cold settles in the pit of your stomach. It washes away the simmering heat, numbs the quiver in your heart.

Your head snaps to him so quickly, you feel the awful sting of pain slice through your nerves.

“What?”

But Santino only stares at you with that uncompromising, stubborn expression. The heir of Camorra stands before you; all business and sharp edges, unreasonable.

“Go to him and demand payment,” he voices coolly and tugs casually on one of his shirt sleeves with a tilt of his head, all arrogance. “Get the infamous Boogeyman to do something useful for once. Hm? Get him to repay for all you have done for him.”

“No.”

It comes out quicker and harsher than you intended. But the image of John’s grief twisted expression burns behind your eyelids, and you shake your head again. He’s out. It’s over. Let him live a peaceful life with his dog, away from all of this. You’re not about to drag him back into this life over your mistakes while he’s trying to grieve his dead wife and oldest friend.

Enough.

He’s had enough. There’s only so much you can push a person before something cracks and breaks permanently.

You would know.

Santino’s lips curve and he chuckles, breathless, but the look in his eyes is downright vicious.

“And why not, cara mia?” he demands, his voice almost melodic with its bitterness. “Why not?”

“He’s retired,” you force out but you can tell right away that for Santino it won’t be enough. He has resented John for too long for that to be valid reasoning. “He’s out.”

“Not good enough.”

Something flickers across his features then. A slow, halting thing that stills his usually animated body. His expression chips away till only terrible, focused intent remains. He closes the distance between you and reaches for you, for your neck, for the chain that rests against your throat.

“Don’t,” you plead weakly, and hurriedly wrap your fingers around his, halting him. He looks up at you, and you feel like you’re going to be sick. “Please—”

He jerks the chain upwards, freeing it from under your shirt and the weight at the end of the chain slides down till it bumps against his fingers.

It’s so still that you can hear your heartbeat hammering in your ears.

You can’t breathe. It has nothing to do with the pain or the bandages, and everything to do with the calm emptiness with which Santino observes John’s ring resting on the chain.

He doesn’t look surprised to see it.

Almost like he knew. Perhaps he always has.

But how do you begin to explain it?

How do you explain to him that the only two precious things you’ve ever owned are always with you this way? Close to your heart.

The silver viper rests against his folded fingers and you grip his hand. “I—”

“Do you still love him? Is that it?”

His soft question seizes your heart.

“No.”

He’s silent for a beat.

“I wish…” he murmurs gently, and looks up at you, his gaze empty. “I wish I believed that.”

He lets go, allowing the ring to fall back against your chest and turns to go.

Wanting to believe in someone should be enough.

Wanting to love someone should be enough.

But it isn’t.

It isn’t.

. . .

an: and now you know what happened to John’s ring :D

A few of you have asked questions about it but I’ve very purposely avoided answering anything for the sake of this reveal. I mean she wears it for multiple reasons but you can only imagine how it looks from Santino’s POV.

So we’re beginning a major story arc so strap yourselves in, the fun is just starting :D And, as always, your support.....I’ve missed you guys skdjfhsd thank you so much for being so understanding! <33 all your comments, theories, fanart...wowowow. you’re all incredible.

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

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herofics · 4 years ago

Text

Love in the fire rewrite

So Idk how many of you have read my first fic, but this is a rewrite of that. I cringe when looking at the first version, but I really wanted to make it better so this is my attempt at that. You can find the original here. I’ve never done a rewrite so Idk if I’m doing this right, but hey, it’s my fic I can do what I want with it. Also gender neutral reader in this version. If you compare this one to the original, I feel like you can also see that I write Bakugou differently, since so much time has passed and there has been a lot of character development between then and now.

Here is the description of the reader’s quirk: So basically it’s a fire healing quirk and I based this on the way a classic phoenix works. So the reader can burst out in flames and have great healing powers. Their tears can heal others and they can heal themselves at night. The wounds start burning and it’s really painful but it’s also super powerful. The bigger healing stuff happens at night, but smaller wounds repair pretty quickly. The quirk can’t regrow lost limbs or stuff like that, so you can kill them by suffocation, beheading and major blood loss, but it has to be a lot of blood.

It all happened in a blink of an eye. You hitting the ground, the villain looming over you with his blade and Bakugou turning around just in time to see the villain bring the blade down to your shoulder. The villain ripped the jagged blade out of your shoulder and brought it down again and again. You could see what was happening, you even struggled against it, but you didn’t feel any pain, which you thought to be very odd. The only thing you really felt, was that warm, wet feeling of your blood spreading through your clothes, an unfortunately familiar feeling for you.

Bakugou was terrified for you, the pain you must have been in, the terror you must have felt. He was trying to get to you, but the other villains kept getting in his way. Bakugou was blasting them away left and right, but there seemed to be no end to them. He knew you wouldn’t die because of your quirk, but that knowledge surely didn’t make it any easier for either of you.

However, you didn't feel any pain, none at all, you felt like you were on the verge of passing out, but it just never happened. The villain seemed to finally get bored of stabbing an unresisting body, and left to attack Bakugou. With the last of your strength, you grabbed the man’s ankle. Your grip was very weak, but enough for him to notice something was holding him back. The villain looked down on you, almost with pity in his eyes, but that was soon replaced by enraged glee. He knelt down and with one final swing, he plunged the knife into your wrist. The pain hit you like a lighting bolt. It was like all the pain you hadn’t felt in the moments before, came down on you, it felt like you would be in pain forever. You weren’t even yelling, you were just gasping for air.

“Oh, finally my quirk wore off” he said and clapped excitedly. “It’s a pain amplifier, if you were wondering. It reserves the pain for a while and then hits you with all of it at once, wonderful isn’t it?” he laughed.

Bakugou was probably the most angry he had ever been, but he also felt incredibly helpless. He couldn’t get to you, the one he loved and was supposed to protect. Then it pierced the air, your scream. He looked towards you and saw you writhing and screaming on the ground. At that moment he didn’t give a shit if he put someone in a coma for the rest of their life. He would do anything to make sure you would get out of this alive, so he bulldozed his way through the group of villains in front of him.

“Die you fucking bastards! Get the hell out of my way!” he yelled.

When he finally managed to clear all the villains out of his way, he ran to you, he ran as fast as he could. When he got to your trembling form, he realized how badly you were hurt, the amount of blood around you was immense. You had stopped making any kind of noise and were now just trembling on the ground. Bakugou picked you up and started running towards the school, he knew the only one who could ease the coming night for you was Recovery Girl, and he feared even she wouldn’t be much help. When he finally got to the school, you had fallen terrifyingly limp in his arms. He ran straight into Kirishima in his frenzied state.

“Bakugou? What the hell happened? Why do they look like that?” Kirishima asked, with clear panic in his voice.

“Move!” Bakugou growled at his friend and kept running.

When he finally reached the nurse’s office, he threw the door open. Recovery Girl jumped a little at the sudden noise, but when the elderly lady noticed what Bakugou was carrying, she jumped down from her chair and hurried to him.

“Lay them on the bed” she said while pointing to her right. “I’ll start the treatment immediately”

Bakugou was quiet, which was quite uncommon for him. He was seething with anger, sure, but he also felt helpless, it wasn’t a new feeling for him, but one he hated. He watched quietly as Recovery Girl finished with her treatment. When the elderly lady turned to him with a pained look on her face, he knew, he knew what you would have to endure tonight.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help them. I’m familiar with their quirk and I am sorry they have to go through that again”

“No! No!” Bakugou yelled and hit the table at the end of your bed, denting it. “You were supposed to help!”

“I did what I could. You are aware of their quirk, yes? I know it will be hell tonight, but they will be alright”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks for nothing” he hissed.

Bakugou was ushered to the corridor, while Recovery Girl and another nurse cleaned your wounds and stitched and bandaged you up. He was sitting on the floor and banging his head against the wall behind him. When Recovery Girl stepped to the hallway, she told Bakugou she would inform the principal of what had happened. He was allowed back in the room, but he should avoid unnecessarily touching you.

You looked so pale laying there laying there. You were breathing very shallowly and you looked like you could drop dead at any moment. He knew what the next night would hold for you. That unbearable pain of your quirk putting your body back together, wound by wound, cell by cell. He hadn’t seen it himself, but you had told him about it before. The last time your quirk had to activate and heal you, he could hear the screaming outside the school building and he had been nowhere near the nurse’s office at the time.

Bakugou sat down next to your bed. He felt tired now that all the adrenaline had worn off and he hated it. He hated that he wasn’t able to spare you from the pain to come. Someone opened the door and the little noise it made, made Bakugou look up from you. It was that damn Deku and the rest of the extras.

“Get the hell out!” he yelled at them, but none of them listened.

Most of the class bursted into the room, speaking frantically and asking Bakugou what had happened. He hated the thoughts these people brought with them. Not the fact that your friends had come to see you but the fact that it made him think like this. Like anyone else could’ve saved you on time.

“Bakugou, what happened?” Todoroki asked, bringing him out of his thoughts.

Bakugou hated himself the second the words left his lips, but he said them anyway. “It’s their own damn fault that they can’t look out for themselves. I’m not their fucking protector” But he should be, right? He was allowed to be.

“You know what the next night is going to be for them right?” Midoriya asked, with worry in his voice.

“I fucking know, can everyone stop asking me that. Now get the fuck out, all of you!” Bakugou yelled.

None of them moved to leave. None of them cared that Bakugou was yelling his lungs out, telling them to leave. Everyone was worried for you, and when Bakugou finally stopped yelling, he stomped towards the door, and slammed it shut behind him. Midoriya was sure it would break from the force of the impact, but nothing happened.

Bakugou had left, and no one knew where he had gone. He couldn’t even look at you anymore, he couldn’t bear to watch what was going to happen, so he roamed around the city, trying to find the one who had done this to you, since it had come to his attention that the main villain had gotten away from the police. He was working pretty much on instinct, running around the back streets and alleyways near the crime scene, but he found nothing. He found no one, and all he could do was yell at the evening sky.

When Bakugou was making his way back to the school, it was almost dark, the sun had almost set and he knew it was almost time. He had decided he wouldn’t be with you. You probably didn’t want him there anyway, it was his fault that you were about to go through so much pain, he wasn’t able to help you on time, he wasn’t able to prevent this. He knew it wasn’t his fault that you had decided to protect him from the villain, but he was convinced it was his fault that he wasn’t able to help you.

He was walking towards the dorms when it started, the screaming. He knew it was you, who else could it really even be. He knew that the pain you had felt hours before was nothing compared to your body healing. He couldn't bear to listen to it. He just wanted to make your pain stop. Before he even realized it, he was sprinting towards school doors, towards you. He had just decided he wouldn't go to you, but there he was, running to you, always to you.

When he got to the nurse’s office, everyone had left, all except for one. Deku was still there, holding your hand and trying to calm you, but it was in vain. Bakugou rushed to the other side of the bed and took your other hand to his, giving Deku a bit of a death glare, which he took as his cue to leave.

You were screaming, or at least you thought you were, you couldn’t really be sure, since all you could hear was the humming and roaring of the flames as they healed you. That was your quirk, that was your healing fire, extremely useful, but incredibly painful. You had hated this side of your quirk for as long as you could remember. The fact that it healed little wounds and bruises with almost no pain and no time at all was useful, but when you got seriously hurt, it was hell. There was only really one good side to your quirk that you had found, your tears could heal others, but that was about it. The healing would’ve been much easier if you could’ve at least passed out, but your quirk wouldn’t even allow that, it was merciless in its intensity.

You could feel someone holding your left hand, the person was saying something, but you couldn’t hear it over the humming in your ears. Your vision was blurry and unfocused, but you could make out colors. You saw a head of green hair, so you assumed it was Midoriya. He has stayed with you, even though you really wouldn’t have wanted him to. You hated when people saw you like this. Then there was another moving shape in your field of vision, this one was blond. Then someone grabbed your right hand, and squeezed it tightly. The hands that were now holding your right hand were soft, but you could feel scars on them. The grip on your left hand disappeared. You assumed your angry to boot boyfriend had kicked Midoriya out.

Now there were just the two of you. You, writhing in agony on the bed and Bakugou holding your hand. At some point you realized he was talking to you, very loudly. At first you couldn’t make out what he was saying, but since he kept repeating the same thing, you eventually figured it out.

“Everything is gonna be fine! You hear me you fuckin idiot?!”

And that’s how the night went, him holding your hand and you feeling like it was all some surreal fever dream. At some point in the very early hours of the morning your screams had dwindled into just occasional whining and groaning. You knew Bakugou was there with you, he hadn’t let go of your hand the whole time, but it was all a bit of a blur. What you could remember best was his red eyes, and the tears that streaked down his cheeks.

The morning finally came and the flames were gone, leaving behind dozens of light scars and you out of breath and sweaty. The fire had melted away the special stitches, but the fireproof bandages remained, and you were covered with them.

You looked at Bakugou, who squeezed your hand and got up, heading for the door.

“Katsuki? Where are you going?” you asked shakily and sat up.

“I don’t fuckin know, somewhere other than here” he said.

“Don’t you dare leave me alone right now, you were here all night, so please… don’t leave me now” you pleaded, holding back tears.

“Why the fuck do you want me here? If you had just taken care of yourself, none of this would’ve happened, you wouldn’t have had to go through this shit… because of me”

“You think this is your fault?” you asked quietly. “Just… come here Katsuki”

Bakugou walked back to you, but he didn’t raise his head to face you. He didn’t want to look at you, he couldn’t. You had been so badly hurt, and he was to blame for not helping you in time.

“I… I’m so sorry” he said, his voice wavering.

You were a tad confused. Of course it had crossed your mind that he would find a way to blame himself, but he seemed seriously distraught.

“Why the hell aren’t you saying anything?” he growled, his voice now mostly back to normal.

He was now looking at you, he was finally looking at you again. He looked angry, but there was also something else shadowing his face, it was sadness. Your Katsuki looking sad was quite new to you.

“What am I supposed to say? I don’t understand why you’re apologizing to me in the first place” you answered, taken aback by his pained expression.

“Like I fucking said, it’s my damn fault you had to go through that. If I was just stronger, you’d be fine”

“Oh nononono. The only person whose fault this is, is that damn asshole who stabbed me. So don’t you dare even consider that this was your fault”

He didn’t really know what to say so he just kept looking at you. Your eyes, your shoulders, your arms, all those scars scattered across your upper body, that your shirt wasn’t hiding. He reached his hand towards your shoulder, stopped before actually touching you.

“Can I” he asked.

“Sure, they might still be a bit warm though” you smiled.

“You know I’m no good at talking, so I’m probably mostly gonna shut up after this, but I promise to find the bastard who did this to you, and beat them senseless” he huffed.

“Don’t go overboard, I don’t want you to end up in prison” you chuckled.

“Fuck that, I’m never gonna be away from you again you idiot” he scoffed.

“Well that’s good to hear” you said with a smile.

Bakugou loved your smile. It was so bright and warm. He moved from the chair to your bed to sit next to you and pulled you closer. He started kissing your neck and shoulders very gently. He laid you down on the bed so he was on top of you and you slipped your hands into his hair and pulled on them a bit, so he’d lift his head to face you. You kissed him on the lips. The kiss was rough, as it usually was with him, but it was also gentle. He didn’t want to push you after the hellish night you’d had but he wanted you. Your lips parted as he moved his back to your neck and started peppering kisses down your neck to your chest. Bakugou was always careful not to hurt you or make you uncomfortable, but he also took what he wanted, as long as you were willing to give.

You bit his ear very gently and whispered to him: “I love you Katsuki, remember that”

“I love you too” he panted, with his face buried in your neck. “And I never want to see you hurt again”

“Can’t make any promises on that” you chuckled.

Bakugou lifted his head to look at you, straight in the eyes. He had a serious expression on his face and he said: “Don’t fuckin joke about that”

“Guess I need someone to protect me when I get in trouble then” you smirked mischievously.

“Guess so” he said and kissed you again.

Bakugou swore he would never let you get hurt again, not if it was up to him.

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