#i feel like the game day should count as several rides. it was four hours of nonsense

[whywishesarehorses]

Ahh I fell so far behind on my blogging about rides. Our game day with holiday themed western gymkhana games was a blast. Thea was a saint for all my getting on and off and leaving her and putting other people on her and doing wild stuff. She ran a 20 second barrel time too!! That happened to be ride 125 which I'm pleased about

Since then I've had two bareback rides on cold days, one sans any tack at all, and one around the property

[the-darklings]

—𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒉 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆;

—PART XVIII. | THE TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wish to see him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keep him safe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s exactly the point though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fourth doesn’t move.

Here we go.

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

The closer they come, the tenser the air becomes.

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

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

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

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

Click, click, click.

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

The sharpshooter stands by his side, frowning faintly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can’t see him.”

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

“I have the right—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Winston has to bite back a small smile. Perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I will be in my room.”

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

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

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

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

“Gentlemen.”

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

Conversation over.

Fine by him.

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

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

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

Winston sighs, his shoulders dropping.

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

The concierge straightens, his hands folded behind his back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What will you do now, little hatchling?

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

He comes to a gradual stop.

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

Every breath takes notable effort.

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

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

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

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

“Drink.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why have you come?”

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

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

It’s him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here you are.”

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

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

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

A part of you…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What have they done to you?”

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

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

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

Do not let that fire consume you.

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

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

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

You swallow. Then again.

“You’re wearing it.”

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

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

It doesn’t explain much yet it explains everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is that supposed to mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I did not—”

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

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

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

How? Why would he even think—

The High Table would have—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” you exhale shakily.

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

So that’s why.

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

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

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

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

He knows. He’s known for weeks now.

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

Helplessness closes in and your eyes sting.

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

“What now?”

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

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

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

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

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

“But?”

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

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

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

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

You saved them, and you would never regret that.

“Is this love?”

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

He didn’t specify who the love is for.

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it that you want from me?”

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

“You want me to stay.”

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

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

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

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

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

“For how long?”

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

Because of course you know.

“For life,” you choke out.

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

Just no one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t help though.

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

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

The Elder hesitates. “A week.”

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

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

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

“And what bargaining power do you have?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

What would Winston do if he were here right now?

There is only one option, really.

Just the one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No time for that now.

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

And that’s exactly it.

Lose everything.

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

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

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

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

People like us don’t get happy endings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No turning back now.

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

“I accept.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In that freedom, you have unearthed a simple truth.

“Yes.”

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

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

“I always do.”

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

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

You both got what you wanted.

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

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

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

“Everyone but you.”

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

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

Cruel as he is kind.

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

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

Your mouth still burns but you ignore it.

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

E4 E5.

The roar inside your head is overpowering.

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

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

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

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

What have you done?

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

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

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

There’s too much to do. 

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

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

The taste of him is still in your mouth. 

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

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

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

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

Three months will have to be enough to…

To say goodbye. 

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

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

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

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

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

The Elder has once again thought of everything. 

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

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

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

It’s quiet. 

The roar inside your mind has quietened. 

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

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

“John.”

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

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

“V.”

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

Are you okay? 

Are you hurt?

What happened?

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

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

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

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

Your mouth goes dry. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He. The Elder. 

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

I can do this. 

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s wrong?” 

Still, he says nothing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly you feel sick all over again. 

Suddenly all you want—

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

John adores Helen still, loves her deeply. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?”

“It’s...”

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

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

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

“What about him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He answers you honestly.

“I don’t know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wish it didn’t have to be this way?”

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

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

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

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

“Do I wonder what?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grounding your jaw, you offer the assassin beside you a calm, “I’ll see you back at the Continental.”

John turns back towards you. He doesn’t look particularly thrilled at your words, a question hanging in the air around him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you say, unfazed. You pat his arm once as you pass; an old, routine gesture you haven’t done in years. “Tell Winston to get my favourite ready. He’ll know the one.”

You brush past them both, chin slanted at a higher angle. It’s late afternoon by now with the sun starting to dip towards the dunes. The air is still sweltering despite that, and a robed man waiting outside the tent gestures mutely in the direction he wants you to head in. 

You find the Elder at the edge of the camp, his presence a beacon that draws attention effortlessly. 

You pause at the sight of him, your shoes sinking into the golden sand beneath. He stares out towards the desert like you’ve seen him do a thousand times, and you wonder if he’s thinking about what you asked him years ago. Another ordinary night by the fire over your shared meal. 

Why not leave again? Why live in a desert? 

It is my duty. 

So you’re a prisoner of your own status? That seems lonely. 

And with his gaze focused on the fire instead of you, he had given you a simple yet serene response, Not anymore. 

Swallowing thickly, you stand there unmoving, watching him for a while. Something tells you that he’s as aware of you as you are of him. 

Loneliness is not unfamiliar to you. It’s a close companion. Has been for years. 

But you’ve found an escape. People to call your own. A sense of belonging.

He hasn’t. 

“It is peaceful here,” he speaks up suddenly, startling you. “Even as a boy, I loved the desert despite its cruelty. I have grown up appreciating its deadly beauty. Have learned to respect it and admire it.”

“Nothing about death is beautiful.”

A brief chuckle flows through the air and he turns to face you, his expression open, his stare narrowed but inquisitive as always. His laced fingers rest against his chest.  

“Your mind has been sorely missed, viper.”

The longing in those words brushes against your skin and mouth; an invisible kiss, an appreciation. 

You imagine that will change one day soon. 

Though it would be a lie to say that you, too, have not missed your discussions. The way you could submerge yourself in conversations with him completely. Lose yourself in his mind and the challenge he constantly posed. 

“You wished to see me.”

Your words sound lifeless even to your own ears and his expression drops. He strolls closer while you stand rooted in your spot. Something is different about him now. He’s missing that edge he had when he saw you earlier. That desperation. Desire. Near darkness. 

He’s more controlled now. At ease. Back to the man you knew. Earlier he gave into his desire freely, and you suspect it was only due to long years separating you. 

“I’m tempted to come with you,” he divulges quietly, like sharing one more secret, and a shiver tears down your spine at those words. He pauses, exhaling, and twists his ring on his finger for seemingly a hundredth time. You didn’t realise earlier how habitual touching it had become for him. “But I do not wish to take this time away from you. So, ya amar, I present you with this.”

From between the folds of his extravagant robes materialises a golden dagger. Your breaths grow shaky before you force them back into a steady rhythm, lifting your eyes to his. 

“It’s the same one,” you say weakly, your tone questioning. “From before.”

The Elder nods and holds out the dagger in the palm of his hand. It’s the same one he tried to give to you during your first stay here, after your sparring session.   

Same stunning, elegant design laced with gold around the handle. Black sheath edged by crusted golden detail as well. 

“Each of my disciples receives a weapon from me personally upon their initiation,” he tells you, his voice soft and melodic, always happy to sate your curiosity. “This one...is special to me,” his voice lowers, a glimmer passing through his eyes that’s gone too soon to decipher. “It is not official yet but I had hoped that one day it will serve you better than it has me.”

He waits for you to take it but you hesitate, staring at it. Your hand hovers over it, outlining the shape of it with your nail. 

You can still taste him. Like he’s rooted himself inside you now. 

“You told me that you understood me,” you begin cautiously, your voice equally as low. “Understood the vengeance that drove me. How?”

The Elder examines you closely. A pregnant pause stretches between you and you begin to think he will never respond before he finally reaches out. He grasps your hand in his, turning it till your palm faces the sky, and places the dagger deliberately into it. Watching you keenly, he carefully folds your fingers around it, not releasing your hand even when he’s done. 

A faint whisper passes his full lips—and you recognise Darija even if you don’t understand it—but it strikes you as…sad. Plagued with some nameless darkness. 

“One day,” he starts huskily, now in accented English, and you can’t quite read his expression or tone. But it’s some bizarre mix you’ve never seen before. A strain and a shadow all at once while he looks you over. “If you still wish it, I will tell you everything.”

The weight and the finality behind that word makes you shift, uneasy. You’re not sure if there will even be tomorrow—much less one day. 

But before you can voice that, the Elder lifts your joined hands, pressing his mouth gingerly against your skin; a fleeting flutter that warms the flesh. 

“Let this be a token of our shared promise to one another.”

He takes one last look at you, his dark gaze inscrutable, and then you’re left alone with only setting sun for company. 

The dagger in your hand feels like an anchor, and you tip your head backwards, gazing up at the expanse of the sky above. 

The subway doors hiss open and you lift your head, stepping out onto the platform with other passengers. You’ve spent the majority of the journey here staring at the soles of your shoes, your mind splintering in a thousand directions.

There’s too much to do with time so limited.

Your return to New York had been by air. The Elder’s decision, taking into consideration how you felt about water travel.

It’s funny how you didn’t even need to voice such a thing for him to understand it. For him to make sure that the journey back is as painless as possible.

You’re not sure how John travelled but he did leave first, meaning he should be back in New York already. Until you arrive at the Continental, however, you have no way of knowing for sure.

The fierceness with which you’ve missed your home makes your shoulders lock as you cut through the bustling crowd. It should be said that Grand Central is always busy and overflowing with noise. Today is no exception to that. But you’re still a person at the very top of the Wanted list, so you keep your eyes peeled.

Instinctually, you scan the flow of the crowd around you. Strain every sense. Employ everything you’ve learned from some of the best in this world.

Step by step, turn by turn, staircase by staircase.

This time, he doesn’t catch you off guard.

The mob of people flows around you like a coursing river, hiding you both as you jerk to a mutual stop.

The grip on your wrist is unyielding, painful. The sharpened metal between your fingers trembles under the strain of that grip, and your expression mangles with fury. Acidic, poisonous emotion bubbles up to the surface and you don’t bother hiding it.

The man before you smiles at that—a slight but lovely thing—every micro-expression laced with fine malice.

“Hello, Lucien.”

You stand close enough to be touching, his thin frame still managing to cover your own. Your jaw has become a rigid mass as you glare up at him with open hostility.

“There you are, snakey,” he hums pleasantly, his thin mouth transforming into a slow, chilling smile. You try to push the blade you’re holding into his gut but his numbing grip remains. “I’ve been waiting for you to return. Has he missed you much?”

A couple of friends pass right by you, laughing loudly, and you both jerk again; limbs locking and muscle straining further. Neither of you manages to gain more edge on the other though and Lucien’s smile stretches further.

“And I knew you would find me,” you snarl coldly, your eyes narrowing into slits. “I wanted you to find me.”

Knocking his knee with your own, you swipe another blade free and aim it at him. Lucien pushes himself into you in reply, wrapping his arm around yours and halting you in your tracks. The blade scratches against the sleeve of his black jacket, cutting into it, but it doesn’t break skin past that. He yanks you closer, your bodies pressing against each other. You’re both practically embracing. Your limbs a joined, trembling mass from the sheer friction between you.

It’s a deadlock and you’re too evenly matched.

You’ve been waiting for this chance. For the chance to return the slight that was taking you and wasting precious hours for you over a week ago. Now that you know Santino’s choice is you—that you could have avoided this whole mess in the first place had you just had enough time to talk with him—it only makes you more furious.

You’ve been waiting for Lucien to catch up with you.

This time, however, he’s not the hunter, catching unsuspecting prey.

Baring your teeth, you snarl, wrenching yourself back—

And freeze.

Lucien’s coat parts and this close up a blinking red light catches your eye. As does the beeping your ears hadn’t previously picked up with all the noise.

Lucien’s smile turns downright predatory.

“All these sweet little angels...” he remarks in a sing-song voice, pointedly looking around the crowd, his accent just a little more notable. “Ready to watch them all burn?”

A portable bomb.

You should have known.

There’s no doubt enough packed in it to blow half the building, if not more. He would likely delight in the idea of the carnage even he’s not alive to see it himself.

Your features creasing at that thought, you demand an incredulous, “You would kill yourself just to see me die?”

“I’m already dead,” he replies blankly, the tilt of his voice emotionless. “After all I’ve done, it’s not about survival anymore. It’s about me....and you. And one last dance between us.”

You’re not going to play his games. Despite the confusion his words birth, you only allow a chilly, tepid smile to grace your face. Mocking him openly.

“Then catch me if you can.”

You sweep your foot under his legs. Swift and brutal. Lucien doesn’t fall but he does stumble half-a-step back, and you rip yourself out of his grip, dashing through the throng of people.

You’re not running blindly.

He enjoys the chase and you know he will follow but it’s not fear or desperation leading you this time.

People curse and holler as you shove them out of your way, throwing a few purposely in Lucien’s path. You don’t slow down to check if he’s following.

Every trained instinct in your body is screaming at you that he is.

You should have known he would try to use the people at the station against you. Use your close proximity to each other against you too. He’s learned of the dangers you pose at close combat.

But he’s not the only one to have learned something from your previous encounters.

Focused entirely on your rapidly forming plan, you tear out of Grand Central, the cool air of New York greeting you like an old friend.

Streets blur around you and your heart pumps inside your chest as you round the corner, stumbling. Wind beats against your cheeks and you ignore your harsh breaths, leading Lucien deeper into the heart of the city.

And it’s not his city.

You know every nook and cranny of this concrete anthill.

Skidding and stumbling, you throw yourself behind a building wall, pressing your back against it.

Your lungs quiver, heart pumping, and throat aching from the outright sprint you’ve just done.

Lucien should assume the obvious.

That you’re leading him back to the Continental at neck-breaking speed. As you did once before. And you are but not just yet. There’s something you have to handle first.

It takes no longer than ten seconds for the commotion to explode from the direction you just came from. Just as expected.

Lucien’s pounding footsteps reach your ears and your arch your back, readying yourself.

A smear of golden hair enters your vision and you throw yourself at him, slashing at his side.

No wires attached to the bomb that you saw. The Lovers are too sophisticated for anything as inelegant and rudimentary as that. Which makes this bomb either remotely detonatable or Lucien has other means by which to set it off.

Which then means that all you need to do is to rip that portion of his coat off him.

You’re not about to lead him back to your home with a bomb on him.

Lucien crashes onto the concrete sidewalk heavily, you on top of him. His knee drives into your gut and you wince, your fingers tangling into his jacket so he doesn’t slip out of your grip. You manage to hold on, hacking against the coarse material wildly. His features contort, realisation as to what you’re trying to do sinking in.

He throws a punch at you but you duck, ignoring his fingers when they sink into your hair, trying to yank you off him. People around you scream as you roll across the concrete, scattering the moment they realise you’re armed.

You have no intention of killing Lucien outright.

He deserves to reap the consequences of his actions just like the rest of you. If there’s anyone who deserves to be punished for all of this, it’s him. And you will see to it. Lead him back to the Continental and trap him inside like a rat in a maze.  

See what the Black Dragon does when you offer their little pet as a sacrificial lamb for the High Table.

He yanks on your hair but you swipe upwards, scratching your blade against his skin and he barks a laugh. Few droplets of blood slide down his porcelain skin and you stumble back, staggering onto your feet.

Lucien’s jacket is in tatters and he grabs it, yanking it off himself, and throws it carelessly to one side. You tense when it hits the ground but nothing happens. You’re not quite sure if it’s just that durable or if it was a fake-out—both seem equally as likely. “You’re no fun,” he pouts, watching his hand curiously. Ruby droplets well where you have torn into his skin, and he swipes his tongue across the skin lazily, unconcerned. “But fair enough.”

“You and me,” you grit out, glaring down at him as you back up, rolling the blade between your digits with expert ease. He stretches to his full height, too, towering, cracking his neck as he does so. “Let’s dance.”

You peel away, him a second behind you. You know how fast he is and pump your legs till the muscles in your thighs burn from exertion.

You’re surprised he’s not trying to shoot you like last time but maybe that’s the point. He doesn’t want a quick death for you just like you don’t want to kill him till he’s been punished.

Night blurs around you and your eyes narrow in concentration, keeping ahead but just barely. You can hear him right behind you, practically breathing down your neck.

Motorcycles suddenly rev behind you but you don’t dare to risk turning around to check. There’s more than one engine. Which doesn’t bode well for you.

Leaping down the stairwell, you cut through an underground pass. The tunnel amplifies every sound and you hear Lucien’s pounding footsteps behind you. He’s gaining on you.

Sweat clings to the back of your neck, your cheeks stinging from heat and the cold alike.

You take three steps at a time, jumping up the staircase on the other side of the tunnel in a manner of seconds. It takes several moments before motorcycles sound from behind you again—they clearly know the route enough to know about the shortcuts—but you don’t let it shatter your concentration.

The staircase of the Continental appears in your vision, so dear and welcoming—

A weight slams into you from behind and you wince as you both roll across the ground; a wild tangle of limbs.

Scrambling, you punch him right across the jaw before he can get a solid grip on you. Your knuckles twinge with pain but it barely registers. Lucien’s head snaps to the side but he manages to grab your wrists, pinning them to the ground, before you can yank a blade loose.

You drive your knee into his ribs. Once, twice.

Lucien takes it like he can hardly feel it. Teeth gleaming, bared. His grip tightens on you again—there will be bruises there tomorrow without a doubt—and you roll in a mangled mess once more. Two animals snapping their teeth at each other. The motorcycles draw closer down the street and you squirm when he tries to pin you down again. For being so thin, his strength is impressive. Worrying.

He wants to play games. But you’re far, far more furious than he is.

Your head cracks against his forehead, momentarily blinding and deafening you. Lucien falls back. Wobbling, you do the same. Everything is static noise—one moment, two, then you force yourself to move. Vision swimming, you kick at his abdomen blindly. There’s contact and rolling onto your stomach, you hurriedly scramble onto your feet.

A roar of engines hums through the night air, closing in, and you leap onto the stone stairs ahead of you, gripping onto the concrete.

Safe haven. Home.

Your head slants to look behind you; a victorious, vicious smile spreading across your face even though your forehead hums with numbing pain.

Lucien approaches slowly, a hunter on a prowl. His slick back hair is in a disarray. Flecks of his own blood splattered across his face.

He looks murderous despite the deformed smile still splintering his mouth.

Motorcycles come to a stop behind him and you recognise those dark uniforms anywhere. Black Dragon’s men—just as you suspected.

You rise to your feet, deliberate but cautious, taking count of the men present. Foot soldiers are hardly a reason for concern. A certain blonde with his raging stare most certainly is though.

“No one interferes,” Lucien orders, directing his words at the men behind him. “This is between me and—”

“Us.”

Your heart stills for a second before exploding in a wild flutter inside your chest.

You don’t turn around but hear the hotel door behind you crack open, followed by footsteps.

Lucien’s expression morphs with cold viciousness in the face of the new company.

Dario and Julian walk past you first, coming to a stop at the foot of the stairs, effectively blocking Lucien’s path. The Sharpshooter has his twin pistols gripped firmly in each hand, his usually friendly demeanour absent. Only the Camorra’s best stares back; focused and grim. Dario is no better with his arms folding over his broad chest the moment he halts, seemingly only amplifying his domineering presence. He reminds you of a growling grizzly bear, waiting for the slightest of provocations.

Step comes to a standstill beside you, nudging you with his elbow, and you dare to momentarily look away from Lucien to see his grinning face. He wiggles his eyebrows, his round sunglasses still on his face before he leaps down the last several steps. He lands noisily just behind Julian, laughing softly under his breath.

“Whatever issue you have with our boss,” Dario speaks solemnly, his usually warm, rumbling voice void of those things. “We would caution you to forget about it.”

“Get out of my way,” Lucien hisses lowly, his lips barely moving. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Julian raises his pistols at blinding speed at those words, pointing them directly at Lucien’s face. The Dragon’s men unholster their weapons in response but despite being outnumbered at least one to two, the Elites don’t appear concerned.

You’re not sure if you’re still breathing.

“We would rather not kill you,” Step chirps happily, leaning his elbow on Julian’s shoulder, before adding a downright chilling, “But we will.”

Lucien’s expression smoothens, growing remote in its emptiness. His hollow stare drags up till it latches onto you—cold and unforgiving, two black holes.

“You know you can’t hide from me, viper,” he whispers yet his low, throaty words carry through the night air all the same. The Elites don’t so much as blink; an impenetrable wall of defence. “We have unfinished business, you and I.”

“Were they not clear enough for you, huh?”

Your eyes nearly close when the final pair of footsteps comes to a stop beside you. Your attention doesn’t waver but you hear the click of a lighter beside you. It’s followed a second later by a soft crinkle of a smouldering cigarette as Hector draws a deep, tobacco-induced breath into his lungs.

“She’s our boss,” he declares roughly and you feel your throat close up at his frank statement. “Which means that you really don’t want to start this,” a pointed pause, and another hard inhale of a cigarette before, “So why don’t you go and blow a load into your girlfriend and stop wasting our damn time.”

The atmosphere thickens with tension at Hector’s crass words but you don’t look away from Lucien.

The blonde slants his head, curious. He regards Hector like a bug; an odd, unusual being that makes no sense to him. Like his words are spoken in a foreign language the assassin doesn’t quite comprehend.

“Boss,” Lucien echoes softly, making a fine mockery of the word, as he takes a few deliberate steps closer. “Is that suppose to mean something to me?”

The threat in his lovely voice snaps Julian’s hand to one side, the barrel of his gleaming silver pistol pressing into Lucien’s temple just as the tall man places his foot on the Continental staircase.  

“Julian, don’t!” you warm loudly and the Sharpshooter freezes at your command. “It’s what he wants,” you add bitterly, turning your stare towards the blonde who appears completely unconcerned to have a fully loaded weapon digging into his head.

His smug smile stretches, quivering at the corners, his stare almost playful, goading.

Julian obeys, his arm lowering slightly but his pistol remains trailed on the French assassin. The man in question takes his time, deliberately climbing one step at the time, and Hector lowers his smouldering cigarette. He’s on your right, standing between you and Lucien but the blonde hardly seems to notice that when he comes to a halt, still watching you intently.

“Yeah, it really should,” Hector says deliberately, his voice dipping towards seriousness and warning.

Dario and Step are still watching the Dragon’s men closely while Julian has turned with Lucien, his pistols still locked onto the man. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen the Sharpshooter as anything other than grinning and relaxed.

Lucien drags his gaze away from you at long last, his attention switching to the leader of Elites beside you, and you feel the suffocating tension in the air as they both stare each other down.

“I hold no loyalties to anyone for you to threaten me with fancy titles, dog,” the blonde remarks, his voice light, almost friendly, his attention once again returning to you. “But I’ll see you inside, snakey.”

You don’t answer him, choosing to glare right at him and nothing more than that. The lack of reaction seems to dissatisfy him, his lips pressing into a firm, unhappy line. He reaches for you—

Hector grabs his extended hand with near blinding speed, crushing his wrist in an ironlike grip as he jerks Lucien’s hand backwards, holding him back.

Everyone tenses and Dario pulls his own weapons free when the Dragon’s men try to push closer.

“Let me rephrase that,” Hector hisses quietly, his words thick with warning—no boredom or indifference to be found in his voice now. “She’s ours. You so much as lay a hand on her and I’ll cut it off and feed it to you.”

The French assassin grins in return, chuckling, his fist clenched to a point his knuckles strain beneath his pale skin. Hector’s grip only tightens though, the ink of his tattoos highlighted by the lights above.

“You got that?” he stresses viciously. “Or was I being too obtuse, you bleached French fuck.”

He throws Lucien’s arm back at him and the man’s expression sharpens with a savage sort of rage. Aside from his stormy, narrowed stare, it’s near impossible to tell that Lucien is displeased though. His features might as well be cut from marble.

“You remind me of someone I knew once,” Lucien muses, still grinning though it looks no better than a sharpened blade. “He too was an arrogant, blunt tool to be used.”

The blonde hums mockingly, looking Hector up and down.

“Get lost,” he calls out loudly, slanting his head—something so harsh in the motion you half-expect to hear his neck crack—toward the Dragon’s men. “I don’t need you here.”

Confusion follows those words but Lucien only cuts one last look your way before strolling calmly into the hotel.

You’re not going to stop him because he’s exactly where you need him to be. He will stay to try and wait you out. Which is exactly what you want and need. Time.

Biting back a grin, you briefly glance at Hector who meets your inquisitive stare and turns towards the Dragon’s men who look unsure as to what they should do.

“Are you deaf?” he snaps loudly. “Get lost.”

Step moves first, bouncing up the stairs till he’s right in front of you. He parts his arms, waiting for you to show if you’re in the headspace to be touched and…

You wrap your arms around him—near crushing and strong, squeezing his wiry frame to you with all the strength you possess inside your body. The hacker’s arms lock equally as tightly around you despite Hector’s snort.

“We’ve been worried about you, carina,” he mumbles against your cooling neck, and you watch Dragon’s men clearing the entrance of the hotel over his shoulder. “Everything’s gone to hell.”

“We should take this inside,” Dario speaks up, finally lowering his weapons, and Julian does the same though his grip on them doesn’t loosen. “It’s not safe for you out here, V.”

You release Step from your death grip with a nod and a pat on his shoulder. He flashes you a quick smile but it looks strained. They all look tense, grim-faced, and tired. Still deadly though, and focused as always.

Julian opens the glass doors and steps inside, his pistol raised like he expects Lucien to leap at you from the shadows.

The hour is late and the reception area, for once, feels eerily quiet. No Lucien in sight though.

You haven’t even noticed how they’ve positioned themselves around you. Hector is still on your right, Julian at the front and Dario taking the rear while Step’s arm ghosts on your left.

Your throat aches, something coiling inside your heart.

You feel…

Protected. Safe.

It robs you of speech for a solid minute—that realisation.

You’ve lived with them for a year. Ate, trained and bled with them. But it feels different now for some reason you can’t explain.

You’ve grown so used to fighting your battles alone that having someone on your side feels surreal.

Even more surprising is Hector’s compliance. You hadn’t expected him to fall into the role of your temporary right hand so easily. Or to be as open about your position, and his by extension, at your side. You hadn’t even expected him to stand in defence of you, unlike the other three.

But Hector has always valued Camorra above all else. Personal prejudices aside, he will always do his duty. It is, perhaps, the one thing you’ve always admired the most about him. His unfailing loyalty.

If you died now it would only cause further chaos and headaches for him.

Seeing all of them again, however, fills you with such immense relief you can hardly speak.

“Santino?” is the first thing you manage to wheeze out. “Ares? Roberto? How—how are they?”

With each step, you shed your momentarily lapse reminding yourself that this is no time to feel sentimental.

Hector answers you promptly, as would be expected of him, “Princeling woke up several hours ago,” he states calmly and you notice that he no longer has his cigarette. He must have dropped it outside. Despite that, your sensitive nose still catches a whiff of tobacco every time his lips part. “Ares is with him. Roberto is stable.”

You practically stumble to a stop. “He woke up?” you whisper, your voice breathy with fragile hope.

Hector’s stare is critical but lacking his usual irritating superiority. Surprisingly. “Yeah, asked after you,” he reveals bluntly, and you can feel others monitoring your reaction to those words. “He thought Wick killed you.”

Your heart clenches painfully at that.

He got shot in the head and his first worry when he woke up had been you?

But the knowledge that he has regained consciousness, had been coherent enough to even speak, nearly crumbles your self-control again. Relief churning through your veins is immeasurable. Dizzying.

You want to demand a thousand things but instead push yourself to focus, “We have to move him to the penthouse. Immediately.”

One of Hector’s eyebrows arches at that. But it’s Dario that speaks first, “Why?”

You glance between the four of them silently. No one else seems to be around. In the distance, even the reception desk sits empty, and it’s the first time in seven years that you’ve seen it unmanned.

What’s going on? Where is Charon?

“Because she’s not here,” you tell them, still slightly out of breath due to your earlier sprint, and your words soften with bitterness. “The Female Lover. Divide and conquer seems to be the most logical course for them to follow now.”

It would make sense. Split attacks and lay traps. Force your hand with pitting Lucien against you because they no doubt know that Santino is being kept safe between these walls. Put danger right here on your doorstep so you are forced to act.

The Four exchange wary looks and you note them at once.

“We already moved boss,” Julian informs you before you can ask, his strong eyebrows curving and feet shuffling. You can almost hear the grimace in his voice. “Right after the visit from an Adjudicator earlier. We figured it was no longer safe for him to stay since they demanded to see him.”

“Don’t look so surprised, sweetheart,” Hector mutters under his breath, folding his arms with a slight roll of his eyes. “Some of us are actually good at doing our jobs. Removing him from the Table’s direct jurisdiction was the best thing to do at the time.”

“Then where the hell is he?”

Step winces. “The penthouse,” he tells you and immediately lifts his hand in a pacifying manner while your eyes close. “But Flavio and others are with him. He’s protected. He was moved discreetly. No one saw a thing. I was watching all the cameras myself.”

Biting back a sigh, you mull over his words and huff a breath. “Then why are you not with him?”

“Because once Mr Wick arrived here in a rather…loud manner,” Dario begins and your attentions slides to him. “We knew you will not be far behind. With trouble likely on your heels. We had no way of contacting you and splitting up would have drawn too much attention. Step worked entire day trying to pin the Lovers down to one location but they kept popping up all over the city. They’ve been circling.”

So they stayed here to keep enemy eyes pinned on the hotel, giving them time to move Santino in secret.

Sometimes you forget how brilliant they are.

“They were waiting for me to come back,” you assume.

Dario inclines his head, his stare firm, and strong eyebrows curved. “Our duty is to protect you as well, V.”

Your blink at those resolute words, caught off guard.

Step is grinning cheekily but the other two stand with sombre air surrounding them. Hector’s expression is stony but he doesn’t disagree, either.

Before you can thank them or say anything else, a realisation slices through you like a bolt of lightning. A sickly feeling of quicksand gobbles you up in a matter of seconds, and you battle down the urge to kick something.

“Circling,” you repeat numbly, nearly biting your tongue because you already know the answer before you bother continuing. “Anywhere near the penthouse?”

You direct that question at Step and the latter stills, his grin wilting. “Closest ping I got was four blocks out.”

“Fuck.”

Your head slants backwards and you bite out an even more vicious, “Fuck.”

“V?”

Your head drops back and your expression is no doubt unforgiving. “Get to the penthouse right now,” you order, not even bothering to make it sound like a request. “This is their plan. For me to get here so she has the go-ahead to attack while Santino is alone. They’ve been waiting for you to move him. They knew you did. That’s why the male Lover let it go. Why he’s not here right now.”

Lucien is no doubt putting their plan into motion. Dismissing Dragon’s men was about giving you a false sense of security.

“What about you?” Julian wonders quietly though his tone doesn’t lack urgency. Dario already has his phone pressed to his ear, no doubt calling the security at the penthouse.

You want to go.

You…

“I can’t,” you choke out even though it kills you to admit it. “If I go, I lead Lucien and god knows who else straight back to Santino.”

The Lovers are no doubt hoping for that outcome. But you can keep them separated too. Weaken them. It just means trusting the Elites with Santino’s life completely. They will be taking the brunt of Mika’s and the Black Dragon’s attack.

You look towards Hector but find him already gazing at you, his harsh features drawn into a pensive expression. His eyebrows sit contracted into a tight line and his eyes go to Step.

Dario’s muffled murmurs cease then, and he lifts his head, ending the call with a single touch against the glowing screen. “There’s been nothing so far but…”

“Can you isolate any incoming attacks?” Hector demands and Step pulls out his phone the moment those words leave the leader’s mouth, scrolling and tapping rapidly. “Get to the penthouse. Julian call the rest of the men. The ruse is up. Tell everyone to get their asses there right now or I’ll kill them myself. Go.”

It’s a testament to how much they trust each other that they move as one—not questions asked—only pausing monetarily before you, and it takes you a full second to realise that they’re waiting for your approval.

Right. You’re their boss. Even if only temporarily.

You nod twice; shaky and a touch frantic.

“Capo.”

You’re not even sure which one of them says it, or if it’s all of them in unison, but a shiver tingles down your neck all the same.

Hector hesitates, still standing rooted in his spot, his stare probing but he doesn’t make a sound until the hurried footsteps of the other Elites fade.

“You’re planning to go after him.”

It’s a statement, direct and shrewd, and you see no reason to deny it. “Promise me you will kill her,” you insist sternly, your eyes meeting for a charged moment. “Don’t let her touch him.”

Hector strolls past you, his hands in his pockets. “Consider it done,” he shoots back flatly, pausing beside you once again but doesn’t turn towards you. You simply stand shoulder to shoulder in the empty lobby. “Something else is going on here. The Frenchie isn’t the only one you should watch out for. Some bald asshole followed Wick, and this Adjudicator seems a little rule happy and not in a good way,” he concludes pointedly.

“It doesn’t matter,” you respond mildly, your voice vacant and low, distant. “They can’t touch me. No one can now.”

The dagger against your side feels like it’s scorching into your skin.

Hector turns to face you at that but you don’t do the same. His weighty stare digs into your temple for several moments but you ignore it. Expectation hangs heavy in the air between you but you don’t explain yourself further. There is no point.

He scoffs under his breath, managing to sound as dismissive and derisive as always. The nearby heat of his looming frame disappears, his footsteps echoing against the marble as he saunters away.

But the way he had the foresight to move Santino nags at you, as do his actions outside on that staircase only minutes prior.

And—

“Hector?”

His footsteps fade into a stop, and you turn your face towards him.

“What now, sweetheart?” he calls out impatiently, peering at you over his shoulder as well. “Want a back rub with all of that?”

Normally something like that would have angered you, dug under your skin, pissed you off. Now though…

“Thank you.”

He doesn’t outwardly react to your words, not even a twitch of his facial muscles. He only stares at you for a long minute completely silent. You’re not quite sure what to make of that reaction.

“Whatever.”

His back disappears through the door leading outside and you turn back towards the reception desk.

Time to get some answers.

You hear him before you see him.

The dog leaps at you with a happy bark, his tongue lolling to one side when he lifts his nose eager to give you kisses.

His presence here shocks you but only because you know for a fact that the Continental doesn’t do animal boarding. Everything lately has felt like an avalanche of one thing after another that you haven’t stopped to think about what may or may not have happened to him. Or where he might be staying after John’s home was destroyed.

Despite not seeing him in a few weeks, he seems no less thrilled to see you.

“Hey, Cheeseburger,” you greet with the first genuine smile in a week, your features softening. You bend down to pet him, rubbing behind his ears and he only tries to lick you with more fervour, a happy doggy grin splitting his face. “Have you been good?”

A small bark escapes him, tail wagging so quickly it’s a blur, and your smile grows.

“Miss.”

Your eyes skip ahead, and relief whispers through your chest, an invisible coil loosening when you spot Charon standing ahead of you. As always his posture is bowstring straight, his suit pressed neatly, and eyes watchful over his glasses.

“Charon.”

You’ve missed him. So dearly. Seeing his face is like a much-needed balm against your tattered nerves.

His voice is as low and soothing as always when he offers a cordial, “Welcome back.”

His words might as well be an embrace and your smile wobbles momentarily. There has been a large part of you that was convinced you would never see him or Winston again.

You try not to think about your deal now. About leaving just when you got them back. Right now all that matters is that you’re here.

Still stroking Cheeseburger’s head, you stand back to your feet, ignoring the twinge of discomfort in your muscles when you do.

“It’s good to be back.”

Charon starts approaching you but a voice cuts in before he can say anything else.

“The Vipress.”

Your smile slides off your face when a short, bald man with a fixed smile and a wide-eyed stare appears from behind the concierge.

Hector’s warning springs to mind at once, and your eyes briefly flicker towards Charon whose expression remains impassive. A certain strain—disdain, even—can still be found in his overall bearing, however.  

Charon is not one to dislike people often, and certainly not openly. Though to most he would no doubt appear as detached and professional as always you can tell the difference. You’ve known him for years after all.  

“Do we know each other?” you wonder neutrally, your palm ghosting over a concealed blade despite the no-business rule. Not a scowl or even a whisper of a frown shows but your voice slides into something apathetic all the same.

The man dressed in all black wanders closer. His stance is relaxed, expression friendly, but you see the assessing gleam in his eyes, the brittle—almost mean—edge to his slight grin. It makes you feel like he’s in on some joke you’re missing out on.

Despite being on the shorter side and his near deceptive demeanour, you don’t fail to take count of the precise way he moves—a trained, likely deadly individual, and your attention settles on him like a sharpened blade against his throat.

Though your body language doesn’t outright change, you know he, too, notes the shift in you in those several seconds that pass between him stopping just a little ahead of you.

Cheeseburger licks your fingers—blissfully ignorant of the uneasy atmosphere—and you drag your fingertips over his head tenderly.  

“No,” the man answers shortly, still smiling what he no doubt hopes to be a friendly smile though it hardly is. “But I know of you. Tokyo still remembers your name.”

Your heart stutters for a single second, feeling the slice of those calm, unassuming words. But you can tell from the way his lips flutter just slightly that he chose his words carefully. A deliberate dig and he examines your reaction closely, so you show him nothing.

The man ventures closer yet again, seemingly encouraged by whatever he sees, and extends his gloved hand your way. “But where are my manners? I am Zero.”

His hand hangs in the air between you and Charon’s stare settles on you. He doesn’t interfere though, or comments.

Not taking his hand would be rude but expected. People know of your aversion to touching strangers. However, it would also put you on a backfoot after his previous dig, and the last thing you want is someone that worries even Hector to smell weakness.

With that in mind, you slot your smaller hand into his, your grips equally as constrictive, “Good to meet you,” you say, your voice bland, dropping his hand after another forced twitch of your lips. “Now if you excuse—”

“I was still in training when you killed Kishi of Tokyo,” he declares loudly, freezing you mid-turn, and your eyes meet Charon’s again before you look back at the newcomer. You’re not quite sure what to make of his strange stare or fragmented little smile. “We knew each other. But not much,” he continues, no doubt purposely ignoring your disinterested, borderline hostile stare. “Maybe I should express my gratitude. If it were not for you, I would not be what I am today.”

He even bows his head. Like you’re his comrade. Like you’re one and the same.

Still, you say nothing, and Zero chuckles loudly before it cuts off abruptly. A new gleam glows in his eyes, and it doesn’t surprise you when Charon comes to a stop beside you. The concierge cuts for a silent but foreboding figure all the same.

Zero’s expression twists with amusement upon spotting that silent gesture, and he presses his hand over his chest. “You’ll have to forgive me, I’m a bit—what do they say—a little starstruck,” he apologizes but it feels more like oil on your skin followed by another gleaming smile. “Meeting the John Wick and the Vipress in a span of a single night. Legend of the old and legend of the new. The shadow that hides the snake—that’s what they still say about you two.”

You work hard to not let anything slip. You’ve known about your legacy in Tokyo for some time now—your and John’s both. You did what no one has done before. Escaped. Survived. John slaughtered his way through Kishi’s men to make sure no one ever followed you back.

It didn’t change much in the end. That nightmare of a man—his phantom, at least—still haunts you to this day. It chills the blood in your veins to be standing out here now and be discussing him so openly. Especially with someone who supposedly knew him.

You’re not sure if you’re strong enough to engage with this conversation. There’s only so many ghosts you can handle in such a short span of time.

“I wish to see the manager,” you announce instead, your stare not leaving the assassin before you.

There is a flare of fury at the dismissal but it’s brief, and once it passes, it leaves a man that reminds you of a mannequin—deflated and lacking life, formless like a ghost.

“Sir and Mr Wick are currently meeting in the administrative lounge, Miss,” Charon answers promptly but then adds a deliberate, “The manager, however, has expressed his desire to see you at once upon your return.”

Even if Winston hadn’t, something tells you that Charon would have said that regardless. Like you know him, he knows you. He understands perfectly well how shadows of your past belong there. Rattling them now would be dangerous.

Nodding, you force yourself to keep a polite facade, the assassin receiving a rather forced, “Mr Zero.”

Certainly the best he could hope for. Or should. Still, you feel proud of yourself for managing to contain yourself. For not letting him bait you into action because he no doubt was hoping for a reaction, perhaps even a confrontation. That would be easy, expectant.

Zero doesn’t look pleased about the outcome of the conversation at all. His easy-going, faux adoring demeanour splintering around the edges. The man before you tries to hold the pieces together but you notice the cracks all the same.

Lowering your chin, you raise your palm towards Cheeseburger, “Stay.”

The dog releases a small whine at the order but does as he’s told, sitting back on his hind legs, his ears perked up. That alone almost brings another smile to your face.

Your arm drops back to your side and you offer Charon another look that says a silent keep an eye on him.

Your footsteps echo as you cut through the hallways of the hotel, passing a few faces as you do. Zero doesn’t follow and you’re glad for it—for some reason, a part of you had expected him to.

Throughout your journey, you feel eyes tracking you. No one says anything or moves towards you though. You half expect Lucien to leap at you from every shadowed corner but he’s nowhere to be seen. You want to worry that maybe he truly did leave the hotel and hightailed it for the penthouse but it won’t be logical for him to miss out on this chance.

Lucien’s interest—fixation—with you has always felt deeply personal. More than a simple job or a hit. It never felt like he took as much interest in Santino as he did in you. Certainly surprising considering that from you two, it’s Santino with the biggest power reserve behind him. Enough to crush the Lovers if he came into his power as he now has. You’ve thought about this once before but maybe then you had things wrong.

Despite you being the bigger physical threat, removing Santino first would have been more logical. It would have isolated you. Left you without support.

Lucien never showed much eagerness in Santino’s removal aside from making an occasional threat to rile you up from the start.

Why?

Is it truly just conviction that you are alike? An obsessive there can only be one mentality?

With that thought lodged like a splinter inside your mind, you step into the elevator, shoving the partition roughly with a metallic click.

The elevator jolts when you press the appropriate floor button, falling back against the metal wall on your journey.

Everything is so loud it’s somehow quiet. Or maybe you’ve just gotten better at ignoring it.

It’s a short trip and when the elevator halts you pull the metal partition slowly this time, perking your ears for any unusual sounds.

There’s nothing.

You’ve never liked the administrative lounge much. Unlike the rest of the hotel that’s always oozed an old, rustic charm, this space has always felt cold and clinical on the few, rare occasions you visited Winston up here. Frankly, it’s never been the type of place you enjoyed visiting then, and you don’t suspect that will change any time soon.

The neon laser lights and glass as far as the eye can see. Visually it’s a masterpiece of architecture but it always made you feel uneasy. Like a rat caught in a crystal maze. Being back here now reminds you eerily of the gallery you had to chase John through, nearly losing everyone dear to you in the process.

Grabbing a blade from a secure sown-in compartment inside your coat, you move up the staircase soundlessly.

It doesn’t take long for faint, muffled voices to reach you. Slowing down further, you approach one step at a time. With each step, Winston’s calm baritone becomes clearer. You stop abruptly when his words start registering properly.

“—but you’re having doubts?” he calls out, sounding knowing and in control like usual. “Because you know that she will never forgive you if you do this. Will never let you into her heart again. She’s the only thing you still have left to lose,” he goes on, and your eyes widen when you realise who exactly he’s discussing. What the hell is going on? You know he’s talking to John but… “This is all assuming she can find it in herself to forgive you for your actions in regards to one Santino D’Antonio in the first place.”

You can’t see them from here. You’re above them by at least an entire flight of see-through glass stairs. Shifting your weigh, you move closer, holding your breath and sinking lower towards the ground to not alert them of your presence.

“I understand perfectly well, Johnathan, this is nothing personal,” Winston continues and for once you truly find yourself hating how calm he sounds. You’ve never seen the manager caught off guard. It’s everyone else he outmanoeuvres with expert ease. But personal? What’s personal? “If you feel like you must. Put a bullet through my heart. The High Table has asked me to step down one way or another.”

You almost stumble.

What?

It’s then that a memory springs forward. Of the tent. John’s conflicted expression and his words.

Elder gave you time to say goodbye but you had to make a deal. What if John had to make one too? He mentioned a task; a task he never got time to explain further. Only a vague mention of one.

But he had wanted to, you realise with sinking dread, the moment he saw you, he wanted to.

John’s punishment—his true punishment—is sacrificing his oldest friend in a show of fealty to the Table and killing him.

The lukewarm metal between your digits nearly falls to the ground at that realisation.  

But why—

“The hour?” John’s gruff voice speaks at long last.

A distracted hum, then confirmation, “The hour.”

“You should have killed me when you had the chance,” John says bluntly. “Killed us both.”

You gnash your teeth together, feeling the grind of bone inside your skull as you slink closer, taking it one stair at a time. Unhurried and precise. Just how John himself taught you.

Distantly, you hear Winston agree followed by muted footsteps against the gleaming floor. Is he moving away from John or towards him?

“In the years you’ve been away, Johnathan, I have come to learn that loyalty is a peculiar thing,” the manager muses, his voice thoughtful, but you hear the deliberateness he puts into each word he speaks. There is an odd quietness to his voice though—the type of you’ve only heard a handful of times. “Hard to earn, quick to break,” a long pause supersede those words and you come to a standstill as well, straining your ears. “But not always. It can sometimes be obtained by the most unlikely of individuals during the most unlikely of times.”

You’re not quite sure what exactly John gleans from those words but he does seem to take away something you miss. “You’re not stepping down, are you?”

“No,” Winston states evenly. “I don’t think I am.”

“So it’s war,” John declares, sounding just as bewildered as you feel, and you know it’s a rarity for him to let his emotions slip so easily. But this is… “You’re going to war with the High Table.”

Once you had joked about it. You were left cranky after yet another job for Tarasov, and had come back to the Continental worn after days of dealing with less than hospitable conditions. Winston had listened to your rant like usual.

What if I just killed Tarasov now?

Newspaper and brandy in hand, Winston’s reply had been unamused, You get killed.

Not if you help me. You and I, I bet we could take the Table on.

It was a joke back then. Nothing more than a throwaway, snarky remark you had made as a way to alleviate some pent up stress. A momentarily reprieve from the helplessness you’ve always felt in the face of your circumstances. It’s one of the few things that has helped you stay sane over the years.

It was long before you met the Elder and learned you could kill Tarasov without consequences once the debt was repaid.

It’s only now that you realise that Winston never did give you a response to that offhand statement. Joke or otherwise.

It’s only now that you stupidly realise that the idea of war shouldn’t surprise you at all. That perhaps deep in your bones you always knew there was a possibility of one.

Maybe Winston’s dedication to upholding rules and order always blinded you to the fact that despite that obedience he wasn’t afraid of them.

That which terrifies others—everyone, even you and John—has never affected the manager in the same manner.

He’s not afraid of the High Table. Or to move against them if he sees fit.

“I’ve made my decision. A long time ago now,” Winston remarks, and you edge closer, catching the first glimpse of him through the crack in the stairwell. “Back when I had to watch Charon carry a dying girl through the very halls of this fine establishment. A girl that you left behind. And now, it’s time for you to choose as well.”

Oh.

You’ve always privately considered Winston and Charon to be your family. One you weren’t quite allowed to have but chose for yourself despite how foolishly sentimental it was. A bond that was forged through years of knowing each other. Struggling together. Practically living together.

It never once crossed your mind that it was a feeling returned at least to some degree.

That alone makes you look at the entire conversation you’ve just heard in a new light.

“Choose what?”

Winston stands in front of John, his hand extended towards the assassin. In the manager’s weathered hand—a fine mockery of a week ago when he first declared you both Excommunicado, and even worse, of the Elder offering you the golden dagger at your side—sits a pistol.

The older man gives John a shrewd stare, and if you didn’t know any better you would say that he’s disappointed John is not catching on quicker.

“Oh, but you already know,” he states flatly, moving his hand in a vague motion. “It’s the same choice you’ve been struggling for the last five years now. Between who you are and who you wish to be. You kill me, you sell your soul to the Table.”

All you can see is the back of John’s head, his crop of black hair standing out like a dark spot against the glossy, blue tint of the lounge.

He thinks about Winston’s words for a bit.

“But I also live and remember Helen.”

Once those words might have caused a burn of pain but now all you feel is a nudge of sadness and a joyless sort of understanding. You’ve accepted the fact that there will always be a part of John that will always love Helen.

You’ve just hoped…

“Helen loved you, John. She truly did,” the manager agrees, something just a touch warmer to be heard in his intonation. “And you love her. You only came back because she was taken from you. But she’s also gone and she’s not coming back. You go ahead with this and you lose V forever, and I know that alone is stopping you.”

There is a scathing sort of finality to the last part and John’s slightly lowered head lifts.

“So I guess my question to you, then, is who do you wish to die as?” Winston asks though it does sound like a fine line between an inquiry of genuine curiosity and an authoritative demand. “Baba Yaga. The living nightmare and the last thing so many have seen. The servant of the High Table. Or as a man who was—and likely still is—loved by two wonderful women.”

John doesn’t move or say anything. That heaviness hangs across his shoulders, burdening him with yet another choice.

The problem is the fact that what you told him back at the desert still applies.

You don’t trust his word. You’ve been burned too harshly by recent events to do so.

With that in mind, you drop your guise, walking the remainder of the stairs with deliberate heaviness. Purpose.

Both men turn at the sound of your advancing footsteps. The former’s expression lightens, a clever gleam catching your eye. John looks weary, almost like he’s readying himself for another battle, another storm that is your raging fury.

You have little appetite for that though.

Too much is going on right now. The Elites could be battling against the Female Lover and the Black Dragon’s men right now. You need to find Lucien and figure out a way to keep him here. Inform the High Table. Find out who started this hunt in the first place. Who knows about Chicago.

“Winston.”

A slight smile ghosts over the manager’s face. “Welcome home.”

It hurts.

Because it feels so good to hear him say that. To feel welcome and missed. Even if you know it’s as much about drawing that line in the sand for John—an unspoken You vs Us.

John doesn’t fail to take count of the blade in your hand, neither does Winston.

A suspended kind of silence shrouds you three. If John really thinks that you will let him—

Footsteps.

You all turn in the direction of a tall, graceful figure clad in all black moving briskly down the steps.

The icy blue stare and black, short-cropped hair are all unfamiliar to you.

“Mr Wick and Miss Vipress,” the newcomer greets in a cool and collected manner, gripping a pair of leather gloves in one hand. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you both. I’m an Adjudicator.”

Shit. Of course they are. It makes sense for one to come and adjudicate the hotel after John shot Santino at practically point-blank range inside these very walls.

The hour.

Winston overstepped his position by offering you that hour. By helping you and John out.

Now he’s paying for it.

When neither you nor John say anything in return, their head slants in Winston’s direction, unperturbed. “Have you decided to step down?”

You would think they’re asking if the cookies are ready to come out of the oven. Their voice is as empty as their stare despite the gravity of their question. But the Adjudicators are often cold and distant. Dedicated to upholding the rules of the High Table even more so than the hotel managers are. To expect pity or mercy from one never bodes well.  

Winston greets that indifference by no less bored, “I don’t think I will.”

A quick tilt of their chin—offended, critical—and they turn towards John instead.  

“And you?” they demand, a notable sharpening to their tone. “Will you be pulling a bullet in his head?”

You tense at those words, your body instinctively moving in front of the manager.  

John’s ponderous scrutiny falls on you but you don’t take your attention away from the Adjudicator. Is what Winston said true? Are you really the only thing John still has left to lose?

You’re not sure if—

“No,” he says, quiet but resolute. “I don’t think I will.”

The High Table representative examines you three with a flicker of disbelief as well as irritation. You can’t help but wonder if this is the first time they encountered such blatant dismissal of their authority.

“So be it.”

They turn on their heels creating at least several meters in distance between you. A phone appears in their hand and they dial, bringing the phone to their ear with an effortless air of superiority.

All you manage to catch from where you stand is the very end of the conversation. “The Continental Hotel, New York,” an imposing proclamation followed by swift damnation. “Deconsecrated.”

The Adjudicator spins towards them, approaching leisurely as they gave each of you a measured, speculative look.

“This institution has hereby been deconsecrated,” they state flatly, appraising you all with aloof, disinterested air. Like you have just become less than human in their eyes and nothing more than trash to be taken out. “As such business may now be conducted on Continental grounds. Since you are refusing to step down,” they continue, their tone icy and pointed glaring digging into Winston, then John, “And you are refusing a direct order, your lives are now forfeited.”

Much to your surprise, the Adjudicator’s bright eyes come to rest on you next. “It is my advice to you Miss Vipress that you vacate the premises immediately,” they warn but the words lack much care aside from mild impartiality. “The High Table emissaries will be joining you shortly to see to the removal of your souls from the property,” they add to the two men on either side of you.

The Black Dragon men.

With that, the Adjudicator turns to go but your voice halts them before they take further than a step, “This hotel is my home,” you profess tightly, something slippery and raw in that string of words. An old ache; a new longing. Ironlike, unshakeable conviction shines the brightest though. “If you want it, you will have to take it over my cold, dead body.”

Another tilt of chin that makes you think reptile; coldblooded and dispassionate. “That can be arranged.”

A snarl pulls your lips back. “Can it?” you wonder, your words soft but deliberate. “You may wish to double-check that.”

The Adjudicator visibly pauses at that, and it’s the first sign of uncertainty you glimpse in their armour. The first time it takes them a moment to settle on their next course of action. Faint sourness lines their dignified features while they study you, considering your words no doubt.

“Good evening to you.”

Your glare is hot enough that you’re surprised the Adjudicator doesn’t catch on fire the moment their back is turned to you—and rather bold of them to turn their back on two master assassins after what they’ve just done—and your fingers itch.

John’s fingers snap around your wrist, holding firm and stilling your rising hand. “Don’t.”

The red haze lifts and you relax your jaw. It’s only after he sees your posture loosen that he releases his grip, his fingertips lingering against your inner wrist as if savouring the contact.

On your right, Winston heaves a weary sigh. “This haven is safe no more.”  

Your eyes lower and you try to process what’s just happened.

Continental is the only sanctuary you’ve ever known—the only one you’ve ever needed—and something in your gut churns. It’s a deadly, potent mix that makes you force a calming breath.

John breaks the silence first—a rarity, but you suppose this week has been full of those. “Are the services still off-limits to us?”

Winston looks to you first, taking you in, and you wonder what he finds in your no doubt murderous expression and blazing glare. Every muscle coiled tight and ready to spring.

Destruction hums in your blood, screaming for retribution and you want to indulge in it.

They should be terrified of you, the Elder’s voice reminds you.

“Considering the fact that V’s Excommunicado was lifted minutes prior and this interesting change in circumstances…”

He fades off for a moment, giving you both another thoughtful look that tells you he’s fully appreciating who exactly is about to stand in defence of his hotel. “What do you need?”

NF3 NC6.

You’re a statue rooted at Winston’s side.

The four of you—John, you, Winston and Charon—wait for the elevator to grind to a halt, Cheeseburger sitting patiently between you and John. Ever the loyal companion.

“We have another problem,” you declare with a subdued sigh, dragging your eyes over the metal cubicle you’re trapped in. Even years later the fear of being a trapped animal unable to escape hasn’t quite faded from memory.

The manager clicks his tongue in reply, leading you all out of the elevator and towards the massive vault door sitting at the end of a short hallway. Guards—what few cemented their loyalty to the hotel and Winston himself—dot the length of it, watchful and awaiting their orders.

“Splendid,” the man shoots back dryly. “Not like we have plenty of those already.”

“The Male Lover is here,” you inform him, ignoring his snark. “He followed me.”

Winston’s mouth curves downwards at that. He places his hand on a palm scanner, waiting. “As expected,” he offers in return, his tone challenging. “Your next move?”

“He knows something that he shouldn’t,” you answer promptly, fiddling with your fingers. John and Charon are silent behind you but you know they’re also missing a lot of context behind the conflict, especially the former. “About Chicago. I intend to find out how and from whom. Then…”

Well.

Your plan till about ten minutes ago was to capture him and keep him here. Feed him to the High Table. Exact your justice by other means.

Now though...

It’s war.

The hotel has been stripped of its immunity. People are on the way to kill Winston and John. Charon by default. Even the staff if they get in the way, though the order to evacuate has been sounded already.

If you stand with them you, too, become an enemy.

The choice is simple. Easier than most things in your life have been, and it sits right in your gut.

If the High Table wants the manager standing in front of you, they will have to go through you first. And you’re capable of unleashing a lot of damage before they ever manage to get close enough to touch him.

But this also means that there will be no divine justice at the end. By the decree of the Adjudicator, people can now spill blood freely between these walls. There’s nothing stopping Lucien from attacking you anymore. Nor will he miss such an opportunity.  

A confrontation between you two can only end one way now.

“Then I deal with him,” you finally mutter, your jaw locking with resolute firmness.

An eyebrow quirked, Winston gestures inside, going straight for the drinks cabinet. You head right without prompting, going for a very special compartment safe built into one of the wall’s inside the vault.

You’ve had it installed years ago gradually filling it full with the passage of months and then years.

Not wasting time, your palm settles on the scanner, ignoring the code pad entirely. A beep sounds and a muted green light bathes your skin a second later. A hiss follows and then—

“That’s…impressive.”

John’s voice behind you should not surprise you—and it doesn’t—but it does make you tense. Shrugging, you risk a glance in his direction to see what he makes of your collection. The quiet, impressed way his eyes drag over each shelf betrays both his surprise, and even a shade of wariness.

Vials upon vials all line the massive cabinet of three separate compartments folding outwards—custom made just for this. Labels hug each vial neatly, all of them lined up in an orderly fashion based on use and colour. The rest of the cabinet houses some of your rarest and most expensive ingredients. Carefully hidden in the most secure location you can think of—or it was till about fifteen minutes ago.

“It took me a while,” you admit though the tension in your tone and body don’t ebb away. “A lot of trial and error. And throwing up.”

You’ve been your own best guinea pig over the years, and have suffered a great deal for it. But it has also given you something no one before has been able to achieve: immunity. To most of these dark, dangerous creations of yours.

Your prized collection of at least a hundred vials makes even Baba Yaga pause and consider. See you differently no doubt.

The truth is that the sheer magnitude of the horrors and devastation this collection could unleash is unprecedented. Unrivalled by all with the exception of but one man.

And no one knows it exists apart from the people in this room and Santino. The High Table suspects something of this nature exists, you know that. Hence their insistence on you being unable to remove anything from the hotel after your Excommunicado.

“I should have told you,” John speaks up, his lips parted and tone deep, tired. “About my task. I just…”

“Knew that if you told me neither of us would have left that desert?” you guess. “Yeah, I kinda figured that.”

You understand his angle. His reason for not saying anything too. There’s just one thing that’s been bothering you since you learned about it.

“Did...did the Elder forbid you from telling me?”

John’s expression creases. “No,” he admits slowly. “But he reminded me that your forgiveness is rarer than water in the desert, and rage fiercer than the sun.”

You can almost hear that echoed in the Elder’s gentle, accented voice. Staring at the vials, you force some of them out, rolling them in your palm experimentally as you start assembling your weapons swiftly.

The task makes sense. Winston did something he shouldn’t have. Punishing him would be expected like it was with you and John. Manager or no, he’s not all-powerful.

But the thought that the Elder still knowingly told John to remove Winston stings. Deeply. He knows full well what the older man means to you.

Realising that you have nothing else to say, John steps away but you hear the reluctance in his steps when he walks away.

But all this can wait. The looming threat is the first order of business. You can’t afford any distractions, so this, too, gets shoved behind a wall. Locked tight. You can catch a moment later. Process everything that’s happened in this last week.

Charon’s lulling voice describes the change in the Black Dragon ranks to John—armour improvements, weapon improvements, more robust training. You listen with half an ear. They’ve gotten better with years, deadlier. They will not be an easy target but staring at all the vials out in the open fully and at your disposal makes your mouth twist into a cold, cruel smile.

Let them come.

You will make corpses of them all.

With that thought in mind, you arm yourself to the teeth, locking a belt around the curve of your hips. Blades slot easily against your body, vials of poison and canisters of gas following. Next, come pistols with spare clips and enough bullets to take down a small army. Fitting, considering that’s most likely what you are likely to face. You thoroughly check each pistol, removing the magazines, and making sure safety is on all of them. Double-checking there’s no jamming, either.

Once you’re comfortably armed you pull out two small needles, filling both with a small dosage of different colour solutions. You prepare more but focus on the two first.  

Charon and John are still getting prepped, arming themselves just as intently while Winston sits calmly on a luxurious leather sofa observing them. Cheeseburger lays beside him on the sofa, his ears slightly perked as he watches everyone in the room.

Charon is closer so you hand him the needle wordlessly, knowing that he’s more than aware of what it is. Moving closer to John, you note the concentration with which he adds each spare magazine into his own utility belt, a deep pinch between his brows. This lethal focus means that you’re about to lose the John you know. Once Baba Yaga arrives there will be nothing but destruction left behind.

Something in your chest is ready to do the same. You almost crave it. Like everything has been building too quickly and now you feel at a breaking point ready to unleash.

Moving swiftly, you stab a needle into John’s neck, feeling him jerk and snap his fingers around your arm just like he did earlier. His grip is harsher, his fighter instincts kicking in. This time he’s not trying to stop you from attacking anyone but himself.

Rising an unimpressed eyebrow, you remove the needle from his neck, and John sways, scowling in your direction.

“Ow. What was that?” he demands quietly, no doubt recalling the last time he had a run-in with your creations.

“A little concoction that will, hopefully, give you immunity from most things in my arsenal temporarily,” you tell him calmly, near monotonous. “Unless you prefer dissolving into an immobile puddle the moment my paralyser comes out?”

John’s brows hitch, his eyes narrowing marginally, and his chin slants. “You enjoyed that,” he states dryly.

Blinking, you feel your lips quirk in an infinitesimal smile, blinking innocently up at him. “No idea what you’re talking about,” you demure pleasantly. John stares at you blankly and your small smile quivers, widening. “Okay, fine. I totally enjoyed that.”

A tiny quirk of his own mouth follows and it feels strangely nostalgic, near bittersweet, because it’s like years ago again. Just you two getting ready for yet another job together, you teasing him or firing questions at him. He’s always been patient with you. It was a kindness you never once took for granted. You were so alone, so lost, and he’d been the only harbour you had.

Despite his flaws, despite his mistakes, in many ways, John will always be that. It’s the one thing you never see changing.

You still miss that ease you once shared. Sometimes remnants of it appear, like now, and it just makes it harder.

But reminiscing now is a fool's errand.

Instead, you reach for another blade mounted on the wall behind him and bend your knee, slotting it against the special opening in your boot. He doesn’t take his gaze away from you as you do that, and you straighten, waiting to see if he will say anything else. He doesn’t. That almost makes you smile again. Typical.

Nodding at him, you look towards Charon instead, pulling out several vials, “For the guards,” you state seriously, your ease evaporating, and he takes them without a word. “Make sure they inject themselves at least five minutes before heading out just in case. It’s going to be a nasty toxic cocktail one way or another. You already know what to do.”

A firm nod. “Certainly, Miss.”

Satisfied, you walk past them heading towards the manager who watches you curiously as you approach. Cheeseburger raises his head at once, his tail wagging at your proximity. Your fingers brush over his head, petting him, and you hold another vial for Winston to take.

Nothing to do with protection and everything to do with arming him. Which, you suppose, is its own type of protection.

He stares at you blankly, a glass of what you only assume is brandy gripped securely in his hand.

“Oh, I sincerely hope you’re joking.”

He sounds completely incredulous and you roll your eyes.

“Precautions,” you shoot back, twisting the poison vial between your fingers and holding the entire length of it out to him. “Your wisdom, remember?”

“And you think that if they somehow manage to get through you, Jonathan, Charon and the guard, as well as at least two tons of metal, that will stop them?”

“No,” you answer honestly. “But it will make me feel better if you have it.”

Winston heaves a sigh, shaking his head but takes the vial all the same, leaning back in his seat. A single eyebrow lifts as if to say satisfied? and you fight back a groan. Why can no one in your life make things easy for you? Just once?

You part your lips, a playful remark on your tongue, only for distinct thudding to sound from above. It’s faint, barely audible, but you all freeze at the sound of it.

Your eyes drag towards the ceiling, just as Winston’s voice sounds, “Charon, would you be so kind as to welcome our new guests?”

The concierge strolls briskly towards the fuse control box, pushing one of the levers down with a deafening click.

Upstairs, you know the hotel has been plunged into darkness before emergency lights come into operation.

“Let's go.”

You reach for the last few things you can get your hands on, your focus narrowing down to tunnel vision.

“You will do the Continental proud,” Winston states, sounding so sure you can’t help but lift your head in his direction from your last minute prep. “Both of you.”

Your heart jolts painfully but you nod in acknowledgement all the same. Charon returns the gesture as well.

“And Johnathan?”

The assassin halts at his name, looking towards the manager in an unspoken question. “Do what you do best. Hunt.”

The four of you share a long, leaden moment before John moves first, followed by you. The vault door whirls close behind you, securing Winston and Cheeseburger inside, but you refuse to look back.

You will see them both soon.

Splitting at the mouth of the hallway, you watch Charon lead the guards down a different path while you and John take the elevator. Divide and attack on two fronts. John will be their main target first, then you.

The man beside you is as still as death, his body relaxed but senses alert. John doesn’t fidget, hardly blinks, everything about him is steady and tranquil. Just standing near him feels electric.

“Just like old times.”

His faint words startle you. A large machine gun in his hands, the black suit, an unforgiving stare—he looks near godly, as always, and you blink in his direction. Your tongue drags over your lower lip, pensive, and when you glance back at him you see John’s eyes jump up from your mouth.

“Just like old times,” you agree softly.

You’re not sure what he sees when he looks at you. You would like to think he sees someone who exceeded his expectations for you all those years ago. Strong and unyielding.

You hope he sees an equal.

The lounge is painted with sickly green when the elevator crawls to a stop, and you both move like an extension of one another. Falling into a routine is easy because it’s instinct. The lounge is submerged in smoke, obscuring your vision so you both move silently through it, gauging the situation.

Raising your hand, you feel John slow beside you, his gun raised, covering you. Your eyes journey over the lounge, spotting blurry figures creeping through the space, trying to discover you no doubt. The black uniforms make anger simmer in your gut, gnawing on your self-control.

A hiss joins the fray of noise as you lightly roll your own gas canisters across the marble floor, your paralyser joining the smoke seamlessly.

You should really thank them. They just made this easier.

Now it’s just a matter of—

A gunshot booms behind you and you pivot on your knees, watching John tackle two men who have taken a route from behind, hidden from sight by large stone pillars.

Each man takes several bullets to take down and you frown at that. Through the darkness, you spot the heavy armour—heavier than you’ve seen them wear—as well as goddamn gas helmets on their heads.

Rising, you jog towards the bodies. John throws himself at the other approaching men and you yank on the helmet on the dead soldier’s head. It slips off relatively easily and you curse under your breath when you note what filters have been installed at the base of it.

They’re significantly better than the last time you faced off against them. This paralyser will be nothing more than an irritant at this rate.

They’ve come more than prepared.

They’ve come ready to skin the snake and hang her by that skin.  

Snarling, you hurl the helmet at another uniformed figure that rounds the column, his rifle raised, watching it crash against his head.

Two shots follow from your Glock but the man only stumbles back, and you leap at him, slotting the nozzle under his collar before firing again. A bullet slices clean through his neck, finally killing him. You slide a blade in your other hand, spinning it once. Scanning your surroundings, you take the other side so you and John work back to back even at the distance.

Gunshots explode ahead and you know that Charon has joined in the fray as well.  

Your displeasure morphs into anger and then outright fury with each dead body. It doesn’t take you long to realise that your weapons are too weak to handle this onslaught. The calibre too low. The helmets make the paralyser nothing more than a tickle down their throats and an ache in their eyes.

While that slows them somewhat, their armour is too good for a simple pistol fire. No matter how many bullets you may have at your disposal.

Slamming a knee into one man’s gut, you yank his body to one side. His body soaks up bullets his friends try to shoot at you and you pull back. A blade buries deep in his neck, you jerk the deadman again, feeling a splatter of hot liquid on your face when the blade cuts deeper into his skin.

Duck, yank, slice.

You tear through the throng of incoming soldiers but you’re slowed by the fact that each person takes too much effort to kill unless you get up close and personal. That in itself is tempting faith.

One bullet, one falter, that’s all it would take.  

A man charges at you when his gun clicks empty, and you block his punch, pistol-whipping him across the head. The contact rattles through your bones and you bare your teeth.

A slice so quick he doesn’t even register it follows before his throat opens.

Nothing but a wet gurgle slips free and gravity does the rest.

Another follows after that, and another and another. It’s chaos and darkness. The floor is slippery with blood but you push ahead your expression contorted with pure wrath.

They want to kill you, do they?  

Rules have drowned you for years now.

But right now—right this second—you’re still free of your chain.

And they have no idea what you can do.

Let me give you something to be afraid of.

With that thought racing through your mind, you turn and dash towards the elevator, slamming your hand against the button. It takes long—too long—but you know it will be worth it. Throwing yourself inside, you press the basement button over and over again, practically beating it.

The ride down seems to last an eternity as well.

You prowl inside the cubicle like a wild animal ready to spring free. So much so that the partition nearly breaks with the amount of strength you use to yank it backwards with.

“Winston!” you shout from the top of your lungs, slamming your palm repeatedly against the vault. “Let me in!”

There’s a reverberating click only moments later but you don’t wait for the hefty metal to open fully before you push inside, breathing harshly as you do.

Winston blinks slowly at the sight of you. “V?”

There is a question and a sharpness to his regard, and the wariness with which he takes you in should probably worry you. But you don’t answer him. Instead, you head straight for the cabinet. Your pulse pounding and a clamour inside your head leaving you partially deaf. To a point, both John’s and Charon’s returned presence back inside the vault scarcely registers.

A red haze clings to everything around you.

“V.”

Your knuckles are starting to swell again but after this, it won’t matter—

“V.”

“What do you want?” you hiss, each syllable acidic to a point it catches John off guard.

He mutely offers you a shotgun and something at the back of your brain recollects mentions of “armour piercing shells” but you shake your head.

“There’s still some left alive at the back, and they’re regrouping,” you say instead, trying to quell your temper. “I have something else for the second wave.”

He reads between the lines of your plan.

“I’m not leaving you alone to face them.”

Your head snaps in his direction, and you hold out a vial—smaller than others, rounder, filled with liquid that seems to be caught in a perpetual state of half-brown and half-red—in front of his face.

“This,” you begin tightly, your vocal cords straining from how hard you’re working to hold yourself back. “Is something that will kill them helmet or not. They should know better than to think that some cheap plastic will save them from me.”

You pull out two canisters of gas, shaking both as you look towards the air system. “Air filtering still on?”

“Minimal,” Winston returns, his voice dull, stare watchful. “Don’t let it consume you,” he reminds quietly after a pause.

Your grip momentarily falters at those words but that’s the only reaction he receives.

“Then I’ll do it the hard way.”

John intercepts you before you can take so much as a step, his minute unease now gone. “Why didn’t we open with that?”

You’re not sure why the hell he’s stalling now to ask you questions but you answer him despite that. “This is a diluted version of something I created a long time ago,” you tell them. “It wasn’t created to be used as a vapour. This is also the only vial I have, and it will take at least a month to create more. I was saving this for the eleventh hour because no matter how many are out there, they’re about all about to experience a quick but very painful death.”

You’re not quite sure what to make of what you glimpse across his features. Some turbulent mix of emotions he doesn’t seem to wish and explain. Day by day he learns the full extent of how you’re no longer that girl that walked away from him with tears streaming down her face.

This is what you are now. What you had to become.

You wait for a reaction, judgement, but John only steps aside, his voice a low rasp, “Be careful.”

You soften somewhat at the muted worry you hear in his voice. “You too,” you say with a sigh. “Go ahead. I’m grabbing one more canister of gas just in case. Don’t go anywhere near the lounge for the next ten minutes at least.”

Both men indicate their understanding, not bothering to question you further. And there is comfort in that, in their easy understanding and trust. They both can more than handle themselves but a distinct worry still gnaws on your entrails as you watch them leave. Lack of presence from the other guards no doubt means they’re all dead already.

So that leaves only you three.

Three vs a small army of highly trained fighters.

But not for long.

“V.”

“A little busy, Winston,” you stress while rummaging through different compartments. “Can it wait?”

Silence greets your words. Then, “If I asked for your trust. Your complete trust,” he begins purposely, his voice deceptively serene. “Would you give it to me?”

Your hands still and you stare blankly at your collection for a beat.

Straightening unhurriedly, you try to digest his words, and tilt your head in the manager’s direction.

It’s only when you note his expression that you realise something is very, very wrong.

The lobby is a graveyard.

Both literal and figurative.

Bodies lay in heaps across the usually gleaming flooring, and you wait patiently while leaning against one of many marble columns.

Waiting you’ve gotten rather good at.

The poison sits in your hands, warmed by your palms, but still brimming that ugly dark shade despite now being transformed into a vapour. You’ve recreated two versions of The Drowning and haven’t used either since Chicago. That thought makes you glare at the ceiling above because the recollection of Rafael and Boutin still wounds.

The grandeur of the Continental never fails to impress you though. Not even years later. There is always something new to discover and admire.  

You’ve been waiting for at least five minutes now so when a creak sounds you don’t move at first. Muffled footsteps echo across the eerily quiet lobby, moving towards you.

But not from the direction of the entrance.

The louder the steps become the more obvious a secondary sound becomes as well.

Whistling.

Faint but melodic.

The familiarity of the tune causes you to stands straighter, focus on the melody.

Mr Sandman drifts through the air as a peculiar sort of goad; purposeful and sly.

“Oh, snakey,” a voice coos playfully, pausing the tune for a moment. “I know you’re hiding somewhere out here.”

Lucien.

Of course.

You’ve been expecting him to show up sooner rather than later. It’s good to know that you were right about him though. He wasn’t going to let you slip by him again. This time, you don’t want to, either. This time, you’re going to finish this.

You contemplate throwing the poison in his face but the High Table would not give up so easily. John and Charon might be cleaning up the remainder of the first wave one shotgun shell at the time but a second wave is guaranteed and soon. Logically they would want to try and overwhelm you. They’re hoping to wear you out.

“Come out, come out wherever you are,” Lucien calls out in a sing-song drawl, his footsteps slowing to a point they fade entirely. “Don’t make me find you. You’re not going to enjoy that scenario.”

“Who says I’m hiding?”

You round the column, finding his thin, solitary figure in the middle of the lobby immediately. The dark green light seems to only emphasize his gaunt frame and you take a step closer, then another.

How clever of him to wait until your paralyser is fully dispelled from the air before he came seeking you out.  

His head lowers, deepening the shadows under his eyes. “Did your guard dogs run away?” he wonders mockingly, his voice carrying. “Good, they were getting in the way.”

“Of what?”

“Our dance, of course,” he retorts, a shade angry like you should know better. “One last dance and the truth. Oh, if only you knew but you don’t. No point in secrets now though.”

You scoff, both of you watching each other as you draw nearer. “You like hearing yourself talk, don’t you, Lucien?”

The blonde assassin bares his teeth at the sound of his name—dangerous and macabre, dripping with heinous amusement—and he gazes at you for a moment. Something flickers over his shoulder—

“Not at all actually,” he states overly calm. “But you’re not the only one to have your life stolen. Maybe it’s about time you realised that,” he divulges, his voice softening into something as hateful as it is eager. Like whatever he thought he knew, he couldn’t wait to impart on you. “I’ll be waiting for you, viper.”

You aim the poison at his head, hurling it through the air with every fibre of your strength.

Lucien ducks, sliding across the floor at near blinding speed, and disappearing behind the armchairs and from your sight.

It’s at that moment that the Black Dragon’s men burst through the lobby door, their guns raised.

Following his example, you dash behind the column, an explosion of bullets following a split second later.

Rubble splinters under the abuse and you turn, avoiding the crumbling stone.

One, two, three…

This time your poison doesn’t escape in an unassuming tickle of vapour. No, this time it’s an impact of a small explosive going off, and it’s a matter of one, two, three before muffled screams and groans replace the gunfire.

Arching your back against the ruined stone, you allow your head to tip back, watching the ceiling thoughtfully. You wait till gunfire completely cuts out before moving. Then, you stride from behind the column studying the effects with a mix of cold detachment.

Your own nose and lungs ache uncomfortably—just a show of how potent the formula really is—but you don’t take your attention away from the dying soldiers. They’re more of a heap at this point, their gas masks that they no doubt were so sure would keep them safe now virtually useless.

It’s a quick but brutal affair.

Wet sounds and sobs of pain. Then, like dominoes falling, the men still one by one.

They might be only obeying orders, but they came to kill the only family you have and take your home, and you find yourself feeling little to no pity for them.

The haze is gone now, leaving the lobby even more chillingly silent than earlier.

Lucien is nowhere in sight.

You would have preferred if the poison got him but didn’t hold out much hope that it would. He’s too good and far too fast.

I’ll be waiting for you.

He will grow to regret those words.

Stepping over the bodies, you approach the spot you saw the blonde last, heading in the direction of the only corridor he could have gone down.

Glock aimed ahead, your movements are utterly silent, deadly. No matter how deep into the hotel you head, he seems to be nowhere in sight, however. This time, clearly, he wants you to look for him.

Corridor by corridor you find nothing. Then floor by floor. You know this hotel far better than Lucien does. If he really assumes he can hide from you here he’s sorely mistaken.

Gunfire rips through the air and you pause, tightening your grip on the pistol. Little by little, you decrease the distance just as a hush falls up ahead.

John’s dark hair is what you glimpse first and instinctively relax seeing that it’s him.

“John.”

The man turns towards the call of his name, and you squint at him, approaching cautiously. “Why are you wet?”

John breaths are laboured, rattling from his lungs in shallow pants, making his chest expand with each inhale. “Zero’s men.”

“The Male Lover found me too,” you tell him and you both fall into step. “Missed out on the poison party, unfortunately.”

The man at your side glances you over once—a completely wordless but attentive examination—and you huff a small breath, amused.

“I’m fine.”

You’ve forgotten how much of a mother hen he could be without saying a single word.

At least you’re a little calmer now after your previous display of explosive fury.

He seems to accept your words, and you both step into the elevator for what feels like the hundredth time in a span of only several hours.

You know what logic John is following though. Both Lucien and Zero have likely hidden up on the higher levels for two reasons.

More places to hide.

And they’re less likely to encounter any poison on the higher floors.

Leaning your shoulder heavily against the cool metal, you peer at the man only arm’s length away. Baba Yaga stands with his shoulders slumped and expression enervated. Yet he’s standing despite that. His gaze still burns with a fierce sort of determination.  

That might have been one of the first things you’ve fallen in love with—that determination and will. Followed by his often unspoken kindness.

What won’t you give for things to be different.

Going up the floors proves to be the right of course action the moment the elevator stops.

John throws himself against one side of the metal cubicle, and you do the same when a bullet whistles through the partition, piercing the metal where John’s head just was.

Pushing your hand out, you fire blindly, hearing shuffling in response, and use the distraction to peek your head over the edge. John does the exact same thing and you both fire simultaneously, hitting two men. John in the head. You in the chest. Neither moves.

Shoulders hunched and tense, you move in unison, and you conclude instantaneously that this is clearly a trap to draw you in deeper. Laying a path for you to follow until the trap springs shut.

Eyeing each other, you both move ahead despite that shared conclusion.

It doesn’t matter much now. You may only have the single magazine, and one vial of paralyser left on you after butchering your way through an entire hoard of soldiers, but it won’t matter.

There is a nagging thought at the back of your mind that you should ask about Charon but now isn’t the time for that, either. The concierge is likely back with Winston by now.  

There is a ruthless strategy to how you remove Zero’s men. One by one, shoulder to shoulder, and know that these men are afraid. That they know deep in their heart of hearts that they won’t survive the fight before it even begins but they still try. They’re strong and fast. A legacy of hard training and cruel discipline no doubt. But John is stronger and you are faster.

In many ways, they remind you of those soldiers from years ago who ambushed you in that freezing Tokyo alleyway.

Your bullets run out by the time you return to the administrative lounge. All you have on you now are two blades, paralyser, and Elder’s dagger, tucked away and out of sight. Both blades have been christened with blood two floors ago, and John is down to his bare hands.

It would put most at a disadvantage but not him. If anything, his ruthlessness only seems to grow.

But something is different this time.

Three main differences, really.

First, a jovial whistle of Mr Sandman floating through the air.

Second, three dead men that you recognise as Zero’s and finally…

Lucien leans again a glass case housing an old relic, his hands covered in blood and the tip of his blade scratching at his nail. There’s at least a few dozen of these glass cases littering the room, an old passion of Winston’s, and quite the point of pride for him. Some artifacts locked away here are worth a lot of money. Frowning deeply, you stall, drilling holes into his figure.

Lucien knows you’re here but doesn’t acknowledge you right away. He continues humming, seemingly set on finishing the tune before his head dips lazily in your direction.

“Run along, Mr Wick,” he says bluntly, his face splattered with blood. “This is between me and the viper.”

The man beside you makes a small sound at the back of his throat, near disbelieving, but you cut him off before he can speak, still staring at Lucien, “Go, John,” you say calmly. “He’s right. We have unfinished business, as do you.”

John’s stare burns into the side of your head but you don’t explain further than that. This is not his fight. You’re no longer in need of his shadow and in need of his protection.

Still, he doesn’t move right away, and you hear him audibly inhale as if he needs to say something but can’t force the words out.

You’re about to repeat yourself but he finally steps to the side, taking a path around Lucien and the dead guards. His gait is slow. He’s practically staggering because you can sense his reluctance but the fact that he listens does make you feel a tinge of satisfaction.

A part of you wants to look towards him as he disappears down the hall but you don’t.  

Lucien peers at you with a strange little smile on his face all the while, waiting till John’s footsteps fully retreat until his limbs shift. He’s still smiling faintly but you’re in no urge to finish this, so you’re fine with letting him play his games, waiting and watching.

“Had your fun?” you wonder, bored, gesturing towards the dead men at his feet.

Lucien cranes his neck, pushing away from the glass with a swiftness that makes you tense. He chuckles at your reaction, stepping over them like they’re nothing more than dirt under his boot.

“Oh, that was just a little warm-up,” he says brightly that faint, unsettling smile still lingering, and you can’t help but wonder what his deal is. He seems awfully cheery. It makes for a strange contrast to your last few run-ins. And his previous words, implying his own looming demise. “You kept me waiting. Don’t tell me you’re getting slow.”

Smiling, you too move in his direction, limbs relaxed, a peaceful hush over your body. “Are you hoping to talk me to death?”

“Now, now,” he mutters icily. “No need to be quite so rude. I just want a dance.”

Your smile splits into something bleaker, more cold-blooded, and you circle each other. Pale blue light dances across Lucien’s sharp features. A snap of jaws, a growl—there is something animalistic about the wordless exchange between you. Something brittle, a string being yanked upon repeatedly until one of you finally gives in.

Lucien leaps first.

Your knives are short, certainly not created for duelling but the clank of metal pierces the air as you both meet in the middle. Your exhausted muscles snap, tensing, coiling.

He swipes his elbow in your direction but you duck just in time, a whistle of wind tickling your temple.

Arms twisting, you both ignore the screech of metal, you punching him in the jaw while he gets you in the ribs. Gasping, you stagger back, ignoring the numbing pain. Time has dulled the memory of how hard he manages to hit if the hits land.

Lucien springs towards you again, his face contorted, lips stretched back. This time your arms are tucked at your sides and you greet his attack. Your knees knock but you manage to push him back. A swipe of your blade is your reply but he careens out of the way and you kick at him instead. He catches your knee, staggering back from the impact, and he grins at you wildly. A slight cut against the corner of his mouth bubbles up, spilling blood over his front teeth. It paints the white bone canvas with diluted scarlet.

“You didn’t answer my question earlier,” he says conversationally, and you try to sink your knife into his chest but he shoves you back. You stumble but stay upright, exhaling shakily at the pain across your ribs. “If he missed you.”

Ignoring him, you roll the blades between your fingers, drooping lower as you unleash one quick swipe after another.

Lucien lurches backwards, his expression tightening in concentration. He manages to stay out of the way, just barely. So you push him backwards till you’re back by the bodies, and the man drops to the floor so suddenly you’re left staring at empty air until your mind catches up.

He rolls across the floor, a blur of his golden hair and dark clothes the only visible thing, and you realise a second too late as to why.

A blade lays by one of the dead men covered in blood as well. You have no idea how he managed to take down three men with a minimum of two katanas at their disposal. But there’s no time to contemplate that because this time you’re the one throwing yourself backwards.

Lucien swipes the katana in a deadly arc.

His hair mused, face bloodied and a grin on his face, he gazes at you for a second. Your grip on your blades constricts.

“I wondered for years what was so special about you,” he reveals mildly, tipping his chin upwards, pulling the blade closer towards his body as he stands. “I fucking hated you, viper. Viper. I suppose that’s one of many titles for you, isn’t it? John Wick’s protege, the Vipress, the Italian’s whore, the Russian’s Viper, Lady Camorra. Honestly doesn’t your head…hurt from it all? Or does it add to your ego?”  

He spins the katana in the air, rolling his wrist—experienced and at ease, the blade like an extension of his arm. Your senses pinprick at that assessment, knowing he just made this much harder for you.

“Did the way he used to call you his desert viper make you feel powerful?” he wonders suddenly, tracing his index finger up the curve of the metal. “Gave you a sense of importance? It must have felt thrilling to be such an exception to the most powerful man in the world.”

Something inside your chest stills.

Lucien drags his eyes in your direction, watching you closely over the edge of the blade.

“My, you really do have no idea, do you?” he continues slyly, his expression slackening with amusement; malicious, wild kind that causes you to bristle. “None. Your life is, ah, what is the expression again? A hot mess, non? Oh, snakey, I thought you could be the one to teach me a lesson I failed to learn all those years ago, but your ignorance is truly disappointing.”

He cuts the air with the blade, lowering it back to his side, and you bite out a chilly, “What the hell are you talking about?”

He tuts, wagging his index finger in your direction, his grin fluttering like he’s trying to contain a laugh bubbling inside his chest.

“I kept telling you but you just don’t listen, do you?” he wonders with a click of his tongue. “I told you we were the same. Forged by the same violence. Alike in ways you failed to understand. Now, why do you think I would say that?”

You don’t respond, instead, you push yourself backwards, launching your full mass at him. Lucien greets you with a chuckle—a cold, hollow sound, teetering on manic just like the rest of him—his katana managing to absorb the impact of your shorter dual blades.  

“Tokyo, Chicago, Prague, the Albanians, the summit, us—did you really think it was all, what exactly, one funny coincidence?” he asks jovially, and a distinct chill sinks into your bones at his words, forcing you to pull yourself backwards, and dive for the other blade on the ground.

He lets you. Doesn’t bother trying to stop you, and you grip the handle in a knuckle tight grip, creating some distance between you once more. Again, he lets you, examining you with a dark but curious light gleaming in his eyes. Like you’re a lab rat he’s conducting a study on. His question rattles through your head and you squint at him.  

“You never even questioned it, did you?” he continues, his voice airy with disbelief, a joke that seems to entertain him endlessly. He’s lost interest in the fight between you for a moment, prowling across the gleaming floor but in no hurry to attack. This, clearly is more important to him. “The water, the tunnels, the darkness. A repeating pattern. All carefully put together to test you. Over and over and over again. And you exceeded his every expectation. Every challenge thrown at you, you triumphed. And even if you did wonder at the back of your mind, you never once were made to believe that someone else was pulling the strings all along. Think, snake. Think.”

You’re not sure if you’re still breathing.

What…

No…

No, it doesn’t…

It’s not possible. It…can’t…

Your head is empty and you gasp for breath but your lungs feel blocked, your throat locked.

Lucien attacks in a blur.

You just barely manage to muster up the speed to block him, a piercing screech of metal against metal. Your arms buckle under his strength and he kicks you, catching you in the gut. One, two—

A muffled curse slips free, everything spinning, and he grabs the spare blade in your hand, throwing it away.

Parrying for control, you attempt a punch at his head but it’s too slow and sloppy. He catches your fist, bending your arm at a sharp angle. You relax it as per your old training to avoid broken tendons or bones. The katana slips from your hand and you growl under your breath, your free hand managing to form a fist.

A punch to his gut hits him quicker than a snake bite. Brutally efficient, impacting the exact same spot you gutted him only weeks prior.

Lucien grunts. Swears. His teeth gleam, still tinged by blood and you feel his hot breath on your face. Death and decay and—

You’re too misbalanced that you don’t notice it fast enough.

Lucien kicks you in the stomach with enough strength to send you flying.

A second of weightlessness enfolds you and then comes the crash.

Glass shatters upon contact and you muffle a cry of pain, feeling glass explode and rain down around you. Hitting the floor with a deafening thud, you stay there for a while, everything ringing and blurred around you.

A feeble moan escapes you, pained and strangled.

You attempt to shake your head, your fingers twitching against the glass covered floor.

“Tokyo was just the beginning,” Lucien’s muffled voice sounds like you’re underwater and you groan, weakly tilting your head to spot his approaching legs. Glass crunches under his boots and you try to desperately block out his words. “He’s always been on the lookout for new members to join his inner circle. Best of the best. And he’s always paid close attention to poisoners like you. Tokyo was just a nudge to see what you were made of. But you didn’t break and it escalated too far. Do you know what the Elder did after you escaped? Why you never heard from Kishi’s little group again? It wasn’t because of Wick. It was because the Elder had the entire clan killed. Just that easily. Because they disobeyed him.”

“No, no…”

It can’t be true.

It can’t.

He has to be lying. It doesn’t make any sense…

Except…it does.

“Did you never ask yourself why Tarasov didn’t simply turn you into another whore or sell you?” he demands harshly. “Later, I imagine, it was a certain degree of fear of you. But initially, it was because of the Elder’s will. Even if all Viggo Tarasov knew back then was that the Table willed it so.”

You focus on your core, trying to get yourself to move but Lucien speeds up his approach, kicking you in the stomach.

Pain blinds you and you roll across the floor. Your forehead connects with the glass, your left eyebrow splitting on impact. You don’t realise it at first—not till numbness is replaced by a sensation of something wet trailing down your face.

Droplets of fresh blood hit the crushed glass beneath you, and you crawl ahead with a pained gasp.

“Next—and my personal favourite—Chicago,” Lucien narrates loudly, his voice echoing through the large space. You hear him behind you but utter shock wins out, locking your limbs, leaving you a frail mess on the ground for him to prey upon. A part of you wants to roar, another wants to cry. Your training battles against the yawning abyss you keep slipping down with each horrifying word. “Who do you think fed the father-son wonder duo their information? Why do you think you were taken to an underground facility that was spitting image of Tokyo? Why not just kill you and D’Antonio outright? Boutin thought he was getting a special task but the truth was that he had long since outlived his use. The Elder fed both Boutin and his son to you to see what you would do. Black Dragon and D’Antonio were just pawns to hide the real test.”

The highway. The way they just kept attacking but not trying to kill you. It was to see how long you will last.

You want to be sick, a dry heave bubbling past your lips, every word crushing you harder, harder, harder—

“And, once again, you did perfectly but not without a loose end,” he sneers, venturing closer, step by step, as is savouring your reaction. “He also knew that the fear of being found out will make you more compliant. Wasn’t it peculiar that he summoned you right after you returned to New York? It’s almost like he…knew. Well, he did. He always has.”

Biting your tongue, you try to push yourself up on your elbows.

Ignore him, don’t listen, don’t—

“Prague. Again. Poison that made you struggle,” he reveals, his voice pitching towards impatience now. “The syndicate that took your Italian had no prior conflicts with Camorra and for a reason. Another test and punishment. More pieces for you to remove.”

Santino was taken for no reason. Right after your return from the desert. Cognitionis had no former alterations with Camorra up until that point. They were far too small to ever risk the wrath of a powerhouse like Camorra. They hadn’t even made demands which struck you as so odd back then but you had chalked it up to them wanting to prove a point.

A poison the heir was poisoned with was sophisticated and took some time to reverse-engineer. So long, in fact, that Santino nearly died.  

“Albanians. Same thing,” Lucien voices harshly, punctuating every word. He’s gotten so close that when the second kick comes the pain is distant, muted. Because what he’s betraying is so, so much worse. “It wasn’t Camorra that started the conflict. It was made to seem that way. Tarasov was cautioned to keep a close eye on you. To a point he forbade you from helping Camorra, right? And what did you do after that, snakey?” he demands, bending down and yanking you upwards by the back of your neck.

He pulls you towards him and more blood trails down your face. Lucien’s narrowed eyes search for something in your expression, and he smiles faintly when he spots it. “That’s right. It’s all starting to click, isn’t it?”

Tarasov forbade you from helping Camorra, from helping Santino. It was the first time you ever talked back to him. First time you ever conjured up enough courage to do so.

And then, furious and upset, you ran. Straight to Casablanca. And nearly back to the man who always expected—knew, he fucking knew, planned for it—for you to come back to him.

It’s what he wanted from the start and it would have been your choice.

No forced loyalty.

You will always lose, and it will always lead you back to me.

Oh God.

If Santino had come just half a day later you won’t even be here right now. You would be with him, at his side, and none the wiser to this truth.

The terrible, dark truth of what loneliness can do to someone.

“I even told you it was him,” the man holding you whispers, his head dipping to one side when he drags his fingers over your face, wetting them with your blood. “You just don’t remember, do you?”

His disappointment is once again palpable.  

Except while you’re staring at the cutting lines of his face, a recollection does come.

The warehouse. You tied to a chair. A needle stuck in your neck as Lucien leaned his body over you. The scathing bewilderment at the fact that he has managed to find something powerful enough to knock you out for hours. Those thin, pink lips shaping words while whatever he injected you with coursed through your veins, and a name you didn’t catch.

The Elder sends his regards.

Lucien’s fingers sink deep into the skin of your neck, his expression clouding with rage the longer he gazes at you.

“You were his favourite,” he seethes bitterly, ripping you upwards and on your knees so quickly you’re left scrambling. Your legs drag across the glass shards and your hands lock shakily around his, trying to rip out of his grip. “No one after you was good enough! We trained until our bones broke. We could bleed ourselves dry, and it still wasn’t enough!”

Shódigan.

That’s why he asked if you knew about it.

You thought you did but—

He flings you ahead and your body slides across the gleaming flooring, leaving a trail of blood behind. Lucien follows, stalking closer, and squats beside you, this time yanking you upwards by the collar of your shirt. “He adored you,” he adds with a hiss, his fury scalding your skin; an old, festering resentment. “And now you’re paying the price for that adoration.”

He exhales with great difficulty, taking several moments to reign in his temper.

Now, you understand his obsession with you perfectly.

He is like you.

He was a candidate too.

He must have been.

Another face in a long line of candidates for the coveted disciple position.

This time when Lucien speaks, his voice sounds contemplative, “Though I suppose you should thank him too,” he states forcefully light. “One day you will be remembered as a legend, just like your Baba Yaga. He helped to forge you into what you are today.”

You’re too numb to feel anything else.

There is just a hushed sort of silence ringing through your head.

Undeterred by your lack of response, Lucien goes on, wiping at the blood on his face, “You know there is an old French saying: qui se resemble, s'assemble. Can you guess what it means?” he doesn’t wait for your answer this time, either. “Every man loves well what is like to himself. You are each other’s dark mirror. His counterpart.”

He giggles this time, grabbing your face, his fingers cutting into the flesh of your cheeks, and for the first time since he started his speech, something sparks in your gut.

Shock or not, your body is failing to respond but you battle against it, silencing your mind.

Hurt and betrayal slam like an overloading flood against your composure despite your best attempts to stay afloat.

You’re such a fool.

Such a lonely, naive fool.

So desperate to believe.

Hope.

Just like he was.

Lucien is right.

You and Elder are two broken halves of a mangled whole.

The same man you once saw as a chance for redemption, belonging, is the architect of the majority of the pain in your life.

One day, if you still wish it, I will tell you everything.

Everything. This is what he had meant by everything.

He ordered Winston’s death not because the manager broke the rules but because he wanted to remove your main tie to New York—the very tie that made you choose to leave him in the first place.

And John would have been the one to fire the bullet.  

You would have hated him for the rest of your days for taking the manager away from you.

Santino is still weak and so very easy for the Elder to dispose of right now.

The Lovers. Their mission to hunt you both down.

Another test for you, another tie cut if they succeed in killing Santino.

And you would have crawled to him on your hands and knees, hoping for his kindness once again. Heartbroken and alone with no one to turn to.

He would have won and you would have made it easy for him.

So very easy.

Lucien drinks in your tiny, wet breaths and glassy stare. Blood continues dripping from the cut against your eyebrow and you shiver in his hold.

A tear trails down your cheek and you can’t process a single thought. It’s too much, it’s…  

“He always feared you would find out,” this time his voice is softer, emptier, and the hollows that make up his eyes examine you shrewdly. “But it’s a fitting punishment. To care for someone so deeply, to desire them, only to live with the burden of knowing that you are the reason for their suffering.”

His fingers tremble, sunken deep into your cheeks, and another off-tilter laugh tickles from the back of his throat.

“I really did hate you, your shadow, for years. Until those tunnels,” he murmurs, his faint accent just a little more notable then, his grip easing, loosening. “Until I saw how much darkness lurks under that mask of calm. How much hate festers inside you but directed at the wrong people. I told you we were one and the same. You should have listened.”

He shakes his head, blonde strands brushing over his forehead, his mouth stretching into another beaming smile, all teeth.

Lucien lets you go and you drop the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

That’s all you are—comes the sinking, gutting realisation—a puppet for others to use and play with.

“He will kill me for what I’ve done to you,” Lucien announces, sounding like he’s made peace with that grim fact long ago. “But you know it’s funny, snakey. I always thought I would enjoy this more. Getting back at them by betraying his secrets. Seeing that realisation on your face. That crumbling hope and despair as your world unravels and crashes around you,” he says softly, near lovingly.

It must have taken him years to gain this level of trust, to learn this information.

You don’t move a muscle. All you can see are Lucien’s legs but you can feel him staring down at you.

The blonde tsks under his breath, nudging you with the tip of his boot but you don’t react. “You want to deny it, I know you do,” he begins purposely, and you suppose he would know, won’t he? “But you can’t. Because I bet every single thing that’s never made sense about your life before now suddenly does. Am I right, snakey?”

Your fingers tremble and you press them closer to your body.

“Looking at you now, I almost pity you,” he muses and there is a distinct note of uncomfortable surprise in his low voice. It almost makes you ponder just how large the line between this lucid Lucien and his insanity really is. “You’re just a little tragedy, aren’t you?” he adds thoughtfully.

Little tragedy. Little tragedy. Little tragedy.

It echoes.

You wonder, then, what you would have become had you been allowed to stay a girl. If you didn’t have to become a monster. Even though the monster kept you alive, kept you breathing and fighting.

What would you have become if you hadn’t been robbed of a future you could have had?

“Your life is not your own, it never was.”

Deafening, hollow silence follows that statement. Your heart thuds so painfully inside your chest, a part of you waits for it to stop on its own.  

Lucien’s boot settles against your waist again, pushing you onto your back.  

You stare up at the ceiling above you and count the beats of your heart.

The assassin straddles you unhurriedly as if expecting you to fight back but all you do is blink slowly.

Everything is rushing through your head right now. Every moment over the last seven years.

His fingers brush over the curve of your neck and he stares down at you with an almost rueful expression on his face.

“What a waste,” he starts tightly, followed by a long pause and he mutters something in French under his breath. His fingers settle around your throat—not squeezing, simply gazing down at you. “I knew it would crush you. But I hoped for that rage. For the abyss. For you to show me once and for all what I lacked that you had. Your lesson.”

So that’s what that was about.

“We might have been friends had we met sooner, serpent girl.”

His fingers constrict—

“My—”

Your voice cracks and Lucien’s grip relaxes instantly. The thin line of his eyebrows knits in confusion. “Quoi?”

Gulping a painful breath, you part your lips, “My…lesson,” you croak out, tasting blood on your tongue and how fitting that you should. “My lesson…I have the answer.”

A certain light devours his gaze, and although his features drop with surprise, his eagerness is tangible.

He leans closer, and over you, his fingers still around your throat, “Tell me.”

Your tongue feels heavy and dry inside your mouth, an acrid aftertaste coating it, and Lucien jerks his fingers harder around the fragile column. He presses closer, his body weight pinning you down—

You jerk your body, a blur of your arm, a gleam of a dagger in the artificial, cold light. The Elder’s dagger in your hand trembles but gushing scarlet coats it still.

“I’m faster.”

Lucien gapes, his mouth parted. He convulses, his grip on your neck slipping, and you lurch your hips upwards, throwing him off you.

He drops to the side, right beside you, unmoving but the heat of his body still warming you—and you clutch the dagger tighter between your blood-stained fingers. You press it to your chest and lay there till time becomes nothing.  

BC4 BC5.

Years ago when you escaped to Casablanca, eager to start your life over and join the Elder once again, Sofia told you something that has stuck with you ever since.

Sometimes you have to kill what you love.

You’ve thought about that a lot over the years. What exactly she had to sacrifice to have the power she now possesses—her daughter, flesh and blood, and good.

What you may have to sacrifice one day to earn your freedom.

Now, you suppose, none of that matters anymore.

Not really.

You’ve almost won your pyrrhic victory, Kishi purrs happily at your side, and you hear the subdued rumble of Tarasov’s laugh too, soon you can savour the rotting, sweet taste of it on your tongue.

The rooftop terrace door slams open, and you step onto the patio, halting the heated conversation with your arrival. There is an unsteady sway to your limbs that doesn’t escape anyone’s attention—John’s shoulder’s slump, Winston’s eyes narrow, the Adjudicator simply arches an eyebrow—but your expression remains steely.

The fire roars behind Winston and Charon—and it is, admittedly, a massive relief to see them both safe and unharmed—even if it makes you think how close you came…

No.

None of that now.

You’ve lived through worse (have you? liar, liar, liar, Kishi coos) and you give them a forced, fragmented smile.

“Mornin’.”

The Adjudicator grimaces subtly, and you know it’s likely because your injuries leave your smile bloody. Good.

“The Vipress,” the Adjudicator greets, standing to their feet. “I must express my apologies on behalf of the High Table. It does, indeed, seem like the general order in regards to you has...changed.”

They don’t look particularly happy to admit that but this is no time to goad, if you even could muster up the strength for it.

Instead, you stare blankly in their direction for a beat. “Excuse me,” you say, your voice a grating whisper, as you push past them. “Killing your lackies has made me thirsty.”

You shoulder past them, avoiding contact, your eyes momentarily jumping to Winston who stands right behind the Adjudicator, his stare cautious. Your eye contact lasts no more than a scant few seconds but it’s enough.

It’s a split second in which you grab a glass of champagne, ignoring the other snacks on the table.

You turn to face them, finding them all in differing states of confusion or uncertainty but offer no explanation as you drown three large gulps.

“Let’s get on with it, then,” you phrase bitingly, not bothering to hide the impatience, the sting of bubbling acid and, and… “I would like to have breakfast and take a shower. It exhausts a girl, having to take down armies. Hope you can appreciate that at least most of mine are in one piece. Less blood for you to wipe,” you comment idly, directing your words at the Adjudicator.

Coldness lurks in their regard, and you can tell that their opinion of you is less than savoury.

You don’t give a shit what they might think of you.

Every word slips past your lips on automatic; mindless, void syllables that feel drained of life. It’s an effort to register anything around you.

The blood, the champagne, the bubbles tickling your nose.

“While you have been pardoned of your crimes,” the Adjudicator resumes smoothly, clearly eager to get the conversation back on track and out of the way. “I’m afraid no such thing has happened with Mr Wick. A man who has shown no loyalty, no regard for the rules. It is by that logic the Table’s decrees that the punishment should fit the crime.”

Winston hums loudly, his head tilting as he nods in absentminded agreement.

You take another sip of your drink, frowning at the taste of blood in your mouth. Fitting, somehow.

You might have scrubbed yourself clean of blood before coming up here but it still stains the cracks of your skin. Cuticles stained with red, mouth stained with red.

Red, red, red…

John straightens at those words. He looks beat from his own fight but remains quiet. Yet, he can no doubt sense that something’s wrong.

“You’re correct,” Winston states, no affliction to be found in his voice and he steps closer, pulling something from behind his jacket. “Sorry, Jonathan.”

BANG

The gunshot is like a thunderclap through the too still morning.

John’s body jerks with the impact, a gasp sounding a second later, and you look at him while Winston steps closer.

BANG

John scrambles backwards, his bulletproof clothing absorbing the impacts but it won’t get him far.

“(Name)!” he calls out desperately, pained, his eyes seeking your form out, his voice cracking and splintering.

You can’t help and wonder if he’s scared. He sounds scared. There is something ironic—downright hilarious—in the knowledge that he’s facing death yet calling out your name like it may prove to be a salvation.  

It’s the first time since you asked him not to use your real name that he uses it. But you don’t move. Don’t respond to the plea for help. Mercy.

You just stare at him, indifferent and cold, knowing that even if you tried you couldn’t muster up any emotional response right now.

Winston fires again, and again, and John veers towards the building edge, his knees shaking.

The manager’s expression remains vacant, cold, and he shoots again, no hesitation in his aim. Not a single falter. It’s one of the most well carried out executions you’ve ever witnessed.  

John’s back hits the ledge and you watch in near slow motion as he tips over the edge falling at least twenty floors down and towards the concrete below.

You hear the metallic bangs as he hits a few fire escapes on his way down but still don’t move.

Then, impact so loud it splits the air.

Then, stillness.

The typical buzz of New York City waking up resumes. Time restarts and goes back to its natural flow once again.

Throwing your glass back, you drown the remainder of the champagne, licking your lips twice, yet blood still lingers.

Winston lowers his arm, approaching the edge but the Adjudicator gets there first. Charon is only a step behind them, and you force yourself to move after them as well.

The Adjudicator gazes down for a long, assessing moment, silent. Their head turns towards the manager who meets their probing stare flatly.

“I assume we’re done here?” he questions.

The Adjudicator inclines their head and, predictably, switches their attention to you. “You did not help him.”

A fact, not a question, yet it demands an explanation all the same. Your tongue moves on automatic, forming words that taste brittle.

Everything feels brittle.

“Why would I?” you wonder dully. “He betrayed me not so long ago, and nearly killed the majority of my friends less than a week ago. I learned my lesson.”

Chuckling, you turn your back to them, walking away leisurely. The glass clangs back onto the coffee table, a shriek of a sound. “I have served. I will be of service,” you echo the mantra pleasantly, faint with scorn.

Every word bleeds venom through your heart.

You don’t face them again, and no one stops you. The terrace doors slam shut behind you, and it’s a deafening bang that reverberates. You force yourself to put one foot in front of another. Keep walking, keep walking, keep—

It’s a blur, your feet dragging behind you. You’ve stopped bleeding but still have to halt at one point, leaning your palm against the corridor wall to rest.

You’re teetering and—

Your life is not your own, it never was.  

Your room sits untouched. The door opens with a click that’s like a kiss against your hair—so soothing and loving, comforting in ways that you could never quite explain.

The table is still an organised mess; notes half-unfinished, empty vials, dried ingredients—all littering the wooden surface, and you approach it slowly.

Exactly as you left it before you departed for Rome.

It seems like a lifetime ago now.

Everything is the same here, frozen in time.

Except nothing is the same.

Your fingertips trace over your notebook; a new formula, a collection of improvements on old ideas, scribbles that don’t make much sense to anyone but you.  

Your legacy. Your work.

This room is a testament to who you are. What you have become.

A tragedy.

Not a legend, or a fighter, just a tragedy of a girl.

A sound escapes you at that, strangely wounded, and you lean the heels of your palms against the table edge, your vision blurring.

Tragedy, tragedy, tragedy.

A puppet stitched together by different hands, influenced by different people.

You’re a product of someone else.

Every victory from your past sours and cracks with that realisation. You must have made him so proud.

You hate this room, this table, these plants, yourself.

This time a scream rips from the back of your throat. A brutal sweep of your hands wipes the table clean, everything plummeting to the floor with a booming crash.

You destroy everything in your path. Glass explodes, paper rips, liquids spills. You’re panting, sweating, and shaking by the time you come back to yourself. The floor is a mess, the whole room is.

A glint catches your notice when you spin on your heels, and your head snaps to the floor-length mirror across the room.

You don’t recognise anything about the bloodied, tear-stained, wild reflection that glares back at you. A monster is all that stands there. Alone and devoid of everything.

Distance evaporates between you, and you slam the hilt of the only weapon you still have left into the glass. The Elder’s dagger shatters the mirror upon contact. Cracks fracture your face before the mess crashes at your feet with another ear-splitting echo.

That uses the last tendril of strength left in your body—perhaps your very soul.

Your knees fold under you—and it’s almost soft, your crumbling.

Weightless and empty you settle on the floor.

Tears stream down your cheeks, hitting the crushed glass in front of you but you don’t wipe them away, don’t make a single sound. You can’t.

Your forehead lowers between your knees, your hushed sobs the only noise permeating through the peaceful room.

You don't get back up.

B4.

. . .

AN: 

well. 

now you know. 

not sure how many of you are even around to read this but a fun game to play now that you're done:

- reread COA from start to finish, noting every use of "honoured guest" in relation to V spoken by her enemies throughout the years, even the elder himself.  

[myhockeyworld87]

Not So Dangerous Liaison - Sidney Crosby - Part 24

Word Count: 3,486

POV:  Reader 

Warngings: Language, NSFW, Smut

Notes: Sorry this is later than when I thought I’d get it out, but here it is anyhow. These two are finally back on track, but what will happen now that the season starts? As always love your feedback and Happy Reading! Let me know what you guys think.

Not So Dangerous Liaison Masterlist

Time flew in the twelve short days that you were away from Sid, though if someone had asked him, he would’ve told them differently. He facetimed you at least four times a day, along with numerous calls back and forth and more text messages than you knew what to do with. If you were being honest with yourself, you had to admit that you missed having him around all the time. You’d grown so used to be spending time together over the summer that even these few short days were rather hard.

 Most of your time was spent, packing up things to move into Sidney’s house. It was mostly clothes and personal items, as his place was completely furnished, though it did feel weird leaving behind things. You debated about taking different knick-knacks that you had throughout your place, not knowing where to put them in Sid’s. He told you that it was your place now as well and to bring whatever you wanted, but you were still unsure. There was just this pit in your stomach that the two of you would be spending too much time together and you didn’t want to be moving all your furniture back in a month or so. You tried to tamper down that nagging feeling, as you finished hanging up the last of your clothes into your now shared bedroom closet. You had yet to spent the night at the house alone, even though you’d transferred almost all of your things. It just didn’t seem right without Sid there.

 His plane was due in a couple hours, and you were frantically trying to finish up unpacking. He told you that he’d just take a car from the airport so that you wouldn’t have to be bothered picking him up, but there was no way you were going to let that happen. With fifteen minutes to spare, you headed off to the airport to await your boyfriend. The luxuries of flying first class allowed you to meet him at the private entrance instead of having to traipse through an endless number of people waiting at the terminal. By the time he touched down, you were leaning casually against the car just waiting for him.

 The right side of his lips picked up into that smile you loved so much as he took his first step off the jet. “What are you doing here?” He was down the steps and halfway to you before you could answer.

 “You didn’t think I would let some driver pick up my boyfriend, did you?”

 Before he even thought about answering you, his lips found yours; crushing them to his as he kissed you as if you were his very life’s breath. “I should’ve known that you wouldn’t.” Another kissed followed. “God, I missed you.”

 You were pretty sure the two of you would’ve gone on kissing for quite some time if it hadn’t been for the flight crew interrupting and asking where Sid wanted his luggage. As soon as it was stowed away in the back of the SUV, the two of you took off heading for home. “Did you get everything moved in?” Sid asked, lacing your fingers together as he drove down the highway.

 “Surprisingly, yes. I thought I was going to be late picking you up but got all my clothes put away in record time.”

 “Excellent, I can’t wait to see what you’ve done with the place.”

 Sid was grinning from ear to ear, and you really didn’t have to heart to tell him that you’d moved nothing in but your clothes, so instead you changed the subject making small talk about the almost two weeks that you hadn’t been in Nova Scotia. There was no avoiding the subject once you were home though. “Where’s all your stuff?”

 “In the closet.”

 “No like furniture and pictures; that god awful lamp that looks like a thousand mirrors were shattered to make it.” You knew he hated that lamp, probably because he thought you broke the mirror and were headed towards an indefinite number of years of bad luck.

 “Still at home.”

 “But this is your home.” There was a seriousness to his voice that had been absent these last few days as well as on the ride home.

 “Yes, but we agreed that I was keeping my place just in case.” Sid closed his eyes but it didn’t stop you from seeing him roll them.

 “Yeah, I know, but babe this is OUR home now.” He emphasized the word our as if it was a new concept to you. “I want you to have your things here as well. I told you we could move out anything to make room.”

 “I know you did. It’s just…” you trailed off not knowing exactly how to put things.

 “What? Do you think this isn’t going to work? Because I can tell you it will, but if you’re having second thoughts…”

 “No, it’s not second thoughts.”

 When you didn’t add anything more, you could see his mind going into overdrive. “I get it.” He finally said, as if he knew what was in your head when even you didn’t. “We need a new place, one that’s ours and not something that was mine. I’ll call the realtor and we can start looking, or do you want to build.” Sid’s mind was in warp speed now and you were wondering if this is how he processed things on the ice this fast. “I mean you did just finish that house. There’s some really good land over by the practice rink. We could build there, pick a design we both like….”

 “Woah,” you told him, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips, hoping to stop the incessant flow of thoughts that seemed to be spewing out of him. “I don’t want to move. You just bought this house, less than a year ago. It’s gorgeous, Sid, and I love the neighborhood. The house isn’t it at all.”

 He kissed your fingers before taking them from his lips and cupping them in his hands. You could feel the clamminess there and knew that he was worried about what you were going to say. “Then what is it?”

 “It’s hard to explain, but I just didn’t feel comfortable making those changes without you here. It doesn’t have to be done in just a few days; we have time. I just need to get adjusted to being here and then see what I want to bring. I guess you could call it baby steps.”

 Sid exhaled his breath, a movement you could visibly see and feel. He didn’t need to tell you that he was relieved you were staying, for that simple act did it just the same. “Ok, baby steps it is, as long as you’re not going anywhere.”

 “Well, I was thinking about taking you upstairs into OUR bed.” You gave him a little wink, then pulled him close to your body.

 “Mmmm, well, in that case, lead the way.” The two of you spent the next several hours making up for lost time together. In fact, that was how most of the weekend went until Monday rolled around and training camp started. You and Sid adjusted to life together over the next couple of weeks, and despite all your earlier misgivings, being together as much as you were actually strengthened your relationship. You ended up spending more time than you thought at the arena helping with preparations for the home opener where the Stanley Cup banner would be raised in front of a sellout crowd. Which definitely helped give the two of you some space. It wasn’t until the first away game that things got messy.

 Sid still sat with Flower on the plane, per your insistence. You were not going to take that ritual away from them. Which let you sit back and chat with some of the other guys, during the flight. You didn’t really see each other until you went to hand out the room keys. Sid took his with a little wink and then made his way to the elevator. It was about twenty minutes later that your phone beeped.

 Where are you?

 You shot off a quick, in my room, back.

 You no sooner sent it than you saw those three little dots pop up, then disappear. They reappeared once more only to go away again. You finally set the phone down then went back to hanging your clothes up so they wouldn’t wrinkle. You’d just finished when you heard the knock at the door.

 “Why do you have your own room?”

 There was no point in him standing in the hall, so you opened the door to allow him to come in. “Did we not talk about this?”

 “No,” and you supposed he was right and you hadn’t actually.

 “Sid, this is a work a thing. I’m doing a job and so are you. When we’re on the clock, it’s strictly business.”

 He seemed to think this over and that’s when you started to worry. “Ok, remind me what your job is again.”

 You rolled your eyes at him but humored him anyhow by answering. “I’m here to act as a liaison, between the players and their families, as well as try to make things a little easier and more comfortable…” you stopped midsentence realizing your mistake.

 “Ah, see you said it. I would be more comfortable if you were to sleep in the same bed with me.” He grabbed your waist pulling you close to him, and though you made an attempt, you still went willing into his arms. “I hate sleeping without you.” A cute little pout formed on his pillowy lips and suddenly you were mush in his arms.

 “I hate sleeping alone too, but…”

 “No buts. I’m either staying here or you’re coming to my room. Everyone knows we’re together. They won’t think anything of it.” His hands were gathering the material of your shirt, then sliding underneath it to caress your bare skin. You hated how he knew all your weaknesses and was currently using them against you. The gentle caress of his fingertips on your skin sent a tingling sensation all through your body. “So, which will it be baby, your room, or mine?”

 “Sid,” you protested, albeit weakly. “We really shouldn’t.”

 This time his lips went to the crook of your neck, where he dropped one kiss after another making you weak in the knees. “We should.” Another kiss. “We can.” He lightly nipped at the skin there. “We are.” You didn’t realize he’d backed you up to the bed until you felt your body lowering down onto it.

 Sid hovered over you, his hips pressing into your intimately. “Wait,” you stopped him and you could see the frown already forming on his face. “We’re still keeping both rooms, and you’re napping alone.”

 He sighed, a bit frustrated you could tell, but he nodded his agreement. “Though sometimes you could nap with me.”

 “You’re very persistent.”

 “You’re just noticing this now.” All you could do was shake your head and laugh at his comment. Of course, you knew he was stubborn on the ice; so why would this be any different. “I guess we’re staying here then,” he added with a wiggle of his brows before he kissed you long and hard. Sid’s hands were all over you, as he removed your shirt then your bra so that he could lavish attention to your breasts. A breathy sigh left your lips as he captured one nipple, his tongue swirling around it and making it taut before gently nibbling on the peak causing you to moan out.

 His fingers stole down to your leggings, sneaking inside the waistband and cupping your sex. “So wet,” he hissed out loving the feel of your slickness on his digits. “I knew you wanted me to stay,” he added giving you that signature smirk of him. The retort you had died on your lips, as he rubbed slow circles around your clit. Around and around, they went, setting your body on fire, until your hips were lifting up into this hand.

 “Stop teasing,” you breathed out, practically panting with need, as he continued to play with your pussy.

 “Oh baby, I haven’t begun to tease you.” There was a wicked glint in his eyes and you knew you were in trouble. He removed his fingers from your body then, only long enough so that he could strip you from the rest of your clothes. He pulled you to the edge of the mattress, then started to trail kisses along your inner calf, all the way up to your thigh.

 “Sid,” you whined, but he just smiled as he neared your core.

 Instead of placing those luscious lips on your center, he kissed your stomach while his hands stole up and down your inner thighs. He made his way down until he finally reached your core, kissing all around your pussy lips and driving you wild until your hips bucked up. He backed off then. “Mmm, not yet baby. I’m not done teasing you.”

 “Please, Sid.” You were outright begging now, needing him as much as you needed the air around you to breathe.

 “See, this is why we need to share a room.” You should’ve known he’d work your body up to a frenzy only to point out that he was right all along. You wanted to argue but then he sucked on your clit and your mind hazed over in a cloud of bliss. His tongue worried the little nub, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body and when he slipped two fingers inside you, you thought you saw stars. “Is this what you want baby?”

 Oh, how you did. You were so close to cumming and you knew he knew that. “Yes!” That one simple word echoed off the walls of the hotel room, and it was then you realized that you weren’t back in Pittsburgh in your own home and that quite possibly one of the guys could hear you. Instinctively, you clapped your hand over your mouth, as Sid started to pump his fingers in and out of you. When his lips found your clit again, you lost it; falling off the edge into the sea of pleasure.

 Sid worked you through your orgasm, then quickly undid his pants pushing them down to the floor before kicking them aside. Cock in hand, he entered you in one swift motion and you couldn’t contain the moan that had been threatening to escape its confines of your fingers. Sid’s fingers dug into your hips as his cock thrust in and out of you; his groans now joining yours and you were sure that anyone passing by would be able to hear what was going on. “Fuck you feel so good,” he hissed out, thankfully in more of a whispered tone. His teeth were clenched as he fought the urge to cum inside you too quickly, wanting you to find that wave of pleasure once again before fulfilling his own needs.

 Sid slowed his thrusts to stave off his orgasm, then brought your right leg up to rest against his chest. The angle of his cock hitting you just right, as he moved in and out of you. He heard the hitch in your voice, as he hit your g-spot and knew that you were close. “Cum for me baby.” The words fueled you as his cock pistoned your pussy. Your legs trembled as the second orgasm hit, your cunt squeezing Sid’s dick and sending him spiraling down with you.

 A satisfied grin crossed Sid’s face as he lay down beside you on the bed, still with his shirt on. “Aren’t you glad I’m persistent?”

 Your laughter filled the room, and while you were definitely grateful for that little escapade; you also knew he had a game tomorrow. “Get under the covers before I kick you back to your own room.” It was Sid’s turn to laugh, yet he followed your orders, stripping his shirt off before following you into bed.

 Every away game from there on after, you ended up sharing room. Often getting teased by some of the guys when the two of you had been particularly loud, though Sid didn’t seem to care. In fact, you swore at times he was trying to make you scream on purpose.

 Life with Sid was practically perfect. Neither of you seemed to get on the other's nerve, even with spending so much time with one another, which surprised you. If you were being honest, being together only made you love him more. The two of you were so comfortable in your routine you never saw things coming on January sixteenth.

 It was the same as any other home game. You and Sidney rode together to the rink before the game with the Capitals, as you always did. Pulling into the parking lot, you gave Sid a long kiss before both going your separate ways. Sid took the same route to the locker room every time, even though it took twice as long to get there and while you adored him and all his little idiosyncrasies; you tried your hardest not to be a part of them, especially after the one time.

 It was early in the season and you came across Sid in the kitchen, making his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “That looks good,” you told him offhandedly and he offered you a bite. You took it not thinking much of it, then went on about your day. When they won that night, again the sandwich never crossed your mind. That was until Sid made sure that the next game you were there to take a bite of the sticky sandwich at the exact same time as you had the previous game. Thus, it continued for the next seven home games until they lost and you finally put your foot down not wanting another peanut butter and jelly sandwich for quite some time. Since, then you stayed clear of your boyfriend during his pregame rituals, as much as you could.

 So today, like every other day, you were at the locker room well ahead of Sid. “Hi Dana, need anything?” You always checked in with the long-standing equipment manager before all the excitement got underway.

 “I’m good but you have a visitor in your office.” You gave him a questioning look, which had Dana adding, “It’s the Caps GM.” A sympathetic look crossed his face before you moved on, wondering the whole time what the rival team’s general manager could want with you.

 The door to your office was open, and you saw Brian MacLellan looking at the pictures hanging on your wall. “Mr. MacLellan, it’s good to see you.”

 “Hello, Ms. (Y/LN). It’s nice to see you as well.”

 “Please have a seat,” you said taking yours behind the desk, trying to hide the nervous tremble that had entered your voice. Your mind scrambled back to your last game in DC, just five short days ago, wondering what had happened to have the GM in your office at the moment. Once he was comfortably seated you probed for a reason as to why he was there. “Is there something I can help you with Mr. MacLellan?”

 Elbows resting on the armchair, he steepled his fingers together in thought, and your stomach lurched wondering what either you or one of the guys did that warranted this conversation. “Actually, there is. I’ve talked to quite a few people about your Ms. (Y/N).” Oh god, the timbre of his voice had an ominous quality to it causing you to sit a little straighter than you already were. MacLellan took note. “All good things, I assure you.”

 “Well, that’s good to know.” Now if he would only tell you why he was asking about you.

 The air in the room grew thick, as the GM leaned back in his chair relaxing a bit. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve been asking about you.” You nodded, not feeling the need to confirm what you both already knew to be true. “You see Ms. (Y/LN), the hockey community is smaller than one would think and it seems your name keeps popping up.”

 This had to be because you were dating Sidney. Even though Mario had made no qualms about the two of you dating maybe the NHL did. Sid was practically the face of the league and they probably didn’t want it known that he was dating an employee. You felt yourself shrink back, not that you were ashamed of your relationship with Sidney, quite the opposite. It was more from that you just didn’t know what you were going to say if he told you, you needed to choose between Sidney and your job.

.

[fruitcoops]

hi! i was wondering if you could do couples play truth or drink with coops and o’knutzy? i wouldn’t mind it being spicy :))

This is VERY spicy, so please be aware of that before you go in. Coops and O’Knutzy belong to @lumosinlove!

TW for many mentions of sex and alcohol

Sirius was warm, a little tipsy, and perfectly content. The carpet was soft under his palms and Remus was cuddled happily against his side from their spot on the floor; across from him, Logan was sitting in Leo’s lap with his legs over Finn’s, whose Spotify ‘gaylist’ played from the speakers. Their cheeks were all a little pink from alcohol and Sirius was glad they were staying the night instead of driving home.

“Okay, okay, new game,” Leo laughed as they gathered the last of the Scrabble pieces. The five of them had made it through a whole fifteen minutes before Remus and Finn began arguing about symbolism in Great Expectations, while Sirius sat on the sidelines deeply regretting his choice to build ‘mansion’ for a triple-word score. Twenty points really wasn’t worth the near-fistfight.

“It’s time,” Logan singsonged as he took the truth or drink cards off the coffee table, which had been pushed aside to make room for their game board. “The rules for this are a little different. Do you have alcohol?”

Sirius scoffed. “Of course we have alcohol, we’re adults.”

“Other than wine.”

“Mon dieu,” he muttered, rolling his eyes as he got to his feet and walked back into the kitchen. He returned a few moments later with a bottle of cheap whiskey he had been given on his birthday and set it in the middle of their circle, along with five glasses. “There.”

“Before we start, let’s make an agreement that whatever we say stays in this room, alright?” Finn held his hand out, palm down, and they stacked theirs on top. “No cameras, no holding back.”

“Deal. Who goes first?”

“Alright, so with the group game, there’s one judge each round,” Logan explained as he took a few cards out and put them face down. “Every card has two questions and the judge decides who asks who. They give the card to the person with the best answer, and whoever has the most cards at the end wins. Ready?”

“Let’s do it.”

Finn drew a card. “Okay, I want Remus to ask Leo the first one, and Leo asks Remus the second one.”

“Have you ever walked in on your parents?” Remus asked.

Leo groaned. “Yeah.”

“Not Eloise and Wyatt!”

“Yes, Eloise and Wyatt. Scarred me for life, that’s for sure.” Leo shuddered and took the card, immediately grinning. “This is a good one. What’s your most embarrassing sex moment?”

“I really want to drink.”

“You can’t chicken out this early!”

“Ugh, fine.” Remus ran a hand down his face, which was faintly red. “Um, it was after my first game with the Lions and I tried to ride and…” He sighed. “My legs were too tired to actually sit up.”

“No,” Finn gasped, looking like a kid on Christmas morning. “You couldn’t even get up?”

“I could get up, I just couldn’t move.” Remus tucked his knees under himself. “Like, I got to here and it was fine, but there was nothing left.”

Sirius snickered. “Almost broke my sternum trying, though.”

All three cubs burst out laughing. “This one goes to Loops,” Finn managed after a moment, wiping a tear from his eye as he handed the card over. “Oh, shit, that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. Leo, you’re up.”

“Okay…I want Cap to ask Logan the first one, and vice versa.”

Any higher power, give me strength. “What’s your favorite position, Tremzy?”

Logan grinned cheekily. “Middle.”

“Didn’t need to know that.”

“Too bad. When was the last time you had sex?”

“It would have been three and a half hours ago if your boyfriend didn’t insist on being early to everything.”

“I knew it!” Finn practically shouted. “I told you two they were fucking.”

“Did you bet on that?” Remus asked, incredulous. “Oh my god!”

“It was less of a bet and more of an assumption,” Leo corrected. “Cap, answer the question.”

“Last night.”

“That’s a lame-ass answer and I’m giving the card to Lo.”

“Bias,” he coughed, earning himself three different smacks to the shoulders. “Rude.”

“My turn!” Logan reached over for a new card. “Loops, ask Finn the first one, and Finn, ask Loops the second.”

Remus cleared his throat, took a second to laugh, and then read. “Name the person here you think I should hook up with.”

Finn snorted. “Aside from your actual fiancé?” They both turned to Logan, who shrugged. “Alright, which one of my boyfriends am I willing to hand over for a night? I feel like you’d object to sleeping with Lo because he’s basically Sirius’ brother. You and Leo are close already, which means it wouldn’t be all that awkward. Honestly, when it comes down it, I’d tap that.”

“Oh, you think you’re doing the tapping?” Remus raised an eyebrow and Finn glanced at Sirius, who grinned. “That’s cute. My turn, Harzy, hand it over.”

Finn obliged, shocked into silence while Leo and Logan cackled next to him. “Are you really surprised?” Sirius asked.

“I mean, a little.”

“Shush, you two. Finn, have you ever done anything sexual on camera?”

“Does Snapchat count?”

“Yes.”

“Then yes. Multiple times.”

The five of them looked to Logan, who shook his head. “I’m going to have to give it to Loops, who is apparently a top, much to everyone’s surprise. Sorry, mon rouge.”

“To clarify, I’m a switch,” Remus said as he added the card to his pile. “Let’s not get too hasty here.”

Sirius took a card off the stack and scanned the two questions. “Logan, ask Leo the first one, and vice versa.”

“Oh, this should be interesting. Knutty, who here do you most want to hook up with?”

“Just one?” Leo looked over to Sirius who nodded. “Fuck, I don’t know. I can’t choose!”

“Are you going to drink?” Sirius asked. “That means you lose the card by default.”

“Yeah, I’m not going to choose between my boyfriends.” He downed the shot and reached for the card. “Have you ever had an awkward sex dream? Was anyone here involved?”

“Fuck,” Logan muttered. “Yes, I have had so many awkward sex dreams and several of them involved people in this room.”

“Aw, Tremzy, I’m flattered,” Remus teased, taking a sip of his water as Logan stretched a leg out to kick him in the thigh. “Do I get to be the judge now, seeing as you won by default?”

“Get me some cards, Loops!” Finn said.

“Sirius, ask Finn question one and Finn, ask him question two.” Remus kissed Sirius on the cheek as he handed him the card.

“Harzy, what’s the sexy nickname they’ll give you in the old folks’ home? You have no idea how bad I want to know this.”

Finn winked. “Big Red.”

“That is the shittiest nickname ever. Do better.”

“Ugh, fine. Hmmm…” He hummed along to the playlist while he thought, and Sirius couldn’t help but bop a bit as well. Sue him, Gloria Gaynor was catchy. “My nickname in the nursing home is going to be Harzy because that’s already sexy. Hand it over, Cap. What’s a sexual thing you tried, but just couldn’t get into?”

“Having sex with women.” The entire group burst out laughing at that, and it took a solid minute for everyone to calm down enough to continue. “It’s true! They were all very nice and lovely, but it wasn’t quite right. Alright, Re, who won?”

“You did,” Remus laughed. “By a landslide, holy fuck. Batter up, Harz.”

“Ha! Everyone has to answer this one except me. What’s the sex skill you’re most proud of?”

“Do we just go around the circle?” Leo asked. Finn nodded and he tilted his head. “Hmm. I’m really flexible.”

“Damn right you are,” Logan grinned. “I’m most proud of my riding ability.”

Sirius did not miss the flush that came to both Finn and Leo’s faces at that. “Easy, boys. I think I’m a really good kisser.”

“That’s not a sex skill!” Finn protested. “Everyone can kiss.”

Remus huffed a laugh. “Not like he can, trust me. Um, I give top-notch blowjobs.”

Finn looked between the four of them, deep in thought. “I hate having to choose between my boyfriends.”

“You know there are two other people here, right?” Sirius asked drily.

“Yeah, but I don’t have to go home with you tomorrow and neither of you are in direct control of whether or not I get laid. I think I have to go with Logan on this one. Peanut, I am grateful for your flexibility every single day, but it’s not a specifically sexual talent.”

“We’ll see if you get to experience it ever again,” Leo scoffed, flicking him on the ribs playfully. “My turn. Logan, ask Finn the first one.”

“Okay, baby, what did you get in major trouble for as a kid?”

“Oh, that’s tough.” Finn absentmindedly ran his hand through Logan’s hair. “There was one time when I told Alex I was going for a bike ride, but he didn’t tell my parents and they thought I’d been kidnapped. Got grounded for a month after that.”

“Even though you told your brother?”

“Mhmm. Oh, I hate the way this is worded. Tell us about a time a fluid got on you during sexy times.”

Logan snorted. “Do you remember the day we found out I was allergic to dust?”

Both Leo and Finn started laughing, but Sirius shared a bewildered look with Remus, who shrugged. “Spill it, Tremz, we weren’t there.”

“D’accord, we had forgotten to clean the apartment after a roadie, so it was pretty dusty. I went down on Leo and then pulled off to sneeze right as he came, and it got in my eye.”

Sirius winced at the thought and Remus hissed in sympathy. “Yikes.”

“After we finished rinsing my eye out, we dusted the whole place and now we vacuum at least once a week.”

“Logan is the winner for this round because I still feel bad about that,” Leo said as he handed the card over. “I have never felt so guilty for coming. Lo, you’re the judge now.”

“Since the questions stayed within the triad last round, I’m going to be nice and give you two a chance to catch up,” he teased. “Cap, read Loops the first one.”

“Alright, sweetheart, what’s the strangest place you’ve had sex?”

“I don’t think a lot of people can say they’ve fucked at the rink.”

“Yeah, um, how often did that happen?” Leo interrupted, making a time out motion. “Because I thought it was maybe twice and I’m a little worried about sitting on that table now.”

Sirius winked. “Pre-game rituals, Knutty. At least once a week.”

“The Habs PT room was also interesting,” Remus mused. “They had a very heavy door, which was nice. Okay, gimme. What was your best orgasm?”

“When I wore your jersey,” Sirius answered without hesitating. “No contest. Logan, who won?”

He blinked twice before responding. “Sorry, I’m still stuck on the fact that you got off in the Habs PT room. I think this one goes to Loops.”

Sirius sighed and picked a new card. “These are incredibly similar. Um, Re and Leo.”

Remus took the card and snuggled up against his side as he read. “Leo, how much money would a voyeuristic billionaire have to pay us to have sex in his velvet blimp? That is so specific, what the hell?”

“There are two parts to my answer,” Leo said. “Number one: it would take very little actual money to get me to have sex with you if I wasn’t head over heels in love and you weren’t engaged. Number two: a hundred million dollars.”

“What?”

“He’s a billionaire! That’s nothing to him! Think of another time when you’d be allowed to fuck in a velvet blimp and get paid obscene amounts of money, Loops. I’ll wait.”

“Good point.”

“My turn. What would we do on our first date?”

“Hmm. I’m getting, like, coffee shop and bookstore vibes.” Remus paused. “Wait, we literally did that last weekend.”

“By that metric, we’re basically already dating,” Leo laughed. “Cap, who won?”

“Sorry, honey, but Leo put a lot of thought into his answer.” Sirius slid the card across the floor and Leo kissed it in victory.

Remus shook his head and drew a card. “You’re sleeping on the couch tonight. Finn, ask my traitor fiancé the first one and vice versa.”

“I’m getting punished for being fair?”

“We’re in this to win, baby.”

“Ask away, Harz.”

“How are we wrong for each other romantically? Ooo, can I answer this after you?”

“Sure. Where do I start?” Sirius laughed. “First we have the weird power imbalance if we’re still on the same team, then there’s the part where I’m super introverted and you’re painfully social, and finally you’re poly and I’m not.”

“I was going to say you’re not as kinky as me.”

Remus, who had been taking a drink of water, choked and nearly did a spit take. “Double check that before you commit,” he coughed.

Finn’s eyes widened. “Really? Again? I thought you guys were the wholesome vanilla couple!”

“Oh, honey, no,” Leo said, patting him on the arm. “Kasey made the same mistake.”

Sirius took the card from him. “This is easy. Have you ever had a threesome?”

“Take a wild guess.”

“Sirius wins that one,” Remus said. At Finn’s betrayed look, he shrugged. “Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”

“You’re literally the judge.”

“You are now, actually. The round ended.”

Finn rolled his eyes and took a card. “Loops and Logan, give it a go.”

“Loops, if we were on a desert island together, would we become lovers?” Logan batted his eyelashes and Remus laughed.

“Is anyone else there?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Sure, why not. You’re cute.” He paused and made a face. “Now that I think about it, that would be a lot like fucking Regulus and I don’t know how I feel about that.”

Sirius turned to look at him. “I hope you feel oh god, please no about that.”

“It’s a desert island!”

“Maps exist! We’ll find you!”

“Hand over the card before this gets ugly, Tremz.” Remus made a low oof noise as Sirius dragged him into his lap and placed a loud kiss to the side of his neck. “Thank you, baby. Describe the first time you had sex, including every cringey detail.”

Logan put his face in his hands. “I was a junior in high school and it happened in her parents’ basement. The school gave out free condoms—”

“You had sex with a school condom?” Remus grimaced. “I guess it’s better than nothing.”

“Yeah. Anyway, I had been crushing on her for a while, but she panicked as soon as her shirt came off and told me she was a lesbian, and that I looked exactly like the girl she was in love with.”

“No.”

“Yeah. It was so awkward. I gave her a hug and then we went and got ice cream.”

The room was quiet for a moment. “Damn,” Leo said with a low whistle at last as Remus passed the card to Logan. “Good for her, I guess?”

“I mean, she was dating the girl by the end of the year. Gay rights?”

“Gay rights,” the rest of them said in unison, breaking down into laughter as Leo took the last card.

“Bummer, everyone gets to answer this except me. Expose one of your kinks or take a shot, and you can’t repeat one that’s already been said. Nobody wins this card at the end of the round.”

“I am not opposed to a little bit of manhandling,” Logan said with a sly look at Leo.

Sirius eyed the shot glass in the middle of the circle, then decided against it. There was no way he would give up a chance to beat the cubs at this game. “Getting tied up.”

Remus gave him a surprised look. “I thought you’d take a shot.”

“Not this late in the game. Your turn.”

“Hmmm.” Remus bit his lip. “Praise kink.”

“Aw, man, that was mine!” Finn protested. Remus gave him a high five. “I guess I have to go with voyeurism, then. Whew, wasn’t expecting to say that out loud tonight.”

“Is that it? That was the last one?” Strangely, Sirius was a little disappointed. Despite the insanely invasive sex questions, it was fun to trade stories with the cubs.

“Yep. Count your cards, everyone.”

“I don’t have any.” Finn pouted.

Leo held up his single card. “Thank God for the velvet blimp.”

Sirius had two, and Remus shuffled his three. Across the circle, Logan was sitting pretty on five cards. “I win,” he said with a smug smile.

“Way to go, Tremzy.” Sirius reached over for a fist bump, doing his best not to jostle Remus. “I mean, it must have been nice having both your boyfriends here to give you cards.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Logan tossed his cards at Sirius, who grabbed a pillow off the sofa behind them and whacked him on the side of the head with it. “Oh, you’re going down.”

In the ensuing chaos, the truth or drink box and Logan’s winning cards were forgotten. None of them really cared, though; they had a pillow fight to win.

[nessinborderland]

Be Mine (03)

Pairing: Niragi x Reader / Chishiya x Reader

Genre: Smut, Angst, Fluff, Omegaverse

Word Count: 4.8k

Summary: You were able to stay unbounded throughout your life. You didn't want an Alpha; you didn't need one. You would rather die than to give yourself to some random male. But the man that saved your life thinks differently.

Warnings: Alpha/Omega, Dubious Consent, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Finger fucking, Rough Sex, Rough Kissing, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, Breeding, Pregnancy Kink, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Drama, Developing Relationship, Past Abuse, Scars

Notes: Would like to thank everyone that has been liking, reblogging and commenting on this fic, I see ya’ll and I love you. It means the world to me <3 I’m so glad people are liking my lil Niragi work. My dm’s and ask box are open if you ever feel like saying hi and/or scream over stuff in general with me lol. Enjoy!

AO3 Link        Masterlist

You had woken up to an empty bed the next morning. You had laid there, staring at the ceiling and rewinding every moment of the last twenty-four hours in your head, over and over. How things had changed so fast. How so much had happened already. You didn't know if you should feel sad or relieved by Niragi's absence; you weren't sure if you wanted to face him after what had happened last night. You still remembered the look in his eyes, his promise, how he made you feel. It was all so...overwhelming.

A week has passed without you speaking with Niragi. You barely caught a glimpse of him beside the occasional moments where you see him from afar with his group of militants, usually coming from or going on raids. You tried to talk to him on several occasions, but he was out of sight before you could get close enough. You also changed rooms after that first night, and part of you was hoping to see him barge in to take you back to his room. But it never happened.

He is avoiding you.

That or maybe he is usually that busy. Either way, you don’t like how this whole situation makes you feel. Yeah sure, maybe you aren’t exactly being the most approachable person either, but you are...scared. This is all so new for you. His scent has practically disappeared from your skin, and you can feel yourself getting restless again. Especially when he is close.

You don’t see him, but you can feel his eyes on you. You can smell the peppermint in the air every time he is close. You usually walk around the hotel alone or just stay in your bedroom. Walking around by yourself is nerve-wracking; the constant whispers, the stares, the way people either avoid you or get way too close to you. But you can feel him always close by, watching you.

Chishiya.

You honestly don’t know if you should feel safe or afraid. Afraid that he will use his influence as an Alpha to take you as Niragi did the first time you met. At least Chishiya hasn’t tried hunting you down yet. Even though stalking you around like a cat chasing a mouse isn’t much different.

You’re now in a car with Ann, exhausted, wet from head to toe, but alive. Another game where your skills were evaluated; another game where you won without particularly impressing her. You always feel like you’re alive out of sheer luck and the help of others. It bothers you more than you dare to say. You have already been evaluated in games of Clubs and Diamonds, and you’re sure you would be dead if it wasn’t for Ann and the other players.

You can’t understand how people can be so smart at these hell games. Yes, you were successful at solving the riddle that allowed you to win the game of Diamonds, but since when was that impressive? You would still have been eaten by that shark in the game of Clubs without everyone else’s help.

“How are you holding up, Kenji?” you ask the young man sitting beside you. His arm is bandaged with a t-shirt already drenched in blood and his face is pale. He turns to you with a half-smile.

“Alive, thanks to you,” he says, moaning in pain when the car rides over a bump. “Thank you for that, by the way. For coming back for me.”

“It was the right thing to do.” you shrug with a smile, “Besides, I almost got eaten too.”

You can feel Ann’s eyes on you through the rearview mirror. You wonder what she’s thinking. It’s like you’re back in high school, waiting for an important evaluation. You hate it.

The car finally parks in the Beach’s parking lot and you get out, helping Kenji to his feet before two men come to take him to the infirmary. You’re walking away to get inside when Ann calls your name.

“A lot of people wouldn’t have done what you did,” she says. “That was brave of you. And stupid.”

“Uhh, thanks?” you stand there awkwardly as she seems to assess you through those big sunglasses of hers. “I just-”

“What do you see in him?” she asks after a pause, interrupting you. “You have nothing in common.”

You don’t know what to answer; shared interests and personality traits are not exactly what attracted you to each other. You shrug, “Wolf things I guess.” It’s not exactly something easy to explain. You also would rather not give it too much thought.

Ann hums, shaking her head. “Just be careful,” and walks away before you can even think of an answer.

You’re about to make your way inside when the sound of tires screeching makes you look back. The militants arrived from the games. You instantly see Niragi as he gets out of a vehicle, and you desperately want to approach him. He makes his way to the entrance at a fast pace, rifle on his shoulder as he’s followed by the rest of the militants. His pace falters when his gaze falls on you, but he doesn’t stop as he passes by you without a word.

“Niragi!” you’re calling before you can think twice.

He stops in his tracks, making everyone behind him stop too. More than twenty pairs of eyes lock on you as you stand there, heat growing on your cheeks. Why the hell did I call him, you think to yourself before clearing your throat.

“Hmm, could I speak to you? In private?”

He sighs. “I can’t right now. I’m going back out,” he says in a dismissive tone. You can’t help but notice the dark circles under his eyes; you worry if he’s been getting enough sleep lately. “We’ll talk when I get back.” and with that, he turns his back on you and walks away, followed by his group.

He’s definitely avoiding you. You wonder why; was it all the rejecting? Maybe he finally realized you are more trouble than pleasure. Maybe he regrets his promise to you, made in an inebriated state?

It was your disgusting scars, a mean voice in your head whispers.

You flinch. Whatever it is, you hope that he will at least be straightforward and honest with you. Eventually.

You try not to overthink it as you get to your room and go straight to the bathroom, getting rid of your wet clothes before jumping in the warm shower. The thing you probably like the most about the Beach is the showers. That and the good food; there’s always a tray of delicious meals delivered to your room three times a day. You can definitely get used to those small luxuries.

You finish your shower just in time to receive your dinner tray. You eat your meal in bed, a book you found while outside laying open on your knees as you take occasional spoonfuls of your rabbit stew. The sound of laughter and loud talking makes you frown for the third time in half an hour. One of the things you dislike the most about the Beach; the constant partying.

You give up on the book and decide to sleep, hoping that your exhaustiveness will win against the noise of your next-door neighbors.

It does not.

You’re knocking on their door moments later. A man opens the door, clearly beyond drunk, if his breath and slurred speech are anything to go by.

“Could you guys please keep it down?” you ask. "I'm trying to sleep." The man stares you up and down with a smirk, and you give a small step back.

“Yo, guys guess who came to pay us a visit!” he says behind him. You can see three men sitting at a table, playing what you guess is poker, several beer bottles scattered around them. You think you recognize one of them as part of the militants. Maybe coming here wasn’t a good idea after all.

“Isn’t that Niragi’s bitch?” “Ask her if she wants to join us!” is what you hear them say above the laughter. Yes, bad idea. You put your arms around you, wishing you were wearing something more besides your cotton shorts and Niragi’s shirt.

“Listen, just keep the noise to a minimum, that’s all I’m asking.” you quickly say before turning around to walk back to your room. A hand grabs your arm before you can take more than a couple of steps.

“Why don’t you join us?” says the man. His friends stand behind him, a look in their eyes that makes you shiver with apprehension. “We could show you a good time.”

“Thanks but no, thanks, I’m just trying to get some sleep.”

“You can sleep here, we don’t mind.” he retorts with a pull to your arm. “C’mon-”

“Haru, this isn’t a good idea,” warns the guy you had recognized. “She’s with Niragi.”

Haru laughs and pulls you closer, ignoring your struggle. He sniffs your hair. “Then he has been doing a shitty job at fucking her.” he pulls at your shirt, “Isn’t this his? She doesn’t smell like an Alpha at all,” he chuckles, “And didn’t you say that he ignored her today? I don’t think he’ll care if we get his sloppy seconds.”

“Let me go!” you pull your arm from his grip and face the taller man. “Niragi is not here to kick your asses, but I am.”

“Oh look at this, the little Omega has claws!”

“So do I.”

You freeze. So do Haru and his friends.

You smell him before you see him. Peppermint and rain.

You turn around to see him a few meters behind you, standing casually with his hands in his pockets. He looks bored; like he’s just passing by and there’s an inconvenience on his path. But his eyes…

“Chishiya-”

“You aren’t very smart, are you?” he interrupts, walking slowly towards you. “Harassing an Omega when there’s an Alpha around. It’s not acceptable back in the real world, what makes you think it’s acceptable here?” his eyes flash with something you recognize. You also notice the golden ring on them, giving them a more animal look. “Now you can either let her go or-.”

Haru releases his grip on your arm and takes a step back before Chishiya can finish his sentence.  

“We didn’t do anything to her, man,” he says, hands raised. The man trembles slightly, eyes cast on the ground. “We were just messing around, that’s all.”

Chishiya chuckles and nods, “Of course, of course. Just remember what can happen if you mess with her again.” one of his hands leaves his pocket to scratch his neck, almost mindlessly. You gasp when you see the claws, the changed hand. “I would hate to get blood on my white hoodie.”

The men scatter back into their room without another word, tails between their legs. You stand there looking at him, involved in his scent. After more than a week without an Alpha, having him so close is not doing you any favors. His presence is unmistakably wolf, his scent stronger by his show of dominance. He barely had to try; Betas just instinctively know not to mess with Alphas. You start feeling hot, and you curse yourself; please not now.

“Are you okay?” his voice gets your attention.

“Uh-hm, yeah I am,” you stutter a little, “Th-thanks for the help.”

He takes a few steps closer to you, his eyes never leaving yours. You feel hypnotized; like you’re under a spell. He smells so good, and you’re so horny, and he’s the only thing making you feel safe now. You think of Niragi for a moment, until your wolf pushes the memory aside with a huff; Niragi is not there, you’re still unclaimed, and there’s an Alpha right in front of you.

You jump into his arms before you’re able to overthink things even more. His arms envelop you as your lips touch, and you feel that amazing electrifying sensation every time you touch an Alpha. His lips are soft on yours as he kisses you. His hands are surprisingly warm against your skin.

“Alpha- ” you moan into the kiss.

“Bedroom,” is all he says as he pulls you with him to your room. His lips are still on yours as he closes the door with a kick before making you lay down on the bed. His body covers yours in an instant, his hands roaming your body while his lips suck the skin of your neck. Even his kisses make you feel pleasure, and you whine as his hands go under your shirt to fondle your breasts. “Your skin is so soft,” he whispers with a pinch to your nipple. “I have been wanting to touch you since I first laid my eyes on you.”

“I- I want more,” your pussy clenches around nothing as you feel him hard against your stomach, “Please, Alpha...more,” you don’t care about how you sound. You just want that sweet release only an Alpha can provide. Niragi’s face shows up in your mind’s eye, but you ignore it; he wasn’t there for you when you needed it. Chishiya was.

His hands move to untie your shorts, sliding them down your legs to uncover your wet cunt. He sits back on his heels, hand on your thigh as he stares right at your naked core. He’s more expressive now than you’ve ever seen him before; his eyes burn with lust, his bottom lip between his teeth. You whine as he stays still, pushing your hips up; you want him to fuck you, not to stare at you.

He chuckles and licks his lips. “Open your legs wider for me,” you immediately do as he says, craving his touch. His hand slides lower until his fingers are tracing your slit in up and down movements, making you moan and instinctively close your legs. “Open,” he says with a glance at your face before leaning over your center. His breath is warm against your swollen clit.

You shiver as he flicks his tongue over your sensitive bud; it feels so good, and you want more. Your hands grip your pillow as you moan in time with his licks, almost letting out a scream when he sucks on your clit. No man had ever touched you like that; they were all inside you and over after a few minutes of thrusting. Even Niragi had gone straight to business. But fuck, does it feel good.

“Chi- Chishiya, oh my god- “ you manage to say before you’re interrupted by two of his fingers entering you. They curl inside you as his tongue keeps working wonders on your clit. You can feel an orgasm growing, toes curling at the pulling sensation in your core. You’re so close. “Please keep going, don’t stop.” you practically beg as he finger fucks you.

He stops.

You open your eyes with a displeased grunt to catch him looking at you, lips glistening with your juices. He smirks, “We’re just getting started,” he says, pulling you by the legs so your center is pressing against his crotch. You moan again at feeling him hard against you with only his swim shorts in the way.

You sit up to undress him off his hoodie, something he lets you do as he devours your lips. He suddenly pulls you up against him until you’re practically sitting on his lap. You grind against him, trying to put out the fire inside you. His mouth kisses down your neck to your breasts, without fully undressing you. You try to take off the shirt, but he makes you pause.

“That’s his shirt, isn’t it?” you nod and he huffs out a laugh, unbuttoning the first buttons only, “Keep it on,” he says before closing his lips around a nipple. You close your eyes and just enjoy the sensations he provides you. Your mind goes back to Niragi; how his tongue piercing felt against you as he sucked on you too, or how his hands never stopped pleasuring you. You almost grunt in frustration at the memories; he doesn’t matter now.

“Alpha, I want you inside me,” you beg as you keep grinding on him. It’s starting to feel like torture. Your hands slide down to work on his shorts, “Please...please.”

“Easy there,” he chuckles, pushing you back down on the bed. “We have time. Be a good girl and stay still,” he says as he gets rid of his shorts in a swift movement, now completely naked in front of you. You glance at his cock, hard as wood in between his pale thighs, a bead of precum sliding from the tip. Your mouth waters; you desperately want him to fuck you, you think as your pussy clenches around nothing.

You open your mouth to say something but hesitate, trying to follow his command. You wonder how can an Alpha have so much self-control; he should be deep inside you by now. It’s beyond frustrating. He finally covers your body with his, and you smile at the sensation of his skin on yours; it feels so good. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer as you kiss him with ferocity. It hurts how much you need him.

You finally feel his tip at your entrance, and then he’s inside you with a sharp thrust of his hips against yours. You scream at the sensation; so warm, so full, so unbelievably pleasurable. His thrusts are slow but firm, each hit of his pelvis against your clit making you see stars. His face goes to the side of your neck, and you feel as his teeth graze the skin, sucking and biting; right over the fading marks Niragi left on you a week ago.

“Go faster,” you whine as you push your hips up against his. You want him to fill you up to the brim; like Niragi had done. “Please Alpha, fill me up. Make me yours.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his pace gets faster, and you finally hear him make a sound since he started fucking you. His face is still hidden in the curve of your neck, but his hands clasp around your thighs, pulling them up until you’re practically folded in half. You finally feel him deeper, hitting your g-spot as his shoves get gradually harder.

“Tell me how much you want me to knot in you,” he grunts against your ear. “Tell me you want me.”

“I- I want you,” you whine. “I want you to knot in me, and fill me up with your cum. I want you.”

He kisses your jaw, thrusts getting even faster. You can barely think; all you want is to come and for Chishiya to do the same inside you. You want to feel him as he shudders, hear him as he moans and you milk him dry. His hand goes to cradle your cheek, and you finally see his face as he locks eyes with you; his white hair sticks to his neck and forehead due to sweat, and his eyes are more gold than the usual dark brown. However, an uncomfortable realization sparks in you; there’s only lust in his eyes. No care, no adoration, no imitation of something resembling love. Nothing like Niragi’s eyes had looked at you. Your wolf pushes those thoughts aside once again, and you close your eyes as you focus on the man currently thrusting in and out of you. He’s what matters now.

Your orgasm hits you like a wave, toes curling behind his back as you clench around him in pleasure. You feel him as he comes too, hands squeezing your thighs with enough force to leave a bruise. However, you gasp when you feel him pull out with a hiss, and he finishes spilling on your belly and breasts.

You lay there as he finishes with a grunt before laying down beside you, both of you panting furiously. The fog in your brain soon evaporates, and you have to control the impulse to run out of your own bedroom. Why do you keep doing this to yourself? First Niragi, now Chishiya. All those years of self-control wasted. They meant nothing. You were just pushing back the inevitable; the day you would be claimed with no real ability to even choose by who. Your wolf doesn’t care, but you do. The last thing you want is a relationship like the one your parents had.

But you still ended up fucking two different Alphas in a week; it’s not like you have a choice.

Chishiya moving beside you pulls you out of your thoughts. He’s looking at you with his usual expression; cold and with a pull at his lips that gives the impression there’s something that only he’s smart enough to understand. It annoys you just a little. You guess it shows on your face because he’s full-on smirking as he sits up.

“Feeling regretful, are we?” he says as he retrieves his shorts, putting them on, “I figured you would.”

“Then why didn’t you stop me?” you say in a low tone, sitting up with a moan. His come sticks to your thighs and runs down the skin of your breasts and belly. You sigh when you notice it stained Niragi’s shirt too.

“Why would I?” he shrugs, putting his hoodie on, “I can’t control this thing much more than you do. Besides- ” he says, shooting a glance at your torso, “Thought it might be fun.”

You furrow your brows at him. “This isn’t about me, is it?” you ask. Things kind of start to make sense now; his constant presence near you, the shirt he wanted you to keep, “This is about Niragi.”

His eyes lit up with something like amusement. “If I get to claim an Omega while pissing off Niragi then I’m doing something right.” he starts walking towards the door, “Don’t misunderstand though; I will fight to claim you when the time comes.” He closes the door behind him.

What have you done? You feel a sudden urge to cry, but push it back; you are done crying about this. So you just let a few tears fall before standing up and heading to the bathroom, wanting to get cleaned up as soon as you possibly can. You groan when you see yourself in the mirror, covered in love bites and cum.

You wonder how Niragi will react when he finds out; because he inevitably will. It wasn’t unheard of Alphas to fight to the death over an Omega; you just wish that isn’t what is about to happen. You don’t think you can live with that.

You step in the shower for the second time that night and vigorously rub your skin, trying to erase any and every sign of Chishiya off your body. Mission impossible, of course; his scent is still all over you as you get out of the shower. Next, you try to clean Niragi’s shirt. At least that one still smells faintly of cinnamon and wood.

As you should too, remarks the voice in your head.

You barely sleep that night.

You feel like a zombie the next morning and, as per usual, you stick to your room. You’re particularly into avoiding people today. Well, two people. So you keep to your room and jump between reading, to napping, to overthinking until you get a headache and then fall asleep.

A sudden knock on your door wakes you up, and you notice it’s almost night outside. You trip on your way to the door, opening it to reveal Chishiya on the other side. You scowl and move to close the door in his face, but his foot stops you.

“What?” you ask.

“We’re in the same group tonight,” he says, raising a piece of paper. “And before you say no, remember that you’re still under evaluation.”

“I have enough visa days,” you say, forcing the door on his foot. He doesn’t budge. You sigh and count to ten. You can do this; just another game. “Fine. But tell Ann that after this I’m only going out when I need to.”

You grab your jacket and get out, following Chishiya. You don’t say a word and neither does he. Your body feels his presence though, and you’re sure he can smell it in you. Smell himself in you.

You get in a van with your group, a bunch of people you faintly recognize but know no names. Chishiya seats right at the front, and you cringe as everyone else in the vehicle clearly knows everything that happened between you two. You hear Niragi’s name being whispered around, but try to ignore it, focusing on the road outside as you drive around looking for a game.

“Look there!” someone exclaims.

Koishikawa Botanical Garden.

The whole place is completely dark as you walk through the main gate, the familiar sound of the barrier closing behind you making you tremble with apprehension. A sign at the front says no weapons allowed, and you watch as two of the people in your group leave their weapons behind. Not really a good sign.

A single street lamp casts light on a table right next to the reception. You follow your group as they approach the table, but your attention is focused on your surroundings. You remember being there as a kid; hard to imagine that the beautiful open space full of trees and flowers of every species is now a game arena; a place of death. You wonder what exactly is the game that awaits you.

You focus your attention on the table, retrieving a phone and staring as it does the facial recognition thing it always does. It’s apparently a big game; there are already more than ten people waiting to play, and at least fifteen phones are still on the table.

You sit on a park bench while you wait, bracing yourself against the chilly night air. Chishiya is leaning against a street lamp right in front of you, and you know he’s staring, even though it’s dark and he has his hoodie up and covering his eyes. Your mind keeps rewinding the last twenty-four hours and you try to focus on something else with no success. If you’re not thinking about that, you’re thinking about the imminent game; both make you want to cry and run.

People slowly keep coming in, and you notice as the phones vanish one by one that the game is almost at its full capacity.

A sudden ruckus at the gates snaps everyone’s attention to the entrance, and you swear your heart stops as you see Niragi running in your direction with the most terrifying expression you’ve ever seen on him. He looks furious. Absolutely terrifying.

“I’m gonna rip your fucking heart out!” he screams as he gets closer. You notice his eyes are locked on Chishiya. His eyes; they aren’t human. Neither are his hands, now curved into claws. The other man doesn’t seem scared in the slightest; on the contrary, he looks like he’s having fun.

“Niragi, don’t- “ you scream as he lunges himself at the shorter man. Chishiya is fast though, swiftly dodging the punch before kicking Niragi in the stomach and stepping away.

Niragi huffs and doubles over before standing straight with a growl and trying another swing at the other man. Two men that got in with him try to corner Chishiya, but he just dodges them like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“Not so bad without your gun, are you?” asks Chishiya in a mocking tone.

“With or without a gun, I’m still going to fucking kill you.” Niragi growls, “You fucked with the wrong wolf.”

Chishiya huffs a laugh, “Actually,” he says with a smirk, nodding in your direction, “I fucked the right wolf.”

Niragi’s eyes finally lock on you, and it’s like he’s seeing you for the first time. Only now his eyes are filled with something that resembles betrayal and pain. You hate it. You look down, trying to make yourself small; you don’t want him to look at you like that. Never.

“I’ll deal with her later,” he says in a cold tone, and you can’t help but flinch. He approaches the table and retrieves the last phone, eyes still on you. “Now I- “

You’re startled when cheery music starts playing all around you and the big screen you hadn’t noticed at the roof of the reception lits up.

“Registration has closed,” says a feminine robot voice, “The game will now commence.”

You look at your phone as it lits up.

Difficulty, Ten of Spades.

Game, “Akazukin: Red Riding Hood.”

Next Chapter

[lupismaris]

Summertime, And The Livin’s Easy- a black sails fic prompt fill

this became incredibly long so instead of just posting it with the ask i’ve made it’s own post 

@themelonface​ asks- For the fic prompts (if you're still taking them), silverflint talking about children. Can be AU, can be set during or after canon. I just have a feeling Miranda never wanted any, Thomas was too wrapped up in the fight for equality to need anything more than cats, but maybe James would have wanted kids in another life.

HERE MY DARLING HAVE THE FIRST OF hopefully TWO PROMPT FILLS because i want to write a post canon ficlet for this ask as well. 

but for now have modern au silverflint (and hamilton at the end) and the discussion of children 💕

cw for mentions of child abuse and shitastic fathers!!! but theres nothing graphic mentioned or shown. 

***

It was the hazy space between what would have been brunch on a weekend and the corporate lunch time rush and the start of cocktail hour on every other day when half the bars in Brooklyn Heights hadn’t actually opened their doors yet and those that had were serving sandwiches and day drinking friendly cocktails.

 The Walrus was one of the latter.

Silver slid off his bar stool as the last member of the aforementioned lunch rush stepped out the door and leaned against the polished bar top with a bright grin. “How you holding up, honey?” Muldoon rolled his eyes. “Please, a corpse could make an aperol spritz.” “I doubt a corpse could make that many of them that quickly.” “Flattery might work on other men,” Muldoon said, as he always did, with a wag of his tattooed finger and a smile fighting to show on his face. “But it will not work on me.” “Are you sure? Cause you were pretty sexy with those martinis. Remind me why its always vodka?” “Your boyfriend has told you that a dozen times already, I know it for a fact, you shit.” “Okay but maybe I wanna hear you explain it. Again,” Silver said, propping his chin on his hands and putting on his best Cheshire smile, throwing in a slight batting of the lashes just for Muldoon’s sake. They played this game every time Silver wasted away a few hours at the bar, which he was starting to do more and more often. He’d joke with Flint that it was only out of boredom, but in truth, he felt safe there, nestled in the corner with his laptop or acting as an honorary member of the staff when they needed some help. He didn’t want to dwell too much on it, on why he felt so safe there or why after so many years he was once again feeling so painfully devoted to the same group of men who’d despite everything, seen him through hell. Muldoon sighed, his hands making quick work of filling the high powered steam dishwasher under the counter. He pushed it closed with his hip and looked up at Silver, finally cracking a smile. “Do you want to help me run bar for a bit, love? While it’s quiet?”

Silver was behind the bar before Muldoon could even consider changing his mind. He did pause to duck into the kitchen quickly, where the two line cooks- Randal and Dooley- were working on their mise en place and Vane was wedged into the alley doorway with a cigarette in his mouth, recovering from the lunch rush. His long hair was carefully tied up in a braided bun and covered in a bandanna, ears lined as always with half a dozen hoops a piece. “Why do you look like you just ate a canary?” Vane asked around his smoke. “No reason. Where’s the Captain?” Vane nodded to the walk in pantry where Flint was likely checking stock counts, “he’s in a mood again.” “When isn’t he? When he’s done tell him to come up to the bar I’ve got a surprise,” Silver said, still wearing that grin, and Vane laughed with a nod, going back to watching the alley behind the bar. “Alright come on you flirt-” Muldoon called, and Silver quickly washed his hands and snagged one of the spare aprons Hal kept behind the bar. It wasn’t like he didn’t know how to make a cocktail, he played bartender for house parties all the time. But there was something different about learning to do it properly, from Muldoon who clearly took great pride in it, and in a place that was quickly becoming a second home to him. An hour in, and several successful cocktails later, Muldoon allowed Silver to help him actually fill orders for the few customers they got, though it wasn’t many. Flint still had not resurfaced from the kitchen, and so Silver kept his focus on the recipes Muldoon had him run through- proper martinis and Manhattans, Mojitos and mules, mezcal margs and all the things you could do with the collection of Amaros and aperitifs behind the bar. The customers were students on their way home from morning classes, morning shifters heading home or stopping for some food before the evening shift at their second job started, regulars who stopped in for lunch because no one made a cuban quite as well as their kitchen did.   And then the door chimed and Silver looked up with his customary smile and greeting ready, waiting to see where the guests might seat themselves- the host wouldn’t be in till four when the official dinner service started- and found himself staring at, well, children. Six of them, all too young to be in a bar unsupervised even before happy hour but probably even too young to be wandering around Brooklyn by themselves as it was. The older two definitely had the hardened older sibling with “semi absent if not entirely absent parents” look around them, Silver knew that look far too well, though whether the four younger kids were siblings or just under their care he couldn’t be sure. All of them were wearing some variation of public school uniform which Silver recognized from the public school a few blocks away. “Hey Nicki,” Muldoon said with a wave, and one of the older kids with short messy dark hair and equally dark eyes waved back. Silver looked at Muldoon quickly with raised brows. “Do me a favor go find Flint, okay? Tell him the kids are up front.” Silver just nodded, watching as Nicki and the other older kid shepherded the younger kids into the big corner booth closest to the bar without being told to, and slipped into the kitchen. Vane was at the prep table, knife in hand and making quick work of a cut of meat. He didn’t look up when he heard the door swing open but tilted his head expectantly. “Flint?” Sliver asked. “Smoke break, should be about done. Said he was coming up to see you in a minute.” Silver threw open the back alley door and there was Flint, propped up against the wall with a beaten up paperback on his knee and a forgotten cigarette in his hand. He looked up at him with a frown. “Hey whats wrong? You set the bar on fire with a flaming mojito or something?” he said, wearing a rare teasing smile. “Not yet but theres like, half a kindergarten class upfront.” Flint blinked, looked at his watch, and swore, “shit they must’ve let out early cause of the heat.” “Darling, what in the hell are you talking about.” Flint stubbed out the cigarette and tossed it in the ashtray by the door, kissing the top of Silver’s head as he passed. “I’ll explain in a minute- Vane! Leave the dinner service I need you on the meal kits with me-” “Already started on them,” Vane said, waving the knife idly as he portioned the meat into rather exact ready to cook portions. Flint nodded and washed his hands. “Dooley wheres those sandwiches I told you to fix-” “Here boss.” “Silver,” Flint loaded up six plates of sandwiches onto two serving trays and passed the lighter of the two to Silver. “Take one of these out with me ‘kay?” Silver nodded and balanced the tray on his shoulder, following Flint out of the kitchen. The bar was still mostly empty, Muldoon hanging out at the corner of the bar closest to the kids, making them each a Shirley Temple and passing Nicki a pitcher of water for them to share. Normally, Silver would’ve made some smart ass remark about how apparently it was normally for a bunch of kids to just turn up at the bar for lunch but something about this felt different and something in the set of Flint’s shoulders told him to stay quiet. “Let me guess the AirCon crap out again?” Flint asked upon reaching the table. “Or did one of you sabotage it to get out early?” The younger kids all started talking at once, bursts of loud excitement at seeing Flint, and the food, all wanting to explain why they had been let out of school a little bit early that day. Nicki and the other older kid, Sola, helped distribute the plates of food with smiles and nods of thanks while Flint listened intently to the kids’ rambling and incoherent explanations.   Once the young-ins were distracted by the sandwiches, Nicki offered a more coherent explanation. “Yeah they said the AC’s gonna be out till tomorrow with the heat, so they’re closing school till Monday,” he said. “Three day weekend I guess, without the extra homework since the teachers didn’t have time to prepare for any.” “Nice. Gonna meet your friends at the bridge park tomorrow? You mentioned wanting to get your kick flips more polished.” Nicki shook his head, looking bitter about it. “Can’t, busted up my front bearings and wheels on a ride home last week, won’t be able to afford to fix it for a bit. S’fine though, got chores to do.” Flint nodded, leaning back against the bar with his arms lazily crossed over his middle. “Do me a solid and bring the board by tomorrow okay? I think one of my guys might have some spare parts they’re not using.” Silver felt something in him break a little at the way the boy’s face lit up at Flint’s words. Or maybe it was at the ease with which Flint handled the kids, the openness he showed them, listening to how their days had gone, if only in brief, listening to their problems, which to them seemed world ending- Sola’s internet was out for the weekend, so she’d be at the library doing homework on Friday and probably most of the weekend when she wasn’t helping at her aunt’s salon, the little ones would all be shuttled to various relatives until Monday until they went back to school and Sola and Nicki, or another of the older kids in their building would take charge of them again. One of the younger kids was staring at Silver, her sandwich half held to her mouth. Just staring, bright brown eyes fixed on him in that quizzical way that children possessed that always made Silver feel transparent. Flint noticed and followed her gaze with an amused grin, waving for Silver to come over to join them instead of hiding behind the bar with Muldoon.  Silver looked at him wide eyed for a moment, then at the kids, specifically the little girl who was staring him down like a gunslinger, and then back at Flint, who just reached for him. Damn the bastard, he knew that was all it ever took. Silver came over and let Flint pull him in under his arm, feeling like a bug under the microscope in a science class he never attended but had heard about from other people. “You have pretty hair,” the little girl said. She was missing her two front teeth and Silver wanted to melt. “Thank you. You have big eyes.” “Yeah. They see a lot,” She said nodding solemnly. Silver could feel Flint shifting with the effort it took not to laugh. “They’re a pretty color. They remind me of this stone called tiger’s eye,” Silver continued. He could see Nicki giving Flint a look, though he didn’t know what Flint was doing in response. The little girl tilted her head. “Whats that?” So Silver pulled out his phone and showed her, which lead to a short lesson in gemstones that mostly amounted to excited cries of “oh shiny” and “I’d steal that one” which did Silver’s heart good. “This is Silver, a friend of mine who just moved back to town. He’s helping out round here. So he and I are gonna go fix your take away bags,” Flint said, once the momentary fascination in gemstones had faded and the kids were once again fixed on their plates. “Sola, you and Nicki just let Muldoon know if you guys need anything, or stick your head in the kitchen and yell okay? We’ll hear you. C’mon Silver.” If Silver had hoped for an explanation, he didn’t get one. Once he and Flint crossed the threshold back into the kitchen there was work to be done- Randal and Dooley handled the orders brought to them from the waitstaff while Flint and Vane, with Silver doing whatever Flint told him to, made quick work of assembling meal kit after meal kit from dishes both on and off the bar’s menu. Everything was boxed up and taped shut, paired with pre-typed instructions on how to cook the meals and how many servings each would make, and tucked into sturdy double layered brown bags that would hopefully survive a trip across the neighborhood. As they were finishing twenty minutes later, Hal’s voice could be heard through the window behind the bar, which answered Silver’s most pressing question- did he know that Flint was just running a school cafeteria out of the bar? Apparently yes, and apparently the kids were just as excited, if not more so, to see “Uncle” Hal. Because of course they called him Uncle Hal, why wouldn’t they. God, Silver was going to have to book a fucking dentist appointment for all the tooth rot the sweetness of this was giving him. He helped Flint carry out the bags of food, Vane insisting the kids would be too scared of him while Flint argued that Vane was just scared of the kids, and Silver watched as Hal and Flint got the bags labeled for each child and into a push cart that Sola promised to bring back the next day when she passed on her way to her Aunt’s salon. He then did his very best not to pass away on the spot as each kid, even Nicki and Sola, hugged Hal goodbye. Flint had crouched down to say good by to the little ones, accepting their clumsy hugs, reminding them to be careful walking home, and asking them to recite the bar’s phone number for him just in case (though Silver was sure they probably had cellphones, even if they were elementary schoolers), before he stood and gave Nicki and Sola each a one armed hug and watched them shepherd the group outside again. “Only group today?” Hal asked and Silver thought his voice sounded a bit heavy. “So far. Powers out at their school though, likely a couple others’ll come by later. Want me to call around to the other bars and see if they’ve heard anything?” “Yeah call the food bank and the closest shelter too for me, see if we can’t drop off our end of night supply to them this weekend.” Later, several more hours of food prep and three more groups of wary looking kids who all seemed completely unafraid of Flint and his crew, plus a Thursday night dinner rush, and Silver finally got his explanation. He also thought he should have gotten the nobel prize for being able to keep his mouth shut for as long as he did. “So are we gonna talk about it?” Flint was sitting on the floor in front of him, half asleep already between his thighs, as Silver combed his hair. They had taken home food from the bar and shared a six pack between them on the deck, Thomas held up at a Client dinner where he was no doubt being wined and dined and bored to absolute tears.��They had treated themselves then to a hot bath, with the jets, and were now just wasting time with the kind of nonsexual intimacy that Silver had learned he craved with Flint, waiting for Thomas to join them so they could all manage a good nights sleep. “Talk about what?” Flint asked, his voice a heady rumble. “The kids. And why they knew to just wander into a bar on a Thursday,” Silver said, keeping his voice gentle. He coated his hands in more product and worked it into the shaved sides and back of Flint’s head, massaging his scalp as he went. “Why you and Hal and the rest of the crew seemed completely unphased by it.” Flint hummed lowly, nearly a purr as he leaned into Silver’s touch. They’d settled into the bedroom Thomas and Flint shared, like they did most nights since it had the nicest adjoining bathroom and all the obnoxiously nice hair and skin care products. Silver sat in the old plush armchair, bundled up in a robe while Flint, naked and content to air dry, leaned into him, a picture of ginger hair, rich freckles, and well loved tattoos on a soft strong figure. If Silver hadn’t been so distracted by the day, he’d have been more appreciative. “S’not that big a deal. Lots of families round here with young kids, can’t keep an eye on them between working two or three jobs, haven’t got money for babysitters or relatives to watch ‘em, or enough to cover food for the week, especially when the public schools can’t feed em. You start to notice which kids it is, when they pass by, which schools they go to, which blocks.” “In Brooklyn Heights?” “They don’t live in this neighborhood, Silver, you know that, not all of Brooklyn has been gentrified to shit by the developers. Hell walk a few blocks east towards the tech school and you’ll find a lot of them. Or south towards Bayridge. Anyway, the groups you met today are all right from Downtown Brooklyn, they go to school nearby you’ve seen them.” “Yeah I just… I dunno, you see so much of the multi-million dollar condos I guess you forget thats not all theres is.” “Nicki lives with his mom, his dad walked out and she’s working two jobs to keep the one bedroom they share over on Jay street. He’s only thirteen but he tried getting a job with me washing dishes last summer, I turned him down, sent him home with some food for his trouble,” Flint continued. Silver smiled, he could picture the scrappy dark haired boy trying to square up with Flint, trying to convince him he was old enough to legally work. “Let me guess he wasn’t the first.” “Won’t be the last either. If they aren’t working for the family to earn some extra money or to cut back on hiring expenses they’re looking for shifts somewhere to pick up the slack. They’re losing out on being kids all because the rent keeps going up and there ain’t shit else to do about it other than leave. And a lot of them can’t even afford to do that.” There was a familiar grit to Flint’s voice, the old bitter salt that meant someone had touched a nerve. It scared other people, but Silver knew it just meant Flint was, for the moment, being vulnerable with him. “Were you Nicki once? Trying to bully your way into work?” Silver asked softly. He reached for the comb again and sectioned off a part of Flint’s hair to start working with. Flint was quiet a moment. “Yeah. Yeah worked the docks a bit as a boy, most kids did it to earn pocket money or to help out with the bills.” “Which was it for you?” “Granddad only had his pension. And he spent that on booze. So whatever I earned at the docks helping the fishermen, or from pickpocketing, that was what bought food. Kept the lights on, shit like that. I told you once, that I met Henessy that way, picking his pocket.” Silver laughed softly. “I do remember. You technically succeeded, didn’t you?” “Mm, he only caught me cause someone snitched. Broke that fuckers nose real good I’ll tell you.” They were quiet for a moment, Silver combing Flint’s hair with impossible care, working his fingers through any knots he found, before following with product and conditioner, Flint grew heavier and heavier against him, warm and soft and his. “So you and Hal decided to do something, the way you always do?” Silver asked. “Hm? Oh yeah- city isn’t doin’ much, food banks and schools are already over run, and when school holidays hit, they can barely keep up demand for kids who need free meals. So we got a few other bars involved, met with some schools and the food banks and sent out some notices and just- started feeding people. I mean thats why Hal wanted to open the bar you know? You feed people and you give them everything. You feed them and they’ll do the rest. So thats what we did. In a week or two when the schools are out for the summer we’ll have a couple trucks that’ll make deliveries, so the kids don’t have to come to the bar.” Silver hummed and kissed his temple. “You’re sweet.” “Am not.” “You’ll let me help, right? Prep the meals and stuff?” Flint tipped his head back to look up at him. “You want to?” “Yeah. This altruistic thing is new to me, as is the cooking for fun thing but… it matters, to you, any idiot can see that. And I want to be part of it.” Silver smiled and leaned down to kiss him best he could. He could feel Flint smiling into the upside down kiss. “You’re really good with them too, you know, which please don’t take this the wrong way, I did not expect,” he added when he pulled back. “What with the kids?” “Yeah.” “Oh no offense taken I have no idea how it happened. They just aren’t afraid of me for some reason. I fully expected them to be, mind. I used to think I had the kind of face that would make babies and small children cry but apparently they just, I dunno, think I’m alright.” “They trust you, thats a big deal for kids. Especially ones who have clearly been let down by other adults. I mean you also talk to them like they’re just tiny adults which probably helps.” “They’re gonna be adults one day, might as well treat them with dignity well before they realize they should be fighting for it, you know?” Silver smiled softly, “Sometimes I don’t think you realize how magnificent you are, you bastard.” Flint didn’t say anything, just blindly reached for Sliver’s hands so he could pull him closer. So silver set aside the comb and rested his chin on the top of Flint’s head, wrapping his arms around him and holding tight to his weathered, tattooed hands. “You were good with them too, once you stopped being scared of them,” Flint offered. “Kids scare me, I’ve never spent enough time around them to learn how to make them happy. They’re so easy to hurt, so easy to damage. And extremely durable, extremely resilient but… I dunno… Just never trusted myself and never had the opportunity to do more than amuse them for a few minutes at a time before vanishing into thin air like Santa Claus.” “Well, you’ll have plenty of practice at the bar. I still think you were good with them. Little Sylvie likes you at least.” “Not as much as they love you.” Silver thought a moment. “Hey…” “Hm?” “Have… Have you and Thomas ever talked about kids?” It was a heavy question, one that might have been too much too soon and a part of Silver wished he hadn’t asked it. But there had been such a softness in Flint’s face when he’d spoken to the children, a kindness and a focus in his attention that meant he’d put time and effort into his actions, into making sure what he was doing was what the kids needed in that moment. It wasn’t just an adult slumming it with the neighborhood kids cause he had nothing better to do, it was almost, dare Silver think it, Paternal in nature. Paternal and the dread Captain Flint being used in the same sentence had not been something Silver had ever considered as possible, and yet- And yet it was, and it had piqued the old curiosity. Flint was quiet again, though he didn’t pull away or let go of Silvers hands, so Silver trusted that he hadn’t upset him. Silver held him tightly, turning his head to rest his cheek on Flint’s hair and wait patiently for him to speak. “Its complicated, pup.” “You don’t have to tell me. I was just curious. I never thought of you as a dad until today but now I’m… I won’t lie a part of me is still thinking about it.” There was a soft shuddering sound and Silver felt Flint shift in his arms, curling tighter in on himself for a moment before trying to settle again. Silver held tight, pressing his face into his hair. It took another moment or two, and several deep breaths, but Flint eventually spoke. “Thomas and Miranda were expected to have children when they married,” he said lowly, “all wealthy families expect heirs. But Miranda didn’t want to go through pregnancy and Thomas wasn’t sure if he could sire so they found ways of putting it off and focusing on Thomas’ political career. Thomas… he wanted to save the world, I’m sure for a while he thought he couldn’t allow himself thoughts of a future until that was done.” Silver hummed. That did sound like Thomas. Even now, with the chip on his shoulder and the somewhat colder view of the world, he still seemed to think he could save it. Silver wasn’t about to point out that Flint still seemed to think the same way. “And after everything I dunno I guess it just took so much time to remember how to be living, breathing people again, that children were never part of the consideration,” Flint said with a shrug. There was a weight to his voice, an emptiness that had Silver frowning slightly in surprise. “How can you care for a child when you’ve only just come back to life? When you’ve only just found reason to stay alive? It- Any child we brought into our lives would have been at risk, back then for certain, though I’m not sure a child would be better off now and besides with how much we work its not like-” “James,” Silver said softly, lifting his head, “you’re rambling.” Flint went still in his arms, still as if waiting for the lash that he knew would never come, but waited for all the same. The readiness with which Flint expected violence broke something in Silver, just as much as it felt like a mirror, smudged and smoky and cracked with age. “Is this your way of saying you want to be a father, but the thought of it terrifies you?” Silver asked. “The things I’ve done,” Flint said in a rough voice, “The stains my hands have carried- I’d see them every time I held my child. That’s my fear, I think. That I’d see them, and that violence would stain them as well.” He paused. Silver held him, hiding his own face. It was easier, they had learned, to talk about such things like this, with Flint’s back to Silver, their faces just hidden enough to give the illusion of control. How many secrets had they shared like this? Silver was losing count. “I was raised by a drunken old sailor and a bastard of a navy man who brought nothing but ruin- what could I ever give a child, John?” Flint asked, his hands white knuckle tight on Silver’s, his eyes the deep green of the sea, ghostly and far away. “What could I give them but that same ruin?” And what could Silver say in the face of that? So he said nothing, just nodded and kissed Flints throat until the tension in his shoulders softened and Flint settled back against Silver’s body to rest, weary and still haunted, but at least no longer at knife point in his own home. Silver went back to brushing his hair, singing softly to him as he worked, until Thomas came home and they were able to find more pleasant ways to spend their evening than discussing the sins of one’s father. They didn’t talk about the possibility of children again, not for the whole of the summer. They helped the food banks and the neighborhood families as best they could through the summer, made sure whatever kids stopped by the bar or the kitchen door in the alley left with something to eat, on the house. Thomas made sure checks were written to the shelters and the food banks that needed them, that the families that needed childcare could get it free of charge. They got through the summer, and the conversation never arose again. Silver just kept the thought of Flint holding a bright eyed child that sometimes looked like Thomas’ kid, and sometimes looked like his own, locked away safely in his heart and didn’t examine it too closely. Then Idelle had her baby in August. In October they held a two month belated baby shower for her at The Walrus, so the crew could meet little Wesley Ira Featherstone and his father, bless him, could cry with his crew mates about how proud he was while Idelle had her first stiff drink in over a year. Rackham was there, of course, as the boy’s God father (Silver was delighted by the idea because Rackham was absolutely as terrified by the concept as he was as honored) and Wesley took to him as well as any two month old possibly could. But when it came to crying babies, Rackham didn’t know what to do, and Hal the God Father to all and obvious baby whisperer was back in the kitchen unable to assist. And so Thomas and Silver watched as Flint, who seemed to be acting without really thinking about what he was doing (outside of scolding Rackham who was himself on the verge of tears) scooped up the baby and promptly rocked him calm within moments. “How did you-” Rackham stared at him in shock. “If you didn’t fuckin panic all the time then he wouldn’a started crying,” Flint growled at him, which Wesley found hilarious, if the slew of gurgling giggles was anything to go by. Silver watched, feeling his face split into a ridiculous smile, as Flint refused to give the baby back to Rackham until he’d sobered up, and instead let Idelle tie a sling around his chest to tuck Wesley into, so he could still fix drinks and use his hands while keeping the baby safe. “Sure you don’t want me to take him back?” she asked, Max watching with an amused smile. “You’ll have plenty of him soon, I got ‘im. Just give Rackham a 101 on how to actually hold a baby.” Silver leaned into Thomas as they watched Flint from their seats at the bar, humming as Thomas’ arm went around him automatically, pulling him close into his side. He looked up, curious to see what Thomas thought of his husband suddenly so at home with a child. He didn’t know what he had been expecting, but whatever it was, it wasn’t what he saw. Thomas’s face had gone soft, from the crows feet around his eyes to the laughter lines around his mouth, which parted in the gentlest shape of awe Silver might have ever seen on the man, as if he’d realized something he’d never considered before. His shoulders were rounded, leaning forward against the bar, hand fidgeting against the polished bartop as if desperate to reach out for his husband. Silver could feel the arm he hand around his shoulder tensing with the need to act. They watched as Flint moved behind the bar, one hand resting where Wesley’s head was under the sling, rocking him gently as he fetched fresh beers for himself and for Hal. Silver was watching his face, watching the way his lips were moving, as if he were talking to the baby, but he was just too far away to hear what he was saying. “He’s singing,” came Thomas’ voice suddenly, almost lost to the noise of the bar. “What?” “He’s singing,” Thomas said again, nodding to his husband. “Padstow Farewell, he sings it to me sometimes when I have nightmares, I’d know the lyrics on his lips even in the grave.” Silver smiled softly. “He sang it to me when I was recovering from my leg. I didn’t know it could be a lullaby.” “Neither did I but…” “But now-” “Yeah.” Silver reached for Thomas’ other hand and kissed his knuckles, leaning into him further. Thomas held him impossibly tight, resting his cheek on his hair. There’d be more to talk about in the morning, tomorrow, the day after, next week, next month, next year. And there was a dizzying sense of joy in that, the same kind of joy that came from watching Flint carrying the future in his worn and weathered hands.

[beewolfwrites]

And When I am Formulated, Sprawling on a Pin - Chapter One: The Edge of a Diving Board

Hello everyone!

So I haven’t used my Tumblr account in years, but I recently binge watched Alice in Borderland not too long ago and like any sane person, I realised that it was pretty darn amazing.. and that Chishiya was hands-down one of the best characters in the show.

 So while I'm still riding the AIB wave, I decided to dig out my old Tumblr and write something! 

This is just the first chapter, and you can find it here on AO3 too. To be honest, it’s probably better on AO3 because the formatting is a little funny on here. 

I’ve written it in first person, but avoided giving the main character a name, so it can either read as a Chishiya x OC or as a reader-insert depending on how you prefer :) 

Please let me know what you think, and if you do read it, thank you!

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It was David Foster Wallace who put it best. The world was one big queue leading up to a diving board. You took your place in line, climbed the rankings, and once you got to the top? The end. Process over. Because that’s how life really is: breathe, work, jump off the edge. You fulfil a function and then you’re gone forever.

At least, that’s how I’d always seen it. But the Borderlands changed all of that. Suddenly I was being pushed towards the edge of the diving board when I had thought I was still in the queue.

It happened all at once. I had been in an apartment, laughing over drinks with my brother and his friends. It was our first time in Japan, and we were only visiting for a four-day summer trip. I had only been allowed to go on the premise that he was there. Looking back now, I wish we had chosen Brussels or Amsterdam.

The last time I saw my brother, he was laughing with his friends as I closed the bathroom door behind me. I had turned to the sink, taking a moment to splash cool water on my face.

And that was when the lights went out.

‘Power cut’, I muttered, fumbling around for the door handle and re-entering the living room.

The apartment was dark and cold. I was alone.

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Tokyo almost looked beautiful without electricity at night, like a ghost city paused in time.

‘Hey!‘ I yelled through the empty streets. ‘誰か’ Anyone?

My Japanese was limited at best, but I had to try. I had to find someone. There was no way this could’ve been a prank. A whole population doesn’t just vanish into thin air, it’s simply not possible.

‘Hey, Is anyone there?’ I tried again.

As if on cue, a light cut through the darkness. I couldn’t help but squint at the large white screen projected across a desolate building. I couldn’t read any of the kanji, but there was one word that stood out clear as day.

GAME

What is this? I asked myself.

Suddenly, the screen changed, this time sporting an arrow pointing to the right. I tried to read the hiragana, but it seemed there was no need. Another light appeared in the distance, glowing ominously over the tops of buildings.

I guess I have to go that way, I thought. Perhaps there’s some kind of big event on and everyone’s gone to watch.

I made my way to the source of the light, which turned out to be an old furniture store. In this sea of darkness, it was as if the electricity had pooled entirely into one two-storey building.

There can’t be an event in a place like this. Where is everyone?

On a wall was a smaller sign with an arrow pointing into the store.

GAME – こちらです

Hesitantly, I followed the arrow up the steps leading to the door. Inside, the hallway was fully lit. The walls were decorated with mirrors and printed canvases, their price tags and sale stickers still attached. Passing beneath an arch that led into a large room, I heard a tiny bleep. It was almost inaudible, but I knew I hadn’t imagined it.

As I peered around, looking for the source of the noise, a voice spoke.

‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’

I jumped, turning on my heels.

Leaning inconspicuously against a wall, a man was staring at me curiously. He was wearing a sleeveless grey top and looked to be in his thirties. He didn’t look like it, but perhaps he was the shop owner?

I stepped forward, intent on asking for help. However, I must’ve moved too quickly in my excitement, as my arm wavered, knocking a tiny vase with an artificial flower off a table.

It rolled across the ground, but before I could apologise and pick it up a neon red laser cut through the vase, leaving a singed hole in the plastic soil.

‘I told you not to do that,’ the man repeated, huffing.

I stared, wordless, at the destroyed flower. Lasers? What the hell kind of game was this?

‘Newbie, hm? This’ll be easy.’

It was a new voice this time. Another man, slightly younger, was reclining back in an armchair. I hadn’t noticed him until now as his green shirt blended into the furniture fabric.

‘A foreigner, too. How lucky,’ Green Shirt said.

My mind scrambled to piece together what Japanese it could.

‘すみません… 何がこれ？皆んながどこですか’ Excuse me, what is this? Where is everyone?

Green Shirt raised a brow, whereas the first man huffed once more.

‘It’s a game. You’ve just got to follow the rules.’ He gestured his thumb to a small side table where there were a several phones lined up. ‘You need to take one before registration closes.’

On second inspection, I noticed that they were both clasping phones tightly in their hands. Maybe this was part of the game? Approaching the table, I picked up a smart phone, finding that it sprung to life immediately with a face recognition screen.

‘FACE REGISTRATION IN PROCESS.

PLEASE WAIT FOR THE GAME TO COMMENCE’

A timer on the screen began to tick down from two minutes. Around me, I could feel the two men watching my every move. They seemed to be sussing me out, although I couldn’t figure out what for. Surely, since everyone in Tokyo disappeared, we should all band together and find others.

‘REGISTRATION CLOSED. THE GAME WILL NOW COMMENCE.’

This time, the voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once, as if through an invisible sound system. I looked around at the ceiling, trying to find the speakers, when I realised that at the back of the room all of the furniture had been moved aside to make way for a large circular table and four chairs. In the centre of the table was a stack of cards.

‘GAME – RUMMY

DIFFICULTY – FOUR OF DIAMONDS

TIME LIMIT – ONE HOUR’

Four of Diamonds?

I looked at the phone in my hand, where a picture of the aforementioned card flashed up. None of it made sense. And what did playing cards have to do with this?

The first man and Green Shirt both got up and made their way to the table at the back, leaving me no choice but to follow. They seemed to know what was going on better than I did. The three of us each took a seat, only I chose to a sit as far as possible from the other two. Judging from the deck in the middle of the table, we’d be playing a card game, and I didn’t want anybody close enough to see my hand.

The overhead voice continued.

‘RULES –

PLAYERS MUST COMPLETE A SINGLE GAME OF RUMMY.

THE OBJECTIVE IS TO CLEAR ALL CARDS FROM YOUR HAND. THE FIRST PLAYER TO CLEAR THEIR HAND IS THE WINNER.

THE DECK HAS ALREADY BEEN SHUFFLED.

PLAYERS MUST DESIGNATE ONE PERSON TO BE THE DEALER.

TURNS ARE TAKEN COUNTER-CLOCKWISE, FROM THE LEFT OF THE DEALER.

EACH PLAYER STARTS WITH SEVEN CARDS. AFTER THE CARDS HAVE BEEN DEALT, THE FIRST CARD IN THE DECK MUST BE TURNED OVER AND USED TO START A SEPARATE DISCARD PILE.

PLAYERS MUST ALWAYS DRAW ONE CARD FROM THE PILE, AND DISCARD ONE CARD PER TURN.

PLAYERS MAY PICK UP A CARD FROM THE DISCARD PILE, HOWEVER YOU CANNOT DISCARD THE SAME CARD IN THAT TURN.

PLAYERS MUST CREATE SEQUENCES OF THREE TO FOUR CARDS ARRANGED BY EITHER NUMBER OR SUITE. IF A SET OF THREE OR MORE CARDS IS CREATED, THE PLAYER MAY CHOOSE TO LAY IT DOWN IN FRONT OF THEM.

PLAYERS CAN ADD TO OTHERS’ SEQUENCES PROVIDED THEY HAVE BEEN LAID DOWN ON THE TABLE.

ACE MAY ONLY COUNT AS ONE.

JOKERS CAN BE USED IN PLACE OF ANY CARD.

CLEAR CONDITION – BE THE WINNER.’

Okay, I thought, mulling it over. Okay…

I hadn’t understood most of what the voice had said, but I could pick up enough that I figured it was just a game of standard Rummy. I had never played the game before, and I only knew of it through John Steinbeck’s characters. But I had played something similar, a card-melding game that my parents had taught me when I was a small child. I’d played it countless times, and I knew it like the back of my hand. Sure enough, these rules were slightly different, but it was still a card-melding game, all the same.

I looked up at the two men opposite me. They appeared confused, despite their attempts to hide it. Green Shirt gazed at me curiously, then smirked.

Oh…

‘A foreigner, too? How lucky.’

His previous words rang in my memory. Judging by the way the two men were looking at me, they were both counting on my inability to understand the rules. They were assuming I had no idea how to play, or even what rules were just read out. And yet, the brief glimpses of confusion in their expressions told me everything: they had never played a card-melding game before.

So they’ve already decided that they have the advantage?

I tried not to smile.

‘Do you know how to play?’ the first man asked me.

I paused, considering how I should answer. I didn’t know exactly what the stakes were, but judging by the laser I had just seen, losing the game couldn’t be good. In any case, I decided to keep my cards close to my chest.

‘このガームは知らない.’ I’ve never heard of this game before.

I was aware that my Japanese probably sounded like it came straight from a textbook, but in this situation, I couldn’t care less.

The first man nodded. He looked at Green Shirt, and said, ‘I’ll be the dealer then, if that’s okay?’

Green Shirt just shrugged and sat back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. ‘Hurry up then. The clock’s ticking.’

Sure enough, my phone displayed a timer which read 57 minutes. I didn’t want to find out what happened if we didn’t have a clear winner by the time it hit zero.

The first man picked up the deck, dishing out seven cards each before returning the stack to the centre. He took the first card and turned it over on the table, beginning the discard pile. Picking up a card from the deck, the first man began his turn.

I didn’t pay attention to what he was doing, as I needed to focus on the cards currently in my hand.

King of Spades

Three of Hearts

King of Diamonds

Five of Clubs

Ace of Hearts

Nine of Diamonds

Eight of Clubs

It wasn’t bad. Or at least, it could’ve been a lot worse. The two kings stuck out immediately as a potential meld. I could certainly build around them. However, another thought came to mind. If Rummy was anything like the game I had learned as a child, it meant that players could add to each other’s melds once they were on the table. In that case, I would have to avoid creating sets of consecutive numbers within the same suite, as a three-card combination in this kind of meld would leave two openings for the others to get rid of their cards, rather than just the one.

Glancing up, I noticed it was Green Shirt’s turn, promptly ended as he threw an Ace of Spades into the discard pile.

That meant it was my turn next.

I eyed the Ace he just discarded and remembered hearing the overhead voice say something about Aces. But there was no time to think about it; the other two were watching me closely and waiting for me to pick up a card.

I reached out to the deck.

Seven of Diamonds.

Technically I could’ve used it in conjunction with my nine, but it was too risky. I didn’t have time to wait around in hopes of picking up an Eight of Diamonds. Plus, I’d already decided against consecutive sets.

I tossed it into the discard pile.

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The game continued for longer than I would’ve liked it to. The clock was ticking, ticking, ticking, and now read 17 minutes.

So far, my hand had started to come together.

King of Spades

King of Diamonds

King of Hearts

Nine of Diamonds

Nine of Spades

Five of Clubs

Ace of Hearts

I could’ve laid down my kings on the table. But there was only three cards in the meld, meaning one of the others could add the remaining king from their own hand. Across from me, neither of the other two had laid down any cards, and until they did, I couldn’t add anything to their melds either.

Green Shirt then took his turn and picked up a card. He glanced once at me, then threw a Nine of Diamonds onto the discard pile.

I must’ve regarded it a second too long because Green Shirt then spoke up.

‘You’re collecting Diamonds, aren’t you?’

I tried not to smile.

‘どうして知っているのですか’ I asked, playing along. How did you know that?

‘Because you always stare at the cards whenever I discard a Diamonds one.’

He must’ve gotten the wrong end of the stick, because whenever he discarded a Diamonds card, my heart sank. The last thing I needed was a Diamonds card.

‘I’ll try and keep a poker face from now on,’ I muttered.

Green Shirt frowned in response and checked the timer on his phone.

Nine minutes.

Nine minutes until game over.

That’s 540 seconds I had to land a good card.

Come on, I thought. Please be a nine. Please be a nine.

I picked up a card from the deck. It was a Two of Spades. I discarded it immediately.

In the back of my mind, I was starting to panic. Judging by this whole setup, we were playing for our lives. After all, what kind of game would have an invisible barrier that kills those who try to back out?

The first man threw away a Six of Clubs. Green Shirt stared at it and scowled. He must’ve been looking for extra cards to add to his meld on the table.  

By now, the two men were starting to become antsy. The first man kept scratching his eyebrow, whereas Green Shirt kept dragging his nails on the table in impatience.

He picked up a card from the deck, then grinned from ear to ear. He proudly lay down a consecutive suite consisting of the Seven and Six of Clubs and a Joker used to represent a five.  

Carelessly, he tossed down a Nine of Clubs.

My heart jumped, and adrenaline shot through me.

He still thinks I’m collecting Diamonds. That’s why he tossed it.

My hand shot out and snatched up the card from the pile before Green Shirt could figure out his mistake. And figure it out, he did, because his eyes widened slightly.

I looked at him squarely.

‘I have something to confess,’ I said in English. ‘I lied. I’m not collecting Diamonds.’

Green Shirt’s smile dropped. He didn’t understand, but he would soon enough. The thing about Jokers is that they’re always a double-edged sword.

Laying down my new trio of nines, I reached over to Green Shirt’s meld and inserted my Five of Clubs, swiping his Joker for myself.

He made a noise of protest, whereas the first man watched on with disbelief, as if hoping that his intuition was wrong.

I added the Joker to my two Kings, creating a new meld which I down on the table.

Their faces told all. They had no idea that Jokers could be swapped. Even though I hadn’t understood the rules outlined at the beginning, it was evident that this was a rule that hadn’t been mentioned.

Watching them shake their heads, wide eyed… it was like watching a penny drop.

‘ごめんなさい,’ I said.

I’m sorry.

I threw the Ace of Hearts onto the discard pile.

The two men shot out of their seats, yelling frantically. I tried to tear my eyes away, but couldn’t, as two lasers pierced through the ceiling and struck them where they stood.

The two bodies crumpled to the ground, and all was still.

‘GAME CLEAR – CONGRATULATIONS!’

I don’t know how long I remained seated in my chair, but I felt that if I moved, I would collapse too. Swallowing, I took two fingers and pressed them to my jugular, feeling for my pulse.

I had won. I was still alive.

I was still here.

The phone on the table beside me flashed with a message. According to this game, I had a four-day visa, whatever that meant.

It didn’t matter though, all I needed right now was to sleep.

Rising unsteadily, I cautiously approached the where the invisible barrier had been. For all I knew it was a one-way system, and I didn’t want to make a stupid mistake after all my effort in the Rummy game. So, as a test, I picked up a tiny vase and threw it across the entrance.

Nothing.

It was like the lasers had just disappeared altogether.

Tentatively reaching my fingers through, I deemed it safe, and made my way back down the hall to the store entrance. I didn’t know where to go, or how to live in a world like this, but if books and movies had taught me anything, I needed to make some kind of camp, perhaps even head to a food store to collect some supplies –

I stopped.

On a small side table near the entrance doors, a card lay facing up. The Four of Diamonds. The same Four of Diamonds that had flashed on the screen on my phone. The game’s difficulty.

But when did it get here? Perhaps someone had come by whilst I was still playing.

Shrugging, I pocketed it and stepped outside into the ghostly darkness of Tokyo. Behind me, the electricity in the furniture store shut off completely.

Whatever kind of games these were, I had a feeling they were only just getting started.

[autisticshadowthehedgehog]

The Rose Emerald

I got bored and I hyperfixate so this is based on the Chaos Emerald Filmverse Theory and Potential Roster

What was left of the Chaos Emeralds were split across the universe after the loss of the red gem. None of the selected planets for safekeeping were allowed to know where any emerald was sans theirs, and most of the emeralds were kept under heavy guard, heavy security, and intense secrecy.

When the fifth emerald was given to the Voxai, it was a shining green- some said brighter than the Master Emerald itself. The Voxai, of course, took their duty to guard the emerald as seriously as they could; the Overmind gave suggestions on how to build its safe place, how to keep it from those who would use it for destruction. For decades, it sat untouched in a glass chamber, inside a temple hidden amongst the Beta colony.

The second guard of the emerald, after the death of the first, was Thebes, and he’d been very nervous about his job. He’d been especially nervous when he reached the emerald and it was no longer green- the psychic energy that emanated from not just the Voxai, but from their planet itself, had leaked into the gem, regardless of their best efforts, and now it was a pale, shining pink. Almost the same color as the markings across Thebes’s translucent shell.

Not too soon after Thebes had begun his guard duties- checking on the emerald and the temple, keeping it clean and stable, making sure nobody else had broken in- the emerald started doing strange things. Glowing, rocking gently in its enclosure, seeming to breathe. The Overmind hadn’t heard of such behavior from the previous guard, and Thebes was getting quite concerned. First it changed color, then it started doing... this.

One day, he came into the temple, floating along the light, icy air of their home planet, but when he looked upon the glass case, he saw no emerald. Instead, there was a small creature- strange, not like the Voxai at all. There was no shell, only some kind of spikes along its skin, and four thick limbs waving in the air. It had a hole in its face, which it was using to make loud, angry noises. The only thing recognizable was the shade of pink. The emerald’s shining pink now coated the creature- no, the child. It was an infant. A baby.

Thebes had to be careful bringing it to the Overmind, not wanting to leave it alone but also not wanting to drop it as he flew. But without an extensive tail (only a puny one), and without familiar limbs, it was hard to even figure out how best to pick it up. Eventually he managed to use his left wings to hold it to his chest, but then it kept screaming and spitting some kind of liquid onto him, which was very unpleasant.

He finally got it to the Overmind, and after several hours of confused discussion, a deep dive into the nearest library, and frantic scrambling to get some kind of nutrients for the infant to get it to stop crying, they finally had information for Thebes. And instructions.

“It’s a Mobian- the kind of alien that held the emeralds first.” Overmind Leucosia explained, as a carrier was tied to Thebes’s shell. “It seems that the Chaos Emerald has shifted into an infant mobian- we must do further research to determine what this means. In the meantime- you are the emerald’s guardian still. So guard the child.”

Thebes had very much not wanted to hear that. He had enough anxiety as it was, he couldn’t add a child on top of that. He didn’t even know how to take care of Voxian children, and they were easy- just a few mental outbursts here and there. And now he had to care for an alien child with needs he couldn’t understand and with the strangest appearance he’d ever seen, and...

Overmind Riadne seemed to sense his fear, and reached out to him, sending a gentle wave through his mind. It calmed him, the comfort she was offering him leaking into his body, his wings flickering slower and his tail swooshing from side-to-side.

He finally moved his gaze downwards, to the carrier strapped to him. Inside of it, the little baby Emerald was curled up, its tiny hands clutching onto the material, rubbing its face against it. It had stopped crying, and instead just looked peaceful. Happy.

“Okay.”

---

The Emerald had given itself life. And it was now a little mobian, crawling across the floor, putting its mouth on anything it came across and falling over with the slightest breeze.

Mobians were very different than Thebes had ever thought. Only a few of them could fly, and they saw with what Thebes had thought were simple markings on the face. They often had differing skin, differing heights and weights, and very strangely, differing minds. Voxai could be individual, yes, but they had a hivemind to connect them, to make them part of each other. The Mobians had no such connection, leaving them all alone to think on their own. How lonely that must be, Thebes thought. To not be able to calm another’s fears, or cheer another on in such a simple, yet intimate way.

The Overmind’s research had yielded nothing. No tales of the emeralds taking form, no tales of any changes in the stones... Thebes wondered if it was his fault, but he couldn’t think of anything at all out of the ordinary he’d done leading up to the transformation, nor could anyone else. But nevertheless, the Emerald didn’t seem to be turning back, so they just had to work with what they had.

Thebes floated to the child, brushing it with a wing. It felt him, and looked up, letting out a loud noise that Thebes had discerned to be laughter. It reached up its arms, trying to grab his wings and lift itself high into the air.

It will need a name, Thebes thought. If it will stay mortal.

The child lifted its arms again, its fists opening and closing, trying to grab onto its guardian. “Up-mi!” it called- it had recently begun attempting to communicate, though its words made little sense. “Uh-mi!”

What is that, little one?

“Uh! Mi!”

Amy. That was a name that meant beloved.

That was fitting.

--- 

Amy had moved into childhood, and she still would not stop getting into trouble. She climbed on everything she could, trying to get high enough to jump on a Voxai for a surprise ride. She would grab small objects, swinging them around as some kind of game. She poured through tablets, her eyes faster than light as she absorbed whatever information she could get her hands on. 

“Thebes, what does ‘sy-kick’ mean?” she asked.

(They had found that while she could connect to the hivemind, it was a very weak link, and so it was easier for her to speak aloud, and for the Voxai to respond in their normal way.)

“Psychic, Amy.” Thebes replied, floating beside her. “It is a word often used to mean one who connects to another’s mind- or sees forward into the future.”

“Like you!”

“Like the Voxai, yes.”

“Am I psychic?”

“A little. We’re not entirely sure what the expanse of your abilities is.”

“I dunno what that means.”

Yes, it took her a bit longer to learn larger words than it would the average Voxai child. “We don’t know what you can do.”

“I can do this!” Amy jumped, grabbing onto his wing and swinging back-and-forth. “Whee, whee, whee!”

Amy was certainly a strange child. She shouted, she cried, and she had to always be moving. She didn’t seem to have an appreciation for stillness whatsoever, and instead needed to run, or jump, or climb, or swing. She could not fly, was barely connected to the hivemind, and was always being loud.

She was a strange child, and she was the Voxai’s child. 

It had taken them quite a while to get used to her, but by the time she seemed to gain sentience, the whole colony had gotten into the swing of letting her run and play in her own way. And it wasn’t as if she wasn’t like them whatsoever- it barely mattered that they couldn’t connect to her thoughts, as she always spoke them aloud. She would try to help as much as she could, using her strange limbs to carry materials to and from construction sites, or help garden the small, sparse patches of land that could produce nutrients. She would watch the Voxai children play their own games, and join in when there was a game that didn’t require wings or an intense connection to the Overmind. If she couldn’t join in, she would cheer everyone on, or find a way to play referee, so it was never like she was lonely or left out. 

She had a strange way of showing physical affection, too, but they accommodated her as best they could. While Voxai would usually show affection via their hivemind- or, if they had to be physical, by brushing wings or tails- Amy was always grabbing onto some part of them. Forget simple brushing, Amy would climb up their tails, swing on their wings, and cling to their backs, leaning against them and just feeling them breathe under her. At first, it was strange, but it seemed to help her- the more physical affection she got, the more comfortable she seemed, so soon the Beta Colony was used to treating her a bit differently, in pretty much every way.

Yes, she was a strange child, and she was the Voxai’s child. But most importantly, at least to Thebes... she was his child.

He had been there when she learned how to walk- he’d studied for months on how mobians moved so he could best help her amble along. He was there when she picked out what nutrients she liked to eat and would throw the others on the ground, and he would teach her that was rude and she really should have just expressed that she didn’t want them. He was there when she started to speak, learning along with her how best to communicate. He was there when she fell asleep against him that first night, curling his wing around her like a blanket, and he was there, teaching her how to spell and count. He took her to the library to study whatever languages they had, fascinated with how quickly she picked them up, feeling intensely proud of her for running to the nearest librarian to practice her sentence structure. He was there when she scraped her knee and began to cry, and they figured out how to make it feel better. He was there when she’d cry again, reading a sad book, and he was there when she’d run to him, reciting quickly something funny she’d read in a different story in hopes that he would laugh, too, at least in his own way.

Whenever he expressed how proud he was of her, he could see her eyes light up, and then she’d shut them tight and wiggle her nose a little, her smile brightening even the darkest of nights. If he had to express disappointment- if, for example, she said something unnecessarily cruel to another child, or she hid the scroll she broke instead of admitting to it, she would get very upset, leaking water from her eyes, and she would promise to never repeat the behavior, knowing now that it wasn’t right. Thebes hated seeing her upset, but then later, when she did the right thing instead of repeating wrong behavior, he got to be proud of her again, and see her bright smile.

She wasn’t perfect, by any means. Mainly, she had some issues expressing her anger in a healthy way. More than once he had to show disappointment in her breaking something in a fit of fury- though, honestly, he wasn’t quite sure if her way of breaking things was normal for a mobian or not. She would kick a rock and watch it shatter into pieces, or punch a wall and create a gaping hole. He didn’t think mobians were supposed to do that- and it got even stranger when she would stomp on the ground during a tantrum and create a crater, or lift up an entire house to grab a lost toy. Most worryingly, when she was angered, her normally green eyes would spark with energy, glowing the same pink as her quills. He knew that most Voxai couldn’t do these things, certainly, and though she was clearly not a normal Voxai, he wasn’t sure if she was a normal mobian, either.

He also wasn’t sure if that was good or not.

---

Once every cycle, Thebes would take Amy to visit the Overmind, so they could check on her progress. Afterwards, she would play with a toy they’d found for her, while the adults would discuss their research. Since she’d started talking, Amy was always very well-behaved when with the Overmind, addressing them by name and asking them how their cycle had been, answering all of their questions with a smile while bouncing on her paws and letting her tail wag back-and-forth. Then she’d go play, oblivious to whatever discussion was happening around or about her.

That started to change as she got older, though, and it was because of Thebes, unfortunately. Thebes had been unable to hide his discomfort at times, and though he’d told a questioning Amy that nothing was wrong, really, she could sense that something was troubling him.

Indeed, as the years pressed on, he felt that the Overmind was... becoming strange. The hivemind was meant to encourage them all, but sometimes he’d hear whispers of the Overmind being too pushy, sending out instructions that some Voxai couldn’t make themselves disobey. He’d never experienced it himself, but the more he visited with Amy, the more he started to see signs of something strange going on with them. He didn’t know if it was the stress around the lost Chaos Emerald, a corruption of power, a new behavior they’d picked up from another planet they’d trade with, or a combination of all of it, but they were, indeed, getting pushy. They’d ask him questions that were normally considered impolite, about himself and about Amy. At times, they talked about her as if she wasn’t at all alive, as if she were still an emerald locked up in a hidden temple. That above all made Thebes angry. She may have once been that emerald, but now she was Amy, his Amy, who loved to read and play in the garden and climb on whatever she could find, who was curious about this world and any other world she researched.

It worried Thebes, but not enough.

---

One cycle, when Amy was about eight or nine years old, the Overmind stated that in their research, they thought she may be able to summon things with her mind. Bring items out of nothing. Thebes thought this was ridiculous, but he agreed to try with her.

It took several weeks of work, of Amy sitting on the ground, imagining items she’d want to create, and then growing bored and wandering to the garden. Thebes would help as best he could, but in her natural Outermind state, as well as the strangeness of the situation, he couldn’t do much.

One day, she sat with him on the floor of their home, and said, “I don’t know what they want from me, really. What would make them proud of me?”

Thebes sighed, and brushed her with his wing. “Don’t think about that, Amy. What matters is I am very proud of you for trying. You don’t need to succeed if you cannot do it.”

Amy smiled and wiggled her nose at his praise, but then said, “I think I can. I really do. But I keep changing my mind on what I should bring about.”

Thebes considered. “What about those tools you use to help us build our homes? We only get those during trading periods with other worlds- wouldn’t it be useful if you could get them whenever you wanted?”

“That would be nice.” Amy nodded, considering. “I’ll try that.”

It took much longer, but she seemed more focused after that, sitting and humming and trying to make things out of thin air. But Thebes could sense her getting frustrated every day she failed, and though he assured her she didn’t need to do anything she was incapable of, it seemed every day she wanted more and more to do this magic.

Finally, one day, in the garden, she’d sat down among the stones to try and summon something. Then she stood, angered, and stomped a stone into shards. “This is awful! I can’t do it!”

“You don’t have to--”

“But I should be able to! I should be able to do anything with my head, like the rest of you! But nooo, I can’t even do anything normal! I don’t even look normal!”

"Amy.” Thebes said stiffly. “You are normal for your species.”

“Pfft, as if! I’m pretty sure most mobians don’t form out of magic emeralds!”

“Amy, please keep yourself controlled.”

“Why does it matter? I can’t even be like you!” Amy huffed, tears springing to her eyes. “How can I be anything special if I can’t be normal first? No, I’m just weird little Amy! Strange little Amy! Dumb little Amy!”

“Nobody thinks that.”

“They should! Cause that is who I am!”

In her fury, Amy turned towards the large stone behind her, and acted instinctively; what she had wanted to do was punch it, get some of her anger out by destroying the rock she’d sat against. Instead, her hands reached up behind her, in a position not very equipped for punching. And to both her and Thebes’s surprise, in the few seconds it took her to swing, a colorful, extra-large hammer appeared in her hands, and she brought its face to the rock. The impact turned the rock to an explosion of dust.

When the cloud settled, both Thebes and Amy stared in shock. Then, slowly, Amy smiled, and laughed, looking down at her hammer. Then she spun, laughing harder, beginning to dance. “Thebes, look! I did it! I did it! I made something! I made something! I did it right!”

It turned out she didn’t need to think like a Voxai to do it- to retreat into her mind, to focus on the energy around her. What she had to do was think like Amy. To think with her heart, her feelings.

Of course, Thebes was proud of her, but he also had a heavy heart at her previous words. After she’d calmed down, she threw the hammer into the air, making it disappear. And once she’d calmed from that action, which she thought was equally impressive, Thebes took her inside and sat her down.

“Amy, do you really think you’re incapable? That you’re... what was the word?”

Amy curled in on herself; it was an action she did when she was embarrassed, or upset. “Weird? Strange?”

“Amy, you’ve never been like that.”

“Don’t lie.” Amy sighed, glancing up at him. “I know you all just put up with me. I don’t act like a Voxai, and whenever I try, it feels wrong. I have to climb things and touch things, I can’t fly or lift things with my brain, I can barely even hear the hivemind. I’m just a weird outermind.”

“Has anyone told you this?”

“No... but I can tell.” Amy sighed. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that I have to have you fly me up to certain areas, cause nobody thought they’d have someone who couldn’t fly wandering around. Or that there are games I can’t play, or that I don’t have wings and my tail is too small, and I have these legs and arms that none of you know what to do with. I can tell I’m... different.”

Thebes floated beside her, and then curled against her, draping his wings over her like a blanket, as he had when she was just an infant. “Different does not mean wrong, Amy.”

“But it makes it harder on all of you.”

“And we don’t mind.” Thebes brushed against her again. “Do you remember when Croesus’s family’s home was destroyed in that quake, but you ran there before everyone else at night, before we could rebuild?”

“Yeah.”

“And you figured out that it was a location very sensitive to quakes, so you found them a better spot and started building on your own?”

“Yeah...”

“That was all you. You used a Voxai sense, to feel the world around you, and your own research to figure out what was wrong with the location. And then you used your strength to begin building.”

“I guess.”

“Amy, you’re not a Voxai.” Thebes said quietly. “But I don’t think you’re quite a mobian, either. And you’re not a simple stone, locked away without a mind. You’re Amy, the Rose-Colored Emerald who became the Rose-Colored Hedgehog. You’re a curious girl, a temperamental girl, and overall, a kind girl who wants to do no more than help those around her. And that is not ‘weird’ or ‘strange.’ That is not even ‘normal.’ That is special. You are special, to me and to everyone in this colony.”

For a moment, Amy was quiet, and Thebes was worried he may have made things worse, due to the tears that returned to her eyes. But then she leapt up, clinging to him as she always did, burying her face against his skin, and he knew she was going to be alright.

Unfortunately, that didn’t last long.

---

Their next appointment with the Overmind, Thebes was under the impression that Amy was simply playing in the other room. He would discern later that she, instead, sat there, eyes shut, doing her best to connect to the hivemind, to listen to what they were saying, to figure out if they were proud of her for her summoning- which she’d been practicing since her first victory- or upset at her for doing it in a strange way. There was more she’d wanted to know, too- she was curious as to what they talked about when she was busy, fearful that they were saying bad things about her, and... well, recently, she’d become concerned about Thebes’s occasional worry, his distance when thinking about the Overmind. Thebes could tell that Amy wanted him to stop being scared, he just never thought she’d stop her playtime to figure out what was worrying him so.

Unfortunately, this was just about the worst time she could have listened in.

The Overmind had compiled their years of research on Chaos Emeralds, mobian culture, and Amy’s own behavior, and concluded that her magical abilities were powerful beyond their imagining. Her fits of strength, her glowing eyes, were all things that they’d never heard of any species doing, let alone mobians. The summoning only confirmed what they thought- her origins as an emerald had given her not just power, but what seemed to be an unlimited power.

Thebes stayed quiet as they presented this, but then their words turned to what they could use her power for. It was, again, as if she were a simple stone again, one that had been locked away to prevent those from using this power in the way the Overmind was discussing. They brought up how her strength could be used as a weapon, her energy to summon great things for the Overmind and terrible things for their enemies.

“What enemies?” Thebes asked. “We have always been a peaceful society.”

“But with this power,” they tried to say, “We could have a better planet, one without seas of rocks, without quakes.”

“We are fine with the rocks. We don’t need a planet of branches to get tangled in or dirt and water to drag us down.”

“You are not thinking clearly, Thebes. Just because you are used to what you have doesn’t mean you can’t want more.”

“You are trying to use her for battle, something that we hid the emerald to prevent from happening. But now you know what she can do, you want to use her for violence. Have you thought about what she wants to do with her power?”

“She is one of us, and thus in service to the Overmind. So she will be happy to do what we tell her.”

“That is not what your power is supposed to be used for.”

“Perhaps it is. Perhaps we should encourage you to think so, too.”

That must have been when Amy broke; Thebes had a strong will, she must have known, and would have resisted the Overmind trying to force him into something he didn’t want to do. But she had fear, the fear that he would be forced into a shell of himself, that the Overmind would take her away from him and use her in a way that wouldn’t make him proud.

She burst into the room, screaming for them to stop, to leave him alone, and her eyes were glowing pink, her body sparking with that intense energy. They turned to see her, and she raised her hands, wanting to simply express her anger. But again, she acted instinctively; her hands formed around the summoned hammer, and she slammed it into the ground.

The energy that burst up caused chaos. Everyone in the room with Amy felt their connections to each other severed as they were thrown back, into the wall, thudding against it as the child screamed. A blinding light seemed to burst from her, flowing into the sky and across the colony. For a few brief seconds, there was no hivemind, and everyone was alone, and began to panic. Even when it returned, there was that fear, that horror that it might happen again. The blast of energy also hit several stones, several homes, causing them to shake, a few to burst.

When Amy came back to her senses, her eyes widened with horror, and she dropped the hammer, causing it to disappear before it hit the ground. She stepped back, looking in fear at what she’d done, and then she ran.

She couldn’t get far before Thebes caught up, curling his tail around her to carry her to someplace safe and calm. But she screamed as he lifted her, kicking and screaming for him to let her go, to let her get away from him, and the Overmind, and everyone. He could feel her energy as she screamed- she was not angry, but she was terrified, a level of fear he’d never thought her capable of.

He took her to a quiet cave, and when he dropped her, she curled into a ball, crying and screaming ot herself.

“Amy,” he said.

“Don’t touch me! I’ll hurt you again! Don’t touch me!”

He realized that he would not be able to reason with her in this state, and that made him fearful- reason was what he knew best, after all. But he had to remain strong, remain calm, to keep her from panicking farther. So he floated back, and for a long, long, while, let her get her emotions out. She screamed and sobbed, pounding her fists against the floor to make small craters, slamming herself into the wall to cause it to rumble... it was terrifying, how much the small child was capable of, and how she didn’t seem to care if she hurt herself in her breakdown.

But finally, finally, after what felt like forever, her cries quieted, and she stopped slamming against the stone, and instead curled up into a ball, finally calming herself. Slowly, Thebes approached, though he kept at a distance in case she did not want to be touched.

“Amy.” he said again. Then, when she did not respond, “Amy.”

“What?”

He sighed and floated beside her, brushing her quills with his tail. “You are not to blame for what happened. You didn’t know that was possible.”

“But I hurt you.”

“I’m alright. I’m more concerned about you.”

“I’m a monster.”

“Never.” Thebes lowered himself, so that he was covering her with his wings. “It is like I said. You are Amy.”

Amy slowly unfurled from the ball, and then climbed onto his back, wrapping her arms around him in an embrace.

“Are the Overmind gonna take me away?” she sniffled.

“I would never let them.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“I know.”

“I like it here. I don’t want another planet.” Amy pressed herself farther against him. “I don’t even want Mobius. I just want to be here, at home, and make everyone happy.”

Thebes felt his heart swell. “Then you shall stay. Amy, my Amy, you make us happy just by being here.”

“What if I just ruined it? And everyone’s scared of me?”

Thebes considered, and then said, “I know I would never be.”

Amy sighed, and then embraced him tighter. “Then I guess it’ll be okay. So long as you’re still here.”

---

Thebes had to smuggle Amy back to the house, fearful of questions or some kind of repercussions from the Overmind. But when they were finally back in their colony, at their home, Amy quickly scampered into her makeshift bed, curling beneath the blankets that had once been the sling Thebes used to carry her as an infant, and soon was snoring soundly. Thebes wasn’t quite sure what to do while she slept, so he tidied the house, and then sat at the window, staring out into the sky. He thought it best to let Amy sleep, to let her dream of a place without trouble.

What he didn’t know is that that would be the last time she’d have that luxury for quite some time. 

---

Amy awoke to the rumble of the ground, and the sound of screams.

Thebes flew to her as fast as he could, and saw her rubbing her eyes, having momentarily forgotten what had happened the previous day. She blinked up at him, sleep still a distant glimmer in her green eyes- he realized, only now, with a heavy heart, they were the same green that the Chaos Emerald had been before it changed. The emerald within her soul.

“Wha’s going on?” she asked blearily, as Thebes swept her up in his wings.

“We’re under attack.”

“What?” That was almost a foreign concept to her. Then she blinked away her exhaustion, and began to tremble. “The Overmind?”

“Worse.”

“Wh- what’s--?”

Amy soon found out, as Thebes swept her onto his back and began to fly as fast as he could. Amy began to shake, letting out startled cries, as she looked to the sky, which had turned blood-red, something dark and looming floating above them and blocking their light. Around her, Voxai were scrambling, panicking, their thoughts a jumble bursting into a confused hivemind. They flew as fast as Thebes could manage, but even in the quick movements, Amy could see the shadows of creatures, strange creatures she couldn’t recall reading about, leaping onto Voxai, smashing them into the ground, screeching and roaring.

“What are they?”

Thebes was hesitant, but then he said, “They’re here for you. So we have to get you safe.”

“What?”

“They must have sensed that explosion of Chaos Energy. So they want your power- and trust me, what they could do with your power is worse than anything even the Overmind, even in this state, could imagine.”

Amy grabbed onto him tighter, shutting her eyes and trying to think of something, anything else, to block out the screams, the crashes, the roars.

When Thebes began to slow, Amy opened her eyes, scared he might have been cornered. Instead, she saw them floating in front of some tall, elaborate building- far more decorated than any other practical Voxai residence.

“Where are we?”

Before Thebes could answer, they heard more screams, more screeching- and then, a horrifying hiss. They turned behind them, and Amy whimpered as they saw a thick gas spreading in the area behind them. As they watched, every Voxai that came in contact with it completely froze, unable to move. Their screams, however, could still be heard in the hivemind- they were conscious, but unable to move at all, leaving them ripe for the taking of the invading monsters.

Amy finally let out a terrified scream, and that pushed Thebes fast enough to act. He took off flying again, into the temple, the one where Amy had been born so long ago. He could only hope he could outrun the gas for long enough to save her.

He burst through the temple, only slowing whenever it seemed that Amy was slipping. He could feel her tremble against him, looking up and around at the temple halls, curiosity and confusion bursting into her fear.

Thebes had not been in the temple for about a decade now, but he still knew the pathways, every nook and cranny, and before long he was able to get them to the chamber that had once held the emerald that became the hedgehog clinging to him now. Once there, he let Amy slide off his back, and flew to the wall, counting the bricks.

“What are you doing?”

“Only the Overmind knew we had one of these,” he said, “and only the guardian of the Emerald’s Temple knew where it was. And... here! Amy, move this stone.” 

“The Emerald’s Temple?” Amy asked, realization dawning on her. Then she ran over, pulling a loose stone from the wall as Thebes said. There was something behind it, and she reached inside, pulling out...

“A ring?”

“It’s a teleporter.” Thebes explained. He hooked it around his tail, taking it from her. “It will take you far away from here, where they won’t be able to find you.”

“Wh-what?”

They heard roaring, then, echoing through the temple halls.

“They’re inside.” he said, almost disbelievingly. Then, he shook his head. “You have to leave, before that paralyzing gas reaches you and you can no longer escape them.”

“But you’re coming too, right?”

Thebes took a deep, steady breath. “Those monsters will be here before long. I will not let them follow you.”

“What does that mean? Thebes?”

Thebes then flung the ring into the air. With a jing sound, it expanded, opening up into a huge, dark portal. On the other side was a world Thebes knew Amy had read about, one where she’d be able to survive until she found someone to care for her.

“Listen to me. Your power is unlike anything we could have imagined. That means there will always be someone looking to use it for evil. Do not let anyone use you. Your power is yours- which means it is something beautiful.”

“What are you saying?”

“You must hurry.” 

“No!” she stomped her foot, causing a floor rumble. “I won’t leave you! I’ll fight them, I’ll protect you! I’m not leaving!”

There wasn’t time to argue, and Thebes knew it. Even with her strength, he doubted a child as young as she would be a match for the invading creatures, especially with their paralyzing agent. He couldn’t let them use her for their dark ends, hurt her for their horrible means.

He wrapped his wings around her, as he had when she was a baby. Then he spun, and flung her into the ring.

“Thebes!” she screeched, and he watched his daughter disappear into the ring portal, and, as best he could, sent her a calming wave of energy before it could close and the aliens could reach him.

---

Amy ran to where the portal had been, clawing at the air, then the dirt beneath her fingers, much more dirt than she was used to. “No! No! Thebes! Thebes, bring me back! Dad! BRING ME BACK!”

Her eyes sparked with that pink energy, tears flowing from her and landing on the ground, before turning into steam from the magic within her. It finally hit her that the ring would not open again, that Thebes had sent her away, and that... that Voxai... they must all be...

She sunk to her knees, unable to hold herself up any longer. She stared into space, letting the strange wind hit her, feeling the strange plants under her, and letting herself cry.

This was her fault.

No.

But it is. They were after me. My power.

Amy hugged herself, despair overwhelming her.

Then, slowly, Thebes’s words entered her mind. “You are not to blame for what happened. You didn’t know that was possible.” 

But if it wasn’t for me, they wouldn’t be dying right now.

What would Thebes say to that? “It doesn’t matter. It happened, and you must go on.”

How could I go on without my family? My home?

“That is for you to decide.”

She shivered, hugging herself tighter and curling into a ball, hearing those last words in her head. “Your power is yours- which means it is something beautiful.” 

Right now, it sure didn’t feel beautiful.

But after a while, she sat up, the words ringing in her head. Thebes sent her away, but not out of fear of her. To keep her safe. She couldn’t let that be in vain. She couldn’t sink into despair in the middle of this strange place. That wasn’t what Thebes would want.

She struggled to her feet, taking a few steps before sinking again. And then she got up, and took another step, and another, focusing on making her way across the unusual terrain.

She walked for what must have been hours, the sky above changing from its dark black to a bright blue. It seemed strange, that the sky could brighten when her home was gone, that anything could be light ever again. She felt heat against her quills as she pushed through tall plants- trees, she thought, from her reading. She found a long trickle of water- a river. It was strange, seeing one of those- usually on Voxai, their water was extracted from the small plants that survived on the stone. It was amazing that someone could have so much water it flowed across the land.

There were stones in the middle of the river, and as she hopped across them, she felt a brief flash of home- except these rocks were wet, and slippery. It was almost like a taunt, reminding her she would never be home again.

But she followed the river. Most species needed water to survive, so she’d find someone. As she walked, she wondered if she wanted to do this at all- what if they wanted to hurt her, too, and Thebes’s sacrifice had been for nothing? But then, what if she wasted away in the woods, dying because she didn’t understand how this world worked? No, she had to at least see who lived here. This had to be a planet she read about, right?

She’d been walking for so long her legs ached, but she kept pushing on, until she finally reached the river’s end. She looked up at a huge waterfall, amazed by the roar it produced, the droplets flickering onto her. She’d never seen anything like it.

There was a rustle behind her, and she jumped, turning. On instinct, she pulled the hammer, again, out of air, in case one of those monsters had followed her.

Instead, something flew at her, too fast for her to react. But when it stopped, right in front of her face, she saw it was something organic, something alive. A bright teal creature, flapping with tiny pink wings. It had legs and arms like her, and blinking eyes, these a dark blue as opposed to her green. It stared for a long while, and she stared back, the two of them trying to figure each other out.

She heard a rustle again, and the creature retreated a little bit, turning to look. Amy’s stare was then directed at what emerged from the plants.

A mobian.

She was small, miniscule. A little girl, with the same body shape as Amy, the same head, limbs... but she wasn’t a hedgehog. She had long ears, so long that she tripped over them as she waddled over, and a puffy, bushy tail.

“Hi!” the creature said, in the Mobian language. “I’m Cream, and this is my very best friend, Cheese. What’s your name?”

Amy kept staring.

“Maybe you cannot talk yet.”

Amy swallowed a cry, and then carefully said, “I’m Amy.”

“Oh! You can talk! I’m so glad. A lot of people don’t visit the garden, mama says. I bet she wants to meet you. We take care of the chao, like Cheese. Do you like chao? Do you want some food? We have cookies--”

She sure talked a lot for someone who was so young- barely past the toddler stage, probably. At least, Amy figured. She didn’t know how fast mobian children developed. All she knew was... herself.

Amy turned to river, watching her rippling reflection. She was filthy, with red cheeks and dark circles under her eyes. But she looked mainly up at the quills on her face, which pointed outwards, spiking like jagged stones.

Slowly, as the rabbit talked, she reached up, pulling her quills down. If she pulled them to point down, against the sides of her head, it almost looked like a Voxai shell.

“--my house is back this way. I bet Mama will be real real happy to see you, we like having visitors. And we have pretty pretty flowers! Do you wanna see?”

Flowers. Amy had never seen one up close before. She wondered if there’d be one the color Thebes had described her as. The Rose-Colored Emerald, he’d said.

“Okay.” she said, and followed the rabbit through the garden.

[tiramisiyu]

【未定事件簿】 Tears of Themis: 【腾霄】 Xia Yan | Skyflying Date Translation

Translation Masterlist | Xia Yan Masterlist

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Part 1

Home

After finishing up with work, I returned home, collapsing onto my bed. Suddenly, my phone rang.

MC: Hello, Xia Yan?

Xia Yan: Got home yet?

MC: Just did, what’s up?

Xia Yan: Recently, there’s been an experiential culture variety show called “A Unique Challenge” – have you heard of it?

MC: I have – it’s been pretty popular recently, though I haven’t seen it yet.

MC: I heard that they’ll pick normal and famous people each week to experience cultures of different regions or types.

MC: Cheng Cheng’s idol participated once, experiencing an ancient ceremonial culture and playing some little games.

MC: Although, since when were you into variety shows?

Xia Yan: My friend was one of the picked participants, but he’s got something going on for now and doesn’t want to go there anymore, so he gave it to me…

Xia Yan: That week just happens to be a pairs’ challenge – would you be interested?

MC: What’s the theme?

Xia Yan: It’s trendy culture, and I heard that they prepared a lot of things for this topic. Want to go try?

MC: Sure, let’s go together.

In the few days after, as long as I thought about participating in a show with Xia Yan, I couldn’t help feeling somewhat nervous.

Finally, it was the day of filming.

--

Clothing Store

MC: Xia Yan, are you not done yet?

Xia Yan: Almost, almost…

MC: You’ve already been in there for ten minutes. Are the clothes hard to put on?

Xia Yan: Ugh, this headband is a little hard to handle.

MC: Then I’ll help you put it on.

Speaking thus, I got up and walked towards the fitting room.

Xia Yan: Ah, no need, no need!

Xia Yan pulled the fitting room’s curtain tightly.

Xia Yan: Uh… I feel like… this outfit doesn’t really suit me, so I should probably change!

Rustling sounds came from inside the fitting room.

MC: Let me see! If you don’t come out, I’m going to lift the curtain!

I faked an act to scare Xia Yan. Sure enough, hearing me say this, the sounds of movement from the fitting room stopped, and the curtain was slowly pulled open.

Xia Yan: Ugh…

MC: …

Back during school, Xia Yan always wore school uniforms, and the clothes he wore now were mostly casualwear. Speaking of which, this was my first time seeing him wear hip-hop style clothing. The bright symbols didn’t feel over-the-top; instead, it added a free, confident youthful vibe for him.

Xia Yan: This outfit… is it… too gaudy?

MC: …

Xia Yan: You’re not even talking… looks like it really does look bad. I should go change it.

MC: Don’t change it! It looks great, of course it looks great!

Seeing Xia Yan walk towards the fitting room, I grabbed onto him.

Xia Yan: For real?

MC: Of course – you look super cool!

Xia Yan: …

Xia Yan: Wait, why haven’t you changed yet?

Xia Yan: Do you think the clothes I picked for you look bad?

MC: How could that be? I’ll go change now, wait for me!

Xia Yan: Go ahead – after changing, we’ll officially start the challenge.

In fact, Xia Yan and I were already in the middle of filming. We were changing clothes at this store due to the show’s requirements.

--

[Flashback]

Filming Studio

Host: The theme this time is trendy culture. The topics that can be drawn are different, and the contents of the challenge are also different.

Host: Next, could the guests please come onstage to draw topics?

I followed everyone towards the stage and drew an envelope out of the box. When I flipped it, I saw a word written in large font on the envelope – skateboard.

MC: (It actually ended up being skateboarding…)

Host: Alright, could everyone now open your envelopes and read the details of the topics?

Hearing the host’s words, I rushed to open the envelope and take out the topic inside.

MC: Search for the mysterious skateboard?

MC: Looks like we have to find various components of the skateboard, then assemble them.

Xia Yan: Let me see…

Xia Yan took the mission card from the envelope, looking it over in detail. According to the instructions on the mission card, the components of the skateboard were scattered in different places on the commerce street, guarded by NPCs. Our mission was to find the NPCs, complete various tests, collect the skateboard components, and assemble them.

Host: The mission locations are at the pedestrian commerce area outside. Please finish them as soon as possible.

Host: The program team will keep track of each team’s time, and rank everyone based on completion time.

Host: If you have not completed it beyond three hours, it’s counted as a failure.

After finishing her explanation of the rules, the host gave a slight smile to everyone.

Host: Alright, after you have prepared, you can set out.

Host: Before the game starts, you can all choose a trendy culture-themed outfit at the clothes store.

[Flashback end]

--

After regaining my train of thought, I rushed to put on the clothes and pull aside the curtain, then walked in front of Xia Yan. However, as I turned in several slow circles, Xia Yan kept his eyes on his phone the whole time.

MC: Xia Yan, why do you keep staring at your phone!

MC: You’re not even giving me your opinion… does it look good or not!

Xia Yan: …

Xia Yan: It looks great, of course! You look great no matter what you wear.

MC: Really? Why do I feel like you’re… being a little perfunctory?

Xia Yan: It’s not perfunctory, they’re all my sincere thoughts!

Xia Yan rushed to shove his phone back into his pocket.

Xia Yan: I just received a message and didn’t notice, sorry.

MC: Is it an important message?

Xia Yan: It’s nothing urgent.

Xia Yan stood up, walked around me in a circle, carefully looking over the clothes I was wearing.

Xia Yan: Inspection complete. It really suits you, so let’s go with it!

Xia Yan: Looks like my eye is getting better and better.

MC: Pfft…

MC: Right, Xia Yan, I haven’t asked you yet – when did you learn to skateboard?

MC: I definitely remember that you hadn’t learned to skateboard before.

--

[Flashback]

Near the School Grounds

During middle school, Xia Yan wanted to learn to skateboard, but the school prohibited students from doing dangerous activities like this.

School Dean: Young man in front, get over here!

Xia Yan: Crap!

MC: I’ll cover for you, run!

Xia Yan planted a foot on the skateboard, kicked off the ground quickly, and disappeared past a corner within seconds.

School Dean: You-! Which class did that boy come from?

MC: I don’t know. I also just passed by, and I’d wanted to persuade him to stay away from these dangerous activities.

Xia Yan: Oww!

The sound of something falling sounded from far away, followed by Xia Yan’s pained shout.

MC: Xia Yan!

Since he left in a rush, Xia Yan, who was not yet familiar with the skateboard, fell heavily down from the stairs.

[Flashback end]

MC: After falling that time, didn’t you not ride the skateboard ever again?

MC: When did you secretly learn it again?

Xia Yan: Uh… that time was just an accident because I ran off too quickly. Afterwards, I was very careful.

MC: So you really were doing it secretly…

Xia Yan: Just a few times. I didn’t say it because I was afraid you’d worry.

MC: Really?

Xia Yan: It really was just a few times. Think about it, weren’t we together all day?

Smiling, Xia Yan changed the topic.

Xia Yan: I actually truly learned the skateboard after going to the Ministry of National Security.

Xia Yan: The teacher who took me in back then really liked skateboarding, and I learned from him.

Xia Yan: There was very little time to relax in the Ministry, but whenever there was time, I would skateboard with my teacher.

Xia Yan: When I was little, I was only concerned about looking cool and rushed too much. After learning the basics from my teacher, I wasn’t scared of getting hurt anymore.

MC: Alright alright, I won’t look into the things you’ve hidden from me.

MC: You can’t be like this in the future. You have to tell me if anything comes up!

Xia Yan: …

MC: Could it be that you’re hiding other things from me?

    Part 2

MC: Could it be that you’re hiding other things from me?

Xia Yan: I’m not.

Xia Yan: Alright, it’s about time, so let’s hurry out.

Hearing Xia Yan say this, I took out the mission card given by the program team from my pocket.

MC: We have a total of four components to find – the board, bracket, bearings, and wheels respectively.

MC: Although, where should we start?

Xia Yan: There’s a clue on here, right?

Xia Yan pointed to a sentence on the mission card.

Xia Yan: “One cunning and one foolish” – this should be the clue.

MC: Does this mean we have to find two NPCs, one smart and one dumb?

Xia Yan: Shouldn’t be, I feel like this sentence seems more like a riddle.

If it’s a riddle…

>The answer is a word >The answer is a term

MC: The answer should be a term, and “cunning” and “foolish” represent one word each.

Xia Yan: But what word does “cunning” refer to?

MC: Cunning… crafty… foolish… inflexible…

MC: I got it!

MC: Cunning refers to “skate”, and foolish refers to “inflexible”, which is “board”.

MC: When joined together, they form the term “skateboard”.

Note: 狡诈 = Cunning; 狡猾 = Crafty; these are synonyms (or near synonyms) that have the same first character; the second character of “crafty” sounds the same as and looks similar to 滑, which makes the first character of “skateboard” in Chinese.  

呆 = Foolish; 呆板 = Inflexible; the term for inflexible includes the term for foolish, and the other part, 板, is the second character of “skateboard” in Chinese.

Also note that skateboard in Chinese is made of two characters, rather than one (hence why the answer is a term, not a word)

I do think that this riddle is a bit of a stretch though haha

Xia Yan: If the answer is “skateboard” … then let’s go ask at the skateboard shop.

--

Skateboard Shop

As soon as we entered the skateboard shop, Xia Yan and I saw another team of guests. They were surrounding the staff member, wanting to ask for some information.

Guest A: You really aren’t an NPC from the program team? You really don’t know what this sentence means?

Guest B: We’ve already asked all around. This is the only skateboard shop on the commerce street, so it has to be this place.

Shop Staff: My apologies, sirs, I really do not know what that sentence means. Please do not impede my work anymore.

Guest A: Alright, sorry about that.

The two gave up struggling. When they saw Xia Yan and I come in, they sighed helplessly.

Guest A: Don’t waste your energy. That person isn’t an NPC; we’ve already asked.

After speaking to us, the two left the skateboard shop dispiritedly.

MC: What do we do now? We guessed wrong…

Xia Yan: Not necessarily.

Xia Yan: She only said that she didn’t know what the sentence meant, but she never denied that she was an NPC of the program team.

Smiling, Xia Yan walked up to the staff member, took out the mission card, and pointed to the riddle on it.

Xia Yan: We already know what this sentence means. This is a riddle, and its answer is “skateboard”.

Xia Yan: This is the only skateboard shop on the street, so you should be an NPC of the program team.

Hearing Xia Yan speak, the staff member smiled slightly.

Shop Staff: Congrats on solving the riddle and successfully passing the first stage.

Shop Staff: This is the skateboard’s bracket; please hold onto it.

MC: Awesome, Xia Yan, we got it right.

Xia Yan: Then do you have the clue for the second stage here?

Shop Staff: If you want the second clue, the two of you need to do a little challenge.

Xia Yan: Sure, what challenge? Bring it on.

Seeing Xia Yan’s determined expression, the shop staff took out a little plate, grinning.

Shop Staff: It’s nothing difficult; the two of you just need to eat two spicy peppers raw to get the next clue.

Xia Yan: W-what?

Xia Yan’s smile stiffened instantly. Seeing this, the cameraman followed up quietly, pointing the camera at Xia Yan.

Xia Yan: Ah, this… uh…

The peppers were bright red, and a single glance would tell you that they were very spicy.

MC: (Even someone who can handle spice probably wouldn’t be able to endure this test.)

Xia Yan closed his eyes, held his breath, took a pepper, then stuffed it in his mouth. After chewing quickly twice, he rushed to swallow the pepper down.

A mere few seconds after, Xia Yan’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth, inhaling deeply.

MC: Xia Yan, are you okay?

Xia Yan: Water… water! Quick, give me water!

Luckily, the program team had prepared in advance. I rushed to hand a glass of water to Xia Yan. He swallowed the water noisily, and even his eyes had reddened from the spice, tears at the corners of his eyes.

MC: (I can’t let Xia Yan suffer alone, so I’ll do it too!)

I grabbed the second pepper and stuffed it in my mouth. The agonizing taste spread in my mouth, and I speedily swallowed the pepper.

Xia Yan: Ah! Haa…. Don’t eat it! Haa…

Right after swallowing the pepper, a mere few seconds later, a burning hot spiciness rushed at me, filling my mouth with pain.

MC: So spicy! Water! Water!

MC: This is way too spicy!

Xia Yan: Haa… here, water… haa…

Unable to pay attention to how I appeared in front of the camera, I took the water and drank it down noisily.

--

After ten entire minutes, Xia Yan’s and my tongues finally recovered.

MC: So much hassle just to get this clue.

Xia Yan: Miss, you can give us the second clue now, right?

Shop Staff: Indeed I can.

The staff member took out a little paper slip and handed it to Xia Yan.

Xia Yan: “Seems to be but is not; search for the origin.”

MC: Looks like it’s a riddle again. I wonder what it means?

MC: Origin… does that mean the originating point? Could it have to do with the materials that make the skateboard?

After not hearing an answer from Xia Yan, I looked up, wondering. Xia Yan wasn’t looking at the paper slip; instead, he was staring at the product shelves, thinking about something.

MC: Xia Yan, Xia Yan?

Xia Yan: Ah, sorry, I just got distracted…

MC: Is there something you want to buy?

Xia Yan: No, I just felt like there was someone over there just now.

MC: Probably the cameraman from the program team; don’t they have to take some other shots?

Xia Yan: I feel like there’s someone who’s been watching us the whole time.

Xia Yan: Although, since we’re filming a variety show, people watching out of curiosity is also normal.

Xia Yan: Let’s go, we’ll think about this new riddle on the way.

MC: Sure.

   Part 3

Commerce Street

After walking aimlessly on the road for a while, I felt faintly unsettled from seeing Xia Yan’s expression. He didn’t seem like he was thinking seriously about the answer to the riddle – instead, he kept scanning the people on the road.

MC: Xia Yan, I feel like you’ve been a bit absentminded ever since the beginning.

MC: What did you see? What’s the matter?

Xia Yan: It’s nothing…

MC: …

Xia Yan must be hiding something from me. But we had microphones on us right now and were surrounded by the program team staff, so I couldn’t just ask him.

Seeing my concern, Xia Yan gently touched the microphone, then winked.

Xia Yan: Let’s rest up ahead first.

MC: (Is he hinting that he’ll use other methods to tell me?)

We found a drinks shop by the road and scanned the menu code on our phones. Just as I was browsing the menu, contact notifications popped up.

--

[Phone Interface]

[Xia Yan]: It seems like I offended someone when investigating a case before. I received a text when trying clothes on earlier.

[Xia Yan]: The text told me to be careful, and he’d let me know how one “ends up when sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong”.

[Xia Yan]: Though I don’t know if they’re just trying to scare me or if they’re serious, it’s still better to be careful.

[MC]: Did they bring up the show filming today?

[Xia Yan]: No, though I’m a little worried.

[Xia Yan]: There are lots of people here, and I can’t tell if anyone with bad intentions might have mixed in.

[MC]: Okay, I got it.

[MC]: I’ll help you keep an eye out on the surroundings. You be careful too.

--

MC: …

So Xia Yan’s unusual expression just now was because of this. I relaxed the expression on my face, ordering a drink as if nothing were up.

MC: Let’s hurry and think about that riddle.

MC: Search for the origin… what does that refer to?

MC: Is there some special story associated with the origin of the skateboard?

Xia Yan: Hm… I’m not too clear on this either. I’ve only heard that skateboarding is an extension of surfing.

Xia Yan: Apparently, people living on the seaside were the ones to invent the first skateboard, to not be limited by geography or climate, and to enjoy the feeling of surfing.

MC: Could it have to do with surfing?

I turned on my phone and sure enough, I was able to find a surfing equipment shop.

Xia Yan: Who would’ve thought that there really would be a surfing equipment shop here…

Xia Yan: Then let’s go see.

--

Surfing Equipment Shop

Xia Yan: Surfing is the origin of skateboarding, and the surfboard and skateboard also have similar aspects.

Xia Yan: So the answer to “Seems to be but is not; search for the origin” is this place, right?

Shop Owner: I didn’t think that you two would be able to get here this quickly.

Shop Owner: You’re the first team that drew skateboarding to get here.

Shop Owner: You can get the board and sandpaper here.

The shop owner thus handed the items to us.

Shop Owner: If you’d like, you can assemble the components you’ve gotten first.

Xia Yan: It’s inconvenient carrying the sandpaper around, so let’s just assemble it here.

MC: Sure.

Xia Yan: Then can you also provide us things like screws and washers?

Shop Owner: Hahaha, of course. You two won’t need to waste energy searching for those.

After getting the materials, Xia Yan tugged me down to sit and started to assemble the skateboard.

MC: You really are familiar with this.

Xia Yan: Yeah, because I’ve always disassembled and reassembled my skateboard myself.

Xia Yan: To me, the skateboard is just like a partner.

Xia Yan stared seriously at the skateboard, twisting the wrench in his hand.

Xia Yan: Did you know – each skateboard gives everyone a different feeling, and each one is special.

Xia Yan: The tightness of the brackets, the size and hardness of the wheels, the material of the board – all of these will give a different feeling for each person.

I gazed quietly at Xia Yan. His eyes were shining, flashing with the light of excitement. Hearing him speak, it felt as if the skateboard in my hands had a life.

MC: Xia Yan, why do you like skateboarding this much?

MC: Is it because of the stimulation from fast movement?

He stopped the movements of his hands and thought for a moment. Then slowly opened his mouth.

Xia Yan: It isn’t that, or you could say that it isn’t just that.

Xia Yan: As an extreme sport, skateboarding can be mentally stimulating, but compared to my line of work, it’s not really worth mentioning.

Xia Yan: I still like skateboarding because it lets me continue to challenge myself and break past my limits.

Xia Yan: After completing a challenge, the joy of achievement is what has me most fascinated.

I had never ridden a skateboard, and I hadn’t personally experienced the emotions Xia Yan had towards skateboarding. But seeing him look like he liked it this much, my emotions felt somewhat complicated…

MC: Xia Yan, when we were little, mom and dad didn’t let you skateboard, and I didn’t support you for it…

MC: Do you blame us?

Hearing me speak, Xia Yan was somewhat surprised.

Xia Yan: Blame you? What for?

MC: Because we didn’t understand you…

Xia Yan: I don’t – I wouldn’t blame uncle and auntie, and I definitely wouldn’t blame you.

Xia Yan: Uncle and auntie wanted me to grow healthily, and you didn’t want a repeat of the past – it was all for my own good.

Xia Yan: Everyone has their own selfishness, especially towards those who are the most important to them.

Xia Yan’s voice got lower and lower, and I seemed to hear a faint whisper.

Xia Yan: I’m like that too…

Before I could ask him about it, Xia Yan’s hands stopped moving as he smiled.

Xia Yan: Alright, it’s done. Now only the wheels and bearings are left.

Xia Yan: Boss, do you have the next riddle clue?

Seeing us about to leave, the boss took out a sheet of paper and handed it to us.

Xia Yan: Let me see… A car carries seven people, and twenty-eight people return home…

Sure enough, yet another riddle.

Xia Yan: Should be a word riddle… a car with seven people on it…

MC: Ah, I get it! The answer is “wheel”.

Xia Yan: Makes sense, so the twenty-eight people refer to the four wheels?

Note: The Chinese character for wheel is 轮, which is visually made of three different characters, 车 (car), 人 (person), and 七 (seven). If there are 7 people per wheel, and 28 people total, this means there are 4 wheels.

MC: Then “return home” should refer to where the tires are…

Xia Yan: “Return home”… or we can take it to mean “the place of the very beginning”?

MC: Does it refer to that studio where we started filming the show?

Xia Yan: Possibly, but it might also be the first place where we found the clue.

MC: That skateboard shop?

Xia Yan: Yeah, it said in the mission card that the locations to finish the missions are on this commerce street, but the studio is some distance away from here.

MC: So the location should be the first store we entered after arriving on the commerce street, or the place where we found the first clue.

MC: Although the program team wouldn’t know where we’d go first, so it’s more likely to be the skateboard shop.

Xia Yan: Yep, that’s right.

MC: Then let’s go check out the skateboard shop again.

--

Skateboard Shop

We changed direction and headed back to that skateboard shop. Seeing that we had returned, the store staff was a little curious.

Shop Staff: Why did you come back? Did you leave something behind?

Xia Yan: Yeah, we left “something” behind.

Xia Yan displayed the clue in his hand, pointing to the words on it.

Xia Yan: A car carries seven people, and twenty-eight people return home. The answer to this riddle is this store, right?

Shop Staff: Correct, the answer is indeed this place.

Seeing that Xia Yan and I had already found the answer, the shop staff no longer concealed anything, taking out four wheels from the shelves.

Shop Staff: Here, take it.

MC: Awesome, Xia Yan, now all that’s left is…

MC: Ah…

Suddenly, a massive force pulled me backwards.

Xia Yan: Careful!

MC: Xia Yan?

Xia Yan’s brows drew closely together, switching positions with me in what was nearly an instant, blocking me from the front. Only then did I realize that someone was running straight towards us. He was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, and a single glance could tell you that he came with ill intent.

Xia Yan: Who are you?

If Xia Yan hadn’t pulled me back just now, that guy would have made it in front of me by now. When I remembered the message Xia Yan sent me earlier, my heart jumped up to my throat.

MC: (Is it someone who came to get revenge on Xia Yan?)

MC: (Xia Yan thought someone was watching us before. Could it be him? Was he following us the whole time?)

???: Ow!

Before I could react, Xia Yan swept a leg out, knocking the guy down to the ground.

???: Heeey! W-wait! You can’t just hit me!

???: This is different from what was promised!

Xia Yan: ???

Seeing that Xia Yan had stopped, the man propped himself up into a sitting position, then speedily shifted backwards. After he had escaped beyond five metres, he cleared his throat again, rambling some “fierce words”.

???: If you… got the skill, then… have a showdown with me!

Xia Yan: …

MC: …

Hearing this, Xia Yan and I had completely frozen where we were. The man sitting on the ground had also gotten up, taking advantage of this to snatch the wheels in Xia Yan’s hands.

???: I… I’m taking the wheels. If… if you want to take them back, then find me at the park!

???: Remember, it’s the park behind the commerce street!

After speaking, he sprinted out of the shop door, holding the wheels.

   Part 4

If you asked me what the most awkward experience of my entire life was, I bet it would be this moment. It was obvious that the guy who’d just come was an NPC arranged by the program team, yet Xia Yan and I took him to be a dangerous hoodlum and knocked him down.

Xia Yan: So it was someone arranged by the program team…

Xia Yan: And I was just making a big deal out of nothing.

Shop Staff: Sir, isn’t your desire to protect a little too strong?

Seeing that the shop staff, who didn’t know about the whole situation, trying to hold in her laughter, I felt so awkward that my toes could pretty much dig into the ground.

MC: …

Xia Yan: I’m really sorry…

Xia Yan turned around, apologizing to the program team staff. But the director said nothing, holding up a sign in his hand, which had writing on it:

Continue!

Xia Yan: Ahem ahem… then let’s hurry and find him.

MC: Okay, let’s use our ability to get the wheels back.

--

Park

After adjusting our mentalities, Xia Yan and I arrived at the skateboard park behind the commerce street. The man we’d run into at the shop just now was holding a skateboard, waiting for us in the middle of the square. Beside his foot were several skateboards of different styles and some protective gear.

Director: This is the special guest we invited for the show. He’s a professional skateboarder and has won quite a few awards.

Xia Yan: I’m really sorry about just now…

Skateboarder Young Man: No problem, no problem… I’ve fallen a lot while skateboarding, and I’ve long gotten used to it.

After a simple greeting, the man in front of us cleared his throat, reciting the show script given to him.

Skateboarder Young Man: You two have finally arrived.

Skateboarder Young Man: If you want to get the wheels back, then bring on your true skill!

Xia Yan: Then tell us, what do we need to do for you to return the wheels to us?

Skateboarder Young Man: See this racecourse? You two have to ride to the endpoint together.

Skateboarder Young Man: No worries if you go a little slowly, but if you fall off the skateboard midway, you’ll have to start over.

MC: They… want me to skateboard?

Xia Yan: Sure, no problem.

Seeing my shocked expression, Xia Yan circled his arm around my shoulders with a smile, patting me gently.

Xia Yan: No problem, we still have two hours, which is enough for me to teach you now.

I looked at the racecourse before us. It was around two hundred metres in distance, there were obstacles on the straight path, and there were around four or five turns. The worst was a row of barricade poles near the endpoint…

MC: This is…

Skateboarder Young Man: Barricade poles. You must use a Hippy Jump to jump over them.

MC: Hippy Jump?

Xia Yan: It’s a term for a skateboarding move, meaning that you jump up from the skateboard, then fall back onto the skateboard while riding.

MC: ???

MC: I don’t even know how to skateboard, yet they also need me to… jump?

Xia Yan: It’s fine, we can definitely do this. I’ll teach you how to skateboard first.

Xia Yan borrowed two skateboards from the program team and helped me put on various sorts of protective gear.

Xia Yan: Here, put your left foot on the skateboard first, and put your center of gravity on the left foot…

I carefully followed Xia Yan’s directions, planting my foot on the skateboard.

Xia Yan: Then put your right foot on, stand stably and get a feel of it.

MC: Okay.

Seeing that my feet were placed horizontally on the skateboard, Xia Yan gently let go.

Xia Yan: Great, keep the skateboard horizontal. Don’t push down with your heel.

This was my first time standing without support on the skateboard. Though I wasn’t moving, my legs still couldn’t help trembling. The skateboard wasn’t as stable as I’d imagined – the board was prone to movement, and with my wobbliness, it also rolled from left to right.

MC: Aaah!

I didn’t know why, but Xia Yan’s miserable fall during school replayed over and over in my head, making me more and more nervous. All the muscles in my body tightened, and I tried my best to maintain balance.

Xia Yan: Don’t be nervous, relax… relax…

Xia Yan: You don’t have to tighten up this much. I won’t let you fall.

Under Xia Yan’s consolation, I heaved a deep breath, then gradually straightened my body. Sure enough, when my legs stopped trembling, so did the board.

Xia Yan: Now, let’s try moving.

Xia Yan: Put your forward foot where the truck bolt is, slowly kick at the ground, and then follow up with the back foot.

Xia Yan: You have to fix the center of gravity on the left foot. Don’t be afraid.

Xia Yan opened his hands on my sides, as if he could grab onto me, no matter what pose I fell in. With him standing beside me, I felt filled with limitless courage. Following his instructions, I lightly kicked at the ground with my right foot. The skateboard rolled forward crookedly, and I gritted my teeth, quickly moving my back foot onto the board.

MC: Ah…

I spread my hands, trying to maintain balance.

Xia Yan: Straighten your front foot. That’s right, just like that, you got it!

The skateboard rolled forward, slow as a snail – but no matter what, I had successfully overcome my mental obstacles.

For the next hour, I repeatedly practiced skateboarding, as well as learned some simple turns under Xia Yan’s instruction. With half an hour left to go before the mission ended, I decided to end training and officially take on the challenge.

Skateboarder Young Man: Ready to go? Ready, start…

I heaved a deep breath, stepped onto the skateboard, and started to move.

Xia Yan: Awesome, here I go.

Seeing me stabilize myself, Xia Yan caught up from behind. He held onto my hand, spurring me forward at a faster speed.

Xia Yan: How does it feel?

Two skateboards, one in front and one behind, moved forward at breakneck speed. I held tightly onto his hand. A slight summer breeze blew at the hairs around my ears, bringing a sliver of warmth amid the coolness.

MC: Pretty decent.

Xia Yan: Push down lightly with your toes. We’re about to get through the first turn.

MC: Okay.

The turn was right before us, and the flowerbeds on the roadside looked like they were rushing at me.

MC: (Relax, I have to trust Xia Yan… and trust myself!)

As I maintained my balance, my toes pushed down on one side of the board. The board started to turn, but the arc of movement couldn’t keep up with the curvature of the path.

MC: (I have to get past!)

I couldn’t help squinting my eyes and holding my breath. As if the skateboard had heard my prayers, it slowly changed directions, and the shrubbery in front of me also gradually got further.

MC: Xia Yan, I did it!

Xia Yan: I said so already – you can definitely do this.

My heart beat wildly, but I knew that it wasn’t because of fear – instead, it was because of excitement. Right then, I understood why Xia Yan loved skateboarding so much, refusing to give up even if he fell and got hurt. Extreme sports were not only a source of excitement and stimulation, but there was also the sense of accomplishment after conquering yourself.

MC: (We’ve gotten past four turns. Next up, there’s…)

Xia Yan: Do you trust me?

MC: ???

Xia Yan: No, I should say, do you trust in yourself to jump over the barricade poles?

Xia Yan turned around and looked at me, his eyes full of anticipation and encouragement.

Do I trust in myself? As a newbie, it was really hard for me to say. But…

MC: Xia Yan, I trust you.

Seeing my certain expression, the corners of his mouth pulled up slightly.

Xia Yan: When you hear me say “Jump” in a moment, jump upwards.

Xia Yan: Don’t jump forward or backwards, just straight upwards. Then, raise your knees high.

Xia Yan: And leave the rest to me.

As we spoke, the barricade poles got closer and closer to me.

Was jumping up from the skateboard really something I could do? Though they were only 30 centimeters high, I might fall from jumping if I’m not careful…

A thin layer of sweat formed on my hand, and I started to feel a chill at my fingertips.

Xia Yan: Right now, jump!

Xia Yan and I let go of our tightly held hands simultaneously, and I followed Xia Yan’s instructions, lifting my knees as I jumped.

The feeling of flying through the air left me without the feeling of safety, and my heart beat furiously. I shut my eyes tightly in anxiety.

Suddenly, a strong arm clasped around my waist, and an external force pulled me upwards. With a clunk, my feet fell back onto the skateboard.

MC: Ah—

Xia Yan: Don’t be afraid.

Xia Yan: You’ve already done very well. Just leave the rest to me.

Xia Yan’s gentle voice sounded by my ear. He maneuvered my skateboard with one foot, with one hand supporting my backwards-leaning waist.

MC: …

Our poses right now looked very much like embracing dancers.

I lifted my head. Xia Yan’s face was as close as could be, such that I could even feel his breath. The hairs in front of his forehead entangled, and I could smell the fragrance of his shampoo, fresh and clean.

Xia Yan: Look, we did it!

With the sound of the timer’s ring, Xia Yan and I rushed past the yellow finish line.

  Part 5

Skateboarder Young Man: Wow, you two really are impressive.

MC: Ahem ahem…

Xia Yan: …

Hearing the man’s teasing, Xia Yan retracted the arm he’d encircled around me.

Xia Yan: Alright, you can return the wheels to us now.

Skateboarder Young Man: I didn’t say that there’s only one part to this challenge.

The man shrugged, looking at us like he was waiting to watch something interesting.

MC: What? But now… there’s only half an hour until the mission ends.

Set up by the program team again as we were, I couldn’t help feeling somewhat frustrated. Seeing my expression, the skateboarder man shrugged.

Skateboarder Young Man: Plus, two teams have already finished the mission.

Skateboarder Young Man: If you two don’t hurry, you won’t be able to rank.

Skateboarder Young Man: Although, it can’t be helped – sucks that you guys drew skateboarding. That’s the hardest topic, after all.

Xia Yan pinched my hand on the side, giving me a meaningful look.

Xia Yan: Then how many tasks are there after this?

Skateboarder Young Man: There are still ten moves after this. Both of you have to try five types of obstacles.

Skateboarder Young Man: But between the two of you, you only need to successfully do six of them for me to give the tires to you. It shouldn’t be a big deal with this guy’s skills.

Skateboarder Young Man: Though you won’t be able to rank, finishing the mission in time can be considered passing with minimum grades.

That was true – getting the wheels and finishing the mission within limited time wasn’t difficult.

Xia Yan: Minimum grades? Ever since I was little, I have never handed in an answer sheet that only met minimum grade.

Xia Yan: If you’re a prizewinning skateboarder, would you dare to compete with me?

Skateboarder Young Man: Compete? Why wouldn’t I dare? What do you want to compete over?

Xia Yan: With these ten movements, I can finish them faster, jump higher, and do them with better posture than you.

Skateboarder Young Man: Dude, maybe your skateboarding is impressive compared to normal people, but I’m a professional skateboarder.

Xia Yan: If you don’t try, how can you be sure that I’ll lose to you?

With an expression that could pass for a smile or a level expression, Xia Yan looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

Xia Yan: If I win, you’ll give the wheels straight to us without needing her to try.

Xia Yan: If I lose, our challenge will change from ten to twenty, and we’ll have to successfully do them all to get the tires.

Xia Yan: How about it?

The man in front of us also looked eager, but as a program guest, he couldn’t change the rules without authorization. Right then, the director following us on the side spoke.

Director: Sure, then let’s change the rules so you two can compete.

Director: This way, the show will be more interesting!

--

Thus, Xia Yan and the skateboarder started the competition. The racecourse this time was a harder one – not only were there different sorts of obstacles, but there were also half-pipes – heaven for skateboarding enthusiasts. Seeing that the two were going to compete here, the enthusiasts got out of the grounds, excitedly watching from the side.

Whoosh – Xia Yan and the skateboarder sped past me. According to the agreed-upon rules, they had to circle the track twice, during which they had to use ten different moves. The first to arrive at the end would be the winner of this race. The first circle had already finished, and their speeds were about the same, though Xia Yan was leading.

MC: Xia Yan, do your best!

Skateboarding Young Man: Hah, is that all you’ve got?

The man laughed disdainfully, springing up at a turn, jumping onto the railings with his feet planted on the board. His skateboard stayed stably on the railings, sliding down the handrails. He swayed twice, stabilized his body, and continued to speed forward after landing back on the ground.

MC: He’s already finished ten moves, and even used the moves to take a shortcut…

As expected of a competition-winning skateboarder – he could use anything on the path. Meanwhile, Xia Yan still had two moves left to go, and the distance between them was widening.

Skateboarding Young Man: Sorry, the result’s determined – you’re going to lose.

Xia Yan: That’s not for sure.

Xia Yan’s foot pushed off forcefully from the ground as he lowered his centre of gravity, seeming like he was about to make some move.

MC: Up front is…

MC: Xia Yan, careful!

There was a deep pit in the middle of the grounds. Unlike before, when he opted for stable paths, he rushed down the half-pipe. The skateboard sped downwards, then shot up along the upwards slope.

Right then, Xia Yan flew up into the air from inertia.

Xia Yan: Just watch me.

MC: …

This scene looked like a stunning artscroll, unforgettable even from a single glance. Amid the azure skies, Xia Yan looked like an eagle with wings spread, soaring into the sky. His extended arms were like wings that sought freedom, as if he would rush into the sky if given a chance. Right then, everyone and everything around me retreated from the stage. My eyes were fixed solely on him.

MC: (Xia Yan… really is amazing.)

The people all around all gasped in amazement, making the skateboarder young man look towards Xia Yan.

Skateboarder Young Man: What?! How could this be…

After the skateboard flipped several times midair, Xia Yan’s foot fell back onto the skateboard. He rushed from the other side of the pit back onto the racecourse, leaving his opponent behind.

Xia Yan: This time, it’s my turn to take a shortcut.

His soft hair fluttered in the summer breeze, a sliver of unruliness on his face, his eyes dazzling.

Xia Yan: As long as one hasn’t arrived at the end yet, there is no such thing as a so-called foregone conclusion in life.

Xia Yan winked at me, leaping down from the ladder on the side of the racecourse.

With a clunk, he dropped stably onto the ground, rushing towards the end.

Xia Yan: Sorry, I win this time.

With ten high-difficulty moves complete, Xia Yan arrived at the end first.

And so, this competition drew to an end.

--

MC: Awesome, we won!

When I saw the race end, I happily ran towards Xia Yan.

Director: Quick, follow with the camera!

Director: Did you catch that shot of him flying up from the slope? That part was absolutely magnificent!

The intense competition seemed to have left Xia Yan somewhat exhausted. He wiped his sweat, wanting to find a place to sit and rest. I got a bottle of water from a staff member, planning to hand it to him. Right then, the cameraman and several staff members walked over, getting near him.

Suddenly, a dazzling light passed before me.

MC: Huh? What’s that?

I took a careful look. One of the field staff was the source of the dazzling light, which came from the opening of his sleeve.

When I saw the thing in his sleeve, cold sweat formed on my back.  

That was a knife!

MC: Xia Yan, watch out!

  Part 6          

When I made out the thing in that person’s hand, my heart leapt up.

MC: Xia Yan, watch out!

When that person heard me, he looked back at me, then straight-up took the small knife out of his sleeve and rushed at Xia Yan.

MC: Crap!

MC: (What do I do?)

Driven by urgency, I snatched the skateboard beside me, throwing it towards the person.

Clonk—

Field Staff: Ah!!!

Caught off-guard by the wooden skateboard striking him, the man staggered. With his sneak attack stopped by me, the man in front of me rushed at me furiously.

Xia Yan: So it was you.

With a cold, short laugh, Xia Yan rushed forward, kicking the knife out of his hand. Before the man could react, Xia Yan caught his hand, restraining him onto the ground.

Field Staff: Let me go! Why did you damn detective have to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong!

Xia Yan: Hah, paying for murder with a lifetime. I merely made your father’s crimes known to the masses.

Xia Yan: Good thing you did not hurt her – otherwise, you would regret it.

Xia Yan looked frigidly at the person on the ground, then paid no more attention to him.

Xia Yan: Call the police.

The program team staff had been shocked frozen by the scene before them, only regaining their senses when Xia Yan reminded them.

Director: Yes, call the police, quick!

The sudden interlude cut the show recording short, and the director apologized to us. Not long after, the police arrived. Xia Yan and I also went to the police station.

 --

Police Station

Yan Wei: He confessed. It was indeed him that sent you the threatening messages and emails.

Yan Wei: He thought that it was all because of you that his father ended up in jail.

After Xia Yan and I finished with record-making, we happened to run into Yan Wei, who had just finished interrogation. He looked at Xia Yan, smiling helplessly.

Yan Wei: He suddenly went from an extravagant life as a young master to the son of a criminal. He couldn’t bear it and wanted to get revenge on you.

Xia Yan: I never would’ve thought that he’d be able to get into the program team.

Yan Wei: He hasn’t said how he got in – probably bribed the crew staff.

Yan Wei: Don’t worry, I’ll deal with this thoroughly. I won’t let him threaten your safety.

MC: Thank you for the trouble, Sergeant Yan.

Yan Wei: No need to be polite – it’s part of my work.

--

Park

After we left the police station, the program team director called us, saying that they’d tape the remaining portion another day. During the call, the director repeatedly apologized to us, saying that they would definitely do a strict audit of the identities of the production team members. He also promised that similar things would not happen again.

Xia Yan: I never would’ve thought that he really would blame everything on me.

MC: Ugh… since we were in the middle of filming earlier, I didn’t have time to ask you.

MC: If I didn’t notice that something was off about you, were you not planning to tell me about the situation?

Xia Yan: It’s so rare for us to get out and have fun, and I didn’t want to sweep away your excitement.

Xia Yan: Not to mention that things happened so suddenly, and I wasn’t sure if it was a prank or if someone really was targeting me.

Xia Yan: So I didn’t tell you from the start.

I knew that, when faced with difficulty or danger, Xia Yan’s initial reaction was always to bear it himself. It had always been like this, ever since we were young.

--

[Flashback]

Near the School Grounds

MC: Xia Yan, so you were here.

Xia Yan: Ah… I…

Xia Yan’s foot had just stepped onto the skateboard when he saw me come over, and he hurried to retract it.

MC: When did you buy a skateboard?

Xia Yan: I didn’t, I borrowed it from our classmates… don’t tell uncle and auntie.

MC: The older boy from the neighbors just fell and broke his bone a few days ago, yet you’re still willing to play?

Xia Yan: That’s why I don’t want you to tell uncle and auntie!

MC: Then why did you hide it from me too?

Xia Yan: I didn’t do it on purpose – I wanted to show you after I learned to do it.

Xia Yan: You were the one to say that the older boy looked cool when he was skateboarding, after all…

MC: Really? I don’t even remember that…

Xia Yan: You… ugh…

Xia Yan: Either way, I borrowed a skateboard afterwards, wanting to learn, but you guys said that skateboarding was unsafe, and I was afraid you’d worry if I mentioned it.

Xia Yan: Rather than making you worry all day, I might as well… just not tell you.

MC: …

School Dean: Young man in front, get over here!

Xia Yan: Crap!

MC: I’ll cover for you, run!

[Flashback end]

--

Maybe it was because he worried for others too much, but Xia Yan always tended to hide lots of things inside.

MC: Xia Yan, did you know – when you hide things from me, I get even more worried.

MC: When we were young and you fell while skateboarding and injured yourself, your foot had clearly swollen. Yet you bore it all yourself, saying that it was all fine.

MC: Until mom and dad finally noticed two days later and rushed to take you to the hospital.

Xia Yan: I know… back then, I thought if I just endured it, it would be fine. I didn’t think it would be that serious.

Xia Yan: I originally didn’t want to make you, uncle, and auntie worried, but I ended up causing trouble for everyone instead.

MC: After that, I always worried about if you were hiding anything else from me, bearing it all alone.

Just like today. Even though with Xia Yan’s skill, he still might not have been injured even if I didn’t notice…

But, what if?

During then, Xia Yan had just finished off an intense competition and was exhausted. What if someone was able to take advantage of this to hurt him?

When I thought this, I couldn’t help shivering, balling my hand into a fist.

MC: Fortunately, this time, you didn’t hide it from me the whole time.

MC: If I clearly could have helped you, yet I have to watch you get injured with my eyes wide open, then I will never be able to forgive myself.

I stepped forward, gently clasping onto Xia Yan’s hands. His warm hands were full of calluses, proof of what he had experienced during those eight years. In the past, I always felt that this pair of hands brought a feeling of infinite peace of mind, but now, I also felt a sliver of heartache and worry.

Xia Yan: I know.

Xia Yan held my hands back, his eyes filled with helplessness.

Xia Yan: That’s also why I told you everything in the end.

He gently twisted up my stray hairs, tucking them behind my ears.

Xia Yan: Though I hope that all I bring you is happiness and joy, rather than unease and worry.

Xia Yan: But I know that people can’t stay away from all trouble, especially in NXX, where the road ahead will be difficult to traverse.

Xia Yan: So, I’ve decided. If the road ahead is fated to be covered in thorns, then I will grow with you by your side, no matter what comes at us, traversing this bumpy road fearlessly.

MC: Xia Yan…

Xia Yan: Was what I said a little foolish…

MC: You didn’t. I’m really happy that you’re finally willing to face trouble with me.

Xia Yan: Mhmm. In the future, if I encounter any unsolvable issues, I’ll tell you, and we’ll figure it out together.

MC: Okay, it’s a promise.

Xia Yan let out a long sigh, no longer discussing those slightly depressing topics.

Xia Yan: Today’s challenge was pretty fun. My only regret was how they had to stop filming midway, so we couldn’t rank or get prizes.

MC: It’s fine – plus, I feel like the challenge wasn’t a failure.

MC: It’s precisely because of this ending that I feel like this was a worthwhile trip.

The summer night wind blew over the lake surface, the cool air dominating my senses.

I silently made a wish in my heart – I hoped that one day, I could become strong enough. I hoped that I could also protect Xia Yan, this eagle flying high with his wings spread, and his smile that was as warm as sunshine.

  Videocall

Good morning, got any plans today?

Why am I wearing this outfit? Because you said I looked good in it, so I bought it.

I also bought the outfit that you wore during filming.

Speaking of which, after the episode was broadcast, my colleagues laughed at me for a good while, saying that I looked hilarious when I was eating the chili peppers.

They even made me into a meme sticker and sent it into the Ministry group chat… even the teacher who taught me before started using it.

Revealing my identity? No need to worry about that, I reported it to the upper ranks before we went. And it’s exactly because of this that they watched the episode…

For the past few days, I checked out the comments… a lot of people were saying that we looked like a couple, dunno if you saw that…

Your colleagues and friends also said so? Then… do you feel troubled by it…

No? That’s good then. I actually feel like those shots were really well taken, and I rewatched it several times.

It really is great that we can use this sort of method to save good memories.

Right, the weather today’s pretty good, so do you wanna go out and skateboard? I can teach you to do some other things.

No protective gear? You don’t have to worry – I’ve got it all, gear and skateboards.

It might be a bit uncomfortable to wear the gear. If you haven’t gotten used to it, you don’t have to wear it. Either way, I’ll protect you.

With me here, I won’t let you fall, so just relax and leave yourself to me!

Then I’ll head for your house now, and I’ll also bring the clothes. See you soon.

[rikumorimachisgirl]

Title: Seal the Deal

Characters: Bokuto x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Word count: 1,848

Author's note: So, I haven't written in a long time and I know I'm kinda rusty. Please bear with me.

Disclaimer: I do not own Haikyuu!! and the characters, but I own the plot for this fic.

'Congratulations! You have been selected as one of the winners in the Bouncing Ball Corp's Monster Generation giveaway. A limited-edition Nendoroid and a special surprise will arrive at your delivery address. Please confirm if you are available to receive this tomorrow by responding to this message. Thank you.'

You must've read the text message over a hundred times in the last twenty-four hours, but it still made your heart skip a beat. Setting your phone down, you stood up and tried to straighten up the flat that you had just moved into last month. It wasn't much - a cozy one-bedroom apartment with a small living area, which usually doubled as your dining area on days when you could eat a nice meal at home. It certainly was a far cry from the lavish three-bedroom apartment you once shared with your ex-boyfriend, but at least it was easier to clean. 

Your ex-boyfriend - the wild, and oh-so-adorable big baby you'd loved since high school, the same one who broke your heart a few months back when he couldn't choose between you and the sport he loves, and the reason you sent in several entries to the Bouncing Ball Corp's giveaway. You sighed. If your friends found out you'd won a limited edition Nendoroid of that same person they had worked so hard to help you get over, you knew you'd be done for. But how exactly does one get over the sweet summer storm that is Kotaro Bokuto? And besides, you thought, at least a Nendoroid won't leave you unless you throw it out. 

** Ding-dong **

The sound of your doorbell snapped you back to your senses. "Just a minute," you called out as you quickly tied your hair and hurried to the door in an oversized sweater and shorts. You could feel your heart beat faster at the thought that your precious Nendoroid was within reach. 'Oh, and the text message said there was a special surprise, too,' you thought quietly. Maybe, if you were lucky, you'll also get his signed jersey. That wouldn't be so bad, you thought again as you unlocked the door and pulled it open. 

You gasped, as the person waiting right outside the door greeted you with the warmest smile and his signature line. 

"Hey, hey, he -," he paused halfway through upon seeing you. "Y/N-chan?"

Hearing him say your name almost made you cry. You had missed how he always managed to make it sound so beautiful. You also missed his naughty smirk that usually came with calling your name. As you gazed at your reflection in his golden eyes, you wondered if - like you - this beautiful man thought of you, too. You had no idea how long you've been looking at each other, but it wasn't until you heard your neighbor's baby crying that you both shook yourselves out of your reverie.

"Oh, uh.  Did you need anything?" You asked, trying to sound as casual as possible. 

"Yes, I'm here to personally deliver the prize from Kenma. Kuroo asked to go, and this was the address he gave…," your ex-boyfriend said as he fumbled over his phone, looking for the exact message his friend has given. Glancing back and forth his phone and the number on the door, he scratched the back of his head. "See, it says 2404 -"

"Yes, Bokuto-san, I won the contest," you finally admitted, as you felt a blush slowly creep up your cheeks. 

"You did?" He flashed you a dazzling smile, his eyes sparkled and you looked away. When he noticed your eyes move to the paper bag he was carrying, he cleared his throat. "Uh… yeah, this is for you…"

"Uh, thanks," you replied shyly, as you took the paper bag containing the Nendoroid of the very same person you were talking to now. Your gaze darted from his handsome face to the suddenly empty hall outside your flat, and you could tell he was feeling just as awkward. "So, uh…"

"So, uh, this is where you moved to?" He asked as he took a step forward to peek inside your humble abode. 

"Uh-huh," you replied. "I-I'd invite you in, but…"

"Don't mind if I do," he said, stepping inside your pad. Even with his back facing you, you could tell that he was surveying your space, and you felt more and more flustered by the minute. "You have a microwave. I need to get me one of those."

"You have a microwave, Bokuto-san. It's top-of-the-line, and it was working fine when I moved out," you quipped, as you watched him from behind. 

"Was it? Then I must've destroyed it the other day when I tried to use it to heat water," he said casually, as he looked around your pad some more.

"Your couch looks comfortable. I should probably buy one for my bedroom."

"What's wrong with the sectional? If I remember correctly, you had it customized by Fendi," you retorted. 

"Did I? There must've been a reason I did, but I can't remember," he muttered, turning his attention to the wall.  "Oh, this is a nice painting. I need one of these."

"That's just a painting I bought at a trift shop," you said, cocking an eyebrow at your tall ex-lover. "You have original Murukamis on your walls, Bokuto-san. We bought three of them in the fundraiser that Kuroo hosted."

"Oh. Of course," he sighed. "It's just that… well, your place is -"

"Small?" 

"No, it's not that," he responded, as he gazed upward as if trying to find the right word. 

"Tiny? Minuscule? Compact?" 

"Hey, those all mean the same thing," he whined before plopping down on your couch. You quietly watched as he leaned back and stretched out his legs, trying hard not to bump the coffee table, but he still managed to do so. Something about the scene before you were so endearing, you found yourself smiling before you could stop yourself. And right about that time, your dashing ex-lover happened to look at you and smile back. Lifting his hand out to you, he said, "I'm just saying your new place sorta gives off a certain kind of vibe, you know."

Raising an eyebrow, you stared at his hand and thought twice about taking it. It wasn't like you never held hands before, but now that you've broken up, it all seems so weird. 

But you wanted to take it. Oh, how you've imagined holding his hand a thousand times since you broke up, so just before he pulled away, you moved forward to grab it, and fell on his lap in the process. As you struggled to stand up, the dashing MSBY Outside Hitter put his arm around your waist to keep you from budging. "Ah, now this scene looks awfully familiar."

"Stop it, Bokuto-san," you said, hitting him on the chest so he could loosen his grip on you a little bit. 

"Oh, but don't you think seeing each other after several months is fate?"

"More like a certain capitalist's underhanded scheme," you retorted, as you tried to wiggle your way out of his grasp. 

"Just… just let me hold you a little longer, Y/N-chan… please?" 

You stopped squirming as you listened to his silent plea, and you slowly turned your eyes met his. "Bokuto-san…"

"You could do better than that," he said, as he lifted one hand and traced the side of your face with his long fingers. "I… I missed you, Y/N-chan. I know this was all my fault, I just didn't think you'd up and leave."

"That's what usually happens when you say you love your career more than your girlfriend, Kotaro," you managed to reply, as you thought back to that fateful night when you had come home from attending another one of your friends' wedding stag because he had practice. He was watching one of their games against the Adlers, paying close attention to Ushijima and Kageyama's quick attacks when you sat beside him and recounted how beautiful the ceremony was and how much more fun it would've been if he had attended it with you. He'd usually humor you - asking you to tell him what you liked best about it, how the food was, and listen intently to what you had to say - but lately, he'd neither had the patience not the drive to hear you out and on that night, you weren't having it either. After your stories were met with silence, you decided enough was enough. And on that same evening, you called your old roommate to let her know you were staying over. 

"I didn't mean it like that, Y/N-chan. I was under a lot of pressure before," he said, drawing you away from your thoughts. "I was under a lot of pressure. You knew a lot was riding on winning the championships."

As he looked at your blank expression, he huffed and pouted. "I know, I know… I could've chased after you - and believe me, I wanted to, but… uh..," he trailed off.

"But I wasn't your priority," you deadpanned. 

"To be honest, I thought you'd come back the next day, and when you didn't…"

"You got angry and thought you shouldn't come after me?"

"No… more like I thought you'd come back the day after or the day after that, and before I realized it, so much time has passed and it was too late to chase after you…"

"So you decided not to?" You watched as he nodded silently, admitting defeat, and you sighed. If this were someone else, you would easily doubt what he said was true, but this guy wouldn't lie to you if his life depended on it. The tightness you had felt in your chest started to ease up, and rolled your eyes and clicked your tongue. "That's so like you, Bokuto-san."

"And there's no one else but you for me, Y/N-chan," he replied, holding you steady in his arms. "So, what do you say, do you think you can give me another shot at this?"

"At what exactly?"

"At this," he gestured to the both of you. "At us. Please? I'll be a better boyfriend. I'll attend all the parties you want to go to, or I'll listen to whatever you want to say to me - even when you repeat it several times, I'll do whatever you want, Y/N-chan, so please…"

You could feel your heart melt as he pleaded with you, and you silently scolded yourself at having your resolve crushed so easily. You knew your friends were probably not going to be happy, but you also knew no one else would do for you. 

"Y/N-chan?"

You sighed and turned your attention back to him. "I suppose you are cuter than the Nendoroid," you said haughtily. 

"So, will you date me again?"

"As long as you promise I'm your priority from now on."

He squeezed you to his chest and squealed. "You don't need to worry because you're the only one that matters," he said before his lips met yours to seal the deal. 

The end. 

[wherevermyway]

step out! do what you want (chapter six)

pairings: reader/bang chan, reader/han jisung side pairings: 
established changbin/minho, reader/bang chan/han jisung rating: explicit | 18+ warnings: someone dies this chapter so fucking big ass warning here! angst, violence, graphic descriptions of violence, minor drug use, use of firearms, description of graphic injuries, profanity, drug dealer!au, organized crime!au. word count: about 3,750 also can be found on my AO3 here! chapter/series navigation

chapter six: counting all the minutes and the days have been counting me

recommended tracks: another life by motionless in white, palette by iu and g-dragon, chanel by frank ocean, boy with luv (disco-funk mashup) by bts/seokjinnie, I’m upset by drake, love song by lana del rey, levanter (english version) by stray kids, voodoo people (pendulum remix) by the prodigy, straight to video (kmfdm remix) by mindless self indulgence, break me shake me by savage garden, ride it by regard; rush over me by seven lions/illenium/said the sky. playlist can be found here!

note: I am so sorry for this chapter. damn you, toastie. this is also a lot shorter than most chapters, so apologies in advance. took a lot out of me this time lol.

disclaimer: any reference to persons in this work of fiction are purely coincidental. the characters referenced from Stray Kids are interpretations loosely based on their personalities in the group and do not represent the real people behind the personas. if this, or any of the content included in the warnings above make you uncomfortable, please stop reading now.

side note: for the love of minho’s cats, don’t mix party drugs or drugs with alcohol.

“We need to go,” Changbin presses, pushing himself off of the doorframe and fiddling with his phone. “I’ve got the arsenal in the car, so you just need to get your body armour on and we can go.”

“I don’t want her coming with,” Christopher says, ruffling a hand through his hair, “it’s going to be too dangerous.”

“We don’t have a fucking choice,” Changbin grumbles, focusing on something on his phone. “Besides, I need her with so we can coax Minji out. Get her distracted enough to give us the upper hand.”

Christopher grumbles, ready to argue with Changbin, but decides against it at the last minute. He turns, kneeling down next to the bed. He pulls a hefty chest out from under the bed, unlocking it and throwing it open. He digs around a bit, tossing up a vest to you. “I think this will fit you,” he says without looking up, continuing to dig through the chest. “Jisung, take this,” he says, tossing another vest at the lean man.

“Let’s go,” he says as you slip the vest on. “We’ll make this work, alright? I’ll keep you covered as best as I can.” Christopher steps to your left, placing a hand on the small of your back.

“I’ve got you, too,” Jisung says, popping up on your right from behind you. He puts his hand over Christopher’s and smiles at you.

The walk down to the car is quiet, the dry air filled with tension. Minho is leaning up against the car, picking at something under his fingernails. Seungmin is in the driver’s seat, fumbling around with something on his phone. You all pack yourselves into the car, squeezing yourself in between Jisung and Christopher at the very back of the van.

Changbin sits in the seat in front of you, rifling through a duffel bag on the floor. “Alright,” he says, checking the mechanisms on a semi-automatic he pulls out, “here’s how this is going to go. Minji and Hyunjin are caught up in one of the Triad’s properties in Songpa-gu. If we’re lucky, there will be minimal men there and we’ll get in and get out.”

“This mostly goes for you, Jisung,” Changbin says, trying not to roll his eyes as he looks at the silver-haired man, “but don’t kill Hyunjin. I need him alive to get information on the Triads. Minji, I don’t care about. I’ve all but confirmed that she is just a pawn in their game. Nothing more than a drug trafficker.”

Jisung scoffs, grabbing the duffel bag off the floor. “Yeah, whatever,” he says, grabbing a pistol out of the bag and handing it to Christopher, “Give me some credit, man, I’m not that trigger-happy.”

Felix laughs, possibly for the first time since you met him. “There was that one time in Busan,” he starts, but Jisung cuts him off.

“It was one time!” He shouts, throwing a stray cloth at the man in front of him. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you! I totally should have shot you. Asshole.”

“Aish,” Changbin rolls his eyes, passing a pistol up to Minho in the seat ahead of him. “I don’t want you to have to fight, baby, but I’d feel better if you had this on you.”

“Aw, come on,” Minho winks at Changbin. “Remember that one time we were in Daegu and I had to cover your ass because your pistol got jammed? I very distinctly remember you thanking me over and over again in the back of that sports car and a couple times in the hotel.”

Changbin grits his teeth in embarrassment, blushing as he looks down. “Whatever, just take the fucking pistol.” Minho laughs at the man as he turns around.

The drive couldn’t have taken more than an hour; it felt like Seungmin had a habit for speeding. The city skyline zoomed past you, and you started to recognize the neighbourhoods of Seoul as you drove past. You got to an industrial area of Songpa-gu, somewhere you weren’t familiar with, when you stop.

Seungmin turns the car off, turning to look at Changbin, then the other men in the car. “They’re here. Are you ready?” Changbin takes in a shallow inhale, turning to Christopher. Christopher nods in response, pulling the semi-automatic rifle in his hands closer to his chest.

Felix and Jeongin lead the group of you up to large bay door of an abandoned warehouse. The vest around your chest started to feel as if it was smothering you. You could have sworn you had seen this place in some bad drama; it seemed stereotypical and expected. Group gets ambushed at the warehouse, someone gets shot, end scene. Roll credits.

The pit in your stomach grew as you realized Minji wasn’t going to make it out of here alive. The woman you knew and had gotten close to over the past year was a facade. This Minji was a lie, and she used you to get some sort of personal gain. Felix, Jeongin, and Changbin walk in front of the bay doors, their fingers on the triggers of their rifles, ready to aim if someone got in their way.

The air is tense, and a moment of silence passes before Changbin waves the rest of you over. “I’ve got your friend here, Moon,” he says as you walk towards him, looking at Minji. She and Hyunjin are standing in the middle of the floor, in front of a table with suitcases lined around it, surprised to see all of you. It looked as if they were packing the suitcases with packets of drugs.

“I know you’re alone here,” Changbin continues, “so don’t try to act tough. The Triads can’t be too far away, but they were dumb enough to leave you alone. Tells me you’re not worth their time.”

“Moon Minji,” Changbin says, quickly correcting himself, “or should I address you as Tian Xiaoli, the name you're more comfortable with?”

Minji grits her teeth as she pulls the pistol off of her hip, aiming it haphazardly at Changbin. He manages to stay in one position, completely unfazed by her threat. “Joined the Triads four years ago,” he continues, “they’ve used you as a decoy to push drugs in and out of Seoul since nobody ever expects a good, rich Korean girl to traffic drugs. Maybe I should say Korean-presenting? Fake passport, fake birth certificates. Several drivers licenses in different countries. You’re a busy woman.”

The pistol in Minji’s hand quivers, “What do you know about me? I didn’t just need the money, if you grew up in the same house I did, you’d have done anything to get out. All that pressure to succeed and getting nowhere?”

“Honestly,” Changbin chuckles, waving his hands in the air, “if I had gotten to you sooner, I’m sure we could have worked something out. Probably gotten you a better deal. Way better than whatever Hwang could get you.”

Hyunjin places his hand up against Minji’s back, positioning his free hand above the pistol on his hip. “You’re too drunk with power,” he sighs, “there’s no way for me to move up. You think you’re so good because you know everything, but you ain’t shit. You know the Triads are taking over Seoul, and it’s killing your business.”

Changbin scoffs, folding his arms. “You never put in the fucking effort.”

“What do you know?” Hyunjin growls, his eyes turning dark with anger. “You were practically handed this position, and we all know you didn’t deserve it.”

“Whatever,” Changbin says with a scoff, rolling his eyes at his junior. “You know you would never make it anywhere close to the top, and you can’t handle it. You never would have gotten as far as you did if it wasn’t for me and Christopher pulling you along the way. You’re barely useful enough to sell guns out of our group.” Hyunjin scowls, taking his pistol and aiming it directly at you. You’re frozen in place, your legs refusing to move. It feels almost as if you’ve sprouted roots from your feet, attaching you into the ground.  “You know I’m a good shot, though.”

The threat causes a panic to light up inside you. You want to move, but the roots taking hold of your feet don’t allow it to happen. Changbin takes a hasty step in front of you, his hands bringing his rifle in front of him, and Christopher moves to shove you out of the way.

Hyunjin hesitates for a second, but the ripping of gunshots fills your ears. You feel a searing pain in your left leg as the root keeping you in the ground dissolves. In a split second, you’re looking up at the ceiling, the scaffolding reaching up to the sky like tree branches. There’s something about the scenery that reminds you of being a child, laying on the ground at the playground absorbing the sunshine. It feels like there’s a ray of sunshine boring into your leg, searing you in two.

“Changbin!” You hear someone screaming, pulling you out of your daydream and back to reality.

“You good-for-nothing backstabber,” you hear Changbin spit out. You gently lift your head up, taking in the moment. There’s blood everywhere, spilling from your leg, and also coming from Changbin’s back in front of you. You’re convinced that you can see through him.

Changbin aims his semi-automatic towards Minji and Hyunjin, carefully aiming the gun as best as he can at them. He’s able to sink a couple shots in Minji, then he turns his attention to Hyunjin when she hits the ground with a thud. “I can’t believe you,” he groans, directing his rage at Hyunjin, “you fucking coward.” He unloads a couple more shots into Hyunjin’s leg, then groans as he hits the floor.

“Changbin!” The voice screams again, louder this time. Minho shouts at the top of his lungs, rushing to Changbin as he falls. Christopher reaches out to grab him, but the smaller man just slips out of his grip. He mutters something under his breath, swapping out the magazine of his pistol.

Jisung comes bolting around the corner, aiming directly at Minji with his semi-automatic. You see him take in a quick breath before he unloads the magazine in his rifle directly into her. She reaches her pistol up towards you, but it falls from her hand as she completely collapses into the ground.

Hyunjin falls against the wall, staring down at the literal bloodbath at his feet. “Holy shit,” he breathes out shakily, his hands trembling as he grips his hair, “Changbin, Minho, Chan, I…”

“Shut the fuck up, you traitor,” Jisung spits out, pulling the pistol holstered at his hip. He cocks it, aiming it at Hyunjin’s head. “I should unload this into your fucking skull, but you’re of more use alive to me than dead. So, you’d best pray to God that I’ll show you mercy as long as I need to keep you around.”

Changbin grips Minho’s collar, pulling him close. “Baby,” he groans out, “I’m sorry I never got to finish that song for you.”

“Binnie, baby,” Minho cries out, grabbing Changbin’s face, “don’t apologize. You’ll finish the song. You’ll finish an entire album for me.”

Changbin weakly smiles, dragging his fingertips across Minho’s face. “If I had the chance to do this all again,” he says, coughing up thick, viscous blood, “I would have asked you to marry me the minute you got out of the hospital. You were always my person. Fuck,” he says, with a deep, heavy cough, “you were always my person, Minho. I’m so glad I got to know you, that I got to love you. So glad I got to be your person.”

Minho’s face contorts into a strange shape, reflecting an expression you can’t quite comprehend. “Baby,” he whines, “you will still have the chance. I will marry you a thousand times over as long as you’re here, I promise, Binnie. I love you so much. Just stay with me.”

But the pleading he tries has no effect. Changbin slips from Minho’s grasp, his body going limp. The two of them sit there, Minho gripping Changbin as tightly as he can. Minho pulls Changbin to his chest, keeping him there for as long as humanly possible.

When he realizes that Changbin can’t, and won’t, respond, Minho screams. He screams from the bottom of his soul, for as long as he can possibly manage. Hearing him scream in such a raw, primal way makes your stomach turn.

Christopher is the first to move, working his way towards Changbin and Minho. “Min,” he whispers, “let me help you get-”

However, Minho has none of it. He looks up at Christopher, his eyes burning red, “No, I won’t let you,” he whimpers. “I am not leaving Changbin; I’m not going to let him go.”

Christopher runs his hands through his hair, tears threatening to spill from the corners of his eyes. Felix and Seungmin make their way to Hyunjin, picking him up and carrying him out of the room. Jeongin slowly paces his way to where Minji lies, kicking her shoulder with the tip of his boot.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath, “I can’t believe any of this.” Jeongin turns, slowly pacing his way to you. He kneels down and offers you a hand. “Are you okay?”

You don’t really know how to answer him, so you simply shake your head. “Changbin,” falls from your lips, as you look at the way Minho grips Changbin in his arms. Jeongin shakes his head twice, reaching his hand up to wipe a tear off of your face.

“It’s what we do,” he says at a near-whisper. “We protect civilians, and if one of us is out of line, we take care of it. Any one of us would have taken a bullet for you, it just happened to be Changbin this time.”

“But, I didn’t-“ you try to say, but he cuts you off, putting his finger over your lips.

“I know.” Jeongin nods. “But this is how it happened. Nothing we can do now.”

You’re not really sure how much time slips forward as you sit in the quiet, cold warehouse. Felix tied a tourniquet to your leg at some point, mentioning that it probably wasn’t going to be too serious, but he would take a look at it when you all got back to the safehouse. At some point, Seungmin and Jisung take Changbin from Minho, where he completely collapses.

Minho’s face is void of expression; you stare at him as he gazes beyond you, far off in the distance. There’s a large amount of drying blood covering him from his shoulders down to his ankles. Felix says something to him, saying he needed to check Minho for any additional wounds, but the older man doesn’t respond.

“Minho,” Christopher says, leaning down to him, grabbing his shoulder and trying to get him upright. “We can’t stay here forever. The longer we’re out here, the more likely we’ll run into the Triads.” The brunette ignores Christopher’s request, continuing to stare off somewhere far behind you.

“February sixteenth,” he manages to whisper out, his voice cracking as he says it.

“What?” Christopher lets go of Minho’s arm, cocking his head to the side.

“He said ‘I love you’ on February sixteenth last year.” Minho whispers, closing his eyes, “it was the first time he told me that he loved me. We were in Shibuya. He just finished signing Jeongin, and he had finished recording a demo album and he was so excited. Everything was finally going well.”

Minho slowly sits up, keeping his eyes closed. “He wanted to go to Canada or Australia this winter, get married. Actually, legally married. He even jokingly said something about a romantic wedding somewhere in Europe. Of course,” he sighed, letting his head fall into his hands, “that wouldn’t have meant shit here. He wanted to get away from all of this, go move somewhere far away from this shit and start a family somewhere. Never see any of this again. We were so close. Almost there.”

Minho sits on the ground for another few minutes, silently letting himself cry into his hands. Christopher gets down on his knees, pulling the younger man to his chest, letting him completely fall apart. “I’ve got you, Min,” Christopher whispers, stroking Minho’s hair. “It’s going to hurt for a while, I know. We’ve got you, though. You’re not going to go through this alone, you’ve got your brothers.”

It had to have been another hour before you all finally made your way back to Incheon. The drive was completely silent, absent the ambient noise from the highway. Felix spent plenty of time looking over both you and Minho for residual wounds, cleaning up minor lacerations and patching up other scrapes. Jisung gave Minho a couple of tablets of what you assumed was Xanax, which helped him sleep the entire way home.

Christopher and Jisung help carry Minho into the apartment, setting him down on the couch. Seungmin and Jeongin take the van back to another safehouse, presumably to keep Hyunjin in one place and to handle Changbin’s body. Felix pulls you aside to take a look at the bullet in your leg, able to clean the wound out with some careful attention, and he tells you that he’ll bring you in to their clinic tomorrow to take care of the bullet removal.

Felix unpacks a backpack he brought upstairs with him, hooking up an IV to Minho. “Don’t worry,” he says, noticing the concern on your face as you watch him. “He’s always had problems with anxiety, so I’m just going to keep him out overnight and try to get some fluids back into him.”

“Felix is our resident medic, in case you haven’t noticed,” Jisung says, gently squeezing your shoulder. “Whenever something like this happens, he’s always on top of the medical care. We’re pretty lucky to have him around.”

The bleach-blond man scoffs, measuring out a liquid from a vial, injecting it into a port in the IV. “Yeah, you are,” he laughs, “I remember trying to teach you some basic medical stuff and you almost killed Seungmin because you forgot to expel the air from the syringe.”

“Yeah,” Jisung rolls his eyes with a sigh, “there’s a reason I don’t do this shit. Anyway,” he grabs your waist, pulling you to the bedroom. “Why don’t we let Felix take care of Minho, and we can get some sleep?”

“That’s probably a good idea,” Christopher says, flatly, as he opens the door to the bedroom. You and Jisung follow him through the door. Christopher collapses on the floor as soon as he steps through the door. Jisung comes up behind him, his hands coming up to his sides. “Chan,” he says, bringing his hands up to Christopher’s face. “It’s okay, it’ll be okay.”

“No,” Christopher says, weakly, “It won’t be okay. Changbin is gone. My best friend is gone.” He looks like he wants to cry, but his face is completely void of emotions. He just lets himself melt into the floor, staring down the patterns in the wood. “Changbin is gone,” he whispers as he closes his eyes.

Jisung looks up at you, words escaping him.

“Christopher,” you say, but you’re not really sure what to tell him. You know there’s nothing that can help fill the hole he feels in heart. You bend down, reaching your hands out to him. “Come on, why don’t we get up on the bed and get some sleep? We can talk about this tomorrow.”

“Hell,” Jisung sighs, “at least let me grab you a pillow if you’re gonna try and sleep here. Alright?”

“No,” Christopher says, slowly working his way upright. “She’s right, I should sleep on the bed. You never know when someone you care about will be taken from you, so I might as well sleep with both of you.”

Jisung flings his arms around Christopher and looks up at you. “Yeah,” he says, nuzzling his head up against his superior’s. “Come on,” he pulls at Christopher”s shoulder, “nobody can see you cry on the bed, anyways.”

The three of you manage to make your way up to the top of the bed. Tonight, however, is different, compared to the way you’ve usually fallen asleep. You and Jisung take the edges of the bed, wrapping yourselves up around Christopher in a protective cocoon. You’re not sure what time it is when you fall asleep, just that the sun had started to come up when your eyes finally shut.

You also can swear you hear Christopher whisper something as you fall asleep, but you’re not sure if it’s just your mind playing tricks on you. It almost sounds like he’s saying your name and that he loves you.

[adapted-batteries]

Making Art

Fandom: The Librarians

Rating: General/sfw

Relationship: Flynnstone

Word count: 7274

Summary: Instead of never leaving his hometown, Jacob goes off to college under the guise of getting the only degree his dad values, petroleum engineering, but of course also majoring in art history. In “Survey of Native American Art,” he meets someone who he only knew before as “guy who basically lives in the library stacks.” Of course, Fate decides he needs to suffer through a group project with him.

Alternative summary: What would happen if Jacob Stone went to my alma mater and met Flynn there?

Also posted on my Ao3.

-----

Jacob thought well and hard about how he was going to convince Issac to let him go to the University of Tulsa. There were several hurdles he had to overcome: Pa was a University of Oklahoma man, and here he was wanting to go to the nerdiest school in the state; he already knew more than enough to run the oil business, why would he need to waste his father’s money on a useless degree; if Jacob went to Tulsa for four years, he couldn’t keep cleaning up his father’s messes, and there was a real risk of Isaac running the company into the very ground it drilled. 

He had solutions to all of these things. The University of Tulsa had the best petroleum engineering degree in the Plains, and he’d always be a boomer sooner fan. And, while his high school grades weren’t too spectacular, his test scores and essay application for the Presidential Scholar program at TU got him a full ride. All he needed was Isaac to let him go and then not kill his company, and he’d be set.

Isaac didn’t need to know about Jacob’s ulterior motives. Tulsa was over 100 miles further from home than Norman was, for one, and Tulsa had a budding humanities program that Jacob really wanted to get invested in. He’d suffer through the engineering degree, but what was going to get him through it were the other courses he had in mind to take out of the humanities, languages, and arts departments. If he was lucky, he’d weasel himself a position of some sort at Gilcrease Museum just so he could learn even more from their displays and get into their archives.

When his acceptance letter came in the mail, Isaac read it with disdain. “When’d ya apply to that place? OU not good enough for you hm?” 

Jacob kept the kitchen counter between himself and his father. “No I, well, I wanna do good for the business, and TU’s got the best oil program in the state, you know.” 

“I didn’t need no fancy engineerin’ degree to make money,” Isaac countered, eyeing Jacob.

He kept himself from flinching from his father’s glare. “No, but now days you gotta have one to get started. Besides, couldn’t hurt to have one to spread our reach.”

Isaac tossed the nice letterhead on the counter. “Hmph. Well, how’re you gonna pay for that? I can’t just shill out that money.”

“I’ll, I’ll figure it out,” Jacob supplied. He’d already sent off his extra application for a full ride scholarship, which he hoped his more than qualifying exam scores and a 15 page, single-spaced analysis on Choctaw artwork and mythology would be convincing enough to award him.

“Fine, but I’m not co-signin’ any loans.” Isaac fished around in their refrigerator for a beer. “John’s off takin’ care of Sylvia, I need you on the rig Saturday.”

“Alright,” Jacob said. He had planned to spend the evening reading some books he had picked up from the town library, but that’d have to wait. After his dad wandered over to his worn recliner and he heard the click and buzz of the TV, Jacob sighed and set about making them dinner.

---

That August couldn’t get there quick enough. There were many, many times he thought about not going. He’d miss all his friends, his home town, and his pa. But, by the time he loaded up his truck and drove two hours northeast, there wasn’t any backing out now. 

When he arrived on campus, he felt very out of place, but that feeling quickly faded once orientation week started. By the time classes started, he didn’t ever want to leave. His experience from oil rigging he already had carried him through his engineering classes, so he could devote himself to his other pursuits. Language courses, literature, history, art, those were the subjects he spent near all his time on. This also meant he spent a fair time in the library.

During his second year, a new student seemed to be competing with how many hours they could clock in the library. He was a nerdy sort, Jacob thought, which meant he was going above and beyond the above-average level of studiousness the student body already had. They quickly established a routine around each other. Jacob would go to his study carol he’d staked the previous year, the leftmost one in a set of three in a forgotten corner of the stacks no one except this new person seemed to want to go to. The newcomer took the study carol two down from him, rarely acknowledging Jacob’s presence.

Their schedule he figured out within the first two weeks of class. Mondays and Wednesdays Jacob would get there first, the new guy coming about an hour later and staying while Jacob left for class. Tuesdays and Thursdays the newcomer was there before him, and would leave around two hours into Jacob’s studying. Fridays the guy wasn’t there at all, at least not when Jacob was, but he practically lived there Saturday, no doubt not going to the football home games. 

The beauty of studying in the stacks was that no one talked like they did in the study areas. The hum of the air vents, the scratch of his and the other guy’s pencils, the flip of books, and occasional footsteps of a seeker of knowledge comprised his sound track. He and the guy even alternated who stood and waved their arm to reactivate the lights when they timed out.

Without realizing, he had learned a fair amount about the guy from just studying near him. He was either dressed like a stereotypical professor, or a bedraggled grad student, which predicted how late he had stayed up the night before (confirmed by how prominent the circles under his eyes were). He had notebooks for every subject, and he studied near every subject, though a good amount of the books he hoarded were Native American ones. When he was frustrated, he might mumble under his breath, but most certainly made his hair even more wild by running his fingers through it. When he was hyperfocused, he'd sit on one foot, scratching furiously in a notebook. 

Jacob never learned the guy’s name until the next semester when he had a class with him. Jacob had gotten himself into an upper-level Native American history course, filled mostly with history majors finishing their degrees and grad students. Not wanting to seem too eager, he chose a desk one row back from the front row. People he knew from previous history courses meandered in as it neared time to start the class, and some he chatted with, asking how their breaks were and such. The professor walked in right on time, a stack of syllabi on top of a binder in one arm, an insulated travel mug in her other hand. 

Dr. Mashunkashey had begun going over the syllabus when the door to the classroom opened, revealing the guy from the stacks. He looked a bit disheveled, running late from somewhere it seemed. “That’s a two for two for not showing up on time to the first day of my class, Flynn,” the professor said, but she didn’t seem that annoyed by it. 

“Sorry, I stayed up too late reading,” Flynn replied. “I got a bit carried away following sources referenced in Reclaiming Diné History.”

“Of course you did,” Dr. Mashunkashey said with a laugh, handing him the last syllabus. “Go on and have a seat.”

It turned out the easiest seat for him to take was the one right in front of Jacob. Jacob gave him a nod, which Flynn returned quickly, and then sat down. Jacob focused himself back on the syllabus on his desk, but his mind kept drifting to the man in front of him. He’d caught glimpses of the books Flynn read in the study carrel, and they were quite all over the place in subject matter; any given day he might have had a botany book, or a German biography, or something on Egypt. And now here he was, sitting right in front of him, apparently having spent the previous night doing the same thing Jacob did, though at least Jacob’s morning gym sessions meant he was never late to class like Flynn was.

The sound of a bunch of pages flipping snapped Jacob back into reality. The professor was explaining the main project of the class. “You’ll each focus on a particular tribe’s art, and an era within that. The paper requirements are in the syllabus, standard format. Images are welcome, but don’t shirk on your words because of them. Then, for the second part of this grade, you’ll work with a partner to make some form of art, combining the styles of both of your papers.”

Flynn raised his hand, but Dr. Mashunkashey shook her head. “Yes, Flynn, you’ll have to work with a partner.” Jacob stifled a laugh when Flynn’s shoulders slumped, but apparently not enough as she glanced at him before looking back at the syllabus. “The art component can be anything. Music, painting, writing, whatever, so long as you both incorporate themes from what you highlight in your paper. Since art can take time, and you might want to coordinate what art styles you’ll be using, go ahead and pick your partner.”

Jacob started thinking through the people he already knew in the class, but Flynn startled him out of his thoughts by turning around. “Do you want to be partners?”

“I, uh, sure,” Jacob stuttered. The professor had apparently been watching Flynn to see who he’d pick, and Jacob saying yes surprised her, based on her raised eyebrows. "Do you know what you're gonna do your paper on?"

Flynn didn't hesitate to respond. "Hohokam culture."

"I'd been thinking of doing Pueblo myself, so that should work well," Jacob said.

Dr. Mashunkashey cleared her throat, getting the class to quiet down. “Okay, now that you all have partners picked, we’re gonna get started.” She moved behind the computer and proceeded to give her introductory lecture on Native American art.

---

When the class came to an end, Jacob packed up his notebook and walked around the side of Flynn’s desk. “Hey, since we’re doing a project, we should exchange numbers.”

Flynn had been still scribbling something down, so it took a beat before he looked up at Jacob. “Phone number, yes, that’s a good idea.” He fished out his phone from a worn messenger bag stuffed with books and notebooks, handed it to Jacob, and then went back to writing.

Jacob waited for him to say more, but he didn’t speak, so he opened the phone and texted this is flynn’s number from Flynn’s phone to himself. Flynn was still writing, so he cleared his throat to get his attention. “Uh, here’s your phone.”

Flynn looked up a bit faster this time and took the phone. “Great.” He looked as if whatever was in the notebook was reaching out and trying to drag his head back to it, but he was now trying to fight it, looking at Jacob like he was trying to memorize Jacob. “Um, I’ll...see you around, in the stacks.”

He hadn’t imagined Flynn would be so awkward. “Sure, probably will.” Taking it as a cue, Flynn gave in to the pull of his notebook. Jacob wandered up to the professor; he had a habit of chatting up his professors after the first class, and today was no exception. Dr. Mashunkashey had just finished talking to another student when he walked up. 

“I’ve heard good things about you, Mr. Stone.”

“And I’ve heard good things about you, too,” Jacob replied. “I wanted to take your class on Osage history last semester, but it conflicted with a class I needed to take.”

“I’ll be teaching it again in two years, so you’ve got some time,” she replied. Mumbling came from where Flynn was, making them both glance at him. “So you’ve got Flynn as your partner...that should be interesting. Do you know him from somewhere?”

“Yeah, I met ‘em in the library,” Jacob replied.

Dr. Mashunkashey laughed a little. “That sounds like the place to find him. Well, I look forward to your paper. Daniel, Dr. Griffith, liked your final paper so much he couldn’t quit talking about it.”

Jacob’s ears reddened a little. “Oh, well, I’m glad he enjoyed it.”

“Are you considering grad school?”

“Well, I’d uh, been thinkin’ about it, yeah.” He wasn’t about to tell her that he was also doing an engineering degree to take back home.

“If you want to talk about it, stop by my office anytime. There’s definitely fellowships out there for students like you, if finances are a concern.”

Jacob couldn’t help but perk up at that. “I’ll take you up on that. See you during office hours.”

---

Flynn, it turned out, was kind of the worst. Jacob wasn’t in a rush to get the project going, considering it wasn’t due until April anyway, but Flynn wanted to get started right away...at 3am apparently. Jacob hadn’t seen the string of texts until the next morning.

    Flynn 3:04 AM: Can you do pottery? There’s a ceramics studio in Phillips Hall, I think I can get access to it.

    Flynn 3:05 AM: There’s a few designs that would work for my time, depending on what works with your era.

    Flynn 3:07 AM: You could decorate half and I’ll do the other.

    Flynn 3:15 AM: Are there specific techniques your people used in their pottery making? We should use a traditional method.

    Jacob didn’t reply right away. He went about his morning routine, and was on his way to the gym when his phone buzzed again.

    Flynn 8:07 AM: What do you think about woodworking for our project?

Jacob groaned out loud, no one close enough to hear him. No wonder the professor was shocked he said yes to Flynn. 

    Jacob 8:08 AM: We have months to do this project. There’s no need to start so early.

Jacob shoved his phone in his pocket on do-not-disturb, intending to ignore any messages for the duration of his workout, but now that Flynn got him thinking about it, he sent off one more text.

    Jacob 8:09 AM: I think pottery would probably work best. I’m sure we can manage it between the two of us.

Flynn responded almost instantaneously.

    Flynn 8:10 AM: That’s what I was thinking. Though if we really wanted to incorporate both, we could also include the woodworking.

“Lord,” Jacob hissed, earning a confused look from the bleary-eyed student working the desk at the gym. He took his student ID and apologized. “Sorry, thanks.” It wouldn’t be that bad, so long as he didn’t let Flynn get under his skin.

Despite his efforts, Jacob’s workout was overshadowed by his loud thoughts. It wasn’t that he hoped Flynn would be cool, but, well, from months studying silently next to each other, Jacob had wondered what he would be like as a friend. He wanted to know what went on in Flynn's brain, what made him tick, what he did outside of class and studying. But now, he realized, Flynn was a brilliant mess of an academic who breathed school 24/7. 

---

 Flynn hadn’t been in the library Monday afternoon, and Jacob hadn’t gone to the library Tuesday. He hadn’t gotten any texts from him either, so by their second class on Wednesday, Jacob was curious what Flynn had been up to. That curiosity grew when Flynn showed up with a new notebook he hadn't had on Monday, already a quarter of the way filled with notes. "Jacob! So I talked to Kelly, er, Dr. Mashunkashey, and she talked to the art department, who then talked to the main ceramics professor, and he emailed me back saying we could do our project in his studio."

Jacob was kind of shocked at how fast he’d contacted people. “Well, that’s good.”

“I think we could start working on it, hm, next week?” Flynn looked down at Jacob expectantly, as he’d yet to take his seat. 

For whatever reason, Jacob got an odd feeling in his stomach, but he ignored it. “I wasn’t plannin’ on gettin’ goin’ so soon, but I guess it wouldn’t hurt. I’ve only read about their pottery techniques, not done them, so extra time might be a good idea.” Flynn was practically vibrating with excitement at his response, which made Jacob laugh before he could stop himself. 

Flynn thankfully didn’t think he was mocking him. “Great! The studio is open for us Friday afternoons.”

“I can do that,” Jacob replied. Flynn somehow smiled at him even more than he was, and well, Jacob couldn’t deny it felt nice to have that joy aimed at him. It didn’t last long though, as Flynn sat down when Dr. Mashunkashey walked into class. Flynn turned around in his seat and started going through his notes on the techniques he wanted to try until the professor had her powerpoint up and running.

Flynn wasn’t as insufferable as he thought, his excitement contagious, but Jacob realized this project was gonna be tough for another reason: he was falling for Flynn.

---

Jacob hadn't done any ceramics since art in high school. Flynn said he could, as apparently he minored in art to add to his many degrees, Jacob found out. It unnerved him a bit, to know that Flynn already had 2 Ph.D.'s and 3 masters in Egyptology, two ancient languages, Chinese history and physics, and that Flynn had no plans on stopping from acquiring more. All Jacob had was a high school diploma, though he had a lot in his head from the books he devoured and the time he spent out on the oil rigs. 

The ceramics studio was thankfully empty when they arrived. The room was open, old windows hinting at a time when the space used to be an engineering workshop when the art building used to be the engineering building, which the engraved stone above one entrance still said. Shelving with a variety of in-progress and complete works lined most of the walls, with tables in the center of one half of the room, and space for throwing wheels in the other. It smelled like wet earth, and for a moment, Jacob imagined he was out on a new rig after a rain. 

The professor who taught ceramics classes gave a basic rundown of the room, clearly with the dual purpose of informing them of where things were and sussing out just how skilled they were. Flynn's rambling at various points about technique and clay types seemed to satisfy the professor, who left them to their devices. 

Flynn took a hunk of clay out of the plastic bag and started rolling out coils on top of a drywall square. "Okay, were there specific techniques you need to incorporate from your time period?" 

"Well, it was coil-based, like yours, though the clay they used had a different composition ‘cause of where they sourced it," Jacob replied. Flynn had set him on making the base, so he was rolling out a slab to index finger thickness with a rolling pin. 

It was clear Flynn had worked with clay before. He already had several coils made and covered to prevent drying out while Jacob hadn't even gotten to the right thickness yet. "Dr. Kanhg couldn't get clay with the mineral composition we needed, but he does have matte glazes we can use to make the clay look the right color, give it the more reddish hue," Flynn said. His eyes then flicked to Jacob's work, brow furrowing. "You're rolling it too thin."

Jacob had been paying attention to his clay, but then he had gotten distracted by Flynn working, how delicate yet firm he rolled out the coils under his palms, the way his hair flopped a bit with his head bent down. Jacob had rolled his clay out all right, to about an ⅛ inch thick divot in the middle with over an inch thick edges from not flipping his slab. If he was making a mini half-pipe, he would've done a fine job. "Uh, sorry, I'll start over." He went to smush it together when Flynn yanked the clay out from under his hands.

"If you do that you'll dry it out with the oil from your hands," Flynn snapped like Jacob was supposed to know that. Flynn folded it twice and then started slamming it on the drywall slab to combine it. 

"I've only done ceramics once in high school, man," Jacob retorted, puffing himself up a bit on the stool he was sitting on. 

"Clearly it shows," Flynn replied, salt in Jacob's wounded ego. Flynn, not very gently, shoved the drywall square with the now condensed clay over to Jacob. "Pay attention this time."

Jacob grunted at him, not trusting himself to say anything good, and rolled out his slab again. This time he kept his eyes glued to his work, ignoring the pinprick sensation of Flynn's judgemental gaze on him. He rolled it out well enough, and used a large yogurt container to trace out a circle and cut it out. 

No sooner than he finished sliding the knife around the trace he made and started to pull the excess clay away, Flynn snatched the circle and started working it to attach the coils. "I was gonna do that," Jacob growled, watching Flynn flip the edges up with more speed and evenness than Jacob would have.

Flynn didn't look up at him. "And I'm sure you'd have to do it twice too."

"You don't know that," Jacob muttered, watching Flynn. He looked around the studio, feeling useless, so he said, "Is there something I can do? It's half my project too."

Flynn stopped working, glaring at him for a moment before softening his expression. "Have you made a coil pot before?"

"No...but I think I can do it from watching you," Jacob said.

Flynn narrowed his eyes a bit, but gently slid the partially done pot across the table to him. "Pinch and smooth down on the inside to connect the clay, but don't push too hard or you'll warp the coil below."

Jacob got halfway done with the coil before he punched through accidentally with his finger, making a hole. "Well fuck," he said as Flynn let out a frustrated sigh. It was going to take forever if he kept working, so he passed it back to Flynn. "Sorry."

"Since you're just going to mess it up, let me make it," Flynn said with exasperation. "You can decorate, if you won't mess that up too."

"Just ‘cause I'm not some genius like you and I mess up sometimes doesn't mean I can't do it," Jacob barked. For an instant he reminded himself of his father, and he cringed a little. He’d startled Flynn too; where Flynn had been repairing the hole Jacob made, there was now a rip again. “Sorry, I, uh, look. It took a lot for me to get here, and I wanna learn just as much as you do, but if you’re gonna treat me like I’m an idiot, I’m just gonna leave.”

Flynn didn’t respond at first, so Jacob started packing up his things and leaving. “No, wait!” Flynn grabbed his forearm; thankfully Jacob hadn’t rolled down his shirt sleeve yet. “I’m not good with people.”

Jacob huffed. “You don’t say.” He glanced at Flynn’s clay-dusted hand, still holding him, which made Flynn release him.

“I mean, school, learning, it’s everything to me. I don’t want to mess this project up. It has to be perfect, everything does, because that means I understand it.” Flynn went to rake a hand through his hair, but at the last second realized his hands were not clean, and stopped himself. “I just want one group project to go right. I hate group projects, but I need you to prove to Dr. Mashunkashey that I can work with people. She says I need to be able to do that if I want to be a professor.”

Jacob was not expecting Flynn to open up to him like that. Nor was he expecting the warmth in his chest when Flynn said he needed him, but he pushed that aside before he did anything reckless. “I’m willing to put in the effort if you are, but you have to let me do some of the work. I’m not gonna flake out.” Jacob hadn’t realized just how spooked Flynn was until he relaxed, tension released from his shoulders. 

“Okay.” Flynn looked at the in-progress pot for a moment, then said, “I’m going to finish fixing the hole, then you can try again. You have to be gentle with it.”

“I know.” Jacob sat patiently, waiting for Flynn finish the repair. Once he did, he pushed the pot to Jacob. He started adding a new coil, but after a couple pinches, Flynn stopped him.

“You’ve got to be gentler than that,” Flynn said. “Can’t you feel when the clay is giving too much?” Without warning, Flynn took Jacob’s hand, looking at his fingers. “Oh, of course you can’t, you’ve got calloused fingertips.” He glanced up at Jacob. “Guitar, I assume?”

Jacob was doing all he could to contain himself. “Uh, yeah, and probably from years of working on an oil rig too.” 

Flynn nodded thoughtfully at the addition, clearly filing it away wherever he was storing facts about Jacob. He hadn’t let go of Jacob’s hand, and this time Jacob wasn’t going to do anything to make him. “You’re pushing too hard, and thus thinning the clay too much at the join, that’s why you punched through,” Flynn explained. He then moved Jacob’s hand back into position, but this time, keeping his hand on top of Jacob’s. Their hands together almost didn’t fit into the pot, but Flynn made it work. “I’m going to press down so you can feel how hard you can go without breaking it, okay?”

Jacob nodded, not trusting words at the moment. Flynn proceeded to work the clay through Jacob’s hand, somehow just as good as he was before. Part of Jacob’s brain noticed that he didn’t push near as hard as Jacob had been when trying to be gentle, and filed it away, but most of his brain was focused on how intently Flynn was watching their hands work, and then how intently he was looking back at Jacob when he stopped. “Did you feel the difference?”

“Uh,” Jacob cleared his throat when it came out husky, “yeah, I did. Thanks. You really know your stuff.”

He noticed Flynn blush a little at the compliment. “Good. Uh,” Flynn realized he was still holding Jacob’s hand and released him, “now you try on your own.” After Jacob satisfactorily did a whole coil, they alternated until they reached a stopping point a third of the way through. “We need to let it dry to leather-hard before we add any more, otherwise it will collapse.”

Jacob vaguely remembered that leather-hard was a term to describe the texture of somewhat dried clay. “Alright. How long is that gonna take?”

Flynn considered the room a bit, thinking. “Today’s a humid day, so it would probably be best to wrap it with a paper towel and leave it in a plastic bag, then check it tomorrow.”

“Alright.” Jacob went and gathered the plastic and paper towels while Flynn fiddled with a coil. “I guess we can come back Monday afternoon?”

“That should be good, yes,” Flynn replied, swaddling the base of the pot with paper towels. He took a strip of plastic and wrapped the rim, and apparently noticed Jacob watching him. “This will keep the top fresh so when we come back, we can continue working it.”

Jacob nodded. He helped Flynn clean their area, replacing tools and wiping down the table. Done with their tasks, they awkwardly stared at each other across the table for a few moments before Jacob said, “Well, guess I’ll see ya Monday then?”

“Yes...see you then,” Flynn said, and then without warning, he rather hastily left the studio.

Jacob watched him go, then sat back down on the stool he’d been sitting on. “Oh Lord.”

---

He felt kind of guilty when he pulled up Clayton’s contact on his phone. He’d not been great about calling like he’d promised when he left Lawton, but Clayton always told him he knew college was hectic and to not worry about it. Still, as the phone rang, Jacob felt bad about calling just to talk about his personal life.

“Hey, long time no call, eh?” Clayton said as he answered.

“Yeah, sorry man. Some of these engineerin’ classes I should’ve tested out of, but they don’t really do that here,” Jacob replied. He was in his apartment, laying on his bed.

“I bet you could test out of half of that degree,” Clayton said with a laugh. “So what’s new with you?”

“I was gonna ask you that first,” Jacob said, feeling his face heat up already.

“You know I’d tell you the same as a few weeks ago, ‘cuz nothing new’s happened,” Clayton replied. “Plus,” Jacob could hear the smile in his voice, “I got a feelin’ you’re gonna ask for advice about somethin’.”

“How’d you, ugh, never mind,” Jacob scoffed, really blushing when Clayton laughed at him again. “Yeah, I got a...situation.”

Clayton sighed. “And who is he?”

Jacob sighed. “He’s in my Native American art history class, we’re partners on the group project, but I actually knew him before it.”

“...Wait, is this the same guy who you studied with in the library?”

Jacob shook his head, yet again surprised by how well Clayton could read him, even over the phone. “Studied near, but yeah. Turns out he’s doin’ a Ph.D. in Native history.”

"So he’s closer to your age?”

“I think so, though he might honestly be younger than me. The man’s got like five degrees already,” Jacob said, not bothering to keep the contempt out of his voice.

“So you went and fell for a genius, huh?”

“He’s a smartass,” Jacob said, but after a moment he added, “yeah, I have.” He was super fortunate to have such a good guy as Clayton he could call his best friend. He’d fallen for him too, briefly, but Clayton didn’t feel the same, and then Clayton decided it was his job to be Jacob’s wingman. 

“And does he feel the same?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t think so at first, but now…”

Clayton chuckled. “Then tell me what happened.” Jacob explained the happenings in the ceramics studio. “Well, he sounds awkward, but I think it’d be best to ask him directly.”

Jacob knew Clayton was going to say that, but he still felt shocked. “I can’t just ask him!”

“Why not?” was all Clayton said.

“‘Cause, well, if he doesn’t, this whole project is gonna be awkward.”

“Isn’t it already though?”

Jacob thought a moment. “Well, I guess, yeah. But I also don’t wanna get distracted before we finish this project. It’s worth half our grade.”

“So you’re just gonna pine away in silence for three months?”

“It might not be three months...Flynn’s too focused on doing this project as quick as we can.” Jacob hadn’t really considered that until now. “If we get the project done quick, then there’s nothin’ stoppin’ me from askin’ him after.”

“That’s the spirit. Let me know how it goes, you know I wouldn’t mind drivin’ up if you needed it.”

“Thanks, Clayton.”

"Anytime, Jacob."

---

Jacob decided that getting the project mostly done was the priority. This meant he had to suffer through two more equally awkward handbuilding sessions before their pot was ready for the first firing. At least in class, Flynn’s back was to him, except when they had class discussions. By the time they started glazing their pot, Jacob swore Flynn knew exactly how he was making him feel.

Glazing was just as messy as he remembered in high school. Flynn didn’t care about the state of the table, or himself, so long as his strips on the pot were perfect replicas of various designs he picked. Compared to the pot making, Jacob turned out to be the better painter. The hardest part for him was picking the designs he wanted to use. 

Jacob was halfway through a strip when Flynn asked, “Where did you learn how to paint?”

Jacob snickered a little. “Same as most everything else, self-taught.” He glanced at Flynn, who currently had smears of blue underglaze where he’d wiped his forehead. “Are ya goin’ for war paint too?”

Flynn narrowed his eyes, confused. “What?”

“You got underglaze on your face,” Jacob said, pointing at Flynn’s forehead with the brush. 

Flynn swiped at his forehead, making the smear worse, which just made Jacob laugh harder. “Oh yeah? Well-” Flynn decided to go for direct retaliation and swiped at Jacob’s face with his orange-covered brush across the table “-Now we match!”

Jacob tried to dodge, about fell off his stool, and Flynn’s brush ended up tapping the end of his nose. He knew better, he really did, but Flynn had worn him down the past week, so Jacob got off his stool, holding his brush out like a rapier. “You’ll regret that,” he growled.

Taking the challenge, Flynn got into a much more trained en-garde stance. “I rather think you will!” Then, without warning, Flynn jumped around the edge of the table at him.

Jacob realized that he was outclassed, but gave a valiant effort anyway. Quickly, Flynn had him giving up ground, forcing him to the sink that sat in the middle of the room between the tables and throwing wheels. “You’ve taken a class on fencing, haven’t you?”

“Lessons, when I was a kid, but yes, I’ve been trained,” Flynn replied, spying for an opening to tag Jacob. Just as Flynn lunged, Jacob dodged left, letting Flynn catch himself on the sink. Flynn shook his head, a mischievous grin on his face. “You, you’ve got some fight experience too.” He took a swipe, forcing Jacob closer to the finished projects shelf. “But not formal, no...brawls, that’s what you get into.”

Jacob took a jab at Flynn, gaining a foot of ground, but Flynn quickly forced him back two. “Not been in a scrap in a while,” Jacob said, trying again to swipe himself some room. 

Seeing Jacob essentially pinned, his left blocked by the stoneware clay reclaim bin and a table, Flynn went for the killing blow. Jacob knew how to read people in fights, and Flynn had gotten to the “confident of a win” stage, so Jacob ducked at the last possible second. This meant he was out of range of the brush, but Flynn was now barreling straight for the shelving. Without thinking, Jacob jumped back up, wrapping his arms around Flynn’s waist as he did and pushing him back away from the shelf.

“I was going to stop myself,” Flynn quipped as Jacob released him.

“I know overshooting when I see it,” Jacob retorted. He hadn’t stepped away from Flynn, nor had Flynn stepped away from him. They were less than a foot apart. Flynn’s eyes were dark, no doubt from the adrenaline of the fight; Jacob assumed he looked a similar state of riled up. He caught himself glancing at Flynn’s mouth without thinking, and was about to step away, until Flynn mimicked him, glancing at his lips.

Jacob closed the distance between them before he could think of reasons why he shouldn’t.

Flynn kissing him back made him forget any of those reasons.

An odd wetness on his forearm made him pull away. Flynn’s paintbrush had made an orange stripe on his arm. He looked back to Flynn, eyes even darker than they had been. “Guess we should finish the pot.”

“Uh, y...yeah,” Flynn said eloquently. “I didn’t know you…”

Jacob laughed under his breath. “You’ve been driving me crazy the past three weeks.”

Flynn’s eyes went wide. “I thought you were angry at me.”

Jacob closed his eyes, a smile on his face. “You really weren’t kiddin’ when you said you’re bad with people.” He opened his eyes when he felt Flynn shaking his head, nose brushing against Jacob’s. “Well, maybe I can teach you a thing or two,” he murmured, giving Flynn a tease of a kiss before pulling away again. “But we really should finish the pot.”

Flynn took a moment to adjust his focus. “Right, yes.” He stepped away, smoothing out his shirt in an effort to make himself look less flustered. He walked over to the pot, but turned back to Jacob following him. “So, we’re doing this?”

The fact that Jacob was now finding Flynn’s awkwardness really endearing was a testament to just how hard he’d fallen for the genius. “I am if you want to.”

Flynn nodded...and nodded some more before he responded, “Okay, good, yes, I very much want to do that again.”

Jacob laughed. “Well, we can make out as much as we want after we finish this pot, ‘cause the next firing is two days from now and it needs to dry before then.”

The motivation of more set a fire in Flynn’s belly; he attacked the pot with his brush, clearly caring less about perfect replication and more about finishing in the same general design so he could go do better things. Jacob put a little more effort into his, and thus was still painting when Flynn finished his underglaze design and cleaned his materials up. Flynn managed to sit there for 30 seconds before he interrupted Jacob. “How much longer will you take?”

Jacob glanced over at him, an eyebrow raised. “Why, you got somewhere you gotta be?” Flynn squirmed on his stool, making Jacob feel the heat of satisfaction in his chest. “I’ll be done when I’m done. I might just reward ya for your patience,” Jacob said with a smirk. 

Flynn practically melted under his gaze, ears going red. “Okay...fine.”

It was just too fun seeing the effect of his words on Flynn. “Can you wait a little more for me?” Jacob rumbled, letting his voice get low and gravelly. “I’ll make it worth your while.” Flynn shuddered, making Jacob smile. 

After Jacob slightly more hastily finished his strips, Flynn practically threw himself at him. Jacob had to make himself shove Flynn off him. “Hey, I didn’t say you could do that,” Jacob growled more than he had meant to; Flynn shuddered a bit. “We need to clean up, and not make out in a public classroom.” Flynn looked like he was enjoying getting told what to do too much, red flush on his face and neck, but eyes definitely staring Jacob down. “Look, once we clean up, we can go to my apartment, alright?”

Flynn, also very aware of how he was affecting Jacob, moved back into Jacob’s space. “You took entirely too long to say that,” he said, voice low and a bit breathy. Flynn leaned–not to kiss Jacob again, but to grab the dirty paint brushes on the workbench, making Jacob lean into empty air. Flynn looked at him expectantly. “Well? We better clean up then.”

“You little…” Jacob shook his head, smiling deviously. Flynn preened as he dramatically walked to the sink, knowing full well Jacob’s eyes were on him. 

They could’ve been perhaps more thorough in their cleaning, if they weren’t both busy imagining what they were going to do to each other once they got to Jacob’s apartment. 

---

The next class, Jacob had intended to play it cool, meaning acting like nothing unusual happened between him and Flynn. That fell flat when Flynn, arriving just barely on time as usual, strode over to Jacob with a dopey grin on his face. For a moment Jacob was terrified Flynn was going to kiss him in front of the whole class. Thankfully, Flynn just patted Jacob’s hand, purposely drawing his fingers away sensually, and then sat in his seat. 

Once his brain restarted, Jacob looked around as discreetly as he could manage. No one seemed to have noticed, expect Dr. Mashunkashey, who was watching him with curiosity. Thankfully, she started class, and Jacob did his best to take notes and not reach out and pet the back of Flynn’s head.

On the way out of class, Dr. Mashunkashey stopped Jacob. “Jacob, can you talk for a moment?”

Jacob looked to Flynn, who was all but dragging him out of class to “work on the paper” which Jacob knew wasn’t what he was planning. Flynn didn’t seem to think anything amiss, so he said, “I’ll meet you outside,” and left the classroom.

“Everything okay with your project?” she asked, glancing at the door. “I know Flynn can be a bit...much, so if you need me to talk to him, I can.”

Jacob went a bit red, but tried to power through. “Oh, uh, nah, everything’s good. We’ve even started making our art piece.” 

Dr. Mashunkashey seemed a bit surprised with his response. “Well, that’s certainly a change. I look forward to seeing what you two make together.”

Jacob’s brain of course heard “seeing you two together” and had to blink a few times to refocus himself. “I, uh, think it’ll be pretty good. It’s been a long while since I worked with clay, though that’s apparently one of Flynn’s many damn talents.” Jacob kicked himself internally, cursing in front of a professor like that.

Dr. Mashunkashey, to Jacob’s surprise, gave a hearty laugh. “I wouldn’t say it’s often I teach students who have more degrees than I do children. Though I think you could put Flynn in his paces from your papers so far.”

“Oh, I don’t think I could be as good as him,” Jacob retorted, pausing as he briefly considered what that would entail, “I’d have to quadruple major or something.”

“Well, I don’t want to keep you. Flynn seemed pretty eager to get to work.”

“Yeah...he really likes to work on things when he’s focused on them,” Jacob replied, pointedly making his way towards the door so he didn’t have to directly look at the professor. “Have a good day, Professor.”

“You too, Jacob,” she said with a wave. 

Flynn was apparently waiting to pounce on him in the hallway, which Jacob had briefly pondered if he would, so he braced his arm to keep Flynn off him. While it did keep Flynn from macking on him, Flynn also took his arm and entwined his own, and started walking down the hall. “What did she have to talk about?”

“Oh, uh, she asked if we were doing okay–I mean, our project,” Jacob stammered, glancing down at their arms.

Flynn didn’t seem to care and just kept walking towards the stairs. “Oh, well I bet she was surprised to hear I’m not procrastinating on a project for once. Speaking of projects,” Flynn leaned to speak lowly into Jacob’s ear, “I was thinking we could move our research to your place, or mine.”

“Uh huh,” Jacob chuckled. “Well, I suppose we could do that.”  

They did not, in fact, work on their project that morning.

---

In the end, they got an A on their papers, project, and presentation of said project. And Dr. Mashunkashey won her bet against her colleagues that Jacob and Flynn would get together by the end of her class.

-----

Post Notes: Sorry for the quick ending, I’ve been sitting on this fic since February and never finished it, so I figured making an ending and getting it out was better than it sitting in my google drive forever. Also, when it comes to ages, I saw them both as a bit older than your usual 18-22 college students; for both they’re at least 23 or so, Jacob from working with his father, and Flynn from doing other degrees. 

The University of Tulsa doesn’t have a Native American studies program (they really should though given location and history of the school), but they do have a well-known petroleum engineering program, which is what gave me the idea of how to get Stone to school. Considering Flynn’s all about ancient history studies, surely the ancient American people he knows about too. And I’m assuming Jacob grew up somewhere out near Lawton, OK, based on the mileage he gave in “And What Lies Beneath the Stones” since the actual town Wagoner (Wagner was what they used in the episode) is about 45 minutes southeast from Tulsa.

[aenwoedbeannaa]

A New Empire || Ciri x Fem!Elf! Reader || Part 1

Summary: With the war finally over, you have left your position as a Scoia’tael commander and joined the Imperial Guard in the capital. However, war has no happy endings – and you are far from happy. Over the course of the war, you lost your two brothers who were your only family aside from your abusive father and brainwashed mother. Your less than ideal family situation was what led the three of you to set out and fight for the Empire in the first place. You were not expecting to be happy in Nilfgaard – you simply went because it was a job offer you could not refuse; a roof over your head and money for food. You pass the days on autopilot. That is, until a young woman with ashen hair arrives. The famed Princess Cirilla, the Child Surprise, the Child of the Elder Blood and the Chosen one. The White Flame who saved the whole miserable world from the White Frost, and the one person who might prove to you that life is beautiful, despite it all.

Word Count: 2,650

A/N: Ok, I know I have like four WIPs right now, but I recently finished The Witcher 3 and I just could not resist starting this one. I’m working on creating a schedule so you all have some idea when I will be posting new chapters to everything, but it’s kind of hard to schedule out because I have to balance writing with work. But anyway, hope you all enjoy! Also, if the formatting is off, sorry about that—I’m posting from my iPad and it has been quite the hassle.

If you enjoy my work, you can check out my masterlist for more, and if you’d like to be added to any of my taglists, feel free to comment here or send me a message and I’ll add you. You can also check out my personal blog. I also have a ko-fi page, as I’d like to cut down on the hours I work and start working more on writing and acting. And finally, if you’re into video games, you can follow me on Twitch @ aenwoedbeannaa.

Part I

There are times when you miss the war, despite the fact that it stole everything you held dear. Perhaps that is why you miss it. After all, it is not the bloody battles that you miss; the perching in trees and loosing arrows on caravans and bands of soldiers alike was not a task you relished or took pleasure in. What you miss, what your mind seems to drift to in order to escape the horrible mundanity of each day on guard duty, is the late nights spent sitting around campfires laughing and talking with your brothers and sisters in arms. You miss the war because it brings back the smell of wood smoke, of roasting meat and hearty stew, and most importantly, the ring of laughter and the sound of voices that you will never hear again.

The sound of hooves on cobbled streets and the excited rumble of a growing crowd pulls you from your reverie, albeit not as quickly as it should have. You blink away the glow of campfires and soft light of night stars, eyes taking a moment to adjust to the afternoon sun bearing down on you as if you had truly just stepped from the dark into the sun. You chance a glance at the guard on post at the other end of the gate – another former Scoia’tael commander from a different unit – to check for any sign that something is amiss. His bow is still slung over his back, no arrow knocked. So, it appears you haven’t missed anything important while off in your daydream.

You fix your attention on the fanfare unfolding down the road. You see several cavalrymen on their black horses riding in formation around a figure that you can’t quite make out. You recognize it as a Nilfgaardian escort at once – the kind reserved for important people, not criminals. You cock your head to the side as the realization hits you, wondering who the mysterious rider of the horse in the middle could be. Ordinarily, the Guard was told of important arrivals when they were expected, but, unless you’d somehow drifted off into your mind during a briefing (an extremely unlikely scenario, as you preferred to keep your head on your shoulders), the Guard had not been informed of this particular arrival.

As the escort draws closer, you catch sight of the mysterious arrival between two black-clothed riders. You know, from the moment you spot the petite woman with ashen hair, exactly who is currently being escorted to the castle. Cirilla of Cintra.

“Well, don’t let your eyes pop out of your head!”

You turn your head to look at your fellow Guardsman and narrow your eyes. “Keep your eyes alert and off of me,” you reply sharply. “Or it’ll be on your head if something goes wrong.”

Of course, you know nothing will go wrong. Since the war ended, there has been little reason for uprisings. Non-humans are safe in Nilfgaard, so they keep quiet. Humans have jobs that keep them busy and well-fed. Radovid, and most of the other former royalty of the Northern Realms are dead, so they have no leaders to rally behind and conspire with. Temeria is free as it will ever be, leaving no reason for them to fight against the newly established order. And, finally, the Wild Hunt has been defeated, meaning no spectral warriors are likely to appear out of thin air.

In short, things are perfectly safe and entirely boring. And boring, you’ve found, was not something you deal with very well. Especially now, when boredom only gives you more time to think about things you’d rather never think about again.

***

After Cirilla’s arrival, things remained much the same. Entirely safe and utterly boring. The only difference were the filthy comments you heard day and night in the barracks. Most of the Guard were men, and even worse, most of them were human men. At least most of the other elves and other non-humans were a bit less unbearable; most likely because they were worried that a slip of the tongue could land them in a hell of a lot more trouble than the humans would face.

And the comments were not only limited to the beautiful Crown Empress, either. As one of the few females in the Guard, you’d grown rather accustomed to the men bothering you day and night. None as much as Emariel Sorenn.

He, like you, is an elf. You have no idea which commando he fought in, nor do you care. You do know that he is quite a bit older than most of the elves who fought in the Scoia’tael units You just know you never saw him on the battlefield or in the forest camps. But for his apparent lack of fighting, he certainly has a huge mouth and wandering eyes.

“Stay back, you fucking leech,” you hiss through your teeth.

The two of you are stationed to stand watch over one of the back entrances to the sprawling Keep, and he has spent every moment since the two of you arrived at your posts muttering utter shit. You had been doing a pretty good job of ignoring lecherous comments, but when he started taking a few steps toward you, you’d had about enough.

“Oh, come on, beautiful,” he says with a grin that you imagine might have once been attractive. But, the years have clearly not been particularly kind of the elf. His teeth are yellowed and rotted here and there, and his eyes bulge slightly, suggesting at least fifty years of heavy fisstech use. You find it incredibly hard to believe that he even fought in the war when he can’t seem to show up to work high out of his mind on the white powder and gods know what else.

“Such foul words from such pretty lips,” Sorenn leers, clicking his tongue and shaking his head, “Such a shame.” He takes another couple of steps, erasing much of the distance between himself and you until you raise your left hand, stopping him with the gesture.

“Take another step closer and I’ll cut out your eyes so you won’t ever have to look at these pretty lips ever again,” you drawl, your smile is sickly sweet as your right hand comes to rest on the hilt of your rapier. You’ve had just about enough of this shit. When you’d been running with the Scoia’tael commandos, you’d bene amongst your own kind, who respected your own customs. The same could not be said once you arrived in the Imperial City.

Sorenn was just a shining example of the incredible arrogance of those who thought the black and gold liveried armor they were provided with so that they could stand and look pretty while they whiled away the hours standing guard over the precious Emperor Emhyr.

“I’d like to see you try, you little she-devil,” he smiled in a way that made your stomach turn.

“I’d like to see her try, too.” The voice came from just down the hallway that hooks off to the left behind the two of you. That voice…

Cirilla Fiona Ellen Rhiannon. Crown Empress of Nilfguaard.

You turn to find the young woman already somehow just next to you. You hadn’t even heard her approaching. She is a Witcher-Girl indeed, you suppose. Silent as an elf approaching rather than a human.

“Y-your Excellence,” you breathe, quickly dropping into the bow they taught you on your first day at the palace. You’d never been up this close to her, or any of the other high-ranking nobles, before. You could see Sorenn doing the same out of the corner of your eye.

“Oh please,” Ciri scoffed, “None of that nonsense.” For a moment, you thought that she was angry, but when you stood up straight once more, the way the corners of her lips pulled slightly upward dispelled those fears.

Her enormous green eyes met yours for a brief moment, knocking the air from your lungs—but you tried your best to hide it. And, mercifully, she turned her gaze to your fellow guardsman, who had utterly paled at the appearance of ashen-haired young woman.

“It’s hardly behavior fit for a guard,” she drawled, taking a few steps closer to the elf who was likely at least triple her age (you’d never actually bothered to find out how old the little shit was), “To be harassing your fellow guardsmen.” You couldn’t help the smirk that stretched over your face as she spoke. Sorenn was practically cowering.

“Just know that the lady…”

“Y/N,” you responded with your full name right away, hardly believing that the Crown Empress had deigned to actually ask for it.

“Just know that the Lady Y/N has the authority, and my blessing, to carry out those threats if your behavior continues.”

You jaw drops at the words. You are unsure of how to react. The threats had been empty when you made them, of course—it wasn’t as if you were trying to get yourself hung—but the idea of carrying them out to the letter didn’t sound bad, if you were being honest. Though, you doubted Sorenn would be giving you trouble again any time in the near future; or ever.

With all the grace of an Empress, the ashen-haired woman turned on her heel to leave, those hug green eyes fixing on yours once more.

“Care for a trip to the market?”

“I… Yes.” You had been about to protest and point out that you were only a few hours into your long shift, and that you couldn’t disobey orders, but you supposed that orders from Cirilla herself definitely outweighed those of the Captain of the Guard—and anyone else in the Empire, for that matter.

“Excellent.” The young woman smiled; a real, warm smile, as you fell into step beside her.

Excellent, indeed.

Staying within the castle walls for days on end was unbearably boring, and when you had the chance to go out into the city, you were usually too tired from working double or triple shifts to do so. Not to mention the slightly, barely perceptible flutter in your chest at the thought of walking through the city streets with Cirilla herself—not because of her rank and standing, though that was likely part of it—but because of those eyes, and… well, a whole lot more. But that whole lot more you prefer to keep tightly to yourself.

***

Three hours later, you are still out, sitting on a ledge that overlooks a good portion of the city. From this vantage point, you admit that it even looks pretty. For all of its faults, the Nilfgaardian Empire did one thing correctly. At least here in the Capital, humans and non-humans worked and played side-by-side; or at least in the same vicinity as one another, without any major fights breaking out. It hadn’t been that way in the northern cities.

Novigrad had been the worst by far. You’d grown up there, in a rough part of town with a number of other non-humans. No matter how hard you worked, you were always looked down upon. Even your parents, cold as stone itself, eventually moved the family back out to the wilderness. It was easier to live among the trees and as far away from humans as possible, even if it meant hunting for every meal and making all of your clothes. Modern comforts were nice, but it wasn’t worth the risk of going to trade for them.

Ciri, noticing the far-away look in your eyes, hadn’t said a word since you’d sat down. Thankfully, it was not uncomfortable silence.

“I take it you didn’t grow up in Nilfgaard?” She finally asks, glancing sideways at you with those huge green eyes. It was impossible not to get lost for a moment before you answered.

“No.” You realized your answer was clipped short, but you didn’t exactly trust yourself to say any more. The last thing you needed to do was spill the messy contents of your head on the floor at her feet.

“Me neither,” she responds softly. Then, with a wry smile, “Obviously.”

You can’t help but offer a small smile, “It’s not as bad as they made it sound… up North.”

Ciri nods, narrowing her eyes in thought. “I suppose everywhere is a bit better now that the damn war is over.”

You nod, “If only it would have ended a long time ago.” Or never happened at all, preferably. But there would always be wars; you know that much.

“It seems all anyone wants to do is fight,” Ciri says with a resigned sigh. You glance over at her, corners of your mouth twitching downward somewhat.

“Maybe that will change.” You let the words hang in the air, unsure if you should have said them at all. You’re not an advisor to the Empress—you’re a common member of the Royal Guard. But you can see the same darkness in the ashen-haired woman’s eyes that seems to have permanently settled in your own. Stormy darkness and sadness that no number of days seems to dissipate.

“Me, too.” The young woman chews on her lip, and you remain silent. You cannot even imagine the pressures placed on that girl. First to quite literally save the world, and now to lead an empire. You may be bored as all hell with your job, but you would much rather be insignificant and boring than have a weight like that placed upon your shoulders. You’d surely fuck it up.

“Well, at least it seems like everyone is tired of fighting, now,” you point out. Though, you are sure that somewhere—probably at this very minute—there are people conspiring to change that. No matter who is leading or how, there seem to be people coming out of the woodwork to lead foolish revolutions.

“Tired, and without resources.” The emphasis the young Crown Empress puts on that final word tells you exactly what she means—there are too few people left to raise armies. For the elves, it will take generations to rebuild their population. For the humans, however, it wouldn’t be all that long before they had a whole new batch of young warriors ready to fight for whatever ideals they decide to find appealing at the time. You shudder at the thought. You’d rather not live to see that—but you know you will.

“Gods, the world is miserable.” You force out a sigh, rueful smile playing at your lips as you scan over the city.

“Sometimes I wonder why I didn’t just leave the White Frost to destroy it,” Ciri says with a smirk. You can’t help but smirk back.

“Could’ve put us all out of our misery.”

Despite the topic of conversation, you are both still grinning.

“Seems I’ve made a huge mistake.”

You shrug, eyes somehow unable to move from the young woman’s face, “Or you’ve changed everything.”

You don’t know exactly where the hopefulness came from—you aren’t a particularly hopeful person. But, even in these few moments of talking to the soon-to-be Empress, you can tell that she’s different. She’s different from the leaders in the North, she’s different from the current Emperor.

“For the better, I hope.” The clouds are back as her face pulls into a serious expression, a troubled expression.

You are struck with the sudden urge to reach out and place your hand over hers, but you hold back.

She is the almost-Empress, you remind yourself.

“You’ve got common decency,” you offer, “That’s already better than most who call themselves leaders.”

She turns to look at you, silence hanging in the air between you until she finally says, “Thank you.”

“No need,” you respond, “I’m only stating the facts.”

It takes you several seconds to register the soft hand resting over yours, and once you do, it is impossible to keep a grin from breaking out across your face.

***

To be continued.

[softboywriting]

Welcome To The Pack | Mendes Triplets Series | Part Four

Summary: You’re a human who has moved in with the Mendes triplets as their newest housemate. You’ll have to learn to navigate life with werewolves, college classes, and your feelings for each guy. [fluff] 

Word Count: 1.5k

|Masterlist In Bio|

"Hey sweetheart," Raul says as he wraps his arm around your shoulders. You're on your way out of your math class that you absolutely hate but are required to take at least one semester of a year for your degree. "Hungry?"

"I had a granola bar in class. So, not really?"

"When's your next class start?"

"An hour. I was going to go to the library."

Raul scoffs. "Nope, you're coming with me to get lunch."

"But I don't have any money."

He stares at you blankly. "I'll pay. I'm not going to make you pay for lunch when it's my idea. What am I? An animal?"

"Well..."

"Ah! Don't even go there." He grins and you can't help but crack a smile that turns into a little laugh. He's literally showing off his prominent fangs as he smiles. The irony. "What? Stop laughing."

"No." You push his lip up and he playfully bites your finger in retaliation. "Wolf boy."

Raul bares his teeth and you giggle. He's obviously not serious like he had been while fighting with Shawn the other day. While he looks terrifying, you aren't scared at the moment. Raul drops his facade and stares at you blankly. "You're weird."

"Nuh uh, you're weird. I'm just standing here, you're showing off your fangs to the world."

"And you're giggling at it!"

You raise your eyebrows and tilt your head a bit. "Would you rather I cry? Or run away?"

"N-no." He stammers. It's strange seeing him a little caught off guard like this. "You're like whiplash. One moment you're scared of us, the next you're giggling. I don't understand you."

You grab his hand and he slides his fingers between yours as if it were completely natural. Your heartbeat picks up a bit, not expecting him to do that. "Maybe you should try harder? I am your newest pack mate after all."

Raul narrows his eyes as if he were going to deny that statement, but he doesn't. He won’t. "Whatever, let's go to lunch."

"My choice?"

"No, mine."

"Well that's not fair."

He tugs you along gently, hand still in yours. "Life's not fair. I'm paying, I pick."

"Fine. Jerk."

"You know it, sweetheart.”

_____________________

Shawn's first hockey game of the season is on Saturday and you're all bundled up, ready to sit in the cold arena for a few hours. Shawn had invited you to go on Monday and you couldn't say no. He was so cute about it, giving you his jersey from last year to wear over your hoodie and everything. He even made you some cookies in sort of hockey stick shape. Honestly the world doesn't deserve him.

"You made it!" Shawn says excitedly as he wraps his arms around you. You’re in the hall outside the locker and storage rooms for the ice rink on campus. Hockey is sort of a big deal at your school. "We're just getting ready, do you wanna see the locker rooms?"

"I think I'll pass."

"Okay, okay, yeah locker rooms are kind of gross." Shawn laughs, he almost sounds nervous though you can’t imagine why he would be. First game jitters most likely. "You wore my jersey I see."

"Mmhmm. It's huge even over my sweatshirt." You pull out the silky jersey material from your chest. "I guess that's good though, wouldn’t want it to squeeze me to death or something."

Shawn smiles. "I love it. Did Raul and Peter come with you?"

"Yeah, they're getting snacks at the concessions. You guys eat too much."

"Fast metabolisms." Shawn pats his padded stomach. "Wolves gotta eat baby."

"Yeah, and they eat everything in sight. Speaking of food, I'm making dinner tonight, so you better be home after the game."

Shawn groans in delight. "I get to have you watch me play and I get dinner? Is it my birthday?"

"It's Saturday." You chuckle, rolling your eyes at his theatrics. "I always make dinner on Saturday, the game is just a bonus."

From the locker rooms a few doors down the hallway you can hear the coach yelling for Shawn.

"I gotta go. I promise I'll be home for dinner. I’m riding back with you guys anyway."

"Good."

Shawn turns to go and you grab his hand. He turns back and you lean up on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "What was that?" He asks, touching the place where your lips had been.

"For good luck.” Your heart races and he squeezes your hand, telling you that he can feel it too. “Go, before the coach hunts you down."

Shawn flushes and clears his throat. "Thanks. I'll meet up with you after?”

"Mmmhmm. Good luck!"

____________________

Your team wins the game, even though Shawn kept gawking at you every couple of minutes. As team captain he really should be paying more attention. There were several shots he should have made with ease had he not been totally distracted. You can’t blame him though, he must be thinking about the cheek kiss. You know you were.

Post game you wait with Peter in the entryway to the ice complex. Peter gave you his jean jacket to keep warm even though you have on a hoodie and shawn’s jersey. Raul went to get Shawn's jeep to pick everyone up out front. Shawn had carpooled with one of the other guys on the team so you and the guys could bring his jeep and everyone could ride comfortably.

Shawn walks out of the doors to the rink and he’s got on his sunglasses and a long sleeve blue henley, bag of gear slung over his shoulder. He looks so good, like a professional hockey player coming out to meet fans. He pushes up his sunglasses and smiles, picking up the pace when he sees you and Peter at the doors.

"Did you see that shot I landed from halfway across the ice? It went sailing past their goalie so fast he didn’t stand a chance. I've never done that before." Shawn says excitedly. "I played so well.” He puts his free arm around your shoulders. “I think you're my good luck charm."

"Oh please, I think you were too distracted personally." You say and he raises his eyebrows, leaning back to look down at you. "What? Like I couldn't tell you kept searching for me in the seats? I know you missed that shot that was passed to you because you were looking for me when I moved to get a better view.”

"I just-"

"Shawn! Shawn!" A group of three girls comes running over, giggling and making a lot of noise between them. "You were amazing out there!" “So good!” “I loved the game!”

"Oh, thanks." Shawn says softly, breaking away from you for a moment. "Can I help you ladies?"

"We wanted to see if you were available tonight." One of the girls, a tall blonde, says playfully. "We're hosting a party at our place. Our frat actually."

Shawn looks at the three girls and then over to you and Peter. "I..."

You catch his eye and just sigh, assuming he's not going to be home for dinner now. You were even going to make his favorite, spaghetti and meatballs.

"I have dinner plans."

Your stomach flip flops. He’s going to go home with you and not these girls? Wild.

"Oh...that's lame. You could stop by after. We really want you to come over. You are the captain after all." One girl says with a little pout.

Shawn shakes his head. "I need to rest up." He steps away from the girls and puts his arm around your shoulders. "Thanks for the offer ladies, maybe another time."

Peter looks up from his phone and points to the glass doors. "Raul's here with the car."

"Gotta go," Shawn says, waving and walking you toward the doors.

"You don't have to stay home if you want to go," You say and glance back at the girls who are now talking among themselves. "I can save you some dinner or something."

Shawn presses his nose into your hair as he walks behind you now, arm around your chest. "I promised I'd be home for dinner. I can go to a party whenever. I don't get your spaghetti and meatballs all the time."

"How'd you know I was going to make that?"

"I saw the ingredients on the counter this morning. I realized when you said you were making dinner that was what it was going to be." Shawn opens the back door for you and hot air pours out. Raul's got the heater on high just for you. "I'm staying home."

"Alright, alright." You climb in the back seat and Peter gets in opposite you. He pockets his phone and scoots closer to you, leaning his head on your shoulder. You put your hand in his hair and he sighs contently. "Are you guys ready for dinner?"

Shawn throws his gear in the back before getting settled in the passenger seat and they all answer in a chorus of yes as Raul pulls out onto the street. You smile, feeling so at home with them. Being a part of a pack is pretty damn good.

———–

End Part Four

———-

Thank you for reading! Please reblog if you enjoyed this and reblog to support and encourage myself and fellow writers. Next part coming soon! - A

Custom header per part made by the incredible delicateshawn

*****Note: none of my works should be posted anywhere outside of my linked accounts. I do not give permission to repost with or without credit to my accounts. Please notify me of any reposted fics.*****

[writethehousedown]

In My Head, We Belong (Gigi/Crystal) Chapter One - Zyan

Summary: Gigi tries to keep her feelings for Crystal as a secret, while juggling orders, her side job as a seamstress, helping her very clueless friend Jan ask an equally clueless Jaida out on a proper date and begging Silky, Heidi and Dusty to please stop their Who Can Cook Faster competition.

a/n: new fic who dis. I’m back back back again! The new season really has sparked my creative juices :) This began as a small request I did on my blog and it turned out into a very fluffy universe. I hope you like it! Much like Genie AU, I’m having a lot of fun writing this. 💖 Frey is the bestest beta, and y'all can find me over at @chachkisalpaca. The title comes from the Doja Cat’s song “Streets.”

Widow’s restaurant might not be a five star one - or four even - but she keeps it neat and clean, the walls get painted whenever Widow spots the tiniest of cracks in the paint, and she’s got a handful of regular patrons. She’s also the best boss Gigi has ever had.

She makes sure they all eat a good meal before beginning with their shifts, pays them a little extra the nights they’re full and still manage to serve all customers as good as they can, understands when they can’t come to work for whatever the reason might be, and doesn’t need much explanations when they request a night off, because she trusts her girls. As far as the staff is aware, Widow is an angel disguised as a human.

They’re usually full on Saturdays, the kitchen turning into a war zone as Dusty, Heidi, and Silky try to get the waitresses orders ready, sometimes competing between each other who’ll gets their order ready the fastest. For a moment it’s amusing to the waitresses, until they get carried away and have to be reminded that it’s not time for their foolishness, it’s time for dinner.

This Saturday though, it’s almost empty - a couple with their kids being the only clients they’ve gotten so far, since a storm broke loose.

“Well, the weather man did say we’re gonna have a few days with rain,” Jan comments, standing in the tip of her toes to watch the rain from the window of the back door.

“Yeah, but this is not Singing in The Rain type of rain, this is like, I dunno, Sharknado kinda weather,” Crystal replies, throwing a green nine to the table. Jaida huffs and reaches for a card in the pile before passing.

“Have you ever seen Sharknado?” Heidi asks; her brows are knitted in a confused frown as she throws a green +2. Silky bangs her fist on the table, proceeding to frantically search for a card to kill off Heidi’s.

“… No,” Crystal admits at the same time Silky slams a +4. “Fuck! I hate y’all,” she groans as she draws six cards from the pile. Heidi and Silky high five with smug smiles and giggle.

Gigi watches them, completely amused, leaning against the door frame. She’s not sure if they should be playing Uno during work hours, despite not being a single soul around, but Widow gives them more liberties than a boss normally does. Hell, sometimes she’s the one to come into the kitchen with a Uno deck, asking if anyone wanna play.

“I’d join, but I feel like Heidi and Silky have some sort of trickery going on,” Brianna says, mindlessly scrolling through Instagram, glancing up at them from time to time.

Gigi looks at the pair, noticing the looks they share from time to time and cocks a brow. She’s not even surprised; Heidi and Silky are a competitive duo, though Heidi shows it a lot less.

“Do you think one of them is sitting on a bunch of +2 cards?” Gigi asks, stifling a giggle. Brianna snorts, locking her phone.

“Most likely, it’s like the fourth time they made Crystal pick up since they started playing. Notice how suspicious it is that she hasn’t picked any +2 or +4 yet?” She comments just as Jaida slams a card on the table, yelling ‘Uno’.

Gigi snickers; though she prefers full nights because it’s a good moment for tips, she doesn’t mind when once in a while it’s completely deserted and they get to relax and have fun together.

Though that fun results in Crystal throwing her cards to the ground after a collective work between Jaida, Heidi, and Silky in which each of them throws a +4; she abandons the game saying she’ll never play again with them. She goes over to Brianna and Gigi with her arms folded and a childish pout.

“Please, tell me I’m not the only one that believes they’re cheating,” she says as she looks back at Silky and Heidi. They’re now battling against each other to see who the final loser is, and it’s honestly hilarious.

“I wouldn’t be surprised; I’m used to them cheating whenever we play anything. They’re competitive bitches,” Gigi replies, Crystal laughs softly and Gigi smiles to herself.

Sometimes the fact that she’s still there after two years surprises her; she’d never thought she’d actually like this job and her co-workers, considering them her second family.

She also has feelings for one of the members of said family, but she’ll never say that out loud.

Gigi’s so distracted by her thoughts, she doesn’t hear Jackie behind the door, almost falling on her back if it wasn’t for her.

“Wow! You okay, G?” She asks with a concerned voice. Gigi nods, and Jackie helps her stabilize herself. “Girls, please clean this up, believe it or not we’ve got clients. Silk, they ordered two menus of the day; can you take care of it?”

Silky stares at Jackie for solid five seconds before slowly starting to get up and all of a sudden there are several Uno cards spilled all across the floor. Well, guess Brianna was right.

“You cheating bitch! I knew you had something up in your sleeve,” Crystal exclaims, completely offended.

“Or your ass,” Jaida points out with a laugh, kneeling to pick up the cards. “You are one shady bitch, someone remind me to tell Widow to ban you from the Uno games.”

“Ban who from Uno?” Widow asks as she enters the kitchen. Jaida points at Silky, telling her about the cheating. Widow clicks her tongue. “Silky, I’ve told you already; if you’re gonna cheat, put those cards in your thighs, not ass!” Widow scolds, but soon she’s loudly laughing along with Silky.

Jackie pinches the bridge of her nose, counts until ten, and claps her hands, hurrying Silky to get her orders ready. Then, Widow remembers why she stepped into the kitchen in the first place.

“The storm is getting really bad; does everyone have a way to get home safely? I wouldn’t mind going out of my way to drop some of y’all off,” she offers, speaking loud enough so everyone in the kitchen can hear her.

“My grandpa lent me his car because he heard it’d rain today. I could also drop some of y’all home,” Dusty pipes up from the other side of the room.

“I came here with Jesus and an umbrella, so I’ll take any of you two on that,” Heidi says, looking back and forth between Dusty and Widow.

“Well, John is picking me up today, so I guess I’ll pass.” Crystal shrugs, and Gigi knits her brows in a frown.

“Who’s John?” Gigi asks before she can stop herself. Crystal looks at her with a toothy smile that may or may not make her heart sting a little.

“Oh, he’s a guy I met at a friend’s birthday party. We’ve been going out for like, two weeks or so. I thought everyone knew, I’ve pretty much annoyed everyone during Friday’s lunch shift talking about him,” she explains excitedly, and Gigi has to restrain herself from letting her devastation show on her face.

“I’m not on the lunch shifts, just the night ones,” she simply says, and the topic soon goes back to the previous one, Gigi remaining silent for most of the conversation, except to say she’d appreciate a ride home.

The rest of the night remains uneventful, since they’ve got no other clients. They close early, and they only leave when Crystal’s guy arrives, the redhead quickly says goodbye to all of them as she climbs inside his car with a big smile.

As she stares out the window, watching how the streets empty more and more, Gigi thinks she couldn’t be upset with Crystal for going out with people, since she isn’t planning on confessing her feelings to her.

It doesn’t mean it hurt any less, though.

[enchanted-prose]

#12 A Bloody Ballad

and with this fic, I have officially crossed into the 60,000 word count territory. I've also decided that I will finish this ficlet series by July 14th and submit it to Jennifer Nielsen’s fan content competition.

Word count: 5,715

Characters: Jaron, Mott, Jolly (Original character who deserves lute rights), Lord Thomas Row (a babey and original character), Merry (Original character), Commander Regar (Original character), Roden, Tobias, Renlyn (Original character), Princess Amarinda, Imogen (this one’s a reAL party)

Notes: This was creepy even for me to write, so that’s your warning. Edited and ready to be read!

Enjoy!

The sneezing never stopped.

Always sneezing.

And it was all that cat’s fault.

Jaron rubbed his eyes. It wasn’t the cat’s fault, it was his. He should’ve thought about his reaction to the cat when Renlyn managed to sell it to him. Cat hair was everywhere.

But by the Saints, nothing could best the smile Imogen had when she held that kitten on her lap.

He didn’t mind silent suffering if it meant Imogen’s happiness.

Her secret smiles filled his head. The way her hand sought his whenever they were near each other kept his feet planted on solid ground. Jaron knew that Imogen’s mere presence gave him the focus to solve every puzzle at his fingertips.

However, it went deeper than that.

Imogen insisted on looking him over each time he got into trouble. She had no qualm about staying up until the early hours of the morning when memories of Avenia plagued him. Her love came in gentle forms; she brought him deftly spun bracelets, a spoonful of sweet pastry dough, ruffled his hair with flour covered fingers.

He could sneeze for a millennia for her.

With each passing day, his stance seemed more and more likely.

Did the Saints sneeze?

Energy burst through him without a warning. Jaron stood up, nearly knocking his chair to the floor. He snatched the letter he’d been reading and began to pace. King Kippenger was sending a representative to discuss the situation Avenia was in.

There was nothing Jaron wouldn’t do to assist an ally, save abdicating the throne and a few other atrocious acts of course. He was prepared to give aid to Avenia in any shape.

He was prepared to send his best military leaders to action if needed.

His mind instantly began thinking about what news Kippenger’s representative would be bringing. The path he walked was familiar. It gave him space to think outside of his normal routine. To the corner, to the door, to the shelf, back to the desk.

Thomas Row, that was the representative’s name. A farmer raised to nobility after demonstrating his loyalty not only to Avenia, but to Kippenger during the first months of his reign.

Carthya’s harvests over the past four years had been wondrous, and a new push for education thanks to Amarinda and Tobias. Feall was working with Roden, and Jaron was confident that Feall would make a capable temporary replacement should Roden be sent to Avenia.

The pieces were in place. Jaron could play this figurative chess game and win.

He was juggling what would happen if Avenia wouldn’t accept his help and what he would have to do to protect his own people.

Would it really be worth it to keep a Carthyan influence in Avenia if it only forced Avenians even further away from good relations?

Decisions, decisions, decisions.

To many outcomes, not enough stable variables.

Think, think, think.

What could he do if Avenian relations soured?

Bymar would come to help, Jaron was certain of it. Mendenwal would likely come as well, and maybe even Gelyn, though the latter would likely have ill intentions. He could always completely withdraw Carthyan aid as a last resort.

A very last resort.

Why, oh why couldn’t Thomas Row be there, knocking at the door?

Jaron rubbed his watering eyes, and returned to his desk. One letter down, countless others to go. He inched his chair backwards, inched his chair forwards, and wished he had a chair that spun in a circle.

Saints, it wasn't even noon and he was already bored.

He’d managed to read through ten letters when somebody finally came to check in on him.

“Mott!” Jaron stood up, this time successfully knocking over his chair. “Thank the Saints, I wanted to ask you if-”

“No, I will not let you use a shield as a sled and ride down the grand staircase,” Mott’s brows lowered into a solid line.

Jaron broke into a wicked grin, “Good idea, but that’s not what I was going to ask. You read Kippenger’s letter, no?”

“Haven’t had much to do but read since the attack.”

“Do you have any- oh.”

During the Avenian war, Mott had received a wound that would’ve killed him if not for Tobias’s skill as a doctor. The wound prevented Mott from fighting his way through a battle.

The wicked grin Jaron sported faded into a deep frown. He wanted to be a good king, a just man who sought out justice rather than revenge.

It was a well kept secret that Mott’s ghost wound flared up. A well kept secret that the fight with the Faola who attacked Feall was responsible for the ghost pains.

But Jaron knew, he knew about Mott’s pain.

And if it weren’t for Imogen and Tobias, he would’ve taught the Faola a lesson they’d never forget.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” muttered Jaron, tossing through the emotions pulsing through his veins.

Anger, grief. Anger, grief. Anger, grief, and frustration.

Did nobody care how hard he was trying? Was that why there was still crime plaguing the streets of Drylliad?

“Not exactly, but I do appreciate the sentiment,” Mott shifted on his feet. “I did read Kippenger’s letter, and I dispatched a series of spies to try to locate his representative.”

“Did you find anything out?”

“As a matter of fact, I did, although the information came from someone who’s not one of ours.”

Oh?

Jaron motioned for Mott to continue, “Is it reliable information?”

“From a friend’s perspective, yes. However, from a ruler’s perspective there’s a series of holes in the story,” explained Mott. “My informant, ah, has a history of lute playing, colorful clothing, and pursuing every vice he can.”

“Please don’t tell me-”

“Jolly is my informant.”

He didn’t mean to snicker. He didn’t mean for that snicker to turn into a fit of laughter. Jaron coughed into his fist, trying his best to mask his grinning, “Jolly is your informant? The man who sings about floral crowns and otherworldly romances?”

Mott was all too serious as he nodded. “Considering that he not only found Thomas Row in Avenia, he also managed to bring him here, I’d give him a bit more credit.”

“Lord Thomas Row is here!? When did he arrive!? Why wasn’t I informed!?”

“He requested to stay at an inn rather than in the castle, said he wanted to be with the army that accompanied him.”

“By the toes of every Saint, I have to meet with him,” Jaron bolted to the door, froze as his hand hovered above the handle, and turned back to face Mott. “Would you like to come with me?”

“Perhaps,” Mott said. “I have several things that require my attention, but I don’t suppose you’d be opposed to helping me with my duties.”

More chores?

More papers to read?

Jaron shrugged, “You can’t tell anyone, otherwise they’ll always come to me to help push papers around. I have duties of my own.”

“As do I.”

“To the Devils’ with duty then, I’m the king, my word is law.”

With a few catches, of course, but Jaron didn’t need to explain that. It would’ve diminished his perfect excuse for abandoning the papers on his desk.

All he needed was a quick stop at his chambers to change his clothing. He’d be able to blend in with the crowd well enough in a pair of shabby trousers. It was a slight miracle that he hadn’t been recognized yet.

He was feeling more comfortable once he’d dressed in a patched shirt and ragged shoes.

Although when he stood next to Mott, who was still dressed plainly according to the royal court’s ridiculous standards, he looked like a pickpocket.

Once a thief, always a thief.

The courtyard was bustling with life. Horses were being led to shadier pastures outside the castle. Sheets and sheets hung on lines as they dried in the sun. Roden was yelling at a group of soldiers.

Everything was as it should be. Jaron was grateful for the false security the routine brought.

He would be a fool not to acknowledge that there was something not quite right anymore.

Like a right shoe being ever so slightly bigger than the left. Like a spoon and fork sharing the same engraved design, only the spoon was missing a line.

Quiet yet obvious once found.

“Tell me about the army Thomas Row brought,” Jaron asked, stepping over a laundress’s large bar of soap.

“It’s a hired army,” Mott wiped his nose. The smell of heavy duty soap wasn’t the sweetest scent. “The army’s lead by a man called Commander Regar, I suspect his men are mostly Bymarian and Gelynian.”

“Ah, mercenary armies. They’re too unpredictable for my taste.”

“One could argue that you’re also too unpredictable for  different peoples’ tastes.”

“I don’t give my loyalties to the highest bidder; mercenaries do.”

In fact, Jaron didn’t think the mercenary armies so favored by nobility were worth their cost. The mercenaries were little more than bandits who could play the game of life a little smarter.

It was far better to find men willing to fight for something they loved rather than men who fought for coin.

“Market day should be a success,” Mott noted, gesturing to the various stands that had popped up overnight.

Jaron shrugged, “I’m hoping for a large supply of peaches this time. The peaches at last market day were full of worms.”

“I suppose you’ll just have to wait two days to see the peaches yourself.”

“Think I should have Roden pray for my peaches and their health?”

“Don’t be sacrilegious.”

Ah, market day was a thief’s dream. Hundreds of vendors came with their goods to sell, and security could only protect so many. Jaron had taken advantage of market days as a child. He rarely returned to Mrs. Turbeldy’s Home for Disadvantaged Boys with his hands empty after market day. Sometimes, he got lucky. Sometimes he was able to steal enough food to feed himself for a few days.

Though the anxiety that constantly tugged at his lungs made him wonder.

Made him think.

Made him realize that maybe this market day would be unlike the others.

Perhaps he should get somebody to pray about it.

Thomas Row was staying at the Traveler’s Inn, which meant a short walk for Jaron and Mott. . . If Thomas was there. And as fate would have it, Thomas wasn’t. He was at the Dragon’s Keep, catching up with a certain brightly colored troubadour.

Jaron could hear the lute playing long before he saw the Dragon’s Keep. Jolly’s clear tenor voice sailed through the tavern’s open windows.

There was blood in the kitchen

And blood in the halls

Blood in the bathtub

Blood on the walls

There was no way that tune was Carthyan, Jaron would’ve remembered a ballad that violent.

“After you,” Jaron said, holding the door open for Mott.

“On the contrary, after you Jaron.”

“No, after you.”

It took several more ‘after you!’s before Mott finally conceded and walked into the Dragon’s Keep with Jaron trailing behind him.

Stepping into the Dragon’s Keep was like stepping into a warm cloud.Men and women crammed around almost every table. There was no set uniform among them, although several people wore thick, knee-length skirts with knotted patterns. Jolly was sitting on a table flanked by a man playing a large set of pipes and a woman playing a tin flute. Jolly’s tenor voice took on a thick Bymarian accent; the chords he played turned sour:

There was blood in the kitchen

There was blood in the halls

Blood in the bathtub

Blood on the walls

And blood on her Majesty, Lady Ingrithay

A heart in her right hand, dagger in the other

Ye can’t outrun yer mother

She is yer judgement day

Jaron shivered.

Ye can’t outrun yer mother

She is yer judgement day

“That’s him, Lord Row,” Mott said, gesturing to a man in humble clothes sitting a few tables away from Jolly and the other musicians.

Lord Thomas Row was a plain man, save for his head of wiry, black braids. His white shirt flared down his arms and cinched around his wrists.

Cinched around one of his wrists.

One of his wrists?

Lord Row had a right hand, but the left one ended in an elegant, covered hook.

“Sir Mott! It is good to see you!” Lord Row bellowed, and he lunged to embrace Mott. “It’s been too many years!”

“Yes it has, Tom, yes it has,” Mott clapped Row’s back.

Jaron tried to stop the squirming unease that came when watching a pair of old friends reunite.

Once Row had broken off his embrace, he took a long look at Jaron. “Is this-?”

“It is, no need for names, my friend, I came here to make your acquaintance before rushing into talks of politics,” Jaron said, extending his right hand. “Sometimes they get messy, I’d rather be friends than enemies. And forgive my dress, I find it’s easier to slip through crowds when not wearing a jeweled tunic.”

“There’s no need for forgiveness, I wholeheartedly agree, and I sincerely hope you don’t become my enemy, your Majesty.”

“Please, call me Jaron.”

“I accept your invitation of friendship,” Row bowed his head. “Jaron.”

“By the Saints can he change this ballad?” Mott grumbled as Jolly launched into a new verse.

Ye can run, ye can run

But lady, o’lady

Yer time’s almost done

Sing like a bird, say what you say

O’lady yer the one

To stop dear Ingrithay

Blood in the-

“No! Don’t touch my lute you insufferable imp!” Shouted Jolly as he launched off the table.

Jaron let out a sigh of relief, “Find whoever stole the lute and bring them to me, I’ll give them a knighthood.”

“The ballad isn’t that bad,” muttered a man from Row’s table.

“On the contrary, I think it is.”

“Ignore old Regar, he’s sympathetic for Bymarian ballads,” Row waved his hook at the man who’d spoken.

Regar held up his hand in greeting, but chose to drink the contents of his tankard than say hello.

“It’s not exactly a song for dancing,” Mott pointed out. “It’s Bymarian, you say?”

Row nodded, “I’ve heard it multiple times on my journey here. Regar’s men are mostly from Idunn Craich, it’s been interesting hearing their tales, they’re much bloodier than tales from Bultain.”

“Only recent ones,” Regar said, having finally finished his drink. He dragged his hand across his bearded face and smiled, “Commander Regar, I am honored to be in your presence, Majesty.”

Jaron made a face, but nodded in return.

He hated it when people called him Majesty.

That’s what people called their prettiest mares, Saints be cursed.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Jaron said. “Sort of.”

“Thank you, I think.” Regar nodded his head. His eyes were elsewhere, and soon he was sitting again, nursing his tankard.

“See something you don’t like, Commander Regar?”

He didn’t answer.

“Regar isn’t the most spirited at this time, return in a few hours and he’ll be singing with our mutual friend Jolly,” Row said, setting his hook on Jaron’s shoulder. He steered both Jaron and Mott away from the table. “Jaron, may I ask how your day has gone?”

“Oddly average, if I must be honest,” Jaron said, still looking at Regar.

“Ah, I must say the same, as average as riding can be.”

Mott chuckled, “That’s good news, I’d hate to know there were troubles with your travels, Row.”

His head was racing. Put the pieces together, put the pieces together! Regar was several inches taller than Jaron, and from his standpoint, could probably see more than Jaron could. From Regar’s eye-level, he could see the other side of the tavern, which was much emptier.

Bar maids dashed to and fro trying to appease every customer they could.

One of them was serving drinks while keeping a lute free from Jolly’s hands. Green scarf in her bushy hair. Jolly’s ballad echoed through Jaron’s mind.

There was blood in the kitchen

There was blood in the halls

Blood in the bathtub

Blood on the walls

Something was staring at him, right in the face.

It plagued him as he sat at the bar, listening to the bloody Bymarian ballads, and trying to weasel his way into Mott’s conversation with Lord Row.

He rubbed his eyes, which had finally stopped burning now that he’d left his cat hair covered office.

Aside from Lord Row and discussing Avenian policies, there were other matters to take care of. Among that never ending list of problems to be solved was the Faola attack on Feall.

It took numerous questions from Feall, Roden, Amarinda, and himself to firmly conclude that the girl who’d been arrested wasn’t responsible. She was simply doing the wrong things, got involved with the wrong people, and got caught at the wrong time.

But Feall had suggested bargaining with her. Bargaining with Ayvar, a criminal.

It wasn’t the worst deal Jaron had to make.

He promised Ayvar her freedom and a pardon for banditry if she was able to help them catch the culprit. She swore on her own false grave in Gelyn that she would keep her word, and was prepared to act immediately if needed.

Ayvar would remain a prisoner but would be moved to a tower room. She would be given ample food, water, and blankets.

All she needed to do was be prepared for when she was needed.

It was a game, and Jaron didn’t mind playing games.

He only hoped that he’d win this time.

Too many times had he gambled and lost, resulting in disastrous consequences and a pile of innocent victims. This time, it would be different. He would catch a Faola, and in the process, drive away all the others.

There was blood in the kitchen

There was blood in the halls

Blood in the bathtub

Blood on the walls

Jaron rubbed his eyes. The words to Jolly’s song refused to leave.

It seemed that even thinking of Jolly caused him to appear. “Headache, sir?”

“No, no, I bought a cat from Renlyn Karise, turns out I don’t do well when cats are around,” Jaron confessed.

Jaron didn’t want to admit that he was thankful for Jolly’s company; he didn’t want to admit that Mott was talking to Lord Row much better than he was.

“Ah, Renlyn,” Jolly held a hand over his heart. “The envy of every man and their wives. A beauty and a wickedly intelligent woman.”

“Imogen mentioned that you knew her, how did the pair of you meet?”

Jolly’s blush matched the pink details on his blue jerkin, “Ah, well, I was one of the fools who chased after Ren for her golden curls. I thought I was clever by tricking her into a gambling game. . .”

“And?”

“And I lost everything. She gave it back, of course, but I learned my lesson. Karise is a force to be reckoned with, and a fierce friend. But she’s good at every kind of game.”

Especially the game of How Much Money can Jaron Waste on a Cat?

“And you know Merry, as well,” Jaron noted, gesturing to the girl in question as she dragged a box of dirty dishes to the back room. “How?”

“It’s not my story to tell,” Jolly scratched his mass of black hair. “I’m sure you could ask her about it one day, not sure how much luck you have.”

“I’ve heard plenty about her, believe me. Roden, ah, Roden gets easily excited when he’s on the bottle.”

“Yes, yes he does.”

“And how do you know Roden?”

“You know what,” Jolly made a face. “I’m not quite sure, we were speaking in a tavern and he’s always been a friend of mine. Wrote a ballad about him, and a ballad about Renlyn. I have a ballad I’m writing about-”

“Don’t say it’s about me and Imogen.”

“-you and Imogen.”

“By the toes of all the Saints,” Jaron pinched his nose. “At least make it a good one.”

“I can sing it right now!” Jolly bounced away from the bar, swinging his lute into action.

Jaron’s eyes went wide as Jolly began strumming each chord, tuning them all to perfection. He began plucking out the first few notes, which led to a series of slowly strummed chords. Jolly heaved in a breath, preparing to sing, when out of nowhere a pair of hands shot out and stole the lute.

“You’re in timeout!” Merry said, cradling the lute in her arms. “You sang Ingrithay too many times, you’ll lose your voice!”

“Merry, Merry, quite contrary, you tug my- that’s actually a wonderful rhyme,” Jolly made a face, nodding ever so slowly.

In silence, Jaron pressed his hands together and bowed his head, grateful for Merry’s interference. She winked at him in return.

She patted Jolly’s shoulder, “That’s right, my tortured artist, think about your songs, and drink something warm. Can I get anything for you gentlemen?”

“I’ve heard the lemon tarts here are very nice,” Jaron said, exchanging a sneaky grin with Mott.

That wasn’t the only thing they’d heard.

“And for you, Lord Row?” Merry cradled the lute in one arm, and set her free hand on her hip.

“I’m quite well, thank you,” Lord Row flashed a smile. “I’ll be certain to call for you should anything change.”

“I’ll do my best to answer that call, sir.”

There was blood in the kitchen

There was blood in the halls

Blood in the bathtub

Blood on the walls

No, no. Not the rhyme again.

He hated not having all the answers. He hated knowing that there was something lurking in his future.

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

“This stuff, really?” Tobias asked, gesturing to the bottle not far from Roden’s reach.

As much as he tried, Lord Thomas Row was more concerned with checking in on Commander Regar’s men, and opted to save their discussion for a few days later.

Meaning Jaron had nothing to do for an entire evening.

His first instinct was to snuggle up to Imogen, or do something silly like cover her eyes and guide her through the castle. However, his attempt to steal her away came too late: Amarinda had commandeered Imogen and Renlyn for an evening ride in the woods with Feall and Mott as chaperones.

His second instinct was to pester Roden into doing something fun, but when he entered Roden’s usually clean office, he knew he was gravely mistaken.

Pieces of fabric and at least one of Roden’s shirts were scattered about the floor. He and Tobias were arguing about something, but the argument came to a grating halt when Jaron walked in.

“Be quiet Tobias, you need loads of spirits to be a seamstress,” Jaron wrinkled his nose. “Let Roden embrace his dreams.”

“I’m not becoming a seamstress!” Roden crossed his arms, his frown rivaling the gargoyles on Drylliad’s biggest cathedral.

“Are too!”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Am not!”

“Then why do you have a pair of shears in your hand and fabric on your lap?” Jaron sauntered over to Roden’s desk, sat in his chair, and kicked his heels up. “I can arrange for you to get more pretty things if you’d like.”

Roden perked up, “Really? I mean, no! That’s not what I want!”

“Oh he definitely wants pretty things,” Tobias pointed out. He’d picked up the bottle on Roden’s desk. “This is definitely stronger than what I’m used to trying.”

As Roden curled over his piece of fabric, Jaron looked to Tobias, and both exchanged a snicker.

If he couldn’t convince Roden to ride a shield like a sled down the grand staircase, Jaron would make fun of him till he reacted. That would be worth it.

Tobias looked at Roden, who was cursing his scissors, and made an outline of- of a bell?

Jaron squinted at him, shrugged, and shook his head. What could he do with a bell? What- oh! Tobias was making the outline of a skirt, not a bell. Ah! Jaron could work with skirt jokes.

“You know, I hear Bymarian women wear dresses with slits so they can move,” Jaron rubbed his nose. “I’m sure Amarinda can get you one.”

“No, no, that wouldn’t work,” Roden waved his hand, and didn’t bother looking back.

Looking for reassurance, Jaron looked at Tobias, who was sniffing the contents of Roden’s bottle of spirits. He made a face as the fumes escaped. No reassurance from him.

There had to be a way to upset Roden. “Are you more of a skirt person?”

He paused and straightened. “I suppose I am.”

Once again, Jaron looked to Tobias. This time, Tobias was prepared with a confused shrug.

“Are you- are you being serious?” Jaron leaned forwards. He’d heard of men wearing skirts into battle. By the Devils, even some of Regar’s men wore skirts. He just hadn’t expected Roden to suddenly take a stance on the trend.

“I don’t really mind what a girl wears,” Roden looked back to glare at Jaron. “Why are you asking me this?”

“I was talking about you wearing a dress, you oaf.”

Roden pointed his scissors at Jaron, “No. I’m not playing this game, I’m in a good mood.”

“Good mood? I’d like to change that.”

“Jaron, nothing you could do could change that. I have the evening off and-”

“Are you making dish rags for the kitchen staff?” asked Jaron, now resting his chin on his hands and his elbows on Roden’s desk. “No, Tobias, don’t drink that. I need somebody on my side in case Roden plays dirty.”

Unfortunately, Tobias was looking to do something foolish too. Jaron could hear him draining Roden’s bottle of spirits.

Dear Saints, he was causing a circus.

Good!

“I’m not going to fight y-,” Roden tried, but Jaron was eager to do something incredibly foolish.

“You’re making hair scarves for Merry, aren’t you?”

Aha! He’d hit a nerve!

“So?” Roden grumbled, curling back over his fabric. “I like seeing her ears. One of them has this-”

“Boring!” Jaron jumped to his feet, and walked over to a fine square of red fabric. “You want to know what would make these all prettier? Tobias, you’re going to pass out.”

“I think I deserve a quick nap,” Tobias argued, setting down the now half-empty bottle of spirits. “Jaron, don’t do something stupid, remember what we said about being kind.”

Oh yes, Jaron remembered that deep discussion. Something about being considerate for others and not pestering people until they reacted in a negative way. During the conversation, Tobias pointed out that perhaps Jaron wasn’t used to receiving any verbal or physical attention, which was likely the cause of Jaron’s desire to punch Roden as hard as he could during the most obscure times.

Unfortunately, Tobias’s statements were too close to home. During the next large banquet, Jaron made sure to punch Tobias as hard as he could rather than Roden.

He’d certainly gotten an earful from Imogen after that.

“Don’t. You. Dare.” Roden growled, slowly rising to a stance to attack.

Jaron raised his foot above the red square of fabric, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m warning you. Don’t do-”

“What, this?”

His intention was to bring his boot down on the red square of fabric and leave a massive footprint, but he wasn’t sure if he accomplished his goal. Roden had launched himself right at Jaron, sending both of them careening across the floor.

“Hey, hey, hey! I’m a little guy! It’s my birth- hey!” Jaron cried out trying to wriggle out of Roden’s deathgrip.

“I told you not to touch the fabric!” Roden roared.

Jaron felt his feet touch the ground for a split second, and then he was hurled over Roden’s shoulder. Completely unfair. He refused to stand for it. Jaron kicked his legs like a fish, grabbed the back of Roden’s tunic, and tumbled to the ground.

He barely managed to roll away from Roden’s swinging foot.

“Oh, the fabric,” Tobias murmured. “It’s so pretty.”

“Quick-” Jaron dodged a flying fist “-question! What was in the bottle?”

Roden lunged, successfully grabbing Jaron by the left leg and dragging him to the ground. “It’s from Libeth!”

Now that wasn’t good at all. Libeth had some of the wildest alcohol brewers in the entire kingdom. Supposedly, they made a liquor strong enough to remove barnacles from sea vessels.

And how much had Tobias drank?

“He was-,” Tobias hiccuped and wiped his eyes. “Roden was making little hair scarves-,” another hiccup. “Making hair scarves for Murry. Little scarves, oh dear Saints, this boy can only wield a sword, bless him in these days as he-”

“Shut up Tobias!” Jaron and Roden yelled.

By the Devils! Roden had the upper hand again! Jaron was all too aware of Roden’s hand holding both of his wrists, which meant only one thing.

“Please, Roden, I beg you, it was just a joke!’ Jaron whimpered, trying to weasel out of his grip.

No, no, no.

The first time Jaron and Roden had gotten into a physical fight ended the same way, with Jaron unable to move and Roden prepared to deliver the finishing blow.

“I just wanted to cut up fabric!” Roden argued. “Tobias and I were doing fine before you barged in!”

“I was bored! Please don’t do this!”

“You could’ve helped with the fabric!”

“I wasn’t that bored!” Jaron squirmed again. “Please, Saints, no. No! Ah!”

The finishing blow was the worst part of the fight. Roden had licked his little finger, and shoved it into Jaron’s ear.

Although, now there was a third party involved.

Tobias flung his arms around both Roden and Jaron, tears streaming down his face. “I love you both with my whole heart, honest to the Saints. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

“Can you get Roden to take his nasty hands off of my body!?” Jaron bellowed, yanking his head free from Roden’s little finger.

“Does the baby need a nap?” Roden cooed.

Oh, ho, ho, Roden was remembering old exchanged insults. Jaron unsuccessfully tried to escape, but to no avail. Roden hooked his arms beneath Jaron’s knees, and swung him up into his arms, while still keeping a drunken Tobias on his feet.

“Put me down!”

“Not until you apologize!”

“Roden?”

“Yes?”

“Rot with the Devils, you clotpole.”

Tobias’s quiet tears turned into sobs as he wrapped his arms around Jaron and Roden once again. “Little hair scarves.”

It was quite the scene to walk into: Roden holding Jaron like a baby, Tobias sobbing like he’d learned he would die soon, and bits of cut up colorful fabric covered the floor. It just so happened that Amarinda’s night ride finished early.

They didn’t look pleased.

The disappointment in Mott’s eyes was an all too familiar sight.

“I can explain,” Jaron croaked, finally realizing that he’d lost the fight.

A fight that he started.

“It looks like a dress shop in here,” Mott clasped his hands behind his back, Amarinda, Renlyn, and Imogen trailing behind him.

Roden practically dropped Jaron on the floor. “I was trying to make something, and then Jaron showed up.”

“Hey, you didn’t have to hit me,” argued Jaron. He grunted when Tobias set his head on Jaron’s shoulder, and refused to move. “Get off of me!”

The only answer Tobias gave was a new wave of silent tears, and a fresh set of apologies.

Mott’s face didn’t betray a single emotion. “Weren’t you going to meet with Lord Row?”

“He moved the meeting back, and I happened to finish my work this evening, and didn’t want to be alone.”

“So you picked a fight with Roden?”

Jaron scowled, he realized how foolish he’d been in starting the fight. A conversation wouldn’t have been enough for him, there was too much energy bursting through his body.

“These are pretty,” Amarinda held up an opaque piece of yellow fabric.

“Don’t worry, I’m not making myself a skirt,” grunted Roden, his hands full of different fabric squares.

“Were you putting something together?”

“I finished, so it doesn’t really matter.”

“He was-,” Tobias hiccuped. “He was making tiny, tiny scarves. For Merry, to wear.”

There hadn’t been a time when Tobias had been so drunk before, or at least there hadn’t been a time Jaron could remember.

Amarinda sighed, and transferred Tobias’s head from Jaron’s shoulder to her own.“Oh, darling, what did you do this time?”

“They were fighting, and I’ve had it.”

Amarinda patted the side of Tobias’s head, her eyes boring into Jaron’s very soul. However, she gave no biting remarks, she only wrapped her arm around Tobias’s waist. Together, they inched towards the door.

Her smile was forced. “I’ll be taking him to our chamber, I don’t want him doing something foolish.”

“Is that from Libeth?” Imogen asked, gesturing to the bottle on Roden’s desk.

However, before anyone could give a clear answer, Renlyn took a large swig from the bottle, set it down, and frowned. “That batch was weak.”

“You know what?” Jaron crossed his arms. “I don’t think I want to know. Jolly told me about your tendencies.”

“Is that an invitation for me to take over the kingdom through a gambling match?”

“Absolutely not, I’ve been warned, and I won’t ever concede to your money games again.”

“That’s what they all say.”

By the Saints! Jaron scowled at Renlyn, who had the audacity to remain completely placid. He knew deep in his heart that he’d have to do something worse than terrorize Roden to get a reaction out of the notorious Renlyn Karise.

Imogen raised her hands, “Ah, we should take the energy down a notch, don’t you think?”

“Jaron started it!”

“I know Roden, I usually start things, unlike you.”

“Jaron!” Everyone chorused, followed by Tobias’s slurred agreement.

“What!?” Jaron crossed his arms, screwing his face into the fiercest scowl he could.

He’d rather be lectured than think of those cursed lyrics.

There was blood in the kitchen

There was blood in the halls

Jaron would rather hear complaints and be tossed around like a child’s doll than consider what fate had in store for him.

He wasn’t ready yet.

He just wasn’t ready.