#just watched wicked and this is going to be my entire personality moving forward unfortunately

[muscleloverz69]

A Raw Deal

To a normal person one of the fae might appear human. In fact it is nearly impossible to tell the two apart. The only difference is the fae are always extremely hot. One of the most important rules of dealing with the fae is never make a deal. Unfortunately, Brian had no idea Nick was anything but a young vendor at the music festival. 

All the food looked so good to Brian and he was so hungry, too bad he realized he was flat broke once he reached the front of the line. He looked up from his empty wallet at Nick to apologize and completely froze. Brian had always been completely straight but even he could admit Nick was one of the most attractive men he had ever seen with completely chiseled features, perfect lean muscles that complemented his narrow waist and thick upper thighs spread out in his seat. Nick smirked “Hey dude, you good?” 

“Oh yeah sorry I’m flat broke my bad I’ll step out of line.”

Brian was so flustered he completely missed the predatory gleam in Nick’s eyes. “Bro don’t even worry about it, I’ll make you a deal help me out in the back for a couple hours and lunch is on me.”

“Wow really, thanks!”

“Of course! The only rule is you can’t eat until we’re done or it’ll mess up my inventory count.”

Brian was so hungry but he knew he could struggle through a couple hours for a free lunch, so he nodded and followed Nick into the tent behind the counter.

The moment Brian entered the tent he felt his stomach cramp up, the most delicious smells of pies, cookies, and sandwiches were coming at him from every angle.

“So, I really just need you to stay here for the next two hours and make sure nobody sneaks back here and eats anything.”

Brian could only shake his head in agreement and watch as Nick walked away admiring his full ass move as he did. He rubbed his eyes trying to snap himself out of it. Brian had never so much as looked at a man in his entire life but maybe the hunger and partying from the past couple days was getting to him.

Not to mention Brian was a little sex-starved. It wasn’t that he was unattractive. Some would definitely think he was cute but it was always in a twinky nerd way. He looked nothing like Nick who was already occupying more space in his mind than another man should.

The first hour wasn’t easy, but Brian just tried to ignore the food around him and relax. He didn’t notice Nick peek through the entrance. Nick was starting to wonder if Brian would make it the full time and decided he needed to turn up the challenge. Nick walked back into the tent holding a large pizza. “Hey, this came a little early its for after you’re done working but it might be a little cold by then.”

Nick shrugged and walked back out. Brian sweated it out for a few minutes before finally stuffing his face with the pizza. It only took a few bites before Brian could tell something was wrong. First he felt a burning sensation on his arm, then in big letters NICK was written in black on his arm. He found himself frozen unable to move at all.

Brian stood there unable to move for the next few hours until it got late. Then Nick walked in with a wicked smile across his face. “Hello Brian, so it looks like you couldn’t wait to eat. Unfortunately, that means you are now my servant.”

Nick snapped his fingers and Brian found myself able to speak but my feet were still planted to the ground.

“WHAT. I don’t understand I’m sorry I couldn’t help myself.”

“Brian, it’s quite alright. These things happen you’ll come home with me and the details of your contract will be provided shortly.”

Nick walked forward to Brian wrapping his muscular arms around his waist. Nick brushed under Brians chin forcing them to make eye contact. Nick leaned in their lips brushing against each other. “We are going to have fun together.”

Brian woke up in a large bed sore and confused. As he looked around his eyes landed on a man. He was an attractive guy, large boulder shoulders and beefy pecs that shadowed over him.

“You’re up,” the man walked over to him.

“My name is Jock how do you feel?”

Brian shook his head confused, “your name is Jock.”

“I don’t think it was always Jock but that’s what master said it is now.”

It was then Brian glanced down at his arm to the letters NICK and remembered what happened. Jock went on to explain that Nick was a fae and had tricked the both of them into becoming his slaves. They were now magically forced to do anything Nick asked. 

“Really anything master wants you’ll do, become, or believe,” Jock sat down on the bed. “I didn’t always look like this but this is what master wanted for when he has fun with me”

Brian was in disbelief at what a quick turn his life had taken. “So what can I do? I’m not gay and I don’t want to be owned.”

Jock shook his head “There really isn’t anything you can do, my only advice, Master offers everyone the same deal…take it.”

It was then the door swung open. Nick walked in to the bedroom shirtless, his tight muscles reminding Brian of some predatory cat. “Jock thank you for watching our new guest, you can go.”

Like that Jock was gone. Now it was just Brain and Nick.

“So Brian I trust Jock filled you in. Now its time to make you more suited for my home. First I value fitness so grow your muscles for me.” 

Brian hardly had a chance to be confused before he felt his stomach ache and looked down to see a set of cobbled defined abs. He suddenly felt much wider as his shoulders and back spread. His pecs began to balloon and his biceps thickened.

Nick smiled as he closed the distance between them. “Now you look tasty.” 

Nick kissed Brian pushing him backward on the bed. Brian opened his mouth to say something but Nick cut him off “You will participate and try to please me.”

Brian quickly got the message and allowed his lips to part for Nick’s tongue. Brian tossed his own shirt on the floor. Internally he was screaming, I’m not gay, but he couldn’t help but try to make Nick happy.

Nick groped Brian’s new arms before cupping his face. “Now time for a few more things. First Brian doesn’t quite suite you anymore, I think from now on you’ll be Thad and you can forget it was ever anything else.”

Thad was confused. Wait wasn’t his name always Thad. Was that right?” 

Nick interupted Thad’s thinking, ”The only thing is that name isn’t known for being intellegent so let’s dumb you down and make you a little more bro-y”

Thad felt a relaxing fog descend on him, he didn’t mind it. “Bruh that kinda feels sick.”

“Now just one last thing. I offer everyone this deal, now it’s your turn. You will live hear forever but if you agree to become gay I will make you happy to be here. Then you’ll have as much fun with our encounters as me. I could just make these changes myself, but honestly it’s no difference to me how you feel and the choice is more fun.”

Thad felt confused. A feeling he would probably have to get used to with his new intellect, but he needed to choose. Thad decided that if this was his new life he might as well enjoy it.

“Ok dude, do it.”

Thad felt it almost instantly. He was in the best place ever, and standing in front of him was the sexiest man he had ever seen. Thad almost lept forward, ripping Nicks pants off and began latching onto his cock. Nick gripped Thad’s new styled hair as his head bobbed up and down. Then Nick came. Nick chuckled Thad didn’t know it but the entire spell only would have lasted 24 hours then he could have gone home free, but now that he willingly drank Nick’s cum the spell was sealed forever.

Meanwhile Thad was in total bliss he was going to love being here with Nick and Jock.

[lunar-wandering]

Delirium

@smallpwbbles happy birthday, take some delirious Wukong-

Word Count: 2k

Read on Ao3

-

MK paused in a mixture of shock, horror, and awe as he took in the sight before him.

Pigsy had his head in his hands, looking for all the world like he was totally done with the situation. Tang was standing beside him, trying to hide his increasingly obvious laughter. Mei had no such qualms, and was laughing out loud, practically on the verge of literally rolling around on the floor. Red Son stood next to her, holding up Mei's phone, which seemed to be recording, the fire demon trying desperately to look neutral to the situation, but a small smirk on the edge of his lips betrayed him, revealing his amusement. Sandy stood slightly off to the side, holding a blanket, ready to step in at any time.

And Macaque stood ramrod straight, appearing to be somewhere between 'embarrassed' and 'would somebody please strike me down already'- as Wukong leaned against him, saying a series of sloppily put together compliments.

MK took a deep breath, speed-running all five stages of grief in under an instant. (Possibly a new record for him.)

"I left. For five minutes." He said, taking note of how some places on the deck seemed to be dented, and was that smoke coming from over there? "How, exactly, did things end up like this?"

He received no answer, the others having jumped and turned to stare at him when he had spoken, having not noticed his return.

...Wait, where did Wukong-

"MK." Wukong said, and MK did his best not to jump as the delirious Monkey King appeared beside him out of nowhere and put a hand on MK's shoulder. "My, my dear su- ......succulent.....?"

"Successor." MK corrected, trying to ignore how the others were barely restraining their laughter. (Macaque, at least, looked somewhat sympathetic, but he also looked far more grateful for the fact that Wukong's attention had shifted away from him.)

"That's, yes. That's the word, yes." Wukong said, before grabbing hold of MK's cheeks, squishing them a little as he made sure MK was looking at him. "I am so proud of you."

"...Thanks?" MK said, questionably, pulling himself out of Wukong's grip. Wukong briefly glanced at his hands, seemingly confused as to where his successor had gone. "Monkey King- I'm right here. You should really be resting, until whatever this is gets out of your system-"

"Red Son!" Wukong exclaimed, the aforementioned fire demon making an audible noise of terror, slipping to hide behind Mei as Wukong spun around to face him-

Only to trip over his own two feet, slamming into the deck, denting it ever so slightly.

...For about the twenty-third time that day.

Sandy took this as his time to move forwards, gently laying the blanket down on top of Wukong, before announcing that he was going to try and make some more healing tea, (Wukong had dumped the first pot of it over the side of the ship, claiming that it was 'too bitter', 'wouldn't work anyways', and complaining that it didn't 'taste like peaches'), and the river demon left, going back down inside of the airship, leaving the others without his calming presence.

"...Okay guys, while Monkey King is....asleep..." MK wasn't even actually sure if Wukong was asleep, but he'd stopped moving and had become utterly silent since slamming into the deck, so- "I suggest we make it so that he doesn't hurt himself or us with anything on the ship." 

"What, are you suggesting we should baby-proof the entire ship?" Pigsy asked.

"...More like 'Monkey King-proof', but yes, actually, that is exactly what I am suggesting." MK said, "We're going to need to cover all of our bases-"

"Uh, kid?" Macaque interrupted, grabbing MK's attention by lightly tapping on his shoulder. "If you're going to Monkey King-proof the ship, you uh, might want to start with the railing."

He pointed to the edge of the ship, and MK followed his gaze to see-

"Oh you've got to be fucking kidding me." MK said, just catching the barest, tiniest glimpse of Wukong, wearing the blanket around his shoulders like a cape, leaping over the side of the ship. "That's the fifth time he's done that today."

-

It wasn't all that hard to find him again. All they had to do was follow the destruction a delirious, overpowered monkey leaves behind.

Or at least, that was MK, Mei, and Macaque's strategy, up until they stumbled upon a perfectly normal, entirely untouched clearing.

"...What do we do now?" Mei asked, and Macaque made to give an answer-

Only to have to jump back, barely avoiding being impaled as Wukong suddenly appeared out of the surrounding woods, carrying a rather large tree. He had twigs, leaves, and dirt all throughout his fur. The blanket was seemingly missing, but neither MK, Mei, nor Macaque really wanted to find out where it had gone. The group of three took a cautious step back as Wukong locked eyes with them.

"Wanna see how up I can lift this tree?" He said, already lifting said tree above his head. (Everyone ignored how he'd seemingly forgotten the word 'high'.) MK and Mei shared a look as Mei slowly pulled out her phone, opening up the camera.

"I mean, we really shouldn't, but..." MK said, and Wukong beamed, shifting to hold the tree with one hand, taking the chance to show off. MK and Mei 'ooh'ed and 'awe'd appropriately, but Macaque rolled his eyes and looked away.

Which cause him to miss seeing the exact moment when Wukong's strength faltered, the tree falling upon the Monkey King's back, pinning him to the ground.

Macaque certainly didn't miss Wukong's screech of terror though.

MK and Mei had froze in shock, but Macaque reacted instantly, running over to the pinned monkey. The panicked mutters of "Not again, not again, please not again-" left little doubt as to what was currently going through Wukong's mind.

Macaque practically sent the tree flying in his rush to get it off of the other, and, not knowing was else to do when that didn't immediately quell Wukong's panic, flipped him over, desperately hoping that seeing the wide open sky, with no mountain in sight, would calm the Monkey King down.

And, well, it must've done something, as Wukong quieted, blankly staring up at the sky, without blinking.

"...Are you....okay?" Macaque asked, fearing that he had made things worse as he kneeled down beside him.

"...Have I... ever told you that you have beautiful eyes?" Wukong muttered, and Macaque paused.

"Ah- no. No." Macaque said, standing up. "No, we are not doing this again- MK, come get your stupid mentor, we're going back to the ship."

-

"MK- hey- hey kid-"

"What is it now, Monkey King?" MK sighed, tired. It had been unanimous that Wukong could no longer go even seconds without being supervised, and now had to be watched at all times. MK, unfortunately, had gotten the short end of the stick and had been chosen for the first watch, (They had drawn straws, and he had not missed the sighs of relief from the others, nor had he missed how Macaque had magically changed the length of the straws. He swore he'd get that shadow monkey back somehow), which of course meant that he was the first to have to put up with the delirious Wukong's complete and utter bullshit.

"Um- Would, do you think Macaque's fur tastes bitter like his rationality?" Wukong asked, from where he was laying on his back, on the couch, yet another of Sandy's blankets set on top of him. (They'd tried to cocoon him, but after enough protesting they'd given up on it for now).

"Wh-" MK started, confused, turning the sentence over in his head to make sense of it before responding. "...First of all, no, I think it would just taste like hair, second of all, did you mean to say personality?"

"....Yes...." Wukong said, slowly, before a wicked smirk came over his face, and MK felt fear settle into his bones. "Do you wanna see me make a hair buddy-"

"No!" MK yelled, and he may have lost all his powers, including his enhanced speed, but you wouldn't have known it from the way he practically flew to stop Wukong from blowing on his hair. "You are not going to be making any clones any time soon, okay? Monkey King I need you to look at me and confirm that you will not make any hair clones while you're delirious."

"...I will not make hair buddies while I'm serious." Wukong said, and MK sighed.

"Good enough, I guess." He said, sitting back down in his chair, slumping, momentarily closing his eyes in exasperation.

When he opened them again, Wukong was gone.

"Fuck-" MK said, jumping up and spinning around-

Only to see Wukong on the other side of the room, curled up on top of the other couch. He'd somehow gotten more blankets than before too, MK was certain there had only been two in the room before, but now there appeared to be at least seven.

MK didn't want to question where and how Wukong had gotten them.

What he would like to know though, was-

"...Why did you move to the other couch?" MK dared to ask, prompting Wukong to stick his head out of the pile of blankets he had buried himself in.

"Cause this one's more soft! The other one's too....too..." He seemed to blank on the word 'stiff', and instead said; "Boney. Boney couch. Bouch."

MK took a deep breath, trying to keep himself from breaking down then and there. It was, of course, at this moment, that he noticed Red Son try to sneak pass the open the door and down the hallway.

MK didn't let him.

"Red Son!" He said, rushing over (never taking his eyes off of Wukong), and looping his arm around the demon's. Red Son squeaked, but MK ignored it as he dragged him over to stand in front of Wukong. "Perfect timing, I think it was about time for me to have a little break, y'know? Would you mind watching him for me for a moment?"

Red Son was about to say no- but the look on his face, the look of someone who was oh so close to Losing It made him reconsider.

"...Sure..." Red Son said, slowly, "So long as it's only for a bit-"

"Cool! Thanks!" MK said, immediately letting go, turning and practically sprinting out of the room. "Good luck!"

Red Son had the ever looming sense that he had just doomed himself.

(He should have never accepted their offer to join them on the ship. But dammit, MK had offered some of that spicy candy he knew Red Son liked, and the fire demon just couldn't have refused.)

For a few blissful minutes, it was silent, Red Son staring at Wukong in apprehension, while Wukong hardly seemed to have noticed that anything had changed at all, still snugly wrapped in his nest of blankets.

And then Wukong lifted his head, a questioning expression on his face.

"...Does blue exist?" He asked, and a look that was somewhere between exasperation and pure terror made it's way onto Red Son's face.

"Noodle Boy, hurry up with your break and get back in here, your mentor's going existential!" He yelled, looking in the direction MK had gone, desperately hoping that the other would come back and save him from this fate.

"You can handle it!" MK's voice called faintly.

"...If blue doesn't exist......Then red doesn't exist......so does that mean you don't exist?" Wukong asked, under his breath, looking at Red Son with fear.

"I most certainly can not handle this!" Red Son yelled, "Could somebody please get over here?"

Nobody answered his call. Red Son honestly hadn't expected them to.

After all, he would've made the exact same choice.

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, trying to figure out how to respond to the monkey that currently seemed to be having an existential crisis.

Only to jump as he heard an ear shattering scream of frustration ring through the ship.

This had the fortune of snapping Wukong out of his crisis, instead having him simply look confused. Red Son ignored the faint shouts from Macaque's room (something about 'fuck you've got a serious pair of lungs' and 'warn a guy next time') as he tried to calm himself down from the sudden scare.

Geez. MK had seriously needed that break.

[littlefreya]

Easy Prey

Summary: Direct sequel to Jerk. Ring or not, August promised himself that he will make you his, in whatever mean possible and he kept that promise. 

Pairing: August Walker x Reader (2nd person pov)

Word count: 1.6K

Warnings: 18+, dark, kidnapping, bondage, dubious consent, teasing, dirty talk, gunplay (yeah add this to the list of kinks I gave you), sweet degradation and praise.

A/N: You thought August is going to sweet talk this one, didn’t you? Surprise! This was a short drabble brought by a prompt, turned into a one-shot and then my beta @agniavateira suggested this as a sequel to Jerk before I posted. Since most of you may be in a thanksgiving dinner tomorrow, enjoy my own early b-day gift to you! Many thanks to @wondersofdreaming and @sapphirescrolls who convinced me to post this. 

Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed. Your feedback is my fuel. 🖤

Easy Prey

August Walker lived his life swinging between the two sharp edges of a sword; but then, how could he not? He had to maintain a handsome prime-alpha male reputation while hiding his true cruel nature masked beneath mist and shadows.

It took everyone by surprise once it was revealed that the slick, charming agent was a vicious, Armani-wearing monster. A hard-to-swallow pill for most, but these two diverse entities were always one and the same: 

August Walker was John Lark the way darkness followed light. 

And how unfortunate it was of you to be lured into the spider’s web, stunned by the beauty of the pearly silk; you’ve gotten too close and had your limbs caught in the sticky threads. Now captured, you’ve earned yourself a taste of August’s sweet toxin yourself. 

Fear wasn’t even close to the sensation that was gnawing in your gut.

The suite was cosy; a sleepy fire crackled in the mantle, shy beams of maple light kissed your bare breasts while you laid upon the softest pillows. It felt like a sinister joke compared to the ropes charring the supple flesh of your wrists. August had you stripped of any remnants of protection of course, save for the little jewellery circling your finger which he eyed with a blank stare that screamed in its contained silence.

Fully clothed, he stood at the fore of the bed, wearing a blue three-piece suit as if he was attending a royal wedding. A magnum was clutched in his right hand and a dagger in the other. The calmness and elegance of his appearance only made you arch and grunt in your fruitless attempts to set yourself free.

“Ropes too tight, angel?” He hummed, his voice so pleasant it felt like your lungs were floating in a void. His crystal-pale gaze dawdled upon you, invading beneath the skin, penetrating the warm crease between your legs which you fought to keep shut. 

He felt it, or maybe even smelled the arousal that wafted at his direction and chanted his name.

“I’d save my strength if I were you. We’ve already proven that no one can hear your screams and we have a long night ahead of us.”

His words covered the bones of your spine with a thick layer of frost and in your searing throat, a bitter substance reemerged. Screwing your eyes shut, you wished more than anything for this to be a nightmare; but every time the binds twisted about your hands, you remembered the dreadful meaning behind the pain. 

It was there to remind you of the harsh slap that was reality.  

August tilted his head, a smile beginning to spread from each corner of his mouth: all pleasant and  charming as if this was nothing but a couple’s naughty getaway. 

“You can’t wake up from this, this is not a dream… or a nightmare, depends on your disobedience,” he assured, boding a sudden hollow in your chest. “Now, which one do you prefer? The knife or the gun?”

“Fuck you!” 

Defiant, you gathered yourself to scream a trembling cry, sending your legs to kick the mattress in a hopeless fight. Only it made things worse as August was able to spot the little dew-kissed orchid between your legs, glistening-wet with invitation. 

Flicking a tongue over his upper lip, he crept close. His broad shoulders strained, his posture that of an elegant predator; as you saw the large outlines of his heavy cock stretching his navy-blue trousers, even hatred and horror couldn’t mask the pang of need that shot through your core.

Despite the panic, the traitorous instinct of life whispered of undisclosed, primal lust. You wished so badly you could fight or hide it, but alas there was no hiding from August. He could sense it, see it, and even taste it on his wicked tongue. 

“Gun then,” he answered and slid the knife back into the holster in his belt.

Your breath hitched as the mattress dipped beneath his weight, and you watched paralysed as he aimed the gun between your legs. Strong tremors coursed along your skin and your knees buckled and wobbled as the cold metal touched you; and yet, in that very moment, you did the impossible and moaned.

“Has it been that long since you had a dick inside you?” August observed with a vicious grin crisping his lips. It made his moustache twitch almost comically. 

“Don’t worry sweet angel, we’ll fix that soon.”

Pushing the gun between your kneecaps, he forced them open and ran the barrel feverishly down your inner thighs. The metal was freezing against your flesh, eliciting little tingles to spiral beneath the tender brush. Gasping, you looked away from him ashamed. You were terrified, not just of him, but from how much the wanton centre of your sex clenched from his ministrations.

You were bound and kidnapped by a dangerous man, and yet in your mind played the sick fantasies of him unbuckling his belt and giving you his full girth hard and wild. 

“You will soon have me in every hole,” August continued with a promise on his honeyed lips while lowering the brim of the weapon perilously close to your radiating heat and toying with the sensitive area teasingly. “I will make it hurt real bad, you’ll feel me there for days if not more,” he hummed and swerved the barrel between your engorged lips. 

“Please!” You gasped and writhed away slightly, tugging on the binds that began chafing your delicate skin. August raised his glare to meet your pleading eyes and leaned forward, his shadow looming over you entirely. Reaching one hand to your nape, he clutched you forcefully while his icy glare pierced right through your skull.

Slow and sensual he began to run the gun between your soft petals, gingerly grazing the hard shaft at the plump peak of flesh that made you cry out with both pleasure and despair. 

“Aww...” He keened and groaned. Never stopping his coaxing of your cunt with the still object, his breath huffed hot upon your cheek as he rounded his beautiful lips in faux pity. “Poor helpless little butterfly.”

Crying and dazed, you stared directly into his eyes. Words of plea kept running caged inside your head, unable to make their way out while you watched August’s large shoulder move back and forth. The movement resulting in the unwanted pleasure. Back and forth, he stroked you, gradually increasing the pace, and not without style even. Ruthless, August was keen on making you come.

You weren’t even sure what it was that you begged for at that point.

Grunts and sobs escaped your throat unwillingly. You squirmed and pushed against it, your body craving for more: not just for the rough friction that tingled at your cunt but also at the large bulge visible at his groin. The more rapture began to creep through your flowing tendons, the further you sank into delirium, wondering how he would feel like buried deep between your tight walls, fucking you the way only someone who has no boundaries would.

“Fuck!” You screamed, grinding against the metal while August leaned even closer and kissed the corner of your mouth before groaning and moaning at your lips. His hand worked hard between your thighs, the cold barrel now warm, the hollow edge coated with your elixir. 

The wall of your protests crumbled as the simmering surge of climax began pushing itself down your belly, leaving you teetering between self-loathing and ecstasy. 

“That’s right my beautiful butterfly, I’ll pluck your wings,” August promised in a husky whisper, watching you as you coiled and cried louder, your walls convulsing tightly around a sad, empty space as you came. If only you didn’t wish it was August choked between them instead.

As you slumped down, sweaty and breathless, he drawled a growl of content and slowly withdrew the gun to hold it next to your shivering face.

“I swear, Sloan’s assistants keep getting sluttier every year; the last one I fucked had a thing for me choking her,” he mocked while grazing the wet barrel against your cheek, “do you think you’d be into that too, sweetling? My hand around your throat?”  

Rounding your eyes in utter fear, you swallowed the dryness in your throat. August sighed with a malicious little grin while twisted awe danced between the blue, sparkling sapphires that examined you ecstatically, so fascinated by how easily he managed to break and bend you to his will.

Still holding the neck of the gun pressed next to your cheek, he reached the other hand above your head. A part of you was relieved for a moment, thinking he was about to untie the bind. 

But your hope quickly died as you felt his fingers rolling the ring that decorated your finger.

The diamond reflected onto the deep blue of his eyes as he examined it closely before throwing it directly into the fireplace.

“No!” You cried out brokenly, as the last memory of your old life disappeared in flames.

“Save your tears beautiful,” August retorted, his voice once again so soft it chilled your very core. He shifted his entire weight between your straddled thighs, and leaned in to kiss the wetness below your eye, “you won’t be needing it anymore.”

His tongue slipped out to collect the briny liquid that gathered on your cheek, and another hum of delight rumbled in his chest as his covered cock unmistakably ground against your mound, “I am your man from now on, might as well accept it and let me do whatever I want.”

Shivering under him, you took a deep breath, your body already swaying in demand as you felt him throbbing beneath the soft fabric of his pants. To your own horror, your head fell into a slow nod of shameful consent. 

It wasn’t just August you were afraid of, but also for yourself.    

[wisteria-imagines]

Wisteria Imagines - Kyoujuro × Reader (F) 

+++Second Wind+++

Summary: During his fight with Akaza, a crow delivers a message to Kyoujuro from his beloved that gives him his second wind.

Kyoujuro was not one to feel fear, but this battle was wearing him thin. He had to stop Akaza, he had to protect his juniors from this monster. As the flame Hashira, that was his duty, to save those weaker than him, and defeat the wicked. And there was no one more wicked than the threat before him. Number three of the twelve Kizuki: Akaza.

“Kyoujuro,” The demon started, “You’ve been a worthy foe! Your skill, your technique, don’t you see how perfect a demon you could be? We could stay fighting together for eternity, can’t you imagine how perfect that would be! Forever building each other's power, till the end of time.” It almost sounded like the demon was pleading. A sick plea for the fun to never end. Kyoujuro’s face hardened.

“I would rather perish than submit to you, Akaza.” The demon’s face soured.

“Very well, but just know…” The demon sighed, “Killing you will be the hardest thing I enjoy.” Soon enough his face split into a crazed grin, before he flung himself forward towards the pillar. 

He was going to die here, Kyojuro realised. He was going to die fighting this demon, hopefully, by the mercy of any gods that be, he could spare the lives of his juniors. At least then his sacrifice could be worth something. He slashed at Akaza, putting in every technique he knew, but the demon was right. His human body could only cope with so much strain.

They were neck in neck, pushing into one another waiting for the other to give, when suddenly, a loud squawk came from overhead. Both of their eyes darted to the source of the sound, it was a crow. 

“Corrospondance for Rengoku Kyoujuro - SQUAWK - correspondence for Rengoku Kyoujuro!” The two warrior’s eyes fell back on one another before they pushed off of eachother, landing a great deal apart. Kyoujuro held out his arm, for the bird to land, never taking his eyes off of the demon. Akaza waited patiently before smiling at the pillar.

“Go ahead Kyoujuro. Read your little letter, since it just might be the last thing you ever read again.” He said as though he were offering a great mercy. The flame pillar huffed, he could barely see from one of his eyes at this point, but he unwrapped the letter from the crow’s foot. He unfolded it and was met with the familiar scent of his beloved’s perfume. You always sprayed your letters with it so he could always tell it was from you. 

“My dearest Kyo,

I wanted to tell you this in person but I just can’t wait until you come back. 

While I was visiting a shrine, I experienced one of those dizzy spells I had told you about last time. Luckily a medic was there and I found out something incredible.

Kyo, I’m pregnant! You're going to be a father! I wish I could see the look on your face, I bet you’re beside yourself right now. I know I couldn’t stop crying when I found out!

I miss you so much. So you better hurry up back to me Kyo, we still have to get married.

I love you with every inch of my heart, my flame.

Love (Y/n)”

Kyojuro gulped, his heart throbbing in his chest. He was so caught up in protecting what was in front of him, he had forgotten about you. The love of his life. The two of you had been together for a while now, you had seen him become a demon slayer, you had been there when he became the flame Hashira. He had promised to marry you once Muzan was slain, in the place where you two had met. But now, you were pregnant, with his child. He was going to have a family.

“Kyoujuro,” the pillar snapped out of his stupor. “We still have a fight to finish, it’s rude to keep me waiting.” Akaza taunted. That was right, he had a fight to finish, and a woman to go home to. Kyoujuro brought the letter to his face once more, breathing in the perfumed paper on final time before stashing it in his pocket. A smile split its way across his face. 

“You’re correct!” He stood firm, the flames in his heart burning stronger than ever before. “I have received some great news, so unfortunately for you, I’m not going to die here.” He let out a deep breath, the flames erupting out of his very being, engulfing him entirely. Akaza stood wide eyed, before laughing maniacally.

“That’s the spirit, Kyoujuro. It’s a shame you won’t let me turn you, you’re magnificent.” The ground cracked as Akaza surged towards him. Kyoujuro spread his stance and breathed, before rushing towards the demon. Their collision created a shockwave that blew a crater into the ground. “Amazing!” Akaza praised. “You’re so amazing, hiding this power from me? What the hell news did you receive to give you this second wind?!” Kyoujuro had no reason to disclose anything to the demon, but he was fueled by your words, and his endless love for you.

“I’m going to be a father.” They broke off before colliding again. “I’m going to have a child, and then me and my beloved will get married!” He sliced Akaza’s limbs off as fast as they grew back. “So you see, my fiance is waiting at home for me, so I simply must kill you here and now!” Any pain was muted by the adrenaline coursing through his veins. 

“Look at you, focusing on such weaknesses.”

“My love is no weakness! I truly pity you Akaza. To not know what it feels like to love, and be loved, to not know the happiness brought upon knowing there’s someone waiting at home for you. Have you truly been a demon so long you’ve forgotten what it feels like to have a heart that beats for another?!” 

Akaza’s face dropped, his strength faltering for a split second, but that was long enough for Kyoujuro to get the upper hand. With one final slash of his sword, he forced the metal through Akaza’s arms and through his neck, taking his head in one swift motion. 

Kyoujuro watched as the demon’s head went sailing into the air, his body still standing wavered as though about to drop. From behind him he heard Young Tanjirou’s voice call out his name, running towards him. 

“Stay back Young Kamado!” he was still on guard. The body was still standing, he watched it intensely, ready to move if it striked. Kyoujuro’s stomach dropped as the severed neck started to scab over, bubbling as though trying to regenerate the head. But luckily, dawn broke. The sun’s rays spilled over the horizon, and burned the body to ashes.

Kyoujuro let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding in before he crumbled to his knees, tears spilling over his eyes. 

“Rengoku-san!” Tanjirou skid infront of him, falling to his knees before the pillar. Tanjirou placed his hands on Kyoujuro’s shoulders as if to steady the flame pillar. “Rengoku-san, are you okay? The demon’s dead, you saved us all! Help will be here soon!” Kyoujuro looked at the boy, he wasn’t terribly wounded. Kyoujuro was glad.

“Young Kamado...” Kyoujuro pulled out the letter from his pocket and handed it to the boy.

“I’m going to be a father!” He laughed, his voice filled to the brim with love. Tanjirou looked from the letter to Rengoku, before smiling, sympathy tears forming in his eyes also. 

“Congratulations, Rengoku-san!” 

[mandolovian]

1. triple-scented jasmine

pairing: cottagecore!din djarin/the mandalorian x reader

warnings: none! reader has some gently spicy feelings but it’s all pretty mild and full of yearning + fluff + pining

word count: 1.7k

a/n: this entire concept is dedicated to @mndalorians​​ - thank u for fueling both my desire to live in the woods, and also to live in the woods with a tin can metal man. let me know what you think! pls expect more of this world bc i love it so so so so much ✨

You’d been eyeing the Mandalorian that moved into the property across from yours.

It was a rundown bungalow sitting on overgrown land: soil that hadn’t been turned, cobwebs that hadn’t been dusted. The previous owner was a portly man with ruddy cheeks - good-natured in temperament, but heavy-handed with the liquor. Towards the later years of his life, he became increasingly neglectful of the raised garden beds that lined the fences, and the poor citrus trees were left to shrivel into husks of their magnificent beings.

The arrival of a spaceship onto the planet sent many hushed whispers through the little farming community, no matter what kind of spaceship it was. Mira came rushing to your front door that morning, laden with town-gossip and bottles of bantha milk, a little shiny eyed and sweaty at effort it had taken to speed walk to your house in the morning sun.

‘It’s a Mandalorian,’ she stage-whispers, cooling herself with an old newspaper while sitting on your porch steps. ‘All shiny and pretty too. Parked his ship in the old hangars downtown. Probably the only ship in those hangars, to tell the honest truth.’

You lean against the doorframe, picking at a loose string on your apron. ‘What’s a Mandalorian doing around here, Mira?’ you ask.

‘Beats me,’ Mira says, shuffling her heavy skirts to sit more comfortably on the steps. The fabric hides the swell of her belly, and she keeps a hand on it when she leans back to look at you. ‘I heard it’s the same shiny Mandalorian that was shooting up all those Outer Rim cities. Maybe he’s looking to settle down here!’

You look down in exasperation at Mira with raised eyebrows, and she throws her hands up in defence before going back to vigorously fanning herself.

‘Either way,’ she says after a while, getting up with some difficulty. You offer her your arm and she takes it gratefully, heaving herself up to her feet. ‘It’ll be some excitement for us, you know?’

Her voice drops to a stage whisper again as she grabs your forearm, grinning toothily. ‘Maybe he’s single and is really looking to settle down!’

‘Mira please-’

‘I’m just saying!’ she says, waving you off. You help her collect the empty bottles back into her basket, and she waddles back down the porch steps. ‘If that Mandalorian comes knocking at your door, you best be opening it!’

----

Mira wasn’t wrong. He really was quite shiny.

With a mug of coffee and a biscuit, you settle yourself on the window seat and curle up your feet under you. It’s a prime position to look through the cracks of the curtains as the Mandalorian unloads his luggage off the rusty hover-trailer. The sun is high in the sky and shines off his armour as he lifts case after case off the trailer, stacking them on the porch of the bungalow.

A little baby follows the Mandalorian’s feet as he walks from the trailer to the house. Green, about a foot high, and almost entirely composed of petal-ears that raises and lowers in time with the crates that the Mandalorian carried. Your heart tightens a little when the baby trips over his little robe and goes sprawling into an overgrown rosemary bush, and tightens just a little more when the Mandalorian reaches down to pick the baby up, stroke his ears, and press the baby’s forehead to his helmet.

Maybe he is here to settle down.

You concede that he’s difficult to wholly admire from afar, but even with the distance that unfortunately befalls between you, you can tell that he was strong. Broad. You let your mind wander at the sight of his thighs when he kneels to tug at a handful of weeds that prevents his fence from latching firmly.

Capable and compassionate.

And if your eyes flutters shut and your thighs press against each other with just a little bit of pressure? Well, no one needed to know.    

-----

‘Hi there!’

If anyone told you that you would open your front door, dressed in a nightdress and slippers, to a fully armoured and incredibly luminescent Mandalorian, you would say they were absolutely dreaming. Even still, there he stands, in his beskar glory, and your breath catches a little at the sight of his broad shoulders taking up nearly all of the doorway.

‘Hello,’ he says, and maker you’re already melting at his voice. ‘My son and I, we just-’ he haphazardly gestures behind him, ‘-moved into the house down there.’

‘I saw,’ you say quietly, choosing to avoid mentioning how much you’ve already stared at him today. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘We don’t seem to have electricity at the house,’ he says with a sigh, tapping his fingers against his belt. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the fuses but the entire system seemed turned off. Would you... would you maybe know why?’

‘You might not have your house connected to the grid,’ you say after a beat, tapping the corner of your lips in thought. ‘That house has been empty for years, of course it’d be disconnected.’

‘Is there a way to fix that?’

You shake your head, and the Mandalorian sighs quietly in response. ‘Not till morning,’ you say. ‘You’ll need to see Ledo Rikil in town tomorrow - he’ll be able to link your house up to the grid.’

‘I see,’ says the Mandalorin. He seems a little sheepish, perhaps dejected, and he lets out a tinny sigh again. Wrapping your arms around your middle, you shift slightly on your feet.

‘If it’s any consolation,’ you begin, not wanting to part so readily, ‘tonight will be warm so you’ll not need any heating, but maybe I can give you some candles for the dark?’

The Mandalorian hums, deep and sugary. Your toes curl inside your slippers at the sound and you feel ever so slightly dizzy. ‘That would be wonderful,’ he said, and stars, was it always going to be like this? Could you keep it together for one conversation?

You usher him over the step into your house, and he gingerly walks in. You can tell that he’s trying his best to avoid stomping on your floorboards, and you know better than to ask him to take his boots off. The Mandalorian carefully moves himself to stand on the rug in your living area - as if he’s a penguin seeking an iceberg on the wooden sea.

‘This is a nice house,’ he says, tilting his helmet as he watched you from the middle of the room. ‘Very… homely.’

He trails off at the end of the sentence, and seems to sink even more sheepishly into his beskar studded boots.

‘You’re allowed to take inspiration, if you like,’ you say with a soft laugh, turning to rummage through your cupboards. ‘Can’t imagine that the old shack has any personality right now.’

‘I haven’t lived in a house in a long time,’ says the Mandalorian, and you hum in response. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him cautiously take a seat at the edge of your couch, rearranging his limbs until his hands were folded on his lap like a regency-era maiden.

‘Well,’ you say, balancing several candles in your arms as you walk over to him, ‘you’ve come to the right place for inspiration and illumination.’

Onto the coffee table in front of him, you lay out the selection: four paraffin pillar candles, a handful of tealights, and one ornate jar, complete with a glass lid. The Mandalorian leans forward and rests his forearms on his knees, tilting his helmet to silently assess your layout.

‘The paraffin ones should be your go-to candles,’ you say, sitting back on your knees on the rug in front of the coffee table. Gently, you push the pillar candles closer to him. ‘They can burn for half a day, and they have a very bright flame. They’ll brighten an entire room with no problem.’

You pick up a tealight, and hand it to the Mandalorian. It sits tiny in the middle of his palm, and he strokes the edge of the wick gently with a gloved finger.

‘Those are good for temporary use,’ you say. ‘Or if you only need light for a small area. Or just for decorating. Up to you, really.’

‘And the glass one?’ he ask.

You pick up the jar and open it, before offering it to the Mandalorian. ‘It’s a housewarming gift,’ you say. ‘Triple-scented jasmine. Made it myself.’

The Mandalorian puts down the tealights, and accepts the jar with as much gentle grace as an armoured man could. ‘You made this yourself?’ he asks, and you nod shyly.

With a quiet groan, you sit up on your knees, and flex side to side to stretch out your sore hips. ‘They’re not too hard to make,’ you say, ‘I could show you one day if you’d like?’

There’s a soft crackle of a laugh, made hoarse by his helmet. It’s warm, delightful, and you wonder what it might feel like against the apples of your cheeks.

‘It’s incredible,’ he say, and you fiddle demurely with the edge of your dress at the praise. ‘Thank you so much for all of this - how could I ever repay you?’

‘Nonsense,’ you say, standing up straight and brushing off your skirts. The Mandalorian stands up with you, and he haphazardly arranges the candles in his forearms before sheepishly accepting a canvas bag from you. ‘Just… come say hello every so often. I’ll introduce you to everyone!’

‘Everyone?’

He’s standing back on your doorstep now, swinging the bag of candles lightly in his left hand. The moonlight shines off the harsh planes of his armour, and you idly wonder how often and how long he spent polishing it. You’d have to ask sometime.

‘It’s a small town,’ you say. ‘We help each other out. It helps knowing one another.’

The Mandalorian steps backwards, carefully down the porch steps and onto your gravel path. ‘I’ll hold you to that,’ he says, tilting his helmet towards you. ‘I’ll see you later.’

You cross your arms against the quiet breeze, and lean against the post. ‘Goodnight, Mandalorian.’

[plus-size-reader]

Babysitting

Caliban x Plus size!reader

Word Count: 1603 words

Warnings: none

Summary: Sabrina putting you in charge of babysitting Caliban and keeping him out of trouble. Instead, he just ends up giving you a tour of hell

——————————————————————————————————

You understood why Sabrina needed someone to keep track of Caliban, but you just weren’t sure why it had to be you. In some ways, you were able to connect the dots, realizing that you were the only one of your friends not currently facing your own demons.

In that way specifically, you were the perfect candidate for watching the man of clay.

...Lucky you.

You didn’t know Caliban all that well, but it wasn’t difficult to see that even if he wasn’t truly a man, he had more personality than any other you’d ever met.

There was nothing you could change about what he was or how he was acting. All you could do was plug your ears and ignore him at best. After all, this favor wasn’t about Caliban at all...This was all for Sabrina.

You owed her your life and if this was what she wanted your help with, you were just going to suck it up and watch him.

Not that it was going to be easy.

You were quickly learning that bossing around the self-proclaimed prince of hell wasn’t as much of a cakewalk as you thought it was.

“Don’t touch that” you repeated, for what seemed like the hundredth time, slapping his hand away from one of the many books in the library. You were trying to keep him somewhere that he couldn’t destroy anything.

Unfortunately,that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t find a way to be ridiculously annoying anyhow.

“How do you expect me to entertain myself if I cannot read anything? You certainly aren’t amusing me” he huffed in return, finding this whole thing terribly dull.

Not only was he being held here, but you wouldn’t even try to have a good time with him...not that there was much of a good time to be had at all.

You and Caliban had nothing in common, but the more the man of clay fiddled with the books on the shelves, the more his mind began to wander. He had an idea, but he wasn’t sure how you would react.

After all, what he was about to propose would likely make a mortal like you recoil in fear.

Though, he had to know for sure what you would think, it was out of his hands at this point. “Have you ever thought about hell?” he asked, keeping his head forward on the books.

He had to be careful about how he did this, it had to be handled the right way. You had been suspicious of him all day, and this would only make it worse if you rejected his suggestion.

You were shocked, at first.

Of course you had thought about hell. You had been worshipping the dark lord since you were old enough to speak, but that wasn’t what he was asking...and you both knew it.

It was clear that there was a different weight to his question, so you nodded.

“Of course I have, but only in the way that everyone else has” you shrugged, glancing over at him quickly before dropping your eyes again. Caliban was sort of intimidating for a man made of clay, but you couldn’t have cared all that much.

All you had to do was keep him out of trouble, and as long as you two were talking, he wasn’t doing anything too bad.

“Well, you know I come from there. Do you have any questions you want to ask me?” he tried, this time a bit more brazen. As soon as he spoke, Caliban turned to face you, a wicked grin on his face. “-Or, I could always take you there to see for yourself”

It was nothing more than a mutter, which you likely would have missed if you hadn’t been looking at his lips. However, you could hardly control the tiny skip in your heart at his offer.

For a girl who’d been praying to hell all her life, the idea of actually getting to see it in life was too good to pass up. Though, you didn’t really have much of a choice. You were pretty sure that when Sabrina asked you to watch him, letting Caliban take you to hell wasn’t part of the plan.

Not that you didn’t want to take him up on it.

Every cell in your body was urging you to take his hand and go with him. It wouldn't have been that bad, right? You were a witch for hell’s sake, hell was just a part of that. Besides, you weren’t sure when you’d get a chance to see it again.

In fact, the more you thought about it, the more you were finding it difficult to pass it up and who was going to stop you? What Sabrina didn’t know wouldn’t kill her, after all.

If no one told her that you went, then she wouldn’t have a problem anyway. Not to mention the fact that you would still be keeping an eye on Caliban, just not where she thought you were.

It wouldn’t hurt her.

So, without giving it much more of a thought, you nodded. “Okay Caliban, take me there” you allowed, taking the hand he offered. The man looked shocked at your order, but he only smiled, giving you a curt nod.

This was what he wanted all along. He had been craving some sort of excitement since he stepped foot on earth, and this was just the ticket…

Even if it was going to take him back to hell.

~

Hell wasn’t what you thought it would be, at least not at first.

After your ascension to hell, that came in the form of swirling flames from the ground up, to the sands of the shore of sorrow, it was all unlike anything you had ever experienced.

The very air seemed to elicit feelings of unease, but that wasn’t the strangest part. The strangest part of the entire experience was that Caliban didn’t care, at all. He didn’t seem at all amused by the absoluteness of this.

Hell was it, it was all there was, for a lot of people.

You could hardly believe that you were standing here with air still in your lungs, and blood pumping through your veins but Caliban didn’t even bat an eye.

It was almost as if this didn’t matter to him, at least not in the way that it clearly mattered to you. Though maybe you shouldn’t have been surprised, considering the fact that he had literally been crafted from the soil here.

Hell had given him life, and he thought of it as what it was. He didn’t even spare it any more than that, because that was all it was. It was the place he had begun life in, and it was the place he would continue to rule for all eternity if all went well.

It wasn’t the marvel that you thought it was in this moment.

“This place is astounding” you gushed, glancing around the beach with wide eyes. You had no idea what he was going to do now that the two of you were here but it didn’t matter.

All that mattered was that you were standing in hell with Caliban, and this was going to be one hell of a tour.

*Bonus*

Hell had been awesome, if that term was appropriate.

You thought that what you and Caliban had done by going there was amazing, but after Sabrina found out about it, you weren’t sure if you felt the same way.

She wasn’t thrilled and all things considered, you couldn’t blame her for being upset.

However, before she could really get upset with you for what you had done, Caliban moved in to defend you. “Don’t berate her, Spellman...The trip was my idea” he started, shocking both of you.

You hadn’t been expecting that.

In all the time that you’d known each other, you had never known Caliban to take the blame for anything. It surprised you and with one look, you could tell just how much it surprised Sabrina as well. 

After looking between you, and the man at your side, she sighed. “Fine, but no more trips to hell for you” she decided, knowing what could happen if anyone happened to notice you there. 

You didn’t like it, of course, but you understood. 

“No problem, princess” Caliban grinned, using that nickname to further spite her. If he had it his way, he would take you to hell every chance that he got, but if she wouldn’t have it, he wasn’t going to push the issue. 

Instead, he turned back to face you. 

“But perhaps you would join me for another activity, a safer one of course” he suggested, winking at Sabrina as he added that, knowing it would get her goat. 

He wouldn’t have said it if it didn’t. Though, you could hardly focus on that. 

Instead, you chose to remain on the sentence before. Had Caliban just asked you out? It seemed as if he had but it didn’t make any sense. 

As far as you knew, Caliban hated you but you had never known a man like him to spend more time with anyone more than necessary. He had spent all day by your side, and that wasn’t even the half of it. 

...Now he was coming back for more. 

Perhaps though, it couldn’t hurt to take the clay man up on his offer. After all, everything that he suggested before now told you that he cared for you and that may be worth exploring. 

Even if it wasn’t ideal for anyone involved. 

[heyheydidjaknow]

I’m uploading this Friday at 12:10 am. Or, at least, that’s when I finished writing this. Yes, we’re still on the angst thing. It won’t last forever, but still.

Chapter 9

“How is she?”

Donatello sits down next to his brother on the couch. “Same as yesterday,” he sighs. “Comatose.”

“I still can’t believe it,” Raphael smirks. “That stupid bitch decided to total the fuckin—"

“Raphael,” he promises coolly, “I will personally make it my life’s goal to make sure you can never open your mouth again if you don’t shut up.”

He puts his hands up. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Will you two be quiet for a minute? I’m trying to listen.” Leonardo kneels in front of the television.

There is a new news story.

“They can’t arrest her, can they?” The tallest brother glances at the others.

“Nah.” Michelangelo is sprawled out on his portion of the couch, eyes dully focused on the screen. “They’ll side with her before someone from a street gang, ‘specially with those…” He trails off. “’ Sides,” he clears his throat, “any good public defense lawyer would call it self-defense, and there’s no way the police would convict a teenage girl of any degree of murder with the injuries she has; bad press.”

“Mikey,” Leo asks, “how come you know that and not how to multiply numbers by seven?”

“Because seven is a stupid number that was created just to make us all feel stupid.”

“Leo—”

“He’s right,” Raph agrees. “They won’t put her away for something like that.” He chuckles darkly. “Besides, there’s no more evidence.”

“After what happened with the neurologist?”

“Donnie,” Leo turns to look at him. “She’s going to be fine.”

He opens his mouth to argue, closes it.

” The perpetrator,” the news anchor reads, ” was found this morning after a panicked nine-one-one caller had seen the hand of the assailant hanging over a ledge. The corpse had, presumably, been flung away from the scene of the incident as a consequence of the explosion, miraculously landing on the roof of a nearby restaurant. The body has been identified as Fong Zhao, who was arrested on multiple charges of armed battery earlier this year. The police have refrained from offering Channel Six detailed information, but we have an anonymous source who claims that he and the gang he is supposedly involved in, locally referred to as the Purple Dragons, was also involved in the hijacking of a truck carrying a substance believed to be tear gas. The driver of the truck testified in favor of this statement earlier this evening. An investigation is currently ongoing regarding the involvement of the men in question, and we at Channel Six implore our viewers to come forward with any information you may have on the case or the supposed ringleader, the recently escaped Xever Montes. More on that later tonight. Up next, a local—”

Leonardo shuts off the television. “Well, there you go.” He stands up. “See? Didn’t even mention her name.”

Donatello breathes out a sigh of relief. “Good,” he nods after a moment. “That’s... good.” He cradles his head in his hand, his concerns hardly pacified by the report.

This, he cannot excuse. This is entirely a matter of his own negligence.

‘I should’ve noticed sooner, insisted to come with.’ He zones out, his brother starting a conversation about something he cannot bring himself to pay attention to. ‘How could she be that reckless? It’s Shredder for fuck’s sake; I should’ve at least noticed the body or something, anything.’ His fingers lace together as he stares a hole into the ground. ‘Even if I couldn’t have stopped her, I should’ve been there, if only after the fact.’ He runs his tongue along his teeth absentmindedly. ‘Some ninja I am. Some friend. Some—’

“So, I broke Y/N’s arms, right?”

His head snaps up. “You what?”

“There he is,” Raph chuckles. “Knew that’d get his attention.”

“Don’t make me go over there,” he glares. His face flushes in embarrassment.

Leonardo rolls his eyes at his brother’s antics. “As I was saying, it’s been pretty quiet, hasn’t it? Since the incident?”

“Now that you mention it,” Raph points out, “since the whole Leatherhead fiasco, I don’t think anything’s really happened. Ya know, besides the Kraang thing.” He crosses his arms behind his head, leaning back into the couch. “It’s been getting’ kinda boring If I’m bein’ honest.”

“It’s that desire to fight that’s going to get you killed,” Donatello informs him, staring at the television screen. “Saw what happened to her, right? Weren’t you just saying how stupid she was being?”

“Yeah, but that’s different.” He smiles sharply. “She’s got exactly no training. As much as you guys seem to have a thing for humility all of a sudden,” he waves his hand contemptuously, “the only reason she got hurt is that she was being stupid, so we’re pretty much undefeated, no thanks to Leo.”

He stands up, deciding against fighting him. “If you need me,” he says curtly, “I’ll be in my lab.”

“Watch it, Raph,” the eldest brother snaps.

“Why should I?” He throws his hands up. “Am I wrong?”

Mikey quietly grabs his comic off the floor, retreating to his room, presumably.

Donatello slides the door in between him and his brothers as he sits down at his desk.

You have been stuck in the hospital for about two weeks now.

‘Technically,’ he corrects himself as he pulls his laptop open, ‘it’s been three hundred fifty-seven hours, meaning it’s closer to fifteen days than two weeks. Why do I know that?’ He pulls up an image, uncapping a permanent marker and working on one of the more mindless parts of his latest project: reviving an incredibly battered map. He already has a frame for it once he is finished, but, knowing his brothers, the fading colors would likely be a point of contention if he did not at least make an effort to make it easier to read. Fortunately for him, it is not laminated. Unfortunately—depending on how you look at it— a lot of the finer details—the integral streets names in particular—are all irreparably smudged and, therefore, will have to be all rewritten by hand, turning a once twenty-minute job into at least a two-hour investment.

He tries to tune out the incessant arguing of his two older brothers as he focuses on making his minute handwriting legible despite the infuriatingly fat marker nib.

“You should have taken her offer for a pen when you had the chance,” he mumbles to himself.

His hand stops.

‘Would it be weird to go check on her again? Just to make sure she’s still alright? I mean,’ he goes back to work, ‘even if it were, how would she know?’

He shakes his head to clear it. ‘Stop that. You’re being a creep again.’

Over those two weeks, his distractedness has become more of a problem than it has in the past in reference to his work. He is hardly a stranger to having a thousand thoughts bouncing around his head at once, but where once a rapid stream of information was there is now an aggravatingly slow sludge. The origin of said mind sludge is not at all a mystery to him, which makes the whole thing infinitely more frustrating. ‘Frustrating? Depressing? Does it even matter?’

He rubs his eye absentmindedly with the heel of his palm as he strains to see what he is doing. The smell of the marker is corrosive in his nostrils. His hand shakes. He sets it down, wringing his hands as if to force them back into submission as he stares holes into the map. ‘This is not supposed to be challenging.’ He closes his eyes, the image of you lying on the ground, a bloody, skeletal figure shaking and begging for your life carved into the backs of his eyelids, a hideous scar.

He can not stop thinking about what you said the night before the incident. Something about being able to care for yourself.

What would you say to him now? He imagines that it would be something to remind him of how the accident is your fault, how he should not beat himself up over it, but all that does is convince him that he should have been faster to act or to respond or something. There had to have been something he, in his infinite wisdom, could have done. What else can he reason? That he is powerless? That he had no say in what happened that night of nights?

‘How come I can plan and build a combat vehicle out of alien technology and an old subway car and I can’t—’

He jumps at a loud banging at the door.

“Donnie!” He can hear Raphael’s wicked grin from behind the door. “Bank robbery! Let’s go!”

He sighs, capping the marker. His breakdown will have to wait.

“Comin’!”

--

The ringing in your ears is already annoying.

You have been awake for about five minutes. You have elected against moving for a plethora of reasons, but the ringing is a relatively large determining factor in your decision. You are, admittedly, not sure where you are until you hear the tell-tale incessant beeping you remember from your childhood. You do not open your eyes yet. You are incredibly drowsy for some reason.

‘Hospital?’

You sit up carefully, wincing as a numb pain permeates through your arms. You run your fingers over your face curiously, feeling for any perceived disfigurement as your eyes scan your surroundings. The small room you have been placed in seems standard; there are a couple of chairs under a window that makes up half of the wall, a television screen in a corner of the room, an inoffensive painting, and a small vase filled with some sort of white flowers.

You feel a protruding scar on the right side of your face. It traces from the bridge of your nose to about halfway across your cheekbone. As you bring your hands down to pull the hospital gown away from your body, you catch sight of your hands. Long, jagged cuts run vertically along the front of your hands, and as your eyes travel up your arms, you notice fewer, shorter scars along the insides of your forearms. You swallow, pulling the cloth away from your body to see long scratches running from your thighs to under your ribcage. You pull the blanket off to find that one of your legs is encased in a white cast.

You blink. ‘What stupid thing did I do?’

You lay back down, fingers absentmindedly tracing the scars. ‘I must have been out for a bit.’ You push the hair out of your face, noting how oddly shaky your hands are as you try to focus on what had happened. ‘Why wouldn’t my folks be here? They wouldn’t ditch me in a hospital, would they?’ You hold them out in front of you, palms to the ceiling. ‘I don’t look old or anything. My nails aren’t much longer than they were before, so I can’t have been out for that long.’

Your eyebrows furrow. ‘Parents…’ You swallow. ‘Oh, right. The fire.’ Your eyes go out of focus. ‘Dead. I was, too, until recently.’ You put your arms down. ‘I’m hungry. Where am I?’ You close your eyes. ‘New York. East coast. How far is the East Coast from the West Coast? I should call her so she knows I’m—no, she’s dead.’

“All dead and gone,” you mumble the tune to yourself.

You cover your face. ‘Focus. What happened?’ You recall what you think is a church. ‘Turtles. Turtle. Oh, TMNT. Where are people? Focus.’ You yank at a piece of your hair, mumbling to yourself as you try to run through the memory again.

The image of that man’s body takes your breath away.

You shut your eyes tighter. ‘Right. Car. Glass. Glass would be a good candy. Could you make glass out of sugar? Isn’t that what a lollipop is?’ You hug yourself tightly, careful of the IV as you roll onto your side towards it. ‘I killed someone. Someones. That’s not a word. Gasoline smells bad.’ You feel tears prick at your eyes. ‘I deserve to die for that. There has to have been an easier way to do that. I deserve to burn again. That explosion was so prettily animated in that episode. I can’t breathe.’

You curl your legs up towards you, using the arm not connected to the IV to hook behind your knees. You bury your head in your shoulder as you force your breathing to slow. ‘I miss her. Where is he? They’re dead and you killed them, you heartless bitch.’

You feel a sob rise in your throat. You swallow it back. ‘Stop being a pussy.’ You hear yourself start to count softly. ‘They’re all dead and gone. You’re on your own here, so get a grip.’ You grip the blanket. ‘After all, who are you going to turn to? The guys who already risk their lives every day? Or maybe Splinter, who will probably tell you some bullshit about letting your pain go?’

‘That’s not fair,’ you argue with yourself. ‘You can turn to Murakami. Casey might be willing to help.’

‘Because Casey’s known for his reliability and Murakami would want to deal with your stupid emotional problems.’

“Twenty-three,” you whisper, keeping your voice even. “Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six…’

You pull yourself back up, bringing your knee to your chest as you wipe any tears that may have leaked out with the back of your hand.

You do not have to wait long until someone comes in to check on you, a taller gentleman with sharp features and sunken eyes behind curly black hair. He introduces himself as Nurse McGrath, gives you a run down of the dizzying number of injuries you had suffered in the accident, what they had done to fix the problem, and starts to discuss what would become of you now.

“The doctor predicts that you’ll be able to remove your cast in approximately six weeks, and that you will regain your fine-motor skills fully in eight.” He is obviously half asleep, but you can hardly blame him; the clock on the wall reads that it is about three in the morning. “The symptoms from the whiplash should completely fade in about three months. If you would be open, there are medications we can prescribe to help with the pain.”

You smile. “Thank you, sir, but I’d rather not.” You are sincerely concerned what might happen if you start taking any sort of medication right now, considering your mental health.

“I should probably warn you in advance that the police might ask you to come in to identify the guys who kidnapped you.”

You blink, confused. “How do they know I was kidnapped?”

“Anonymous tip, according to the news.” He scratches something into some form or another. “I dunno the specifics, but nobody thinks they’re gonna charge you with anything, ‘specially since the driver was from that street gang.”

You nod. “Gotcha.” You purse your lips. “What day is it?”

“Twenty-fourth, now.”

You sigh. “Well,” you shrug, ignoring the pain it causes, “at least I’m not dead.”

“At least.” He caps his pen. “Technically, you’re free to leave, but the doc thinks it’s a good idea to stay overnight. Your insurance provider has your medical bills covered, so you’re good for it.”

“Honestly? I’m surprised I don’t feel weaker.” You smile. “I’m more than happy to head home tonight, if that makes most sense.”

“Personally, I wouldn’t stay.” He starts heading out of your room. “Your cellphone is locked up. I’m guessing you want it?”

You nod eagerly, realizing quickly that makes the ringing worse.

“I’ll bring it right back, then.”

You refrain from touching it until he leaves.

It looks as if it was put in a blender, but you find it does still turn on. A problem quickly arises: your hands cannot hold the phone. You set it down on the mattress, each movement taking a ridiculous amount of time to coordinate as you type like someone who has never used a phone before. ‘Fine motor skills. Right.’ You type out a message after approximately too long that tells Donnie that you are out of the hospital and heading home.

You check out of the hospital at approximately four-thirteen. The trip home is a straight line of a walk that takes you approximately twenty minutes. Getting in through the door with a walker is a bit of a challenge, but it works out well enough.

You lock the door and windows when you get home, shutting your phone off as you crawl into bed.

You let out a low groan as your head punishes you for your heinous crime of moving. You had realized ten minutes into your walk that you were not at all physically strong enough to walk that long, and you already hate yourself for it, among other reasons. As you crawl into bed, ignoring your body’s protest, you still stand by your decision to not take any medication, especially now.

You feel as though you are being suffocated as you cling onto your pillow, pressing your face into it as you cry silently, the ringing in your ears only getting louder in the silence of your apartment.

‘I feel sick.’

You remember your first night here. You remember the feeling it had caused you, the numb ache of loss as you submitted to the situation you had found yourself in. It feels like an eternity ago, now. You know, logically, it cannot have been more than two months since you got here.

You had decided against taking a cab back home. You had the cash, and you still do, in your bloodstained pocket. You saw many as you walked home, and you had turned a blind eye to them all.

You feel yourself trembling again. You remember the first night you had slept on your own here, the nightmares you swore were the product of a mind much more sadistic than yours ever was. You remember, too, the nightmares you had after Bradford, the way that, for the first time in your life since you were five years old you woke up drenched in sweat and crying for your mother.

What possible dream could come from this?

You reach a hand to the nightstand, hovering over your cellphone as you consider your next action.

Slowly, you retract it, letting it rest next to you. ‘It’s four. He’s not awake.’ You do not have the energy to get up to grab the bottle of sleeping pills from your bathroom.

‘I don’t want to sleep. I can’t take another nightmare.’ You rest your cheek on the pillow, forcing your eyes shut. ‘Mare. Why is it called a nightmare? Are mares truly that terrifying?’

“One,” you whisper. “Two. Three.”

Table of Contents

Chapter 8

Chapter 10

[jacquiesims]

Viper Canyon - Chapter Eight

“’In light of how much Viper Canyon has grown in just the past year or two, I think it’s best if we elect a new sheriff as soon as possible. Are we all in agreement?’”

November 1852

Slowly but surely, the schoolhouse was being filled by the citizens of Viper Canyon arriving from their homes. Along with them, the heavy presence of unease and disquiet filled the air, and there was little small talk amongst the people as they sat down at the students’ desks in wait of the first ever town meeting.

Winnie wouldn’t have come to the meeting at all if it weren’t for the fact that she was the only person with a key to the school. As its sole caretaker, she stood in the back, wishing she were at home with Mamma and Bea. 

The meeting had been called to discuss the bank robbery – even the mere thought of outlaws anywhere in the area made her stomach turn. Most of the women, it would seem, shared the same sentiment as Winnie – or there were still things to be looked after at home, like children and housework.

Timothy Putnam, proprietor of the Sidewinder Saloon, was chosen to lead the meeting. He’d always been regarded as one of two de facto leaders of the town alongside Mr. Monroe. 

He stood at the front of the room where Winnie usually taught her lessons and cleared his throat. The room immediately turned and watched him carefully with baited breath. 

“As I’m sure you’re all aware, we’ve had to call a town meeting of sorts to discuss the events that took place at the bank this past Saturday.”

“Usually this sort of thing would be taken care of by a lawman. But seeing as our previous sheriff, Mr. Daniels, passed during the bout of flu a few years back, we have no man of the law left. Unfortunately he had no successor and at the time there was no one available to take his place, so the jail has been empty ever since. ” 

Winnie had seen the empty jail on Main Street and wondered why there was no sheriff or deputy to look after it. Naively, she figured it was because there was no need for one in such a peaceful town. Her stomach twisted.

Winnie turned over her shoulder at the sound of the door opening. 

Quickly, with only the sound of his heavy boots against the floor boards giving him away, Elijah slid into the back of the room. He stood there in the corner and waited for Putnam to continue.

“In light of how much Viper Canyon has grown in just the past year or two, I think it’s best if we elect a new sheriff as soon as possible. Are we all in agreement?” 

There were several quiet responses, all positive, and a great nodding of heads as the people all looked between each other and then back to Putnam. 

“And what do you think, Mr. Yates? It was your bank that those outlaws robbed, after all…”

Mr. Yates was a man of advanced age, with a nearly bald head and shaking white hands dotted with brown spots. He was gentle and sweet and generally regarded as a saint, and his voice passed through his lips like a whisper of wind. 

“A new sheriff would be for the best,” he nodded decisively. “Those men should be hanged for what they did to our poor John. May his soul rest in peace.” 

The crowd murmured words of condolence and Mr. Yates settled back into his seat without another word. At his side, his son, Percival, gave him a tender look.

“I agree wholeheartedly that we should elect a new lawman,” Mr. Monroe spoke up. “Seeing as we have all of these children and families in town now. But one does have to wonder how he would be paid.” 

Winnie pondered quietly in her corner. She was lucky enough to be paid her wages directly from the parents, seeing as there was no formal government in Viper Canyon to collect taxes to then divvy up between public servants – or nearby schoolboard to see to her salary. If there was a sheriff to be elected, that meant everyone would be responsible for ensuring he got his pay, and it was unrealistic to have each citizen in town come by to the jail to drop off his paycheck bit by bit. The next step would obviously be taxing the people, but…the idea of creating an entire local government seemed daunting. 

“Excellent point, Mr. Monroe,” Putnam agreed. “We’ve covered Miss Hawkins’s salary quite easily by having the parents pay for their children's schooling directly, but…there have been a few flaws in that method.”

“Flaws?” Robert Campbell, the tailor, asked from his chair. “How do you mean, Mr. Putnam?”

“Consider if a child wanted to go to school but their parents couldn’t afford Miss Hawkins’s wages outright. If we were to set up a fair tax system, where everyone pays a small bit towards the school, then every child could afford to attend. Isn’t that right, Miss Hawkins?” 

Putnam looked towards the back of the room where Winnie stood. She squirmed as every pair of eyes turned to look at her. 

“Yes.” She cleared her throat, not having expected to speak. “Exactly, Mr. Putnam. Every child should be able to go to school and learn, regardless of how much or how little their parents may make.”

“Very civilized, very good,” Mr. Monroe nodded. “It’s about time we started doing things the right way around here!” 

Like a flock of birds stopped on the street, everyone’s heads bobbed up and down, making small, short sounds of approval.

“Well then, I believe we’ve come to the consensus that we should move forward with establishing some form of government for the town. But there’s still an incredibly urgent matter at hand ��� what are we going to do about a sheriff?”

“I say we nominate one as soon as possible, straight away.” Mr. Monroe was deathly serious. “Preferably right now at this very meeting.” 

“Well, that might be a bit soon, don’t you think?” 

Robert Campbell was already a meek man, and he shrank at the thought of possibly being nominated for sheriff. 

“There are vicious killers on the loose!” Mr. Monroe cried. “Those wicked criminals murdered poor John in cold blood. We have no time to spare!”

“Yes, I do have to agree with Mr. Monroe,” Putnam said. “Who knows when the outlaws will strike again? Not only was poor John Williams viciously killed, but they nearly robbed our entire town blind.”

Mr. Yates shakily came to his feet. “Don’t worry, your money was insured. I shall see to it this is all sorted out as quickly as possible.” 

Percival helped his father sit back down with a sheepish look at the crowd over his shoulder. 

“Thank you, Mr. Yates. My point is, who knows what they’ll do next? Their first crime here was so heinous…perhaps without a lawman, they’ll think they can get away with much more. It’s imperative we move this process along as quickly as possible.”

Elijah shifted uncomfortably in the corner. Winnie cast a look at him, having not seen him since he abruptly left town nearly a year ago. He was the same as ever – maybe a bit older looking, more tired. He caught her staring and Winnie backed down from his green eyes, pretending to stare at some of her students’ assignments pinned to the wall.

“So, are we going to nominate anyone to vote on? All of the men in town are here. It should be a fair vote.” 

“Yes, let’s begin nominations. But keep in mind the men that can’t make the commitment – men with families and large businesses to run.” 

That excluded more than half of the room. Even Joseph Ebey couldn’t be nominated, seeing as his large farm needed looking after and his wife was due to have their first child any day now. 

Clarence Monroe was a bachelor and the successor of his father – but Winnie figured no one in their right mind would elect such a soft and awkward man into an important position like that of the sheriff.

“The obvious choice here is our Elijah McLain,” Mr. Monroe called loudly. 

He looked up from beneath the brim of his hat. “Sir?” 

“You’re strong, reliable, you have a good head on your shoulders…and all that time hunting and trapping for the Hudson Bay Company made you an incredible shot – I’ve seen it with my own eyes!” 

More positive sounds came from the crowd.

“What do you say, Elijah? Do you accept your nomination for Viper Canyon Sheriff?” 

He thought about it for only a few moments before taking a deep breath. “Yes, sir. Sounds all right to me.”

“Well, then. Our first nomination goes to Elijah McLain. Does anyone else have anyone in mind?” 

Winnie thought she could hear the crickets chirping outside. 

“Anyone?” 

“Elijah’s perfect for the job,” Mr. Monroe reiterated. “I’d trust him with my life.”

“Is there anyone who disagrees? Who thinks Elijah wouldn’t be a good fit for Sheriff?” 

Silence. 

“Well, then. By order of acclimation, Elijah McLain is now the newest sheriff of Viper Canyon. Congratulations!”

To Be Continued

Previous Chapter | Viper Canyon Index | Chapter Nine Coming Soon

(These group scenes take me so long...such a short chapter that took me forever! I hope you guys like the story, things are finally falling into place for the main plot to begin :) let me know what you thought and thank you for reading as always <3) 

[sahbibabe]

The Fiction of Love

The Fiction of Love

Soulmate AU: Where whatever your soulmate writes on their skin appears on yours.

Genesis Rhapsodos/Fem! Reader

In which you finally meet the source of the daily recitations of Loveless on your arm: Genesis Rhapsodos.

IT STARTED LIKE everyone else's soulmate experience─the writing appeared one day, out of the blue, on the skin of your forearm like a tattoo. They were always quick to fade, the magical ink devoured by your body's immune system, but they lingered long enough for you to notice them.

And, weirdly enough, the first words your soulmate wrote to you were the words of a poem. Whoever they were, they wrote in an amazingly talented hand, the calligraphy putting your awful, cramped words to absolute shame.

'Infinite in mystery is the gift of the goddess,' they wrote on your arm that morning,'we seek it thus, and take to the skies.'

From then on, every day since then, you would be sure to find phrases of that poem written somewhere on your body. On your arms, forearms, hands, knees, legs, but the most common was always the inside of your wrist, written there as if it was some secret, some thrilling note that you could look at when no one was around.

You hated it.

Unlike the rest of the women in your office building, you despised that poem─and the play─with every fiber of your being. It was one thing to hear it every day at work, brought on by the cooing assistants who fawned over the main male leads of the play and lusted for their numbers. But to be hounded by it even as you relaxed at home, unable to forget those damned words because they appeared on your skin almost every hour on the dot?

It was ridiculous.

Your spite had extended to your replies to your soulmate, so much so that you never replied at all once your hatred took hold of you. It had been nearly two months since you had stopped, six months since they had started to begin with, and yet your soulmate soldiered on, leaving the little phrases for you to find─in obvious spots, none of them ever inappropriate─and going on with whatever they did for a living.

It had to have been something time and attention consuming, because the one time you wrote back, drunk during mid-day, you didn't get a reply until well after twelve in the morning. You had just wrote, pretty awfully,'Why Loveless?' and passed out on the couch, dead to the world.

You woke up right in the middle of the reply appearing on your skin as they wrote it, the curls of their handwriting fascinating as every whorl and slash bloomed upon your arm like wicked black flowers.

'Why not Loveless?' They had replied.

Needless to say, the irritation had rose up as you had expected it to, and you pulled a hoodie on for the rest of the night to hide your arms from your line of sight. If you would have pulled up your sleeve just a bit then, you would have caught the extended reply that they added on to it.

'I'm just joking. Why Loveless? Because it is a truth; it is deliverance. It is a meaning.'

Unfortunately for you, the ink had been devoured long ago and replaced with another Loveless stanza, this one a little bit longer than the others they had written for you… and not at all part of the official poem.

'Even if the morrow is barren of promises

Nothing shall forestall my return

To become the dew that quenches the land

To spare the sands, the seas, the skies

I offer thee this silent sacrifice.'

It was then, staring at your arm as you stood in front of your office copier, the glow of the mako reactor shining upon your skin, that you realized this poem was much more than a means to annoy you. This was their passion, their joy, their hobby, all wrapped into one poem.

You made a decision then.

You booked the tickets, the priciest seats you could afford, rented out a modest but elegant dress for the evening, and made a reservation at a nice restaurant just across the street from the theater, even more pricey than the tickets.

'Theater #2, front steps, 8:30 P.M. Dress nice. Don't be late.'

That reply had been instantaneous.

'I wouldn't dream of it.'

The date set and your dress hanging comfortably in your closet, you began wondering what your soulmate looked like. Could you pick them out of a crowd? Or were they plain and unassuming, able to blend in easily, like camouflage?

You asked them, just to be sure.

'What do you look like?'

'Let's leave that as a mystery. I'm sure I'll be able to find you.'

Stumped, you stared at your arm with wide eyes, before scratching through your question and doodling a smiley face with the tongue sticking out of the side.

'Not if I find you first.'

'I look forward to the challenge.'

By the time the date rolled around and you were dressed and waiting by the steps of the theater, you were so nervous you could throw up. You were a little early and tried to settle your nerves with a small can of soda, but all that succeeded in doing was making the butterflies worse. You were lucky they had even agreed to the meeting in the first place; some people just never got that chance. And that didn't guarantee you would even get along, did it?

After a few minutes of failing to calm yourself down, you got on your phone and scrolled through the new ShinRa announcements, eager to take your mind off of the wrecking ball going off in your stomach. It only helped a little bit.

And then, something odd happened; like the proverbial red sea, people parted for someone walking through the crowd at a leisurely pace, except the 'red' was a man, and not a sea at all. Just from your distance, he was gorgeous, with russet red hair and mako green eyes that sparkled under the fluorescent lights.

Whoever got him as a soulmate had earned the jackpot, you thought wordlessly to yourself, watching as the crowd continued to part for him. Really, really lucky.

Then you realized, belatedly, like a sucker punch to the gut, that he was headed your way, those insanely green eyes trained on you with the focus of a predator. It was suddenly very hard to breathe, your lungs constricting at the disbelief in your mind, your phone very heavy in your hand.

There was no absolute way in hell--

"I told you I'd find you," he said with a smooth grin. His voice was like honey, rich and smooth with all of the right cadence, and sat right in your stomach like molten gold. You swore if you weren't so awe struck that you would have teetered back and fainted right then and there. "I win."

"I guess so," you replied faintly, barely a whisper. He seemed to acknowledge the effect he had on you because his eyes crinkled up just the slightest with a smirk that made you want to, quite literally, rip off that red leather jacket he wore and show him who was boss. "I'm [Name]."

"Genesis." You watched the emerald earring he had in his ear dangle and catch the lights, adding to his features spectacularly. "Are you ready to go inside?"

You had to stop yourself from sounding too eager. Your plans had went from having a nice time at a play, to dinner, and parting your separate ways and straight to watching a play, having dinner, and hopefully taking him back home with you if he was willing. "Yes, please."

Genesis smiled and tucked your hand into his elbow, like a gentleman--you could feel your face growing as hot as coals--and escorted you up the stairs, careful not to let you trip and fall. As you walked with him to the stands to give the doorman your tickets, you noticed that he didn't exactly walk with the awkwardness of a normal person. His gait was smooth, fluid, elegant and refined, as if someone had drilled him to always be light on his feet. Add that to the sword you could feel at his side and the beautiful green eyes, and you knew you had a SOLDIER for a soulmate.

"You're a SOLDIER?" You asked quietly as you entered the quiet zone of the play stage.

He chuckled lightly. "What gave it away?"

"Let's see… Other than the sword and the way you carry yourself?" You teased, stomach jolting when he moved his hand to the small of your back to urge you towards your seat. "Your eyes. I've never seen such a concentrated color before."

"Yes, the tell tale sign of mako energy," he lamented, if only to earn a laugh out of you. "But yes, I am a First Class SOLDIER."

Your head turned so quickly that you were sure your neck would have snapped. "First Class? And you're here with me, not on some elite mission?"

"Of course." He blinked, tilted his head, and furrowed his eyebrows as if he was the one who should be confused. "Why would I turn down the chance to see Loveless with a goddess such as yourself?"

Oh, you felt the heat now, curling down your spine like a snake and he the charmer. It should have been cheesy, given the situation and his love for a poem mentioning such a goddess, but for some reason, it wasn't, and it made goofy feelings rise in your chest, along with understanding.

It was more than just a poem.

He grinned when you brought your pamphlet up to fan yourself, leaning back in your chair and mumbling,"Let's just watch the play, okay?"

Genesis was, thankfully, tame during the entire thing. He was just as absorbed into it as you were, those pretty green eyes taking in the play actors with relish, and absentmindedly stroking his leather clad thumb over your knuckles as if it was natural to him.

When the play was over, the actors gave out cute silk flowers as a souvenir, thanking everyone for their attendance and citing their next performance as sometime next week.

Dinner, you came to find out, was fair game for Genesis.

Not only did he pull some strings behind your back to pay for it himself, he also switched your reserved table to the most secluded one in the entire building: the Elite floor where only people like Rufus Shinra dined and held their meetings and drank fine wine.

There were only three other tables on the floor, each one hosting a couple, and the room was dark, barely lit by glowing red lanterns as a centerpiece. Clearly it was a popular spot to be wooed.

You caught envious stares from the waitresses, a few offering you winks and a thumb's up, as you made your way up the stairs, Genesis behind you and making sure you didn't fall. You half guessed he was also in it for the view as well.

When you were seated and left to order your food, Genesis spoke up.

"So, you know what I do for a living, but you have yet to tell me anything about yourself." He propped open his menu and looked over it to you.

"Well… There isn't much to say." You shrugged and focused on trying to undo the straps of your heels with your feet, feeling your toes ache with the added height. "I'm a bit boring compared to you."

"I digress," he hummed,"but go on."

"I work in an office building for twelve hours a day," you deadpanned, much to his amusement. "It's boring."

"Allow me."

Confused, you opened your mouth to ask what he meant, but all of the breath left your lungs once again when his fingers wrapped around your ankle and unbuckled the straps to your heels with nimble fingers. He took his time, sliding his palm up your leg to take a hold of your calf as he removed the shoe from your foot.

Relieved from the pressure of your shoes, you let out a pleased sigh, but when you looked back across the table at him, those green eyes were glittering dangerously, trained on your face for a solitary second before getting to work on the other shoe.

You couldn't help the sudden heat rising in your belly. That look alone had made you tingle.

Before he could open his mouth and say something that would probably make you forego dinner plans entirely and drag him back to your house, the waitress came back, sheepish, and took your orders.

When you finished ordering--a salmon filet drizzled with soy sauce and wine--Genesis was busy studying you, watching you toy with the strap of your dress nervously.

Unfortunately, he never did make any more moves on you for the rest of dinner, but your stomach was glad for that because every time he looked at you even slightly, you would feel food get lodged in your throat.

You spoke well into the morning hours, getting tipsy enough that Genesis had to carry you all the way back to your apartment because the cabs weren't running that late. He was amused, if anything, and laughed whenever tried to come on to him, slurring sweet promises in his ear.

Every time, he would say,"Perhaps later when you're not so drunk."

"If not now, when?" You whined pathetically, leaning against your door as he picked the lock, unwilling to take the plunge down your bra to retrieve the keys.

"Soon," he said, his voice full of dark promise, enough that your alcohol addled mind could make out the desire in his voice like an arrow to the heart. "Soon."

He left you with just that promise, vanishing down the hall and into the night.

You remembered the look on his face, the tone of his voice, even when you woke up, and took maybe five seconds before you were yanking a pen out of your nightstand and writing on your arm.

'Now?"

A few seconds passed, then three minutes. And there it was, written in his elegant penmanship: your answer.

'3:40 P.M. Don't be late.'

[fanficshiddles]

Caught in his web, Chapter 29

Loki looked down in disgust at the man who was grovelling at his feet, clinging onto his trousers as he wept and begged for his life.

‘Please, Mr Laufeyson. Please. I will do anything. I have a family to support. Please, please.’

Loki rolled his eyes and looked at Ethan and Samuel, who moved in and hauled the man away from Loki. They held him back, on his knees.

Loki stood up and strolled over towards the pathetic man and circled him. ‘Begging and crying like that will get you nowhere, Matt. As you know, I am a fair man. And I feel I have been more than fair with you, have I not?’ He came to a stop on front of him.

‘Y… yes… You have.’ Matt whimpered.

Loki crouched down and clasped his hands together. ‘So why do you think I should be even more lenient with you, after all the help and extra time I’ve already given you?’

‘Because… because…’

‘Because…?’ Loki asked in a condescending tone, raising an eyebrow as he waited for his answer. ‘See, you can’t even think of a reason why I should give you more time. Because you know I’ve been fair enough so far.’ Loki stood up and walked over to his desk, opening a drawer.

David and Ben were sitting at the side, watching. They shared a look with one another when Loki pulled out a dagger.

Matt tried struggling but Ethan and Samuel held him steady as Loki walked slowly and menacingly back towards him.

‘You have ten seconds to give me a damn good reason why I shouldn’t dispose of you right now.’ Loki said as he spun the dagger up in the air and caught it. Then started to move behind him while counting. ‘One… Two…’

‘Please. My family! My kids and wife. I can’t leave them, please.’ He sobbed.

‘Three… I said a good reason.’ Loki growled, towering over behind him.

Matt started to panic now. ‘I will pay back double next year!’

‘Four.’

‘I know the owner of a seafood restaurant down by the river, I can get you free meals for life!’

‘Five.’

‘I don’t like seafood.’ Ben commented, making David chuckle.

‘Six.’ Loki moved in on Matt, grabbing his hair tightly he forced his head right back so his neck was exposed, he placed the sharp blade against his throat.

‘PLEASE! PLEASE!’

‘Seven.’ Loki held him tightly as he started to really thrash around.

‘My wife has cancer! The money was for her treatment!’ He cried.

Loki paused for a moment. ‘Eight.’

‘Please! They need me to work, or they won’t be able to pay their bills.’ He cried.

‘You didn’t pay me back, Matt. I cannot let you go, as unfortunate as it is. What kind of example would that be to others?’

‘Please, I’ He was cut off when Loki slit his throat.

‘Nine, ten.’ Loki stood up and stepped away from his body as he fell forward to the floor with a thud. His blood pooling around him.

Ethan and Samuel moved in straight away to clean up. Loki strolled over to his desk as he pulled a napkin from his pocket to clean his dagger.

‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to play with your food?’ Ben grinned.

Loki chuckled. ‘Where would the fun be in killing him instantly? It’s nice to see them squirm.’

‘Why do you not use your gun? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you use it before. It’s much less messy and quicker than a knife or a dagger.’ David asked.

‘I prefer to get up close and personal, a gun makes it feel so… boring and cold. With a dagger you can feel the resistance in their body as you force it into them.’ Loki grinned wickedly as he finished cleaning his dagger.

‘On that delightful note, I better get going.’ Ben said, standing up. ‘Thanks for your help, Loki.’ He shook Loki’s hand.

‘Anytime. See you soon.’

Ben said bye to David then headed out.

‘I just need to make a quick call.’ Loki said to David, who nodded.

Loki called James. ‘James, it’s Loki. Find out what kind of treatment Matt Simpson’s wife is receiving. If she needs money, make sure she gets whatever she needs. Also make sure her mortgage gets paid off and there’s no outstanding debt… Oh, and put a few grand into a college fund for all her kids.’

‘Sure thing, boss.’ James said, taking note without asking any questions.

‘Cheers.’ Loki hung up and turned to David.

‘That was nice of you. Surely Matt has now cost you an awful lot?’ David asked.

‘Perhaps. But got to put good into the community, haven’t I?’ Loki smirked.

‘True.’ David nodded.

Loki’s phone pinged and he checked it. He smiled when he saw it was from Chloe.

‘Do you like pasta?’ He asked David.

‘I do. Why?’

‘I discovered last week that Chloe makes a fantastic chicken carbonara. She’s just asked if I will be home for dinner as she is planning to make it again. Fancy joining us?’ Loki asked.

‘Sure, that would be great.’ David nodded.

Since Chloe had made him the pasta last week for the first time, he had been desperate to have it again. So he was secretly delighted that she offered already.

-

Chloe felt a bit nervous when Loki text back saying that David would be joining too, so asked if there would be enough for the three of them.

Of course, she had said she would make enough, but part of her was regretting that she had text Loki in the first place about dinner.

But she was pleasantly surprised when they returned and she got to know David a bit better during dinner. He was actually really nice and charming, Loki seemed nice and easy with him too, so she knew that he was safe to be around.

‘That was absolutely delicious, thank you very much, darling.’ David said, wiping his mouth.

‘You’re welcome. I’m glad you liked it.’ Chloe said happily.

Loki moaned and sat back on his chair. ‘It certainly was. That’s my new favourite meal, definitely.’

‘You’re just saying that.’ Chloe giggled.

‘No, honestly. I actually think it might be better than sex.’

Chloe almost choked on her drink and David chuckled. ‘I never thought you’d say that food was better than sex.’ David teased.

‘Well, maybe not quite better than sex.’ Loki looked at Chloe and winked, making her blush.

David rolled his eyes and looked at Chloe. ‘You’re lucky, I’ve had to put up with him for years!’

Chloe laughed. ‘How long have you known each other?’

She knew that out of all the men she had met, who were his supposed business partners, that there seemed to be more of a friendship between Loki and David.

‘Since secondary school. He was a bad influence on me.’ David grinned, pouring himself more wine.

‘I think you’ll find it was you who was a bad influence on me.’ Loki corrected.

Chloe wasn’t sure if it was the wine that was giving her more confidence or if it was just the excitement about hearing stories of Loki, but she couldn’t help but ask.

‘What was Loki like as a teenager?’

‘Oh god.’ Loki shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.

‘A total nerd! Really into space and science. Aced pretty much all of his classes, except for PE for the first few years. He could barely run from one side of the football pitch to the other.’ David was in his element talking about Loki.

‘Really?’ Chloe looked at Loki with her eyebrows up.

Loki sighed. ‘It’s true. I was not into anything physical at all when I was younger. I was a skinny weakling.’

‘That soon changed though. It was, what, year three and he started working out hard. Put the entire class to shame by the end of that year.’

‘Did you two get up to mischief or was Loki a teacher’s pet?’ Chloe smirked, she knew by the look Loki gave her that she was in trouble later, no doubt. But she was finding it far too much fun.

‘As I said, David was a bad influence on me. When I started hanging around with him, I got into trouble more. The teachers were perplexed though, I was the smartest bad boy there was.’ He said proudly.

‘Highly intelligent, eventually strong and rather wicked. A dangerous concoction.’ David said. ‘I remember once when he almost drowned a poor kid in the swimming pool.’

Chloe’s eyes widened. ‘What? Seriously?’

Loki shrugged. ‘It was swimming class and he pulled a girls bikini bottoms down. She was horrified.’

‘Well… I guess he did deserve something back, but drowning him?’ Chloe gasped.

‘Correction, almost drowning him.’ Loki said with his finger up. ‘And in my defence, the teacher wasn’t overly pleased with what he did either. I didn’t get suspended or in too much trouble for attempted murder.’

Chloe just face-palmed, not knowing what to say really.

David told more stories from when they were younger. Chloe was ecstatic to be hearing about them. From Loki’s first crush on a substitute teacher where he brought her fruit almost daily and was heartbroken when the regular teacher came back, to trying his first cigarette and almost choking on it, never smoking again. Then the one Chloe thought was one of the best, was how he started up a business where he gave younger students answer sheets for exams that he made up himself, charging a fiver for each one.

‘He actually earned a good amount of cash from that. What was it, near five hundred quid?’

‘Just over six hundred, actually.’ Loki chuckled, smiling as he thought back of that fondly.

‘Bloody hell. So you’ve always been a business man.’ Chloe said.

‘I guess so.’ Loki nodded.

The three retired to the living room for a while and had a few more drinks. Then David decided to head home, joking that his wife would chop his balls off for being here for dinner without her.

After Loki saw him out, he returned to Chloe and sat down on the sofa. He was delightfully surprised when she put her drink down and moved along the sofa to drape herself across his lap, twisting his tie around her fingers.

He chuckled and rested his hand on her chest, the span of his hand so large that his fingers brushed against her neck.

‘Are you drunk, doll?’ He teased and started stroking her neck softly.

‘Not too drunk, no. I’m just… happy.’ She said honestly, looking up into his eyes.

Loki smiled fondly down at her. His other hand stroking her hair. ‘Well, I am very glad to hear that. Because I am too.’

[the-darklings]

—𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒈𝒐;

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

word count: 15.2k+

summary: “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

warnings: swearing, violence, angst (?)

notes: So straight up: no John this chapter. But we are doing a lot of groundwork for plot and characters (hence why the chapter is so long because I’m getting it all out of the way in one, big sweep) cause covering just the movies would be boring anyway, and when have I ever made life easy for myself? So strap in, grab a snack, and enjoy this monster chapter!! 

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

“It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” the priest reads loudly, his voice soaring over the pews of the dim church. “In due time their foot will slip; their day of disaster is near, and their doom rushes upon them.”

You sit beside Avi, who nudges you when he notices your attention drifting, and you shoot him a quick glare. Tarasov’s hands are clasped together, his head bowed in deep prayer. His action is mirrored by everyone inside the church, and you bite back an amused laugh.

A man like him has a lot to repent for.

Especially for building his little safe house beneath this very church. A smart, but hardly original idea. Still, it keeps most people from sniffing around, and guarantees privacy considering that everyone—even the priest—is on Tarasov’s payroll here.

His call this morning came as a surprise. Apparently, after this little display of repentance, he plans on meeting with his brother to discuss some potential business deals with new blood from the West Coast.    

Drugs, guns, money laundering, fraud, human trafficking. Everything and anything on the menu will likely be discussed.

Which explains his insistence for you to be here.

Tarasov always likes being prepared and asked you to come fully prepped in case talks go South. Your presence is also a good method of power posturing. Outsiders don’t need to know that your debt is almost repaid, meaning that your loyalty to Tarasov is flimsy at best. Still, it’s just like the man to try and squeeze whatever little use he could still get out of you.

The church door cracks open loudly, but people don’t so much as twitch, respectfully keeping their heads bowed.

Avi looks behind him at the sound of multiple footsteps echoing through the alcoves and you feel him go rigid beside you.

Even the priest falters in the middle of a verse, looking stricken as he stares at whoever just walked in.

Your head turns too and you feel yourself freeze.

Shit, shit, what is he doing?

The thought roars through your head as you stare at the approaching party. Santino’s eyes catch your own after a moment and his lips twitch upwards upon spotting you, pleased. His entire guard is with him, including Ares who stays loyally on his left, shadowing his every step. She looks less than thrilled to be here and you can understand why.

Tarasov stands to his feet, having paused his prayer in favour of checking what all the commotion is about, and exits his pew with deliberate slowness. Avi stands with him immediately, his left side covered, and you rise stiffly too. Your position is, ironically enough, that of Tarasov’s right hand ever since John’s departure—a fact that has never sat well with Avi due to your lack of iron-like loyalty which would be expected in such a position. Still, Tarasov has never changed his initial outlook of you outranking other members of his own guard, even if that knowledge has never brought you much joy.

“Ah, my apologies. We did not mean to interrupt the service,” Santino greets pleasantly, his cocky demeanour in full swing as he comes to a stop a few pews away. “We have simply come to…join you in prayer.”

You almost groan.

What is he doing?

Despite your efforts to subtly catch his notice, he looks only at Tarasov who seems to loom as he stands beside you unmoving.

“Didn’t take you for the praying type, D’Antonio.”

His voice is neutral, but you sense the danger there. People still sitting in the pews shift uncomfortably, wondering if the tension scale is about to tip in favour of bloodshed, and you find yourself wondering that too.

You’re more than armed. Tarasov would expect you to do your duty if it came down to a fight. But the idea of watching your poison eating away at a collection of mostly familiar faces makes you feel queasy.

“On the contrary, when I was a little boy, our family attended mass every Sunday morning without fail,” Santino says conversationally, his hands clasped in front of him as he sways slightly from side to side with a friendly curve of his mouth. Like two friends sharing a pleasant conversation. “Perhaps, that is why I like churches so much. Their walls are so full of secrets.”

His green eyes slide slowly, deliberately, around the space and you tense.

“Everyone, get out,” Tarasov informs in calm Russian and the people inside the pews scramble as fast as they can, not daring to look back.

Avi rests his hand on his gun, smiling faintly, and Tarasov’s guards that were previously scattered around the large space come to stand behind their boss.

You don’t move. Ares’ eyes flicker to you for a second but you find no answers in her expression. She seems calm though, unworried, and it eases your mind if only a little. Surely, she—Santino’s most loyal without a fail—would not allow him to come here and do something stupid. But it certainly doesn’t explain his idiotic egging technique. As if Viggo Tarasov is a man to be played with.  

“I’ve heard you’ve come back to my city,” Tarasov finally speaks after a lengthy, tense silence between both parties. “But that fails to explain as to why you are here. Uninvited.”

Which is an insult and a provocation.

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep your expression straight as you listen to their exchange, but you also know better than to interfere with a conversation between two leaders at the peak of their power.

Santino chuckles as if he’s just heard the funniest joke. “Your city?” he repeats, amused. “Ah, and here I thought that your city is Moscow.”

Tarasov does not share in his amusement. “That would make Naples yours.”

Santino’s friendly smile dips, practically disappearing and his eyes go from friendly to cold in a blink. “Indeed it would,” he muses, unblinking, but then his smile makes a comeback even though it’s smaller this time, sharper. “Bravo, bravo. So it seems to me like we are both a long way from home, no? Which would make all of us, here, what exactly? Tourists?”

He chuckles, the rich sound bouncing through the otherwise empty space, but no one else joins in. Both sides are too tense, too ready for violence to see much humour in this situation.

“As for the why,” Santino continues smoothly. “I’m afraid that I’ve found myself in a rather irritating little situation that requires the expertise of your poison master.”

Then, finally, since first walking into the church, Santino’s eyes find yours.

You make sure that he can clearly see your anger and disapproval.

The man has enough gall to actually wink at you.

Tarasov shifts, and you can hear his mounting irritation when he speaks next, “Poison master? Pretty title for a snake.”

Santino’s head tilts slightly to one side, and he observes Tarasov through narrowed eyes, his faint smile fixed in place.

“The deadliest kind, yes.”

“And this couldn’t have been handled over a simple phone call, I assume?” Tarasov wonders, his words rough with controlled anger. “No, instead you come here, into my territory, on a holy day no less and expect what? For me to shake hands with you? Your father is barely cool in his grave and you come into my kingdom, posturing like I’m supposed to be impressed. As far as I’m concerned you are nothing more than Giovanni’s heir. Not his only one, either. Or even his favourite. Which makes you…a nobody, really.”

Ares steps forward, a faint snarl twisting her upper lip, but Santino puts out his arm, freezing her in her tracks. The woman still glares daggers at Tarasov, her eyes narrowed and expression hard.

Tarasov’s booming laughter tears through the church, but you don’t pay him any attention. You’re silently trying to capture either Ares’ or Santino’s eyes to indicate to them that they should leave now.

“Fiery little thing,” the Russian comments with another deep chuckle before turning to face you. “Reminds me of you, little viper. Back when I first found you. You have mellowed out over the years though. A real shame. Took after John, didn’t you?”

It’s a provocation and Santino is not smiling anymore.

The next few seconds crawl by in another tense silence between everyone.

You say nothing.

“That nobody,” Santino finally breaks the stillness, his voice gentle—forcefully so. Chaos rages in his eyes when he speaks though. “May very soon be the new Camorra family head, and have a seat at the High Table. A rather unfortunate enemy to have, no?”

Tarasov says nothing to that.

Santino may be a “nobody” in his eyes now, but he’s right. If his father left him the seat…

He would outrank almost every person in this city, and then some.

“Now, shall we discuss business? Or will you try to undermine me some more, hm?” the Italian questions lightly, his easy charm back, and previous cold fury forgotten. Still, you know that Tarasov’s words would have cut deep. Under different circumstances, you might have felt some semblance of remorse, but he came here knowing full well what kind of reception he will likely receive. “I am, unfortunately, rather pressed for time.”

“What kind of job?”

Tarasov’s anger deepens his accent and you shift, trying to hide your unease.

“Oh, nothing too difficult,” Santino explains, waving his arm a little, dismissive. “A bit of murder, a bit of poison, that kind of thing. Might take her off your hands for a week or two though—”

“Two million.”

The church goes so silent you could hear yourself—and others—breathe.

It’s a well-known secret that Tarasov always overcharges Santino for your services. He didn’t at first, but when Santino’s interest in you became clear, Tarasov saw a prime opportunity to cash in. But even all those times in the past pale in comparison to this.

From everyone inside the church, Santino is the only one who doesn’t have a strong reaction to Tarasov’s demand. His lips press shut lightly, and a glimmer of a smile comes back as he regards the Russian curiously.

“Deal.”

He says it so easily, so calmly, you only blink. Even Ares looks surprised though she masks it quickly.

Tarasov, clearly, did not expect such an easy agreement, either.

“You get her for one week,” he informs, though sounds reluctant to do so. But he was the one to set the terms and the other party agreed to them. He has no choice but to follow through unless he’s purposely looking for a fight. Or is an idiot for refusing that amount of money for one job. “Any overtime and I’ll charge per hour.”

“Meraviglioso,” Santino calls out with a wide smile, he extends his hand your way, his overcoat pulling back slightly. “Shall we?”

Swallowing, you step forward, feeling confident you can do so without Tarasov dragging you back to his side. Your every step is stiff but you hold Santino’s gaze the entire time.

Coming to a stop before him, you frown deeply, and drop your gaze, choosing to walk past him. The guards who know you well by now part like the Red Sea and you step past them without a glance, heading towards the exit.

What you’ve just done is an insult. Not taking a boss’s or heir’s offered hand is punishable in every major crime family you know. Ones that follow the old code at least. In some places, such a blatant show of dismissing one’s authority would even get you a bullet in the head—and that’s the best-case scenario; a quick, clean death.

But it’s more about not giving Tarasov any more ammunition against you. He already knows far too much about you and Santino; a fact that sits like a sickly weight in your stomach. Santino being willing to throw 2 million away simply to have your service is also too telling. But then again, when has he ever played by the rules? Or been subtle?

That brilliant idiot.

“Ah, women, such fine but complicated creatures,” you hear his voice cut through the pews with a warm chuckle. “My father used to say that a wise man will always admit that his woman knows better than he does. Tell me, do you agree?”

Tarasov is silent, and you’re not sure if he replies because the church door is right in front of you and you shove it with enough anger in you to make it fly open.

The New York air is crisp today with heavy, rolling clouds overcasting the sky. It looks like it will rain again. But you don’t want to think about that because it makes you remember the funeral. It makes you think about John and how he’s possibly holding up.

Shaking your head to lose the thought, you come closer towards the collection of large, expensive cars you know are Santino’s and the three guards outside look up at you in surprise.

It doesn’t take long for the door behind you to creak open again but you don’t turn to face him.

Because angry is a little bit of an understatement right now.

Your back is a tense coil of muscles and you shift in discomfort at the thought of all those people behind you.

A hesitant, slow hand lands on your shoulder after a moment and your head snaps to the side. Ares winks at you in greeting, her arm snaking around your shoulder blades when she knows that you’re comfortable it’s her and not some stranger touching you.

“Always one to have the last word, hm? Or is it last action?” Santino wonders out loud before his figure appears in your line of sight, turning to face you both. “A bold little display back there, cara mia.”

“Inside,” is your tight whisper.

Santino’s expression smoothens but his eyes still flicker over the churchyard with dismayed understanding, and he nods his head.

Ares gives you a tight squeeze and you turn to face her.

Go easy on him, she signs discreetly but you ignore her.

Much to your surprise, she goes to the front, allowing you both privacy in the back.

As always, Santino is a picture of elegance as he sits facing you, drumming his fingers against his leg. In such a small space, you can smell his cologne and don’t bother masking your irritation.

“What the hell were you thinking?” you explode the moment the car starts moving, and no matter how hard you try to sound controlled only an idiot would miss your clear annoyance. “Coming to Tarasov like that? That was pretty damn stupid of you, Santino. You’re lucky you didn’t start something worse with this little stunt. I mean did you even think about the position you put me in? What if it came to a fight? I would have had to—”

Your voice breaks off, and he looks caught off guard by your deluge of words.

“Bella,” he broaches, delicate but surprised, too. “I did it for you. That tyrant is holding you in a standstill to prolong your service to him. I simply forced his hand. But I am also in a need of you and your skills. Two birds, one stone, cara mia.”

“I’m flattered,” you shoot back dryly, crossing your arms over your chest as you slump backwards. “You really thought this through.”

Santino practically pouts at you. “Can you ever find it in your heart to forgive me for my foolishness?”

“No, that was stupid.”

“Ah, you blinked.”

“People do that Santino.”

“And now you are smiling.”

“I’m not smiling.”

“No, no,” he laughs, pointing at you with a smug expression as he tuts. “That, is most certainly a smile, cara mia.”

You groan under your breath, turning away from him, but he remains smug for the entire length of the journey. Which just shows how useless your attempt to stay mad at him really is.

Once, out of curiosity, you asked Santino how much his New York penthouse cost.

Without batting an eye, he told you 30 million.

Your first—and looking back on it, unwise—reaction was to call him a rich idiot. The man looked so taken aback by your blunt words that, at first, he said nothing.

Then, he laughed till his shoulders shook from the force of it.

Not exactly a reaction you expected given that most rich, powerful men can’t stand even the slightest criticism of their wealth. But having come from close to nothing, money has always been an abstract concept to you. Such an amount back then sounded ludicrous to you, but by now you have witnessed deals go down amounting to two, three times that number.

Sometimes though, you look back on that moment as the first time you saw anything even remotely genuine about the man so many fear and hate.

“So, as you can no doubt appreciate, I need him alive,” Santino talks as he moves around the large lounge area leisurely. His dark navy suit jacket is off, and his hands are buried deep inside his pockets as he continues on his little path, occasionally lifting his eyes to you. “For now, of course. Which is where you come in, bella. He wasn’t working alone and I need to know the names of the dogs who helped him.”

“I’m sure you can find plenty of fun ways to get that information out of him without me,” you tell him offhandedly, inspecting one of your blades. “Why did you throw 2 million at Tarasov again? To show him you have some spare pocket change?”

Ares’ shoulders shake in silent laughter as she observes the exchange, her feet propped on the expensive coffee table despite Santino’s earlier—“feet off the table”—as she cleans her gun.

The man in question pauses, shooting you an unamused look and you shrug. He deserves a bit of attitude after his earlier stunt. Him and his intent need to show off are going to give you a permanent migraine one day.

“So,” you start, eager to recap and get everything in order. “That little hiccup a few days ago was a shipment to Brazil going missing, then? An inside job that cost you a pretty penny. Also too big of an operation for only one person to handle. This guy you caught says he knows where the shipment is, so you need him alive to find it and also learn who else was helping him. What about the people waiting on the other side? Any troubles?”

“None, for now,” he informs, though doesn’t hide the annoyance in his voice. “But they are getting irritatingly persistent for updates. The one we caught is being brought to us from the Mexico border. He thought he could run from me. Sciocco.”

Balancing the blade on your index finger, you hum thoughtfully. “Motive?”

Santino rolls his eyes, and reaches for his tie, loosening the silky material slightly. “The same as always, bella. Greed.”

“Clearly,” you deadpan, flipping the blade and catching it in your hand as you lean forward, resting your elbows on your thighs. “But no other motivation that you know of? You don’t exactly lack enemies.”

He’s silent for a moment, thinking, before he sighs and sits down on the plush chair, completing your council triangle. He reaches for a glass of half-finished scotch on the table, taking a large gulp and rubs his temple for a moment. Ares’ eyes move to you momentarily and you see her worry.

Santino looks more exhausted than usual, his earlier bravado muted, and you know he only shows it because his most trusted are in the room right now. He hates showing weakness in any capacity, you know that well enough, so this must be weighing heavier on his mind than you first assumed.

“Right you are, cara mia,” he mutters, and you don’t miss the hint of bitterness in his voice. “Right you are. But I’m afraid that I do not know.”

“Look,” you say firmly, and his eyes meet yours, weary. “Give me two minutes with him. He’ll tell you everything you want to know. If he does know anything, that information is as good as yours. When are we expecting him anyway?”

Ares catches your attention and your eyes swing to her.

Tomorrow morning, she signs and you can tell that she’s personally looking forward to that meeting.

“Then there’s no point in us sitting here and wondering about it,” you say firmly, giving Santino a pointed look. “You have people out looking. Relax for the rest of the evening. We’ll have answers tomorrow.”

I should secure us a location, Ares adds, already rising from her spot and gives you a slight, knowing nod; a silent moment just between you two. Truthfully, you’ve always appreciated your easy understanding of each other, and the man you both work for.

Santino nods in agreement too, briefly looking up at her. Appreciate it.

Ares leaves without another word and you watch Santino silently.

It’s an odd reversal of situations. Usually, you’re the misbalanced one, constantly clawing for some semblance of security; both emotional and physical.

But Santino is a businessman before all else, and this is a failed deal—an embarrassment to his otherwise spotless reputation. You’ve seen firsthand the depth of his ambition, his drive to reshape things in his favour. His raw desire for power and success. He works for it constantly; focused and driven. Often cruel, and even vicious.  

But despite what he may say, you know he’s not as unaffected by his father’s death as he may try to convince the world he is. You don’t strive for someone’s approval, their love, for years without holding love for them in your heart.

The uncertainty of his own future must be hanging around his throat like a noose. It’s a feeling familiar to you.

“Still angry, amore?” he wonders idly, disturbing the tranquil silence between you, and tips his glass from side to side.

The amber liquid glows due to the fireplace casting light on it, and you shake your head slightly.

“No.”

“Oh?” he voices in amusement, his accent a purr, and his eyes lift to you. “That would be a first.”

A slight smile curves his lips and you chuckle too, nodding in exasperated agreement.

“You should get some rest,” you whisper after another minute of quiet, your eyebrows furrowing. “Long day tomorrow.”

“On the contrary,” he replies, and there’s something sharp in his voice as he takes another swing of his drink. “I feel in a mood for a swim. Care to join me?”

You stare at him for a heartbeat. Shaking your head, you smile faintly and stand to your feet, moving past him. You pat his shoulder when you stop beside him, and he turns to stare up at you.

“I should get going.”

He places his hand on top of yours immediately, stilling you. “Before dinner? I was just about to order.”

Hesitating, you look at him for a few seconds before carefully pulling your hand from under his. It drops like a heavy weight and he breaks the eye contact.

“I have a table booked at the Continental,” you explain, but it feels forced. “And I think Winston mentioned something about brandy later.”

Santino places his glass on the table, standing to his feet, and you meet his stare reluctantly. He moves closer one slow step at the time, and you fight to keep your expression straight.

“Or you could stay here,” he suggests, his tone and expression saying a thousand things all at once. “You know my home is always open to you, cara mia.”

“I do. But I can’t stay.”

“Ah, now why is that?”

There are a great number of things you can tell him. That it’s not right, that you’re just friends, that Tarasov might find out, that it took you two years of working with him before you were even given permission to carry weapons in his home. That every moment you’re not carefully watching yourself, your mind slips back to John.

That this is dangerous. For both of you.

That he is dangerous to you but not in the way he is to everyone else.  

“You know why,” you tell him instead, your voice hushed. His still crooked tie catches your attention, and as if on automatic your hands reach forward, fixing it for him. “Because I think that it means something different to you.”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything, (Name).”

His voice is barely a shallow whisper as his fingertips delicately ghost over the silver chain around your neck. You stare at his tie for a hard moment before pressing your lips together, and quickly glance up at him. Your hands drop away when you register his expression and you avoid his heated stare.

“Don’t lie,” you breathe with a slight shake of your head and give him a meaningful look. “It always means something with you, Santino.”

His eyes roam over your features like he’s looking for something important—vital—to him. “I do wonder how long it will be before you let me in. Before you realise that I am not like him—that I will never abandon you.”

Your heart stutters painfully in your chest.

“Please, don’t,” you plead, and somehow sound weaker than you have in years. This is not an exchange you are ready for or wish to have right now. So instead, you try to divert the conversation. “I mean, maybe I don’t even like you.”

He grins; a wide, lazy thing that shows off his dimples and brings back that familiar gleam in his green eyes.

“Oh, amore,” he purrs, knowing and sly. “I have seen you with people you do not like. I know there is more than simple indifference here. But, what I said the other night still stands. I’ll wait.”

He leans closer, and your breath hitches in your lungs when you feel his warm breath fan over your ear. He inhales deeply, humming, his fingers coming to lightly rest on your hip for a moment.

“But one day, we will have this conversation,” he promises you softly, and the steel in his voice tells you that his conviction will hold no matter what. “And I will not let you run away from your feelings anymore.”

He pulls back, his half-lidded stare pure fire, and smiles faintly. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, cara mia. Enjoy your dinner.”

“Halt.”

Your eyebrows rise but you do as you’re told.

The man in front of you is unfamiliar and you regard him with open curiosity. Much like all of Santino’s guard—with exception of Ares—he’s a 6’0 muscular giant. His neat suit seems to creak at the seams as he moves closer towards you. His reaches for you, but you swipe across his hand with a concealed blade, frowning.

The man jumps back as if you’ve shot him, clutching at his bleeding palm.

“That’s a warning scratch, next one will be your throat,” you inform him calmly, watching him fumble for his gun.

“Flavio!” a deep voice calls, anxious and loud. “What are you doing? Lower your weapon!”

“Roberto,” you greet with a slight nod, casting a look at Flavio who does as he’s told but continues glaring at you. “Whose the new blood?”

The older man looks apologetic as he approaches you. From all of the guard, he’s the most bearable one. Not that you’ve ever purposely mentioned names in hopes that Santino will bring your favourites along. Of course not.

“My apologies about that. We had to have him called in at the last second,” he explains with a pointed look at the other man, gesturing for you to come along. “He was not informed you were coming. Boss is inside waiting for you. You’re running late. He’s displeased.”

Glancing at Flavio, you wiggle your fingers at him playfully before walking into a seemingly abandoned industrial warehouse. “Santino is always displeased about something. I’m sorry but I don’t control New York traffic. Once I do I’ll be sure to inform him of it.”

Roberto coughs into his hand, trying to mask his smile as he walks beside you.

“If Flavio has insulted you in any way I will have to inform boss—”

“Don’t bother,” you cut him off, giving the man a knowing look. “He’s new. I rather not ruin this opportunity for him before his first day is even over.”

Because it’s a well know fact that Santino culls his guard ruthlessly till only the best remain in his employment.

“—I will not ask again,” the devil himself speaks in the distance, his voice calm, almost amiable. “Tell me their names. Tell me where my property is, and you will live to see another sunrise.”

“Get fucked,” a distinctly Scottish voice spits back immediately, his words gurgled as if he’s speaking through a mouthful of blood. “I ain’t scared of you, Italian scum.”

“Famous last words,” you call out, stepping into the vast hanger. The guards relax upon spotting you and Roberto while Ares only winks in greeting. “And not very creative ones, either.”

Santino straightens, adjusting his black overcoat and a grin splits his previously stony expression.

“Ah, just the woman I was hoping to see,” he speaks pleasantly, extending his hand in your direction. You walk up to him, placing your hand in his and he lays the customary greeting kiss across your knuckles. “Now, the real fun can really begin, no?”

You reach inside your pocket, pulling out a thin vial with light blue liquid inside. Your eyes sweep over the guard and you frown, realising who the new fish is replacing. “Whatever happened to Mario?”

“His wife gave birth to a beautiful baby girl,” Santino responds with a little quirk of his mouth that only widens when he notes your own delighted expression. “Birth of your first child is a special occasion. I allowed him to fly back to Rome.”

“That’s nice,” you say with a faint smile. “If he checks in tell him congratulations from me.”

Before Santino can reply the man tied to the chair cuts in. “If you think I’m gonna talk, you’re wrong. The arrival of this dumb cunt ain’t changing that.”

Santino’s expression flickers; his slight, playful smile fading as he continues gazing at you seriously. Ares shakes her head with an amused little smile as if she’s one of the few to understand the magnitude of the mistake just made.

“Well,” the man in front of you begins, his voice low as he turns to face the prisoner. Santino’s head tilts to one side as he examines him with faint but open disgust. The man already has a split lip and a swelling eye which explains his inability to speak clearly. “I can’t say that I am a man fond of such disgusting shows of disrespect.”

Already knowing where this is heading, you slide the vial back into your pocket, and cross your arms over your chest, staring. Trying to stop Santino now would be useless anyway. He’s a man of principle, and you’ve long since learned when to pick your battles with him.  

The Italian hums lightly, tutting like he’s talking with a petulant child as he approaches the man, bending closer so he can look him in the eyes. “In fact, I believe a lesson in manners is in order,” he decides, turning to one of his guards. “Break his left kneecap.”

The guard does so without hesitation, and the man screams, drowning out the sound of cracking bones.

“Ah, ah, focus Mr Murphy, focus,” Santino chides, grabbing the still struggling man by the face so he can look him in the eye again. “You do not talk about her like that, is that understood?”

His voice is like velvet but Murphy only glares at him, attempting to gather blood and saliva in his mouth in order to spit. Santino anticipates this, letting go of the man as he sidesteps him. He glances down at his now bloodied fingers with vague disgust and Roberto offers him a clean serviette.

“Oh, Mr Murphy there is no need for such disgusting acts,” the Italian berates, wiping his hand, and watches the panting man with pitiless disinterest. “This pain will pass. Your bones, too, will heal. But manners? Ah, those are forever. Now shall we return to business or do you need another moment to catch your breath?”

“Fuck you,” Murphy mumbles, but his smile is cutting, arrogant. “You think you’re so fuckin’ smart, don’t you?  With your fancy guards and suits. Why I bet you think you’re the king of the whole fuckin’ world, don’t you? Did you really think no one was going to figure it out, huh? What you and that snake did in Chicago?”

Murphy laughs; a twisted, crackling sound as his bloodied teeth shine in the light.

Santino pauses, looking taken aback and you step closer till you’re both side by side, staring at the tied man with a scowl. “What are you talking about?”

“You dumb bastard,” Murphy continues as if he hasn’t heard you, shaking his head as he continues grinning; an awful, bloody thing that twists his mouth into a sneer. “You really did think you got away with it. But nah, we were always going to find you out. And now you’re both exactly where we want you to be.”

You react with the gunshot.

Your body slams into Santino’s, the impact of the bullet hitting you in the back as you both fall to the floor. A sound like an explosion shakes the foundation of the warehouse, and you twist to the side, shooting the assailant who rushes through the doorway you walked through with Roberto only minutes prior.

On the opposite side of the warehouse what appears to be a military plated van has smashed through the closed shutter door, and you glare at the people in black gear that pour out of it.

People are coming from both sides, leaving you outnumbered one to three; and that’s your best case calculation.

Santino’s fingers latch onto your wrist, pulling you back with him, and you pause in your shooting to check on him. Before any words can be exchanged, you shove him towards one of the few crates littering the hanger, watching a shot miss him by inches. Two seconds later the one responsible for the shot collapses on the floor, a silver blade no bigger than a nail file sticking out of his throat.

Ares finally manages to shoot her way through to you, and collapses on Santino’s other side, checking him. You reload in a handful of seconds, shooting another three men before they can reach your spot, and quickly survey the area.

Four of your men are dead already and you calculate it’s been a minute and a half at best since the assault began.

“Shit.”

Your turn to Ares, half-covering Santino as you catch her notice.

Get him out of here, you sign hurriedly before taking another few shots over the crate. Two men fall to the floor with subdued groans. Hopefully their last. Take the east exit. Fewer windows. Give me five minutes to deal with this.

“No,” Santino snaps, glaring. Not without you, his stormy expression seems to say.

You don’t have time for his tantrums now.

“You stay here and you die,” you bite out harshly, jerking him lower by the shoulder as something that sounds suspiciously like a goddamn machine gun joins the symphony of bullets overhead. “Get out of here, and the guard. We need these men alive and I have just the thing for it. Go!”

He glares at you but Ares puts her hand on his shoulder, pulling him back and he follows willingly. You nod at her and you both count together before you rise and open fire, giving them both a small window to get closer to the East exit.

Most of Santino’s remaining guard is already there—a standard procedure that they’ve been trained for, for months—and you roll across the floor to avoid bullets, snarling low in your throat as one of the men on the opposing side grabs you.

His mistake is leaving your arms open and you wrap them behind you, kicking the larger figure in the ankle brutally. His weight sags, and you twist his head sharply to the side, his neck snapping like nothing more than a dry twig.  

His body falls with a heavy thud but you feel nothing. He made the mistake of trying to kill you and that’s on him.

You dive behind the crate and glare at the small cluster that remains of your party. “Which part of ‘get out’ did you all not understand?”

“We don’t take orders from you, nor do we run,” one of the guard’s snaps. “It is not the Camorra way.”

The man falls quiet as the crate gets rained on by more bullets, and your eyes find Santino’s, staring at him with an annoyed, pointed purse of your lips. He glares at you too but after a moment his expression relaxes somewhat.

“Do as she tells you,” he states, reluctant and displeased, but the guards’ pause. “We are leaving.”

You reach behind you, pulling out a vial from a special pouch that you’ve had custom made years ago. Made especially for you to securely carry your solutions in without the worry of smashing any of the vials.

Removing one of the many thin, custom-made gas canisters you carry sewed into your clothes, you slot the vial inside. The guards continue offering cover fire and you work quickly, shaking the canister harshly. The liquid reacts to the gas inside, losing its mass as it transforms.

“On my signal, get the hell out,” you speak loudly, directing your words at Santino and Ares. “Don’t look back or pause no matter what.”

His glare drills into you, hard, but he still nods his head.

From the original guard, only three remain and you’re happy to see that Roberto is one of them. You lock eyes with Ares and jerk your chin; a sign for her to get ready. She reloads smoothly and her hand rests protectively on Santino’s shoulder. She nods, just once, her expression drawn.

You tighten your fingers firmly around the canister and a clear crack inside pops through the air. Inhaling, you immediately throw the canister over your shoulder, listening for the telltale sound of it hitting the floor. It does after another few seconds, nothing but a tiny ping against the deafening sound of bullets and you jerk your head towards Ares.

“Now.”

You rise over the damaged crate, opening fire and hear the party next to you hurry along. Two bullets hit you; one in the shoulder and one in the side, making you wince in pain but the bullets fall away harmlessly. Oh, the wonders of custom made, bulletproof clothing. It will bruise an ugly purple, you know that, but better than be bleeding out from three bullet holes.

A few seconds later, you collapse down, your magazine empty and find everyone has managed to make it to the exit without problems.

Reclining back, you check your watch, resuming your mental count as you reload unhurriedly. Straining your ears, you listen to the familiar sound of hissing poison fill the warehouse.

15 seconds and confused, pained shouts start replacing gunshots.

30 seconds and bodies start collapsing; the last few, disorientated shots sailing completely off the mark.

45 seconds and the only sound drifting through the air is the last dispersing gas and groans of pain.

45 seconds? Still too slow.

Frowning, you rise to your feet, your gun still raised defensively.

Most people fail to understand that poison is—by its very nature—rather easy. Given the right materials, anyone can do it. Being able to properly weaponise it and find ways to use it to such a widespread effect without being effected yourself, is where the real art—the raw difficulty—of being a poisoner lays.

The men that are still alive—you count ten that are still twitching—lay prone on the floor, breathing in more faint mist that has paralysed their bodies and continues spreading steadily.

At that moment, you are a Reaper standing in the field of half-dead, and it would be so easy to finish them off.

Cutting through the hanger, you slowly approach Murphy who—unlike his little friends—is still conscious. He has maybe ten seconds before he, too, is paralysed completely. It will fade. Eventually. But you doubt Santino will allow any of these men to survive past getting information out of them.

Such a direct attack on his life in broad daylight is—

Murphy’s dark eyes roll and he tries to glare at you.

Swiping a blade from under your jacket, you sink it into his left thigh—right above his smashed kneecap, and the man howls.

“Wakey, wakey,” you call, your voice dull, irritated. “We’re going to have a little chat, you and I.”

“B-Bitch,” he slurs, and you release the blade before placing your palm on the top of the hilt, pushing deeper; and then all the way to the bone. Murphy cries out again, trashing clumsily. “I—I ain’t tellin’ you shit.”

“Trust me, you won’t have much of a choice in that,” you inform him with mock cheer, and release the pressure on the blade, taking out your initial delivery to Santino. You shake the tiny vial with blue-tinged liquid in front of his face. “This is going to make you sing like a little bird.”

Grabbing his face, you jerk his chin up, forcing the liquid into his mouth. “You try to spit this out and the blade currently inside your leg is going to be the least of your worries. Yeah, that’s right that one right next to your artery, buddy. Do you think this hurts? You don’t know pain, not yet.”

Murphy swallows. Whether because he believes you or because he knows enough about you—clearly if he’s aware of Chicago, he knows you well enough—he doesn’t try to fight back.

You smile faintly and pat his cheek with a patronising smile. “Good boy.”

With one last cold smile, you head towards the Eastern exit, knowing full well that no one still alive in this room is going to be going anywhere for a long time yet.

You cut across the street, pausing in front of a closed building door, whistling a little tune. The sound slices through the fresh air and you smile slightly when Ares opens the door, her eyes sweeping across the street before she grins at you.

It’s a signal you agreed a long time ago. To whistle a little tune before you walk into a secure building to avoid getting accidentally shot by the very people you’re trying to keep protected.

Finally, she signs with an exasperated roll of her eyes. He is starting to become grumpy.

“I’m sure,” you begin, checking your watch. “That a whole eight minutes is far too long for his majesty to wait. My bad.”

You both share an amused grin before heading inside.

You find Santino on the phone and pacing back and forth like a caged animal. “I do not care about your incompetence,” he snaps in angry Italian, and his curls fall into his eyes when he pivots angrily to one side on his heels. An old habit of taking out his frustration by running his fingers through his hair. “You will get me more—I will call you back.”

His eyes catch the sight of you, and he hangs up without waiting for a reply. His legs carry him to you in a few strides and he glares.

“Foolish woman,” he mutters with a fixed frown, still speaking in Italian, but it lacks bite. His frown only deepens when he spots the bullet indents in your jacket. “Do you enjoy playing with your life, hm?”

You grin, wide and innocent. “Well I associate myself with you, don’t I? Same thing.”

His expression falters and he closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling deeply. Mentally, you know he’s asking for all the patron saints to give him strength. You have often done the same thing over the years due to his actions.

“They’re all yours,” you report, your smile sliding off your face. “You have an hour till they can talk. Murphy is ready for a nice, long chat now though. It will be roughly another three before they start regaining mobility, so I suggest you deal with them before then.”

“They know about Chicago,” Santino points out quietly, his gaze guarded. Ares shifts. From the remaining guard, she’s the only one who knows what happened there—parts of it, at least. “I intend to find out how.”

You don’t say anything, but the long look you share is telling enough.

“If there’s more to this,” you start frankly, though you already know this conversation will not go down well. “I will need to inform Winston.”

Santino’s chin tilts upwards, displeasure twisting his expression immediately, and he glances at Ares, jerking his head to one side. She nods in understanding, snapping her fingers at the remaining guards.

We are going to collect the prisoners, she signs and you gesture for her to cover her face. She knows to do so by now—as well as time limitations of your poisons—but a reminder can’t hurt.

The room clears out, leaving you two alone.

“Do not go to Winston, cara mia,” Santino speaks bluntly and your eyes narrow. “You know what will happen when you do. We broke his precious rules. He will punish you. We can handle this on our own.”

“He will not punish me,” you argue, and continue on despite his small, disbelieving scoff. “The situation escalated but it’s been years—”

“He will inform those who have the power to punish you, then,” he rebukes and gives you a long, searching look. “You know I’m right.”

You exhale, shaking your head. “Let’s not stand here and pretend like this isn’t about protecting your own self-interests, Santino.”

“Oh, certainly,” he shoots back easily, and reaches forward, swiping his thumb just above your brow, his touch gentle. “Which just so happens to include you too. So let me handle this for now, yes?”

He stares at the speck of blood on his finger and smiles that devilish, sly smile. “As you are so fond of saying. I will make them sing.”

“Indonesian Green Erla,” the Doc shows you, carefully taking the plant out of its container. He clips one leaf off, offering it to you for inspection. “It took me a while to hunt down a mature tree. They are hard to come by.”

You raise the leaf to your nose, inhaling deeply, and then proceed to place it against your tongue. The taste is even more bitter than you’re used to and your eyebrows rise, impressed.

“I appreciate it,” you say with a nod, placing two golden coins in front of him. More than the entire order cost but you don’t mind overpaying him. He always finds you ingredients of the highest quality. It was an accidental partnership that was born years ago when you both realised you had a shared interest in rare plants and ingredients.

Him, for medicine—mostly his own private studies.

You, for poison—less private studies and more an attempt to refine your craft.

While the Doctor and you do not see eye-to-eye when it comes to the usage of these rare plants, you both find a great deal of use in swapping notes and researching together. His insight has been incredible, and you drop by his private clinic often. Both to collect any outstanding orders but also to swap notes and have some tea together.  

No one makes better Jasmine tea in all of New York City.

Your senses prickle suddenly and you straighten, glancing towards the window outside. Nothing.

Twilight has fallen but other than that the back street is quiet.

“Is something the matter?” he questions, glancing over his shoulder.

Still nothing.

“No,” you state slowly, frowning. “Just wondering if perhaps you have a rodent problem.”

The Doctor looks affronted at first but it takes a split second for understanding to dawn across his weathered features.

“I will have to look into it,” he says, shifting wearily. “This city is overrun.”

Your eyes slide back to him and you hum under your breath. “I will take a quarter of it. Is it okay if I come back for the rest another time? You still need to finish your story by the way.”

The older man chuckles and secures a portion of the plant for you. “Most certainly,” he tells you, a knowing gleam in his eyes as he places it in your hand. “You are always welcome at my clinic. As long as you don’t bring any trouble with you, that is,” he adds, giving you a pointed look and you nod in understanding.

Bowing your head in respect, you tell him a quick goodbye and exit his clinic.

Your phone buzzes the moment you’re back in the fresh air and you pull it out.

Something has come up. I will speak with you in a few days.—Santi

Frowning, you immediately text him back. Is everything okay?

For Santino to text instead of calling—“I like hearing your voice much better.”—it would have to be something truly important. Worry gnaws at your bones as you cut through New York streets and back towards the Continental. Is it something to do with the earlier attack?

Your phone buzzes again. Yes, it reads and you can almost hear his devious voice in your head. I have my men looking for the shipment already. But I need to fly back to Rome. Family related.—Santi

And immediately after, another sharp buzz. I like it when you worry about me, cara mia. :)

Rolling your eyes, you text back. Don’t get carried away. It would be inconvenient if you died now. Also, you would make an ugly corpse.

You turn towards an alleyway, a faint smile lingering across your face as you wait for a reply.

An indistinct shuffle…

You slip the phone back into your pocket.

Smile wider as your back muscles tense.

A slight breeze.

The concealed blade in your sleeve hits the man right in the shoulder, sinking deep and he yelps, collapsing against the dingy alleyway wall. You’re on him immediately, kicking him in the chest and he slams against the wall again, baring his throat to you which is an opening you use to place another sharpened blade against the fragile skin.

Your free hand latches onto the blade already stuck in his shoulder and you glare at the dirty face before you.

“You have twenty seconds,” you snarl at him, sinking the blade deeper and he lets out a small, pained sob. “Why are you following me? Who sent you?”

“The—The Bowery King—”

You falter in surprise before your features harden. “Why?”

“He—please don’t kill me—” he whimpers and you press the blade in deeper, not in the mood for snivelling. If you wanted him dead, he would be. “He demands an audience!”

“Demands?” you echo coldly. “No one demands anything of me. Be sure to tell him that.”

Face twisting in disgust, you rip the blade out and take a step back, watching the man press his fingers against the bleeding wound. Under his woolly hat, his eyes are wide and frantic.

“P-Please! He will not be happy if I don’t take you to him.”

You clean the blade, not bothering to look at him. “I’m busy. I’ll come to see him tomorrow. Noon.”

The man looks momentarily stunned by your simple refusal. “But—”

“Or,” you emphasise, casting your eyes his way and he freezes, pressing closer to the wall, terrified. “You can tell him you failed. Tomorrow noon.”  

“Next time call instead of sending one of your little rodents after me.”

You wonder down the creaky, metal staircase and fresh New York air kisses your skin as you hear a deep chuckle float through the air.

“Should I send some flowers next time as well?” the large man questions as he turns to face you. The Bowery King is an imposing figure and he approaches you slowly with a grin that turns into a sharper thing when he comes to stop in front of you. “I can’t say that I was too pleased about the state poor James came back in last night.”

It’s an effort to not roll your eyes, and you note how the King’s own guards circle you. Clearly on the defensive. These men are survivors, their instincts are better than most.

“I barely scratched him,” you defend, bored, meeting the Bowery King’s stare head-on.

His eyebrows arch in open surprise. “The man has a hole in him.”

You take a step towards him. “He’ll heal.”

The guards shift, coming closer the moment you move, and Tick Tock steps closer as if in attempt to check you for weapons. His hand freezes midair when your eyes snap to him, your glare harsh enough to give him a pause.

“I won’t do that, my friend,” the Bowery King says with a laugh as if the whole situation is incredibly amusing to him. “The Vipress does not like being touched.”

Tick Tock wisely steps back but the tight circle remains. Your eyes pass them all, taking note of their open distrust and wariness. “What is it that you want, your majesty?”

The Bowery King exhales loudly, considering you, before his head tilts towards the open blue sky. It’s a stunning day, bright and clear. Unlike the misery of the last few weeks of cool or straight-up miserable weather. He nods at Tick Tock, and the small gathering disperses, leaving only the King’s right hand behind.

For a moment it’s silent, only the distant sound of traffic and gentle hooting of pigeons filling the air.

“Do come along,” The King says as he turns towards the cages. “It’s been a while since our last little chat.”

“I’ve been busy,” you explain as you move after him but not before giving Tick Tock another measured stare. The man grins at you widely and your slight frown doesn’t drop.

The King stops suddenly and you almost run into him, tensing.

“Yes, you have,” he says knowingly, grinning at you over his shoulder. “Between the Russians and the Italians you have your tiny little hands just full, don’t you? Appetite for everything, ain’t that right?”

You say nothing, watching as he ghosts his fingers over one of the cages. The birds come closer, clearly recognising him and you watch the tiny pigeon rub its head against the King’s open palm. “I’ve also heard about the little shootout you and your Italian got involved in the other day. Nasty business.”

That doesn’t particularly surprise you. There’s very little that happens it this city that The Bowery King doesn’t know about. Something of that magnitude happening in broad daylight would have been impossible to conceal even with Santino’s influence. “It’s being handled.”

The Bowery King practically cackles, his laugh deep and rich as it bounces through the open air. “Handled? Ha! That is the D’Antonio way.”

Folding your arms, you stare at him for a moment. “I assume you’ve heard about the old man passing.”

“Halle-fucking-lujah if I do say so myself.”

You don’t bother holding back your own amused smile, and allow your face to turn towards the sun for a moment. When your attention returns to the Bowery King, he’s holding a light grey pigeon in his hands, stroking its head carefully. A gentle action for a man of violence just like the rest of you. “Then you know that there’s 50/50 chance that Santino will be the next head,” you comment neutrally, your double meaning clear.

The Bowery King’s smile is a slow coming, knowing thing. “Good friend to have.”

Shaking your head, your arms loosen, and you step through the rows of little cages, peering inside curiously. Tick Tock’s stare drills into you, and you know that he is not the only one. “I assume this is more than just a social call to share gossip.”

The King moves closer, steady and purposeful as always. “Maybe it isn’t? I am so very fond of gossip,” he tells you, his teasing tone almost making you smile. But then his expression shifts. “But no. This is no ordinary meeting. But then again, it is not every day that you learn about John Wick’s wife, unfortunately, departing the land of the living.”

Your eyes find his and you hold his gaze steadily. He chuckles, and strokes the pigeon’s head with his thumb again, glancing towards the horizon. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“Not at all. I assume Winston told you.”

“And if he did?”

The Bowery King turns to face you, and this time his expression is serious, previous amusement forgotten. “I would say the same thing I’ve been saying for a while. The man is getting old.”

You scoff. “If you think that makes him any less dangerous—”

He shakes his head, lips pressing into a tight line. “That ain’t it, sweetheart,” he argues as if disappointed you would assume that, and releases the pigeon in his hands. “I know the old man has power extending far beyond his little castle. But some believe that it’s no accident that he has taken you under his wing. Some even believe that you are his not-so-secret protege—that he’s grooming you to take his position as the head of New York Continental. After your unpleasant business Viggo Tarasov is concluded, of course.”

You stare at him with wide-eyed disbelief, trying to digest his words. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” you mutter, sounding just as baffled as you feel. “If you really think that Winston of all the people is busy making retirement plans, then you haven’t been paying attention.”

The King moves towards you slowly, stopping a few steps away—just out of arms reach like most smart people do now.

“Except I have been paying attention. And it’s all very…peaceful, isn’t it?” he questions knowingly, closing his eyes with a smile and inhaling deeply. Sun bathes his skin with light and you stare at him silently. “But you can feel it, can’t you? There’s a little something in the air again. A bit of danger. There’s a storm coming, dear Vipress, and I do wonder how many of us will survive this fucking thing.”

He glances at you again, strolling past your prone figure leisurely. You let him pass but turn immediately after, your muscles tensing despite your best efforts to remain calm and collected.

“You mean John, don’t you?” you wonder quietly, a slight catch to your words as you gaze at his broad back. “He’s not coming back.”

“Why won’t he? What does he have that is holding him to the other side anymore?”

You consider his question for a moment. “He’s retired. He’s found peace.”

The King laughs; a short, amused sound. “Peace. Now, now, we both know that no such thing exists.”

Why you are here is the real question. Something about this entire encounter rubs you the wrong way. Any conversation with the Bowery King is an effort in both patience and mental gymnastics. Often he speaks in riddles or muses random thoughts that only come together later to form a murky narrative. Most of the time you both simply try to bait each other for information.

Eyes narrowed and lips pursed, you ask him a blunt, “Who is it?”

The man looks at you over his shoulder with a slight grin.

“Sharp as always,” he states but it doesn’t particularly sound like a compliment. “We have an understanding when it comes to business, don’t we? We work together every once in a while and then go back to our respective little corners of the kingdom.”

You turn your attention towards the New York skyline and frown.

“I can’t do a job for you right now,” you inform him bluntly but keep your tone respectful. “I’m still finishing things up with Santino.”

“By all means,” he dismisses with a casual wave of his hand. “This time, I don’t actually require you personally, just one of your little potions.”

That gets your attention. You usually refuse jobs unless you are there personally to carry them through. That’s not only because you doubt the competence of others—and God if that doesn’t make you sound like Santino—but also because you don’t trust your creations with others. Who may steal and study what you have created. There’s been plenty of attempts to copycat in the past. Some more successful than others, but none like you. That’s because you guard your secrets fiercely.

“Since when do you poison people?” you demand and don’t bother hiding the suspicion in your voice.

The man before you grins, indulgent, amused. “Since this job requires a more…subtle touch.”

That’s not good enough. But instead, you simply ask, “Who is it?”

“Someone you know,” The King admits, nodding his head from side to side, unbothered, almost bored. “But worry not, it’s not anyone from our little New York family. I would so hate to upset the established order.”

The smile on his face by the end does little to comfort you and your scrutiny doesn’t drop.

“I will need a name, your majesty.”

His smile fades, and you know it’s because he’s not used to being questioned, and by you of all the people. “Since when do you care?”

“I care when I’m not the one doing the job personally,” you tell him tightly and take few measured steps towards him. Tick Tock moves forward, intercepting you, his expression twisted into a mocking expression. “The last thing I need is the High Table on my ass because you mishandled my creations.”

For a moment, the Bowery King only stares at you. “Careful with that tone, sweetheart. I am the King, and you are still in my kingdom.”

Sighing, you shoot Tick Tock a look and he steps back with arms raised slightly. Then, you turn your attention back to the man before you. Wind blows gently across the rooftop, and you can’t help but find it ironic that you’re openly discussing murder with such a lovely backdrop.

“Well then, your majesty,” you inform him flatly, not wanting a fight but not in the mood for games, either. “When you’re ready to give me the information I need be sure to send me one of your little birdies.”

The Bowery King gives you the name eventually.

Zach Kahanek. In your world more commonly known as “Divider”.

An American mother and Czech father. Suffice to say, he took after his father in terms of career choice and his aptitude for it.

You do not particularly care for the King’s reasons for wanting Zach dead. Nothing from your dig for information brought up anything that could potentially get you into trouble. That did not, however, mean that you are about to pass your poison to just anyone.

No, the last 48 hours have been dedicated to creating a vastly different, more wash out version of your original formula. If anyone tries to misuse it or copy it, they’re in for a nasty surprise.

Your hotel room phone starts ringing shrilly and you jump in your chair, almost dropping your tools. Straightening, you blinking at the harsh glare of your phone screen which reads ten minutes to midnight. Your eyes feel dry and heavy as you open and close them one sloppy blink at the time.  

Bones aching and head heavy, you patter across the room, grabbing the phone and lifting it to your ear.

“What?”

So maybe you sound cranky, but it’s been a while since you had human interaction. Or sleep for that matter. In fact, now that you are standing you feel positively nauseous.

There’s a pause on the other end, and you frown before a voice finally speaks. “Miss Vipress,” Charon’s familiar voice filters through and you blink again. “My apologies for disturbing you at such a late hour, especially when you have requested privacy to focus on your work. However, I have a visitor wishing to see you.”

“A visitor,” you repeat and wonder if you sound as dead to him as you do in your own ears. Swallowing, you crack your neck, trying to push your brain back into the land of the living. “Who? I’m not really in the state to see anyone right now, tell them to come back tomorrow.”

“Mr D’Antonio insists that he will not be leaving until he sees you,” Charon speaks and his voice is so flat that under normal circumstances you might have found it comical. “However, due to our security protocols—”

“Santi?” you mumble, now even more confused as well as worried. Santino never comes into Winston’s territory unless it’s absolutely necessary to do so. In fact, you had no idea he was scheduled to fly back to New York today. Your last contact was the few swapped texts before he went back to Rome. That was three days ago. “Send him up.”

“Miss Vipress, as you have said so yourself you are in no state—”

“Charon.”

The man falls silent, and after a beat, “As you wish.”

“Thank you.”

The line goes dead and you sigh. As if that doesn’t mean that he will be telling on you to Winston.

By the time it takes to gather yourself, and go to the door, there sounds a sharp knock against the wood.

“If you expect me to entertain you at this hour,” you grumble with a frown as you wrench the door open. “Then I’m crushed to inform you that I’m in no fit condition to be your court jester tonight.”

Santino stands with a familiar air of cocky elegance, his bright eyes searching and suit immaculate as always. Today he’s favouring dark charcoal grey with royal blue accents that seem to add a different dimension to the green of his eyes. He shifts, straightening when your eyes meet.

He frowns the moment the sight of you registers though. A beat, and then, “You look terrible, cara mia.”

“Thanks,” you snap with a wide, sarcastic smile as you gesture for him to come in, and give a mock salute to two guards waiting by the elevator. “Just what everyone wants to hear. Please do come in.”

Santino shrugs off his overcoat, folding it over his arm as his eyes sweep over your room. Given his nosy nature, it doesn’t surprise you that his attention snags on your work desk. He takes a few steps towards it, his expensive shoes gleaming and he hovers his arm over an array of samples, ingredients and solutions.

“I won’t if I were you,” you tell him off as you pass him, collapsing on the loveseat with a groan. Your neck is aching and so are your fingers and arms. Your work takes precision which means a lot of squinting to get correct measurements and very steady hands which doesn’t do much for one’s muscles. Stretching helps, but you’re usually too lost in your work to do it often enough. “Unless you want to be left as a drooling mess on the carpet. I’m sure Winston would have a field day seeing you like that though. Do sit down at your earliest convenience by the way.”

His attention returns to you, and you find him still frowning, eyes sweeping over your features as he seats himself in front of you. He still hasn’t said anything past his initial assessment of you. Which is unusual. Santino likes to talk.

“I don’t have any fancy drinks and the fridge is empty so I can offer you…water,” you inform after a lengthy pause of racking your foggy brain. “Want a glass?”

Santino nods but his frown doesn’t let up. “You look tired.”

It’s a loaded statement.

You don’t answer at first and let the water fill the glass silently. When you approach him and place the glass on the table, you meet his stare.

“So do you.”

Which is true and rare. Santino seems to have some bizarre drive that makes him near unstoppable and always hungry. It’s not that you’ve never seen the cracks in his armour before—you have, so many times: his last birthday, Chicago, New Years in Prague; they come to mind first—but this is different.

“Not with you.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it which worries you even more. There’s not much you can say in response to such a soft, almost absentminded confession.

“I’ve been working for the last 36-something hours on maybe 3 hours of sleep,” you offer up as you walk to get yourself a glass of water too. Till this exact moment, you haven’t even noticed how thirsty you’ve gotten. “What’s your excuse, grumpy?”

“You should have called me,” he says seriously, and there’s that knowing tilt in his low baritone that tells you he knows exactly why you haven’t been sleeping. “You know that I do not like it when you choose to suffer alone, bella.”

Drowning the first glass, you pour more water, letting your tongue wet your lips. 

“As if you don’t already have a mountain of problems to deal with,” you remind him because as much as he likes to think he’s the only one who worries, that’s hardly the case. You’re a team. Kinda. Sorta. Maybe a team. Because you’re certainly a something—it just usually feels too large to fit into any tangible bracket or label, so you don’t bother. “And whatever came up with the family must have been pretty important for you to drop everything—”

Your words cut off when you turn around and spot his expression. He sits slumped in the chair, his features almost—

It looks almost pained and you don’t know what to say to that.

He twists his golden Camorra ring around his finger and you feel your pulse jump.

“Santino?”

He blinks, and his expression clears as he looks up at you with a faint smile. “Nothing to worry about, amore,” he tells you, his voice soft. “They moved the will reading to yesterday, hence the reason for me flying back on such short notice.”

Shit. Oh fuck.

Suddenly, you feel so awake and alert that your head hurts.

You cut the distance between you at once, and plant yourself on the table, staring at him expectantly. “And?”

“And,” he bites out after a moment, controlled fury twisting his voice and thickening his accent. “You are looking at the Spare of Camorra family.”

A Spare.

The failed, back up heir. Which means—

You don’t know what to say—don’t know if there’s anything you should even bother saying. For so long, he’s wanted this. The entire time you have known him, Santino has had no other goal than to become the head of his family and inherit the High Table seat from his father. Control all the power that comes with it. His father and grandfather had, in their time as Camorra bosses, transformed and pioneered the family into a new age; an age of fortune and indisputable power. A terrible sort of legacy for both Santino and Gianna to live up to.

Seeing your disbelief, he chuckles but it doesn’t sound happy or amused or warm in any way. It’s a cold, hollow sound and you watch dumbly as he rises to his feet, frustration marring every inch of his body.

“Ah, life,” he whispers through clenched teeth as he fixes his cufflinks. There’s not a seam out of place though, and you know the motion is more about channelling his frustration. “It sure does have a fine sense of irony to it, won’t you agree? But no matter, I seem to be in the business of never getting what I truly desire.”

You rise to your feet slowly, still staring at him.

It’s not pity that you feel—not really—but it is…sadness perhaps? Frustration on his behalf?

You recall Naples. You recall the warm, salty breeze of the Gulf and Santino’s home. His office and the immeasurable pride he has in it.

He is most certainly a power-hungry man. He has an appetite you don’t think anything or anyone could ever quite sate, but he also has deep-running pride and love for Camorra. He doesn’t hold illusions that what they do is good or fair. He doesn’t bother to present himself as anything other than what he is. He is deeply hated for it, but it has never stopped him for working towards his goal.

And now—

You try to imagine what he must have felt in that moment, sitting in a silent room with his sister, and learning that everything he has worked for, for decades has been blown away like old dust by a few lines on a paper.

Back when you first met, you didn’t think he would make a good boss, either. He always struck you as too selfish, arrogant, vicious and—on an occasion—even petty. It took you a long time to begin seeing anything beyond a powerful man who you could use to your own advantage. It started as nothing more than a business necessity, your work with him, and you’re still unsure when exactly you began classing him as someone you could rely on.

Chicago is when you knew, a voice deep down reminds you and your lips press into a thin line.

You don’t even feel yourself approach him. The only thing that registers is your arms wrapping around his shoulders when you hug him. They squeeze tightly around him and you don’t care if he will find it unnecessary, or if there’s some unspoken rule about not touching an heir without their expressed permission first.

You’re friends, aren’t you? Even if he’s always wanted more, right now you can tell that’s what he needs.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe quietly, bumping your nose against his shoulder as your eyes squeeze shut for a second. “I’m sorry.”

His suit is like silk against your skin and you inhale deeply, trying to keep yourself calm for his sake. He’s already angry, you don’t need to add to it.  

He breathes. Shallow, soft breaths that seem to fill his lungs as he stands there. Then his arms hesitantly wrap around your waist, and he holds you to him with such ferocity that under normal circumstances you might have said something about it. His face buries itself against the crook of your neck, desperate, and his shaking fingers come to rest against the back of your neck. Gentle.

He doesn’t say anything, and for a moment you simply hold him, and he you, before he pulls back with one last inhale of breath.

“Is there anything I can do—”

“You could come to Paris with me,” he jokes, his voice thick, but his sly smile brings you some semblance of relief. “You still owe me a trip, carissima.”

“I might take you up on that offer after we deal with everything,” you say with a slight smile and Santino’s eyebrows rise in amusement. His expression drops after a moment though, drawing into a more serious and morose thing, and you try hard to control your breathing when his large hand comes to rest against the side of your face. “Anything else?” you force out, hopeful that you can dispel the change in the air between you.

The heat of his thumb leaves featherlight kisses against the curve of your cheek as he tenderly traces your skin, seemingly lost in thought, and your throat goes dry.

“Poker?” he suggests calmly, and you both pretend he isn’t staring at your lips with enough intensity to leave most people flustered.

“Learned my lesson in Chicago,” it’s an effort to keep your voice steady, and Santino laughs under his breath, his hand finally dropping away. You inhale discreetly and watch him for a moment. Your next thought comes unexpectedly—like all best thoughts do—and your expression brightens. “But I do think that I have a better idea.”

“This is not what I had in mind when you said ‘better’, cara mia.”

He glances outside as if to double-check if Ares is still out there, waiting for you by the car. As if the brunette would ever leave either of you here of all places. You follow his gaze and find that the woman in question is still with other three guards seated inside the car and waiting patiently. Thankfully, it’s so late that even by New York standards, this place is quiet. But you already knew that prior to coming because you frequent it often. It’s a cheap place with pretty great food, even if it’s far below Santino’s usual high standards.

“Speak for yourself,” you intone flatly, scooping another spoonful of ice cream and shoving it in your mouth. Santino frowns at your forced cheery smile and inspects his own ice cream dully. “Oh, come on, eat it. It’s not going to bite you.”

He scoffs under his breath, shooting you a disbelieving look as he inclines in his creaky seat; all tailored edges and sharp lines. “I’ve had ice cream before, carissima. I know that. I simply—”

He pauses, lips pursing and you feel a stab of surprise at the conflict he lets show clearly on his face for once. He usually guards his emotions carefully, and it’s often hard to pinpoint what exactly he feels unless he wants you to know. Today, however, is a mess and even though your distraction seems to be working, your previous conversation still hangs over you both.

“You can tell me,” you promise him, and see his expression twist as if your words pain him before he clears his throat, nodding his head once. “Is it something embarrassing?” you guess helpfully with a tilt of your head.

His laugh is short, unpleasant. “No. I have simply never eaten—this is my first time. Having ice cream like this. On the outside. In some dingy diner of all the places, too.”

There is a clear question to be asked here; a clear line of enquiry to pursue. But seeing the guarded look on Santino’s face keeps any questions under lock and key. You can’t bring yourself to ask how the son of one of the most powerful criminal families in the world has never had ice cream outside his own house before. How come he has never experienced something as simple and as ordinary as having a frozen treat growing up.

You can’t. Not only because you can’t bear the thought of pushing him into a headspace he may not want to revisit, but also because you are a coward. Santino talks about his childhood like one might about a broken toy; fragmented into times before and after, clearly divided by the death of his mother. Old conversations paint an image of life full of plenty but no real joy. He might have had luxury others can only dream of growing up, but being who he is—the only son of Camorra’s head—meant a childhood of living in a golden cage. Protected and stifled. Forced to conform to the role his father expected him to fill. Gianna adapted—blossomed into something fierce and deadly—but that restless hatred for rules and traditions still lives in Santino to this day. Unlike his sister, he has never let go of that wildness raging in his blood.

A part of you may never fully understand him. For you, having had nothing for so long, it seems almost funny to compare your lives. Santino doesn’t understand the terror of not knowing where you will sleep next, of never settling down anywhere, or going to bed with an empty stomach. He had everything growing up expect that which he needed most. Your parents may not have been able to buy you new toys every week but at least they loved you openly.

What must it have been like, growing up in a mansion with luxury and money found in every corner but with a father who pushed you into being what he wanted you to be? What must it have been like for two young children to lose their mother so tragically and for their father—instead of comforting them and being there for them—starting to pit the two siblings against each other. 

Every conversation you’ve ever had with both Santino and Gianna about their father painted a clear image of a man who did everything in his power to turn his children into suitable heirs. He only saw or cared about Camorra’s future—the family’s wellbeing past his own service to it—and failed to care about his own kids along the way. He only ever added fuel to the blaze, fanning flames of hatred and mistrust between the brother and his sister. Perhaps, Giovanni D’Antonio thought he was doing them a favour, forging them into strong leaders, but at what price?

“Power is a dangerous thing. You have to be willing to lose everything in order to take it.” When he said those words to you on that bitterly cold New Years night in Prague, you took his words at face value but now you know better than that.

He’s dead and his children resent each other because of his actions.    

And the very dream Santino fought for—had tried to break himself for—has been taken from him.

It concerns you. Because he is not a man to take things laying down. This frustration and hurt will pass, and it worries you what might come after.

“Well, you’re here now,” you state calmly, watching the golden ring on his hand reflect light as he drums them on the table. “Having some with me. Seems like I’m destroying your diner innocence. I’m not sorry either, and I’m not going to take it back. This is a right of passage with me. Think you can handle it, Santi?”

A faint, crooked smile twitches his lips and he hums, still staring at the ice cream like it holds all the answers to the universe. “With the added pleasure of your company, I imagine I can weather a great many things, cara mia.”

It’s a relief to hear the usual haughtiness back in his voice, and you nibble on your lip, trying to hold back a snarky smile. “You know what?”

He glances up at you immediately, and the startling green of his eyes steals your breath for just a second. “What?”

It’s your turn to give him the largest, most shit-eating grin you can muster up. “You look like an absolute idiot sitting here in your ten thousand dollar suit while we eat half-melted ice cream in this run down joint.”

The slightly distorted music from the jukebox wraps around you both for a second before Santino laughs. It’s a slightly awkward, unsure laugh that shakes his whole body and you like it more because it’s not practised, not expected of him. He laughs genuinely—a warm, rich sound—and it’s the first one of the night, maybe even the week. You sit together, facing each other, and you’re suddenly reminded of Chicago. Of how much your situation has switched since then to now. But you’re not here because you owe him. You’re here because, despite his questionable methods, you really do consider him a friend. 

“Ah, I will look even better when you take it off me,” he comments idly, his eyes twinkling with mirth; a sly promise. “That, cara mia, I can promise.”

“I think you look best when you’re snoring.”

“I do not snore.”

“Sure you don’t.”

“My, my, why do I put up with this again? You are so…vexing sometimes.”

“Have you met you? I’m surprised I haven’t thrown myself over the nearest cliff yet. I should really be paid more for putting up with you.”

“Ah, bella, I believe it is because you adore me, no?”

You roll your eyes at the smugness in his voice but don’t deny his statement.

He waits for it, but it never comes.

You see the realisation dawn across his features—a mere split second that softens his entire face before he hides his expression with a turn of his head.

Neither of you speak after that. But that’s fine.

Santino spends the rest of the night with a strange little smile on his face and you don’t question it.

“You could be free,” Winston muses, taking a sip of his tea. “Could just walk away from everything. Not many would be able to stop you.”

You shake your head, a hint of an ironic smile lingering across your face. “You make it sound so simple,” you remark, tapping your finger against the rim of the cup. “When we both know it’s anything but. Tarasov will not make it easy.”

“If the debt is repaid, he cannot hold you,” Winston shoots back, and your eyes lift to him, noting the sharper edge in his words. “There are rules about this sort of thing. You served loyally. He must release you or the High Table will get involved.”

You know that. But it also seems too easy. It’s been so long. The idea of there being just one last job to do till you’re finally free seems inconceivable.

Your job with Santino overran by two days but he had his information, and his missing shipment has been tracked all the way to Canada. The thieves believed they could safely move the shipment and lay low for a couple of months before attempting to sell it in parts. Santino and Ares left earlier this afternoon to personally handle the people caught and you can’t help but feel sorry for them.

You wouldn’t wish the terrible storm that is Santino D’Antonio onto anyone right now. Not even Perkins.

There would be no mercy for stealing from him nor trying to kill him. Or you for that matter.

It grates on you that you couldn’t go with him though. This whole situation is giving you a bad feeling and the fact that you can’t do anything yet is annoying.

There is also the matter of someone on the outside knowing what you did in Chicago. That’s a whole other can of worms you don’t want to open any time soon.

But information gathered from Murphy—the other ten soldiers didn’t know anything aside from their orders to kill you and Santino—made one thing absolutely clear.

Someone else definitely knows. And that someone wants revenge.

You haven’t been able to learn how, exactly, they knew about your location in advance to get a drop on you like that. The intel has simply been passed along last minute by, presumably, whoever ordered the hit. The worst part is that you have used that warehouse in the past, as have other people, expanding the pool of potential suspects. Ares took the blame on herself but Santino has been dismissive of it. She has proven her loyalty plenty of times in the past, and you know that he trusts his left hand without question.

You’ve also considered the fact that maybe someone had eyes on you and was tracking you instead. But as with any mission, you have made it into a habit of taking misleading routes to throw off any potential trackers.

So, in the end, you’ve been left with too many questions and too few answers. And although physically you are still tied to Tarasov and New York and your last job to him, your mind is adrift, fractured into different places which is unwise. You have no idea what to expect from Viggo but you doubt it will be anything straightforward. All of your time and focus should be going into preparation for The Last Job as Winston calls it.

“It could be a happy ending,” the said man continues, bringing you back to reality. “If you want it to be.”

You snort, rubbing your eyes tiredly. “People like us don’t get happy endings, Winston,” you tell him, your voice distant. “You know that.”

The older man doesn’t disagree with your statement and you stare at the crowd.

People are dancing and drinking and having a good time. But something sits in the pit of your stomach; a weight you can’t explain but it looms over you like a nameless threat.

There’s a storm coming.

“Johnathan did.”

Your head snaps to Winston, your hard stare locking onto him. “His wife died. Some happy ending.”

The man exhales deeply, lowering his pen and you watch him take off his glasses, too, placing them carefully next to his open notebook. He laces his fingers and regards you frankly, thoughtful.

“But he found it,” he says knowingly, scrutinising you. “Even if for a short amount of time. People are so cynical nowadays. Some individuals come into your life and it’s so easy but when they leave it takes so long to let go, to forget. Most assume that positive emotion is better than negative, but in my experience, you learn far more from the negative. From the pain. Otherwise, we’re empty. Better to find something good, and have it for a little while, then not at all.”

You glance down and your tiny smile is scornful. “Can’t say that’s a sentiment I can share in, Winston.”

His stare is curious, shrewd. “You wish you’ve never met him, then?”

“No, not in the beginning,” you speak and tap your fingers against the table, keeping your attention away from the too-clever man. If only because he can read you too well. “I still loved him too much back then, so even though it hurt more, I kept holding on. But with time…Yes, I now spend most of my days wishing I’ve never met him. Whatever we once had died a long time ago.”

He regards you silently for a few seconds before nodding his head once, and reaching for his pen and glasses again; the conversation clearly over in his eyes.

A blade slides free and into your palm when a man suddenly comes too close to your booth and Winston raises his hand at you in a pacifying motion. The young guard, to his credit, doesn’t flinch and you watch him lean closer to Winston, speaking something hurriedly in his ear.

The expression that falters Winston’s face makes you pause.  

Your phone lights up, a familiar but unwelcome name glaring through and you glance at the message on the screen.

And promptly feel something cold slice through your entire body.

You both speak almost simultaneously.      

“Oh my.”

“John.”

Iosef stole John Wick’s car and killed his dog.

. . .

an: heh. now that all that is out of the way and the playfield is a bit more even...let the real fun begin :D

as always, you all have my eternal love and appreciation for reading!! love it? hated it? feel free to let me knowwww. and thank you for your support! x

[ao3porcelainstorm]

poison ivy & stinging nettles 1

'A Case of Poison Ivy and Stinging Nettles'

“Very original title, John,” Sherlock snorted. John glared up at his friend, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.

"The whole case was about betrayal, plants, and pharmaceuticals," he shot back. "It's a clever title." "What about chemistry? There was plenty of chemistry." "Our client was a botanist," John rolled his eyes and continued typing at the laptop. "Don't worry, there's plenty of mention of your glorious prowess with chemical reactions."

On Ao3 

Pairing: Sherlock/OFC 

Rated: M

Warnings: eventual violence, torture, swears, adult themes (no explicit smut)

Chapter 2

Chapter 1- Amelia 

~~~

Unlike most cases on this blog, Sherlock and I stumbled into this one quite accidentally.

Sherlock had made Mrs. Hudson upset, and when I revealed that it was her birthday, I quickly ushered him to the nearest florist.

That was where we met Amelia Brenner, the first person I'd ever known that spoke the language of the flowers fluently.

~~~

Amelia Brenner disliked the rain that so often plagued London. If she had a choice in the matter, she would have been back home, probably sunbathing on the rooftop of her Brooklyn apartment. Unfortunately, life had a cruel sense of humor, and that led to Amelia's present circumstances.

She often lamented that she was the one being punished for having done right by society, but the brief periods of sunshine that occasionally peaked through the London skyline, reminded her that this wasn't the all terrible exile she'd convinced herself it was.

Today, was one of those rare, beautiful, days.

And there were two grown men in the front of her flower shop bickering over which flowers they needed to purchase to appease their landlady.

“Roses are safe,” she suggested, eyes trailing to the clear sky outside longingly. “Red and yellow are happiness and excitement. Just yellow mean friendship.”

“I didn't realize flowers had their own language,” the shorter gentleman turned around with a nervous chuckle. He looked out of place, and clearly overwhelmed, but no so much as the dark-hair man beside him.

“Perfect, that'll do,” the second man shot in, visibly annoyed at the entire situation.

Amelia was just as eager to get the men out of her shop, and quickly moved to the side of the shop where she stored her roses in a refrigerator.

“Shouldn't we get her something more meaningful?” the shorter man asked, as Amelia's fingers nearly touch the stem of the yellow roses. She froze, throwing on a bright smile and turning around.

“Do you know what her favorite flowers are? We could add them to the rose bouquet,” she suggested, a passing child and their laughing friends running by with ice cream reminded her of her urgency to close up early for the day.

“God if I know,” the brunette shrugged impatiently. “John, you remember pointless things like that. Why don't you know?”

“You've known her longer, Sherlock,” the blonde, John, shot back. “Not once, have you gotten her a birthday present?”

“It didn't seem important,” he muttered, turning his attention to the numerous displays sitting in the shop window.

“I'm sorry, my friend is a bit difficult when it comes to any semblance of intimacy or emotional attachment,” John shot his turned away friend a scowl before approaching Amelia. “Are there any flowers that mean, 'beloved friend', or something similar?”

Amelia paused, half-tempted to just grab the yellow roses, but John seemed earnest in his request, despite the difficult behavior his friend was displaying.

“You know what...” Amelia moved toward a different section of the store where she had various flowers set in plastic vases for “do-it-yourself” bouquets. “Tell me about your landlady.”

“She's an older woman,” John started, hesitating slightly. “Very kind. Always has a cup of tea ready for you on a bad day.”

“Nosy, likes invading your personal space,” Sherlock chimed in.

“It's because you do things like shoot bullets through walls,” John reminded him tersely. “She gets concerned.”

Amelia plucked a few coreopsis, orange geraniums, and a large sunflower. Grabbing a few sprigs of sage and some Queen Anne's lace for accents, she moved to the main counter and dug through her drawers for a crystal vase she'd seen laying around.

It didn't take long for her to take the random assortment of flowers and turn them into a gorgeous display of yellows and orange. The white accents of the lace, pulled the whole thing together in a practical, tasteful way.

“What do they all mean?” John asked, glancing up from the card Amelia had given him to fill out and attach to the bouquet.

“Queen Anne's lace means sanctuary,” Amelia lightly touched the small white flowers. “A short sunflower means adoration, geraniums mean true friendship, sage means wisdom, and corepsis mean always cheerful.”

“That's perfect,” John practically beamed up at her, signing both his and Sherlock's name to the bottom of the card.

Amelia rang up his purchase, giving the men a small discount because she felt a little bad about their circumstances. Especially, once John went into more detail about exactly what it was his friend had done (something about a snippy comment about the woman's sweater).

“You said a short sunflower means adoration, what does a tall one mean?” Sherlock spoke up, looking quite uncomfortable as John shoved the vase into his hands.

Amelia had to bite her bottom lip to keep down the giggle that wanted to erupt with her response. She swallowed it down, turning it into a cough before coolly responding.

“Haughtiness.”

John snorted a laugh and ushered Sherlock out of the store before the taller man could make a comment. He thanked Amelia again over his shoulder and was gone in a flash.

Amelia quickly ran to the front door, flipping over the open sign to “closed”, and locked it in place. She looked at her watch and calculated she had about three hours until the sun began to set, giving her plenty of time to sit in the green house she'd constructed on the roof, and take in a bit of the sunshine with her plants.

She tided up the shop, humming an excited tune under her breath while she cashed out the register and wiped down the counters. All was going smoothly until a very urgent visitor began pounding at her front door.

Thinking she'd forgotten an order, or perhaps John or Sherlock had dropped something, she unlocked the door and swung it open.

What Amelia hadn't anticipated was the front end of a pistol to bed shoved into her chest and a group of three men to storm into her tiny space.

The last man in quickly closed the door behind him, while the other two started pulling down blinds, the gun still trained on a stunned Amelia.

“Can I help you?” she stammered, her hands up in defense, trying to think of an escape plan through the fear and adrenaline coursing through her veins. The backdoor was too far. There weren't any nearby windows.

She was stuck.

One of the men kicked down a display. Gerbera daisies scattered across the floor in a splash of color that the man quickly stepped on, and twisted his foot. He chuckled at Amelia's face, distorted in distress at the careless handling of the flowers she'd dedicated her free time to.

“The data set,” the man with the gun snarled. Amelia noticed he was missing a front tooth, and that had distracted her considerably. He fired a bullet near her feet, repeating his question.

“I have no idea what that means,” she whimpered in response. The men were working their way around the shop, kicking over display, stomping on flowers, and pouring lighter fluid over their destroyed remains.

“Don't play dumb sweetheart, it's not a good look,” he stepped closer, pressing the tip of the weapon into her cheek. “The data set with the clinical trial results. A mutual friend wants it back.”

Amelia continued feigning ignorance, despite knowing precisely what data set he was referring to. It was safely tucked away in a deposit box, across town, under an assumed name.

“I just deal in flowers,” she insisted, a small sob pulling from her chest as they continued to demolished her little shop. “If you look to the bottom of your boots, that's the pretty stuff you're destroying.”

“Don't get cheeky with me,” the man with the gun snapped back. "An American in London, setting up shop just after the biggest data breach in Chemco's history..."

“And what are you going to do about it? Shoot me?” Amelia regretted the words the instant they left her mouth. The small wave of confidence immediately fading while he moved forward. He pulled his hand back and hit her across the face with the end of his weapon.

“Am I interrupting something?” a voice asked, just familiar enough where Amelia caught her breath when she identified the source.

The king of sunflowers himself, standing in the doorway with his arms folded over his chest.

Sherlock Holmes.

“You'd be wise to turn around and pretend you haven't seen a thing,” the man with the gun aimed it toward Sherlock with a wicked grin. “This doesn't have to involve you.”

“I see,” he hummed, his eyes trailing over the scene, falling on Amelia and what she assumed was a large bruise forming under her eye. “Unfortunately, I left my mobile at the register, so if someone would be so inclined?”

The man closest to Amelia threw an elbow in her side, shoving her toward the register.

“Go on then,” he hissed, his weapon still aimed at the newcomer.

Amelia practically jumped at the touch, slowly edging her way toward the register. There was no cell phone left behind. No one had time to ask questions, because during the lull in the room, Sherlock moved.

With a crack, he smashed a large vase over the man with the gun. The goon collapsed on the floor with a grunt, the other two men moving into action with swinging fists.

Sherlock dodged the attacks, throwing one man into the counter top and knocking the other to the floor unconscious with a swift punch.

He looked up at Amelia, brow arched in question.

“Why does it smell like petrol?” he asked, an instant before one of the men tossed a lighter across the floor to Amelia's destroyed daisies.

Amelia bounded across the space in a flurry, catching him by the waist, and tackling him through the shop's open door to the busy street outside. She rolled across the ground, only being caught by the shoulder before hitting the curb.

It didn't take long for the shop to erupt into flames, the lighter fluid speeding up the consumption which the plants happily provided.

Dazed, Amelia and Sherlock gaped from outside as smoke billowed from the building.

Pedestrians screamed or stopped to get a better look. Somewhere in her muddled mind, Amelia heard someone calling the fire department.

“There's a green house on the roof,” Sherlock murmured. “Do you have fertilizer in the building?”

She sure did. Right by the register and tucked away in the workroom. She was going to bring it up that day.

Amelia's eyes widened at the realization, and it didn't take her new companion long to determine the answer.

Practically lifting her from their position, he dragged her stumbling across the street just as the first explosion sounded through the block, sending glass shattering across the area.

Dropping to the ground, covered in soot, small cuts, and dirt, Amelia looked to him and sighed.

“Thanks,” she said, resting her head against the brick building they ended on, and watching what little happiness she'd obtained burn to the ground. Go figure.

Fire sirens wailed through the block, firemen ushered passerby's out of the way, and before long, Sherlock and Amelia were scooped up by EMTs.

When she was patched up, an officer took her to Scotland Yard for a statement.

Amelia told the officers investigating that it had been a robbery gone wrong. No, she didn't know why they wanted to destroy her shop. She grew daisies and wrapped roses, why would she understand why they threw lighter fluid around the place? Of course it was reasonable that fertilizer was in a flower shop. She grew her own flowers after all.

Eventually, she was released from Scotland Yard, exhausted from the day, but with no where to go, considering her apartment was above the shop.

She had money in the bank, but her debit card and ID had been under the register when the shop caught fire. It was going to take some time before she could get what she needed to book out a hotel room. One of the officers had given her an address to a hostel they recommended to fire victims until things were settled, but the idea of something so public made Amelia nervous. She already wasn't thrilled that the news had covered the fire.

“Why lie to the police?” a baritone voice asked over her shoulder. Amelia nearly jumped out of her skin at the presence, whipping her head around and finding Sherlock standing a few meters away.

“Excuse me?” Amelia wasn't sure if she'd heard him correctly, her mind numb and tired from the days events. She just wanted a shower and a fresh change of clothes, not the second degree from this vigilante ninja detective.

“You lied to the police, you said it was a robbery,” he repeated, taking a few steps toward her, his blue eyes skimming over her face. “You're a bad liar, and that obviously wasn't a normal robbery. They were looking for something specific.”

Amelia had over heard some of the officers at the station talking about Sherlock when she revealed he had been the one who had saved her. When she asked the officer taking her statement, he just shrugged and said that he was a consultant to the Yard, but others certainly had stronger feelings about the subject.

Amelia looked around the street, largely empty aside from a few taxis and a couple walking along the sidewalk across the road.

“Fine, I'll bite,” she replied. “I'm in possession of some important research regarding a drug that's about to be finalized by the FDA and the NHS.”

“I'd venture to guess this research isn't beneficial to the company?” he asked.

“They blew up my shop and pistol whipped me,” Amelia laughed bitterly, her hand moving to touch the swollen spot on her face. “It certainly isn't rainbows and sunshine cures.”

He paused, considering her words before speaking again.

“Do you know who sent the men?” he asked, and Amelia shrugged, exhaustion continuing to creep over her. She still smelled like smoke and gasoline, her arms and clothes still ripped and black. Not that she could do anything about it.

“I'm assuming the CEO,” Amelia replied, a hint of irritation was rising in her voice as she realized how hopeless her night was going to be.

“And why would a CEO become personally involved in a bad publicity matter?” he inquired. It was a reasonable question, and Amelia might have avoided specifics but she was in no mood to play games, and it seemed this guy was going to get his answers eventually. Besides, she owed him some explanation for saving her life.

“Because she's my mother.”

Chapter 2

[solastia]

Tuqburni | Finale - Healing

Pairing: Yoonmin x Reader

Word Count: 5,308

A/N: Here we go, the “Official” ending. I will still eventually put out “Finale: Heartbreak” as an alternate version for those that wanted her to move on, as well as a small epilogue later on (will be nice and smutty and set in the future). For now, though, this is the end. It has been a very long journey with this fic as life often got in the way, and I thank (most of you) for being patient with me. I hope you learned a few things along the way. Each and every one of you is important and precious, never let anyone make you feel like you are a second choice or inferior. All relationships are complicated and communication is key no matter your dynamic. But especially so in polyamorous relationships. If anyone ever makes you feel like “the other” or “the third,” talk to them. If they won’t listen, leave. Your worth is not based on other people. You are worthy all on your own. Also, the weekly plan that my character follows is a real system that works. It was given to me by my counselor who I thought was a nut herself at the time, but it worked so well. I’m still working through a lot of stuff myself, but this weekly routine saved my life. 

It had only been a few months so far, but it felt like a lifetime. 

Seokjin and Namjoon had tried to talk you into staying with them, but you’d decided it would make you feel too guilty to rely on them like that and invade their space. Instead, you were now renting your own apartment. It came furnished and the lease was month to month so you could leave at any time. It felt nice though, having your own space, even if it didn’t allow pets. Especially once you’d been able to reduce Jin’s visits to no more than three times a week. 

Taehyung and Jungkook, friends of all of yours and signed to the company you worked for as idols, finally came back into town a few weeks after “the incident” while you were still staying with Jin. You’d forgotten they were due back and only discovered they were here when Yoongi and Jimin both showed up with black eyes and bruised cheeks. You had assumed they came from Jungkook - who had always looked up to you like an older sister - but you were pleasantly surprised to learn they had been inflicted by his boyfriend Taehyung instead. He had proudly admitted it during lunch one day while demanding a turn at petting your hair, and you wondered if he too saw you as a sister or a pet. Either way, you were touched that he thought enough of you to try to “defend your honor.” 

Still, it wasn’t like you never saw Yoongi and Jimin. You still had to work with them, obviously. Jimin worked on the other side of the building, but he had taken to eating his lunch with you, and you were usually joined by Namjoon and Jin so you didn’t feel too pressured. There was still the looming cloud of ‘someday’ that scared you, but without being forced to pretend to be and feel a certain way every day you were able to look at him in a new light. 

The Jimin that you saw now was one that you had caught glimpses of before. He was sweet and kind, but quick-witted and prone to just enough wicked humor to make him interesting. Unfortunately for you, he seemed to also be a natural flirt and making you flustered was as easy as breathing for him. After a couple weeks, you finally started to flirt back and the results were incredible. He would blush and act so shy that he would practically duck under the table. Seemed he could dish it out but couldn’t take it. Honestly, you were beginning to really look forward to your time with him every day. 

With Yoongi, it was naturally a little harder. Your first day back to work had gone a long way towards smoothing things over a little. Yoongi had actually dropped to his knees and bowed along with his apology. He apologized for the way he’d spoken to you that day, as well as for dragging you down into the mess that your relationship had become. The two of you had cried together and hugged, and he promised to go to counseling as well when you mentioned you had signed up to see someone. Anything, he promised. 

“I’ve been horrible and selfish, but not once did I ever stop loving you. I think I’ll love you until the day I die. I’m going to work hard to deserve even the scrap of affection you might still have for me. If you decide that you want to move on, that’s fine. Whatever makes you happy. But know that I’ll always be here loving you and you can come to me for anything at all.” 

Those words felt like a tattoo on your heart. A promise of forever if you ever wanted to reach out and take it. 

But first, you needed to learn to love yourself before you could accept it. You needed to learn to be strong and figure out more about you as a person before becoming a part of something so complicated again. Maybe then you would believe that you were an important part of the relationship, rather than a side piece or someone that they settled for. 

The first step was signing up for a therapist. She was a little pricy, but out of the four other people that you’d talked to before settling, she’d been the only one that made you feel genuinely comfortable. You were pretty self-aware of your flaws and why you had them in the first place, so it wasn’t like you needed someone to hold your hand and drudge up every painful memory. You just needed help trying to get past it all and get to a place where you were comfortable with yourself. 

The therapist was chill enough that even you thought she might work for Jimin and Yoongi as well, and they quickly made appointments with her when you told them. You obviously weren’t able to know what they were talking about with her, but you’d noticed after a few weeks that both of them seemed a little lighter. Jimin practically sparkled whenever he joined you at lunch and Yoongi was quick to smile when he joined you in your combined studio, sometimes sneaking a coffee onto your desk that was just the way you liked it. He’d even started bringing your dog Holly to the office every day so that you could spend time with him. 

Jimin and Yoongi admitted that several of their sessions have been as a pair since they had the added trauma of Yoongi’s prior attempt on his life. They asked you to come to a couple yourself since you were part of it as well. You were the one to find him and help him through all of it, and they felt that it would help any lingering bitterness or fear from the incident would be helped that way. You agreed and started attending once a month as a group. 

She was wonderful for you, you thought. You never felt judged, not even when you brought up the relationship with Yoongi and Jimin and how it was handled. She simply let you talk and then asked you what you wanted. To close your eyes and envision what you hoped was waiting for you at the end of this journey. 

Yoongi’s face was the first thing you thought of and wasn’t surprising. That Jimin was right there next to him and holding out a hand towards you was. You wanted this to work. You wanted to be happy, and you wanted them to be happy. Without you, if that had to be it. With you would be even better. Somehow Jimin had slotted himself a place in your vision of the future.  

One of her biggest things that she preached was finding a routine that made you feel happy and safe while building your sense of self. She claimed it was an essential part of healing for many, especially those dealing with past trauma like you. That while many of the tasks she wanted you to do seemed silly or self-indulgent, that in the end you might discover more about yourself and develop healthy habits. So, she assigned you a weekly routine to follow. 

There was Me Monday, in which you spent the entire day “dating” yourself. It was a little difficult considering your work, but the day was essentially pampering yourself as much as possible. You eat what you want to eat, you watch what you want, when you get out of work you go do what you want. You use that day to get massages or pedicures. She said it was to teach you that it’s okay to be a little selfish from time to time. That taking care of yourself and putting yourself ahead of someone else on occasion wasn’t a crime. It was healthy because at the end of the day no one else can live your life but you. 

Try Something Tuesday was essentially what it sounded like. You take that day to try something new. You tried out new hobbies, new activities. Anything that you had once said no to because you were scared, this was the day to do them. So far you’d gone to dance classes and discovered you were actually pretty good, went to play laser tag with Jin and his friends, and started biking almost daily with Namjoon. Jungkook has been trying to talk you into going skydiving and the fact that it terrifies you tells you it’s probably going to happen eventually. 

Work through it Wednesday was the day you went to see your therapist. You’d work through the list you had to make throughout the week of things you wanted to cover. A lot of what you went over was stuff that you pretty much knew inside your head, but she would drag it out of you and once it was out there and being spoken about by another person, it helped to see it in a new light. She covered everything from your abandonment issues to the fact that you had never fully put your trust in Yoongi in the first place. That you had always expected him to drop you at any moment and when he brought Jimin in, for you it was simply confirming what you had been telling yourself all along. That you weren’t worthy of being loved and no one would want you. When that came out, she essentially told you to snap out of it. That you shouldn’t let your anxiety win. There was a lot more to it, but you were working on it. 

“Them” Thursdays were one of the more difficult days. Since she counseled all three of you and all of your ultimate goals were to someday find your way back to each other, she allotted you all one day to spend some time all together. Nothing romantic or sexual - simply re-learning each other and discovering how you work together. The first few Thursdays had been borderline painful. You’d all met in a cafe for coffee and awkwardly sat around the table. Jimin would try to talk about funny things he saw on the internet or some anime he was watching in an attempt to kill the silence, while Yoongi usually seemed content to listen while he stared at you like a lost puppy. When it was obvious that something needed changing, your therapist suggested other locales. Places that would give you all a shared experience and something to break the ice. 

The spot that finally worked its magic on all of you was the cat cafe. On your first visit, it was obvious as soon as you all walked in that Jimin was in heaven. He cooed at and cuddled every single one that would let him. You’d never thought of Yoongi as much of a cat person and figured he would just lay around and nap somewhere while you and Jimin played. He did lay out eventually, but was soon joined by at least six cats that all decided he made a perfect bed. 

“Look, they recognize one of their own,” Jimin had giggled to you. 

It soon became a place of comfort for the three of you. Somewhere that seemed to make you all happy and comfortable enough to talk. You were all very careful not to make promises, as that’s not what these visits were about. They were about healing. About getting to know each other on a new deeper level without the pressure of romantic entanglements.

It wasn’t like you all weren’t still attracted to each other, obviously. There were still moments where you would be laughing and glance over at Yoongi only to find him piercing you with hooded eyes, biting his lip in the way that you knew from experience meant he was holding himself back from kissing you. Even Jimin would sometimes flip a switch and go from a giggling dork to running his hands through his hair and looking like sex personified as he stared you down.

Of course, it probably also didn’t help that - unless they were lying - neither of them had even touched each other like that in months. They claimed they were staying in separate bedrooms and didn’t want to do anything that could jeopardize everyone’s healing. You mostly believed them because Jimin was always free of hickeys or other marks. Yoongi always left a mark. This made you feel both relieved and guilty. Relieved because that would mean if you decided to start over with each other, it would be from the beginning for everyone. You wouldn’t feel left behind. But you also felt guilty because it seemed like such a selfish thing to expect from them. To expect them to not fuck around when you weren’t even promising getting back together seemed messed up as hell. However, it was Jimin’s idea in the first place and Yoongi had completely agreed with it, so you supposed it was up to them if they wanted to continue that or not. It’s not like you’d know if they did do something since you didn’t live there anymore. 

After “Them” Thursdays was Friend Fridays. Once you began to talk to your therapist more, you realized that your life had pretty much revolved around Yoongi to the point where you hadn’t even maintained or started any friendships outside of the ones you met through him or work. Which wasn’t too bad in your mind, since that meant you had Jin and Namjoon as well as Jungkook and Taehyung, and they were the best friends anyone could ever ask for. However, your therapist recommended seeking out friends of your own that wouldn’t be thrown into the middle of a war should your relationship ever go south again. Friends that were just yours that would have things in common with you and that you could count on to be there for you. This was all easier said than done, as it was hard for adults to make friends outside of work. But you did your best, chatting up other people that you met through your dance classes or other activities. You had a tentative meetup on your next Friday with some girls you’d met at the park. Yoongi was going to leave Holly with you after work and you were going to meet them there and have a meetup with all of your dogs. It wasn’t bad for a first step, you thought. 

Sensual Saturdays was...well, pretty much how it sounded as well. It was your day to convince yourself that you were attractive and desirable. During your sessions, you’d apparently compared yourself to Jimin far too often. You often mentioned how much more beautiful you thought he was than yourself, how you wouldn’t be surprised for anyone to pick him over you. How compatible Yoongi and Jimin were in bed. So, in order to help you cease - or at least lessen - how often you talked down yourself and get you to view yourself in a new light, a day was set aside for you to work on precisely that. You would buy yourself lingerie and walk around in it at home until you were comfortable enough to actually begin to admire yourself in it. You bought a huge mirror for the back of your bedroom door and played with yourself in front of it, curiously watching your expressions as you imagined it was Yoongi’s fingers instead. It was definitely a work in progress and you weren’t sure you’d ever be considered on Jimin’s level realistically, but you were beginning to at least find it more believable when someone complimented you on your appearance. 

Silent Sundays was a day you took to recharge. You left your phone on silent, you kept the TV off, and you ignored everyone. You spent the day writing in the journal you had to keep for therapy, going over everything that happened that week and how you felt you had changed versus what you felt you still needed to work on. You’d also read or draw, sometimes write lyrics, maybe do some baking. It was usually on Sundays that you missed your little house the most, as you pictured a Silent Sunday spent there instead. You’d probably spend it outside working on the garden in the backyard. Holly would walk back and forth between you in the garden and Yoongi muttering curses as he built something on the patio. Jimin would probably come outside to bring you both drinks and peck you on the cheek before he rushed back inside to watch his show, not wanting to stay out in the sun too long. It was such a believable scenario and you could see it so clearly that your chest ached with longing. 

The fact that Jimin was always right there whenever you pictured going home wasn’t lost on you, either. You were beginning to accept fully that somewhere along the line you had dropped your wall of bitterness long enough for him to charm his way through and you were as whipped for him as everyone else was. For every thought you had of Yoongi, one of Jimin followed soon after. You’d imagine Yoongi’s sexy smirk and intense eyes, then Jimin’s lips and strong muscles. You’d think of Yoongi’s quiet thoughtfulness and warm heart, then Jimin’s kindness and cheerful energy.

Whenever you thought of home, you thought of them.

A decision would have to be made soon, but you were pretty sure it was already made in your heart. However, in fairness to yourself, you were going to do one last thing. Try to move on

* 

Jung Hoseok was an absolutely gorgeous man. He was tall and lanky, but with the toned muscles you were used to seeing on dancers. And his smile was dangerous - one moment it was brighter than the sun with adorable dimples, the next it was a smirk lethal enough to melt anyone.  

You had noticed him around the company before, but you’d never really talked to him. He was good friends with Taehyung and Jungkook, and Jin always spoke fondly of him, but back then you were just so wrapped up in Yoongi that only him and those immediately close to him gained your interest. You were a little disappointed you’d never talked to him sooner. 

He was bright and loud and quite possibly the most fun you’d ever had on a date. He was proud and passionate about his work, loved his family and friends, and was absolutely perfect. And yet everything he did, you compared to ‘them.’ Or wondered what they would think. Things like, “Jimin must love this guy.” or “Yoongi would be wishing he would choke on a bread roll just for a moment of quiet.” 

All throughout dinner you couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t where you belonged and that he would never be the one. But he was so nice and kept you laughing with his hilariously animated stories that you couldn’t just bail. Instead, you stayed and ordered another glass of wine and giggled as he continued entertaining you. 

An hour later you’re both standing outside of the restaurant making your goodbyes in front of your taxi when his gaze suddenly changes from friendly to smoldering. His eyes rake you from top to bottom and you remember that today was Sensual Saturday. You’d certainly dressed the part. He couldn’t see all the black lace lingerie you had on underneath your red sheath dress, but you’d unquestionably left little to the imagination.  

“So, uh, it’s really unusual for me to ask on a first date, but...maybe we could take this to my place? If you want? It’s just...you are so fucking beautiful and sweet and totally too good to be true. I’ll even throw in breakfast, although I’m a shitty cook. But I’d make it up to you for dinner.” 

“Wow. You have all day tomorrow planned too, huh?” You joke nervously. The two and a half cups of wine you’d had with dinner were settled comfortably in your tummy, warming you in places that made you think that just maybe you could go through with this. You weren’t blind - he was fucking hot as hell - but the thought of being with anyone other than Yoongi, or even Jimin, was terrifying. But your new motto of trying to do things that scare you, along with this being ‘Sensual Saturday’, led you to believe that you really needed to do this. 

“Yeah, kinda pictured a day spent in bed, watching some movies, ordering Chinese...you can tell me to fuck off if you don’t want to or you want to wait. I won’t be offended,” he shrugs, his little grin deepening a dimple. 

You sigh and grab his hand, leading him towards the taxi. “Tell him your address.” 

His eyes widen like he can’t believe his luck and he stutters out his address to the driver. He leans back and buckles in before tentatively reaching over to grab your hand. It’s nice and warm, with pretty fingers. But even then you’re comparing his hands with Yoongi’s beautifully vein-laced ones. 

The building you’re led to is a nice apartment complex - quite a bit nicer than the month-to-month one you’re renting but not fancy enough to make you feel out of place. As he excitedly pulls you into the elevator and onto his floor, you realize the light buzz of alcohol that was clouding your thoughts was slowly easing away, leaving the light thrum of anxiety and discomfort room to grow. 

It definitely wasn’t him. He was sweet and funny and super, super hot - did you mention he was hot? He just wasn’t ‘them.’ 

You steeled yourself, however, because you owed yourself this. You owed yourself a chance to move on, to experience someone else. Surely this feeling would dissipate once you, you know, got going. People did this stuff all the time, why couldn’t you? 

His apartment was nicer than you expected. Clean and bright, with cute little accents here and there that spoke of his colorful personality. It even smelled amazing, which seemed odd for a bachelor pad. Like citrus and vanilla. 

Hoseok knelt down and helped you out of your heels before standing up to take off his blazer. 

“You need a drink or anything?” 

You shake your head, wanting to get started before you can talk yourself out of it. He smirks, obviously thinking you’re just nervously eager for him. 

He walks up and cups your jaw, tilting your face up. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

“Yes,” you whisper, closing your eyes as he moves closer. 

It’s a nice kiss. Slow and sensual, barely any tongue, and he strokes his thumb across your cheek the whole time. Any other person would feel excited and be touched with how sweet it was. It was like he was silently promising this wasn’t just sex for him. It only served to make you feel guiltier that you weren’t being totally honest with him. 

When he pulls away, his eyes seem a little dazed as he escorts you to his room. Again, nothing to complain about there. The room is nice and clean, smells good, has a few cute Snoopy stuff animals laying around. He’s gentle leading you in and maneuvering you to sit on the bed.  

His breath is shuddering as he slowly leans in to kiss your jaw and work his way down. You can feel a slight twinge of interest since your neck is one of your weak spots, but it dies down again once the expect bite never came. Yoongi was a biter and always left marks that you proudly wore, no matter how many people told you it was tacky. Your neck and chest were his favorite places to do it, so when Hoseok simply traveled around leaving light kisses and maybe a lick or two, you were nearly disappointed. Also slightly relieved because what if the boys saw a mark on you? You could nearly see Jimin’s eyes tearing up now. 

Hoseok inhales and moans, making you jump a little because you’d nearly forgotten about him you’d been so stuck in your own mind. His hand slowly slides down and up, reaching under your dress. His hands are nice enough, but they don’t have the expert feel of Yoongi’s fingers knowing your body like the back of his hand. Or even Jimin’s - thicker and earnest to learn and please. 

You cringe when he slips into your panties because you know he’s going to feel you’re as dry as a desert down there. 

Sure enough, he pauses and his shoulders slump. He slides his hand out and peeks up at you. You can tell he’s forcing himself to smile, but his eyes are soft with understanding. 

“I’m not doing it for you, am I?” 

You rush to explain. “Oh, God...it’s not you. It’s so not you. You are unbelievably hot and funny, just so sexy and I really wish I could get out of my head, but...”

“Yoongi and Jimin, right?” You nod and he sighs, sitting up on the bed next to you. “Jin hyung told me not to get my hopes up, but you are so pretty and sweet that I think I lost my head there a little bit.” 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, turning to look down at the floor. 

“Nah, I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t make you feel pressured or like you had to come here with me.” 

“No, of course not. I thought if I just tried I could...with you. You are amazing.” 

Hoseok sighs and smiles sadly, twisting your heart. If you were another you, not so stuck on ‘them’, you’d grab this man up in a heartbeat. 

He chuckles and helps you up. “Fine, but let them know if they fuck up again I’m coming for you.”

You blush and let him lead you out of the room. “Thank you, Hoseok. If it’s not too awkward, I’d like to be friends. Not like the bullshit line people say when they really don’t mean it, but really friends. You can hang out with us in the cafeteria at work on Monday if you want.” 

He looks surprised for a split second before the tension in his face melts and he smiles genuinely at you. 

“You know what? I might just take you up on that.” 

“Okay. Thanks, Hoseok. And I’m sorry, again.” 

“It’s all good. You can still stay the night if you want? I have an extra room and I promise no funny business unless you ask for it.” 

You giggle and slide into your heels. 

“No, thanks though. I’m gonna...” 

“Yeah,” he nods in understanding. “Be careful.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you.” 

You escape to the elevator quickly, ordering a cab on your phone. When you’re done, you lean your head against the wall and sigh. Honestly, you’re not sure if you’re doing the right thing. Hoseok was incredible and had so much potential, but you’re you and you have to do what’s right for yourself. And given how much you can’t stop thinking of two certain people, your path is clear. 

*

The taxi pulls up to the familiar little house and you quickly slide out after paying and just stand there, looking at it. 

Home. 

It still looks the same. You weren’t sure what you were expecting, but it still looked like home. Yoongi still kept up the yard, though your flowers looked like they might be struggling a little bit. He’d forgotten to put his basketball away again since it was just sitting there in the driveway waiting to get run over. Jimin must have been sitting on the porch reading earlier because one of his mangas was on the wicker table. 

You take a few steps closer, amazed at how your chest felt lighter with each one. As soon as you walk up one of the stairs you can hear Holly at the door, scratching a little and whining. 

“Yah, you mongrel. What’s your problem? You too good for the doggy door in the back now?” 

You grin shakily as Yoongi’s complaining filters through the door. Once you’re close enough to hover your hand over the door you can hear Yoongi shuffling closer to the door. Your heart is pounding and you can feel your eyes filling up and you fight to contain yourself. You knock twice. 

Yoongi cracks open the door, his confused expression morphing into disbelief once he sees you. 

“Hi,” you say breathily. 

He gulps and quietly responds, “Hey.” Holly happily hops all over the place and does circles to try and get your attention. You smile at him then turn back to Yoongi. 

You both are quiet for a moment, looking each other over. His eyes roam over your outfit is wide-eyed wonder. 

Jimin wanders in fresh from the shower, running a towel over his head still. 

“Who is coming by this late?” 

You poke your head to the side and wave a little. 

“Hey, Jimin.” 

“Noona?” He smiles happily, rushing over to join Yoongi at the door. “You look incredible. What’s going on?” 

Yoongi already knows. You can see it in the way his shoulders have relaxed like someone just lifted the weight of the world off of them. A single tear travels down his cheek as he smiles softly at you. 

“We have to keep going to counseling. I’m not going to go back to the way things were. We are going to be better than that. We are going to communicate and talk everything through. If I’m the one not talking about something I should, call me out on it. This is going to be equal and no one is going to feel left out.” Yoongi nods enthusiastically and reaches out a hand that you eagerly grasp. 

Jimin gasps as he catches on. 

“Noona, you’re back?” 

“I’m all in. With both of you, if you still want me.” 

You hold your free hand out to him and his smile grows bright as he accepts it and tugs you inside the house before enveloping you in a hug. Yoongi shuts the door and takes Jimin’s place when the other pulls back. 

He cups your jaw and his face comes so close you can see his lip trembling with barely contained emotion. He sighs and lays his forehead against yours. 

“Welcome home, Princess.” 

Jimin wraps his arms around you both from the side, placing a quick peck on both of your cheeks. You blush and cuddle further into Yoongi’s hold, feeling right for the first time in a very long time. 

You know it’s not perfect yet and you all still have a lot to work on and figure out, but for now, this is perfect. 

Because home was ‘Them.’ 

[anna-justice]

Lost or Found - 5

Summary: As Jay, Hailey, Kim, Adam and Kevin start their junior year in the wake of a tragic summer, the past year of their lives comes back to haunt them. If you enjoyed Pretty Little Liars, this is for you! *UPSTEAD/BURZEK High School AU

...

5 - Wicked Game

...

The following days after the bonfire, the group didn’t really see much of each other. They were focused on watching out for the people they loved most. Hailey called both of her brothers everyday, Jay never let his mom out of his sight and Kevin spent every waking moment playing with his sister. Adam checked up on Kim multiple times a day, while she let her world revolve around her sister. The rest of summer went by fast in their state of panic, which is how they found themselves all huddled around Jay’s truck. 

They all had a false sense of security, they hadn’t gotten any more texts since the last one. Hailey thought that Nadia knew that they knew it was her, so she was laying low, but Jay, he wasn’t entirely convinced. Nadia was the perfect person to throw off the scent. But, they had all decided to have a normal first day of school, for their sanity. 

Kim spotted Nadia across the courtyard, seated on a bench surrounded by lots of people. Nadia gave her a small smile and waved, Kim returned the favor. She wasn’t sure how much she believed Hailey’s theory, she was always so nice, she wasn’t capable of kidnapping someone. Kim turned back to her friends, hoping no one noticed their encounter, she was a big fan of “innocent until proven guilty.”

The life was sucked out of them all when Jay pulled Erin’s phone out of his pocket, they had a text. So much for a normal first day of school. 

Blocked ID: Round 1, golden boy, time for you to lose a few flakes...tell everyone what really happened before Nadia left, and I mean everyone. 

“What do they mean, Jay?” Kim asked. “What happened?”

Jay took a deep breath, the last thing he wanted to do was ruin Nadia’s life, but it came down to her or his mom. His mom wins everytime. He sees her sitting on a bench near the school, unfortunately in the middle of a crowd. He takes a few steps away before Hailey calls him back. “Jay! You don’t have to do this!” 

“I can’t risk it, it’s my mom.” He stalks across the pavement towards her. “Hey Nadia.”

“Hi Jay!” She says excitedly, “It’s been a while-”

He cuts her off, “You know Mr. Sampson doesn’t work here anymore, right?”

Nadia’s jaw drops, “I’m not sure why that matters…”

“Yeah you are.” Jay fights the lump in his throat and stands his ground. “He’s the teacher that got fired, for sleeping with you.” Everyone around them gasps, and Nadia looks like she’s been stabbed in the chest. 

“What-”

“Erin told me everything. And now everyone else knows too.” He turned on his heel and booked it towards the truck. It went just how he hoped, quick and painful, there was no avoiding the betrayal. The next text was sent before her first tear hit the pavement. 

Blocked ID: Bravo, your mommy is safe, for now.

His friends all had the same exact look on their faces, utter shock. Jay grabbed his backpack from the bed and raced towards the school. “Jay,” Hailey sighed. She gave an apologetic look to the 3 stunned people in front of her and then hurried after him. 

Hailey knew that he couldn’t escape her, they had first block together. They were the first two people in the classroom , she slid into the seat next to him. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“It wasn’t my business to tell.” He responds quietly, the guilt clearly eating him up. Hailey just nodded, knowing he definitely didn’t want to talk about it. She was dealing with her own inner emotions, she realized now that no one's secret was safe, especially her own.

…

Third block rolled around and Hailey strolled into phycology, she looked around for Kevin but instead she found a seating chart taped to the whiteboard. She internally groaned, she was sixteen years old. No one needed to tell her where to sit. Unfortunately, Atwater and Upton were nowhere close to each other in the alphabet, so Hailey found herself all the way across the classroom from her only friend. 

She slid in her seat next to a boy with very bright blue eyes. “I’m Kelly,” He said, “Severide, call me Severide.” 

She gave him a small smile before introducing herself, “Hailey.” 

“Nice to meet you Hailey.” He said, his smile lingering a little too long. Hailey felt a slight blush reach her cheeks and turned to face the front of the room. 

As soon as the bell rang a voice came over the intercom. “Jay Halstead, report to the principal’s office. Jay Halstead, report to the principal’s office.”

Hailey put her head in her hands and took a deep breath. That definitely wasn’t good.

…

Jay found himself sitting across from Mr. Kelton, their principal, not five minutes later. He had a very unpleasant look on his face and Jay was prepared for the lecture of the century, which he deserved. “Well, Mr. Halstead, I never thought we would be in this position.” Jay didn’t either, he was always a good kid, he didn’t belong there. “The allegations you made against Ms. Decotis were very serious, would you care to explain yourself?”

Jay took a deep breath, he couldn’t exactly tell him that he was forced to expose Nadia by a crazy stalker/possible murderer who kidnapped his girlfriend and, might possibly be Nadia. “Sir, I want to sincerely apologize for my actions this morning. It’s been a rough few months, with the Erin stuff, and seeing Nadia was really hard for some reason. She wasn’t here to bear the pain with the rest of us and I just got so mad that she showed up now.” Jay gave him a weak smile, and continued to talk out of his ass. “Erin told that Mr. Sampson and Nadia had an affair, I don’t even know if it’s true.” 

Mr. Kelton nodded, “Son, I understand that the past few months have been difficult, but we do not tolerate harassment in this building. You need to formally apologize to Ms. Decotis and I expect to see you in detention the next three Thursdays.”

Jay let out a breath of relief, he was expecting much worse. “Of course and it won’t happen again.” 

“I will hold you to that young man, get back to class.” Jay hurried out of the office. He was mortified and felt terrible. There was no way that Nadia was threatening them, he refused to believe it. The rumor he started could ruin everything for her, no one would risk that.

…

Hailey found herself seated at a lab table with Adam and Kim AP Chem, her last class of the day. The teacher was going on and on about lab safety and she was pretty sure that Adam was currently looking up the ingredients of a molotov cocktail instead of taking notes. 

She still hadn’t talked to Jay about his visit to Kelton’s office and it was eating her up inside. He was definitely in trouble, there was only so much having an assumed dead girlfriend could get you out of. 

Hailey looked up from doodling on her paper to see a red headed boy staring at her, she avoided his gaze by whispering to Kim about it. Kim chuckled under her breath. “That’s Kevin Hadley, he's harmless.” 

Adam looked up like he missed something, but Kim shrugged him off. It was obvious that he wasn’t paying attention to anything other than his stupid secret prank plan.

The class dragged on for forever, and when the final bell rang, Hailey felt like crying. She bid goodbye to Adam and Kim and leaned against a set of lockers to text Jay, since he was her ride home. Suddenly a figure appeared in front of her. “I’m Kevin.” He said, leaning against the metal next to her. 

“Hi.” She said briefly, returning her focus to her phone. 

“Listen,” He said, taking a step toward her. “My buddy is throwing a party tonight, kind of a back to school bash if you will, you should come with me.” 

Hailey’s head popped up, for someone so harmless, he was very forward. “Sorry, I have plans.” She said and made a move to walk past him, but he stepped in front of her. 

“Come on, it’ll be fun.” Hailey stepped backward, feeling very uncomfortable with how close he was to her.

Before she could respond she heard a voice come from behind her. “I’m pretty sure she already said no.” She turned around to find Severide standing his ground behind her. 

“Mind your own business man, we were just talking.” Kevin spit back, taking another step forward. Hailey quickly removed herself from in between the two boys and stood behind her new friend. 

Severide stepped up to face him, “Walk away Hadley.” Hailey froze, she would recognize that low growl anywhere. He turned to look at her, “You good Hailey?” He asked and Hailey feigned confidence, pretending she wasn’t completely terrified. The person that strangled her was no longer a figure in the dark, it was Kelly Severide. 

…

A/N: I’m thinking there will be some confusion about their school day, I’m trying to make this story as realistic to real high school as possible (since it hasn’t been that long since I was there myself), so that includes homework, not skipping school and definitely no free periods. That being said, I’ve structured their day the same way mine was. Four classes a day, every other day, eight in total. So sometimes they will have one class in the morning and in another chapter it could be a different one, it’s called an A-B Schedule. Anyway, just wanted to clear that up! Thanks for reading!

[birlcholtz]

78 for the prompt list? Whatever you're feeling for the ship

78. “You always find a way to surprise me.” from this prompt list!

here is nurseydex with a side of them managing their conflict way back in their frog year instead of having it explode in their junior year with dex constructing a studio apartment in the haus basement oops, this one managed to crack 3k words because once i wrote the first scene i had to keep going, so enjoy!! ao3

.

“You always find a way to surprise me,” Dex snaps. “What is this, pretend to sympathize with the gay kid and then make it all about you?”

Which is a dumb ass conclusion to get from Nursey trying to share feelings and empathize and shit. I told Dex I’m bi for this? “Chill, what the fuck? I was not making it about myself, I was trying to make it clear that I fucking understand how you feel.” And Nursey hates that his voice is starting to get a little louder, a little pitchier, but this is so like Dex, to take the first thing he thinks and run with it, and it’s kind of fucking upsetting because Nursey had just been letting himself think that maybe Dex and his fiery hair and his freckles and his smart mouth and his energy didn’t just fall into Nursey’s orbit in vain, that maybe this stupid crush he had on Dex (and the fiery hair and the freckles and the smart mouth and the energy) could go somewhere, and now, well, Dex has taken that bit of hope and stomped on it.

It’s something he’s very good at. Stomping on hope, that is. Nursey has watched Dex dismantle forwards’ goal-scoring ambitions like it’s as easy as breathing. He’s helped Dex do that, and Dex has helped him in return.

“That you understand how I feel? You have two moms, Nurse. You—” And then Dex blows all the air out of his lungs in one breath and half-turns away, enough that he’s not looking at Nursey, enough that Nursey can barely see his face. “It didn’t really help,” he adds, and Nursey is about to say ‘duh, thanks, Captain Obvious’ when Dex adds, slowly, “Um. But. You made an effort. Thank you? Sorry.”

“Uh?” Nursey manages. Both because of the quick 180 and because he’s never heard Dex sound so tentative in his life. He half-wonders if the Haus is going to fall down around them, because the Haus, like Dex’s general conviction in him being right, is an institution of the Samwell Men’s Hockey Team. If one can fall, so can the other. “You’re welcome?” And it comes out just as tentative from him as it did from Dex. “Sorry it wasn’t helpful. I thought it would be.”

��Yeah, that’s pretty clear,” Dex says, but without bite. “I appreciate you wanting to help, though.”

Okay, this is just too weird. “Sorry, did you wake up today and decide to just be a different person? I mean, I feel like this is an improvement, but if you’re actually just possessed by some sort of weird demon I might have to put a stop to things.”

Dex scrunches his nose up like he can’t decide whether to be angry or amused and says, “Uh, no. Well, kind of. My mom told me to try taking out my anger on the other team, not my own defense partner. Ironic, right?”

Considering that Dex’s mom’s blissfully ignorant questions about girlfriends had sparked Dex’s whole frustration-driven coming out to Nursey that morning, yes. Nursey nods. “But I’m glad you, like, felt like you could come out to me. Even though we fight all the time and shit.”

“Not on the ice, anymore,” Dex points out. Which is true. The first time they’d really clicked on the ice was during a game, with Samwell two points behind and Chowder, in the net, only just having recovered from a minor freak-out after the second period. The other team hadn’t scored at all, Wicks had gotten one goal, Bitty had gotten one, and Jack had gotten two, and Nursey had felt incredibly awkward afterwards as he realized how well he and Dex worked together if they actually, you know, worked together. 

Dex had probably realized that at the same time, because they’d managed to keep fighting during practice to a minimum.

Maybe it was only a matter of time until one of them figured out the same thing applied even when they didn’t have their skates on.

“Not on the ice,” Nursey agrees. “If we both try and fight the other team instead of each other, we probably stand a chance at not fighting at all.”

.

Three months later, Nursey discovers that was bullshit.

Sure, they’re doing better. They’re actually doing so much better that Coach Hall called them into his office to tell them he was proud of their progress, and once Nursey gave Dex a fist bump and pretended not to see Ransom and Holster silently losing their minds over it.

But they still fight. That’s just how things work with Nursey and Dex.

(He’s even getting used to hearing their names said together, as a pair, like RansomandHolster or OllieandWicks. Even if his and Dex’s friendship is much less… well, solid.)

“I can’t believe you actually like the top bunk,” Dex says, taking a bite out of his apple with more force than the situation calls for. “We’re the same height, how do you not hit your head every time you sit up?”

“I’m careful?” Nursey notices he’s not sure exactly when Chowder left the Haus kitchen. He definitely did, though, because all three of them came in together, but whatever, Chowder’s an adult, and Nursey has a debate to win. “Besides, if I have the bottom bunk I always wind up sitting in my bed doing homework and stuff—”

“Which is nice.”

“But then my brain associates being in bed with doing homework and not with sleeping and when I try to sleep I can’t because my brain is like oh, it’s time for… fucking Ovid or some shit.”

“And then you fall asleep because you skated suicides for half an hour and did planks on your breaks and had an entire hockey practice and then went to class for the whole day,” Dex says.

“No, then you stay awake for at least an hour because your brain is rehashing your entire seminar on Roman historians and then for good measure it goes through your entire life and shows you a greatest hits reel of your embarrassing moments, and then you can’t fall asleep because the people across the hall are having a party.” Nursey pauses. “I think I had a point in there somewhere but I got distracted talking about why falling asleep is hard.”

“Bunk beds,” Dex supplies.

“Right. So top bunks are ideal because then I can maintain the separation between work and sleep.”

“Like the separation of church and state.”

“Yes. Also no because that’s completely different.”

“But they are separations. You cannot deny that.”

Which is true. “I cannot.”

And Dex smiles a little at that and takes another bite out of his apple, and Nursey finds himself a little too absorbed in watching as Dex sticks the apple in his mouth and bites down to keep it there, then pulls out his laptop from his backpack and sets it on the kitchen table.

The apple looks dangerously close to falling out of Dex’s mouth, and Nursey stops himself from reaching out to take it before it lands on the floor.

It doesn’t, anyway. Dex gets his laptop open and then keeps eating his apple one-handed as he types something.

Becoming friends with Dex erased Nursey’s distant, unfortunate, aesthetic-driven crush on him, but it was quickly followed by something worse: a real crush. Because underneath the prickly exterior, when Dex is actually making an effort to get to know someone, he’s just… nice to be around. He worries about what other people think of him as much as Nursey does, even if he hides it in a different way. He cheerfully disagrees with Nursey on inane topics, and they get each other into long arguments with the same fervor— passion, Nursey’s brain supplies unsolicited— as the great Attic vs. Roaches debate, if not the same scale. Because it’s just Nursey and Dex, not the whole team. 

He kind of likes it that way.

.

Coming back to campus for pre-season means a couple of things. It means Nursey has to get back on a regular schedule, after doing pretty much nothing besides sleeping, working out, and relaxing. It means he gets on campus before most people, so he can move in in relative peace. And it means he sees his friends. He sees Dex.

It’s been a long summer. Nursey isn’t really sure how he’ll feel when he gets back to campus. At this point, he’s not even really sure what he’s hoping for— the idea of feeling secure in a platonic friendship with Dex and not having to worry about any crush-related feelings is tempting, sure, but Nursey feels like if he gets back to campus and Dex is just another friend, he will have lost something.

Or maybe that’s just the romantic in him talking. Either way, whatever happens happens and Nursey is just going to have to deal.

That mindset lasts all the way until he’s walking to the Haus after unpacking in his dorm room and hears someone yell “Nursey!” from behind him.

He turns around, and there’s Dex, barreling towards him with a lot more freckles and sun-kissed red hair and a t-shirt that is a little more snug than is probably decent and a huge smile, and Nursey has barely registered all of this before Dex catches up and hugs him.

Excuse me?

Even after Dex had come out— and Nursey doesn’t even know how many people on the team he’s out to, it doesn’t seem like many— he still hasn’t been a touchy person. Especially not to Nursey, barring fingers pointed in faces and things like that. And funnily enough, they’d touched each other even less once they stopped fighting all the time. But now…

Now, here they are, and Nursey would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t want to be here.

So he hugs back, and tries to keep his voice calm as he says, “Dex! Hey, man, how are you?” and hopes Dex can’t feel his heart hammering in his chest like if it beats fast enough it’ll convince Dex’s heart to match.

Fuck.

.

The night before Ransom, Holster, and Lardo’s graduation finds Nursey and Dex sitting in the Reading Room and talking options.

They’ve never shared a room before. They’ve shared spaces, and sometimes they both crash in Chowder’s room at the Haus after a kegster, and once Nursey brought Dex leftover pie while he was cramming for a midterm and wound up hanging out in his room for a while. That’s about it.

“If we do a bunk bed, we’ll have a lot more floor space,” Dex says. “And then you can have the top bunk you’ve always dreamed of. Although I’m still not sure I believe you about not falling out.”

“Aw, William, you remembered? I’m touched.” And Nursey tries his best to make sure that comes out sounding funny and not sad or wistful or anything like that.

This is something he’s considered, and then immediately decided to ignore. It will be harder to hide his crush on Dex if they live together. It’s already hard now, after a full year of spending more and more time together. Nursey has never appreciated plaid flannel shirts the way he does now, after mentally cataloguing Dex’s entire collection (he has eight, but don’t let that fool you, he wears the same three over and over and breaks out the other ones for special occasions). Every day he gets a little more worried that Dex will catch him staring and Nursey won’t think of a witty remark in time.

And it’s not just Dex he’s worried about, because Holster has definitely started to give Nursey Looks when he catches Nursey staring at Dex. Someone has clearly caught on to what’s going on, and the only good thing about it is that Holster hasn’t tried to say anything about it to him.

Well. Holster’s graduating, and next year Nursey will have a whole new crop of teammates who will be blissfully in the dark. And isn’t that a terrifying thought.

“I don’t want them to leave,” he says, but he doesn’t explain why.

Thankfully, Dex doesn’t ask. “I was just thinking that. But we’ll cope.” He says it so plainly, like it’s already a foregone conclusion. “Even if Bitty makes us get up at four AM for… what did he call them?”

“Soviet calisthenics.”

“Right. How could I forget?” And he smiles, and even though Nursey is pretending to look vaguely across the street in the direction of the LAX house, he sees it and he immediately wants to smile back.

So he does. What’s the harm?

“But anyway,” Dex says. “The room. I don’t think we can compete with Ollie and Wicks for interior design, Wicks showed me his Pinterest board and I’m pretty sure it was just to intimidate me? But it fucking worked, so. Let’s at least make our room a place we can both live in.”

“What was on the Pinterest board?” What aspects of interior design intimidate Dex, is what Nursey really wants to know, because he always wants to know everything there is to know about Dex. But he’ll settle for this clue instead.

“A chandelier and hand-knitted throw blankets. Also, shiplap.“ 

“I… only have a vague idea of what that is.”

“That’s okay, all you need to know is that it’s very popular on HGTV home makeovers.” Dex scoffs. “Waste of time and money if you ask me.”

And that’s so like Dex that Nursey can’t help but laugh and say, “I can’t believe I didn’t like you our first semester.” When Dex raises his eyebrows, he says, “Like, our opinions clashed and all of that, but you’re just so…” Passionate. There’s that fucking word again. Big nope. “Sure of yourself.” It had pissed Nursey off at the beginning, before he’d realized that most of Dex’s strongly held opinions were either correct or just… totally irrelevant to them being able to get along. Like the fucking bottom bunk thing. Dex is clearly wrong, he just hasn’t accepted it. 

Dex’s voice sounds a little odd when he says, “That doesn’t sound like a ‘but’, that sounds like another reason you didn’t like me.”

“More like… fuck. No, that’s not the right word to use, sorry.” Nursey’s going to have to fucking say ‘passionate’, isn’t he. The universe is against him right now, but he doesn’t know what that weird tone is in Dex’s voice and he doesn’t want to turn and look at him to find out. “Not sure of yourself. You’re just… when you care about something, you really care about it, you know? I admire that. Being… passionate.” Fuck, he said it. Fuck fuck fuck.

Dex’s voice still sounds strange when he says, “I admire you too, you know.”

And that makes Nursey whip around faster than he has ever turned in his life.

Dex is sitting cross legged, wearing his preferred red flannel, looking right at Nursey, and his face is flushing a little but he repeats, “I admire you too. Because you’re really dedicated to, like, growing as a person and shit. You want to be your best self. It makes me want to do that too.”

“…Thanks.”

With that, Nursey resigns himself to the conversation being over, but he hasn’t turned back to stare vaguely in the LAX house’s general direction before Dex says, fingers twisting in the hem of his flannel, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Nursey says, and hopes he won’t regret it.

“Is something wrong?”

“Huh?”

Dex stops twisting up the hem of his flannel and laces his fingers together like he’s trying to keep them still. Which he is, Nursey realizes, because fiddling with clothing is one of Dex’s nervous tics. (He has several.) “You haven’t wanted to hang out as much lately. And you seem stressed about something but I don’t know what it would be since our finals are done and our season’s done and everything. You don’t have to tell me the details, but… is there something I can do?”

Well. Nursey regrets this already. But… no better time to say things you might regret than in the middle of the night before leaving for an entire summer, right? Worst case scenario, all he has to do is get through the graduation ceremony, then he’ll be back in New York and he can text Dex sometime in July and say he’s over him. Even if it’s not true.

“Uh, there’s nothing wrong, really, but…” If he’s going to do it, he needs to be all-in. “Sorry about avoiding you, I don’t think I even consciously realized I was doing it? But I just… I’ve been really stressed about getting through next year. Because I’ve had a huge crush on you for like a year and I don’t know what’s going to happen next year if we’re living together and don’t look at me like that, I’ve been coping fine, and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything, I just… Well, you asked,” Nursey finishes lamely, because he doesn’t know what to say to get that look of shock off Dex’s face. “Sorry.”

He waits for a moment before actually looking at Dex becomes too much, and he gets up to go inside. Coping with commencement and texting Dex he’s over him in July it is.

“Wait,” Dex says, urgency coloring his voice, and Nursey stops almost before he’s got the syllable out of his mouth.

And he turns around, and Dex is standing too, and he says, “There is something I can do.” And before Nursey can ask what, Dex continues, “I’ve been telling myself for months to just let it go away, but… I have had a crush on you for so long—” and then he stops abruptly, and Nursey doesn’t know what to think for a second, and then Dex says, “Sorry, I was going to call you Nursey but then I wasn’t sure if that was the right choice given the context so I just kind of froze?”

“Oh my god,” Nursey says, and that’s as far as he gets before he starts to laugh and also maybe tear up a little because he has been stressing about this ever since that dib flip. “We’re so dumb.”

“Complete idiots,” Dex agrees, and his voice sounds a little shaky, which just makes it match Nursey’s own. “Oh, God, I think I’m going to sit down.” And he sits back down, and Nursey joins him, only a lot closer than the careful two feet he had left between them earlier. “I am so glad I asked.”

“Speaking of asking things, what do we do now?”

“You mean about the room next year, or just in general?”

“Both, I guess.”

Dex contemplates it for a second. “I’m pretty sure we can handle sharing a room. Like, all we have to do is communicate with each other, right?”

“It’s been working pretty well everywhere else in our lives,” Nursey agrees.

“So that’s that for the room. And in general… I guess that just depends on what we want.”

Nursey considers that. “Well, what I want right now is to ask if I can kiss you, and I think the rest can wait until tomorrow.”

“That works for me,” Dex says, and he smiles when he pulls Nursey in for a kiss that feels like it validates every minute Nursey spent pining. He’d do it all again for another chance to throw his arms over Dex’s shoulders and pull him closer, and closer, and closer, until there’s no space between their bodies at all.

Nursey is pretty sure junior year is going to be great.

[imagine-loki]

Caught in his web, Chapter 29

TITLE: Caught in his web CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 29 AUTHOR: fanficshiddles ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki is a crime lord, a very dangerous man in the city. He is owed money, but the man is unable to pay Loki back, so Loki takes his daughter as payment instead.  RATING: M

Loki looked down in disgust at the man who was grovelling at his feet, clinging onto his trousers as he wept and begged for his life.

‘Please, Mr Laufeyson. Please. I will do anything. I have a family to support. Please, please.’

Loki rolled his eyes and looked at Ethan and Samuel, who moved in and hauled the man away from Loki. They held him back, on his knees.

Loki stood up and strolled over towards the pathetic man and circled him. ‘Begging and crying like that will get you nowhere, Matt. As you know, I am a fair man. And I feel I have been more than fair with you, have I not?’ He came to a stop on front of him.

‘Y… yes… You have.’ Matt whimpered.

Loki crouched down and clasped his hands together. ‘So why do you think I should be even more lenient with you, after all the help and extra time I’ve already given you?’

‘Because… because…’

‘Because…?’ Loki asked in a condescending tone, raising an eyebrow as he waited for his answer. ‘See, you can’t even think of a reason why I should give you more time. Because you know I’ve been fair enough so far.’ Loki stood up and walked over to his desk, opening a drawer.

David and Ben were sitting at the side, watching. They shared a look with one another when Loki pulled out a dagger.

Matt tried struggling but Ethan and Samuel held him steady as Loki walked slowly and menacingly back towards him.

‘You have ten seconds to give me a damn good reason why I shouldn’t dispose of you right now.’ Loki said as he spun the dagger up in the air and caught it. Then started to move behind him while counting. ‘One… Two…’

‘Please. My family! My kids and wife. I can’t leave them, please.’ He sobbed.

‘Three… I said a good reason.’ Loki growled, towering over behind him.

Matt started to panic now. ‘I will pay back double next year!’

‘Four.’

‘I know the owner of a seafood restaurant down by the river, I can get you free meals for life!’

‘Five.’

‘I don’t like seafood.’ Ben commented, making David chuckle.

‘Six.’ Loki moved in on Matt, grabbing his hair tightly he forced his head right back so his neck was exposed, he placed the sharp blade against his throat.

‘PLEASE! PLEASE!’

‘Seven.’ Loki held him tightly as he started to really thrash around.

‘My wife has cancer! The money was for her treatment!’ He cried.

Loki paused for a moment. ‘Eight.’

‘Please! They need me to work, or they won’t be able to pay their bills.’ He cried.

‘You didn’t pay me back, Matt. I cannot let you go, as unfortunate as it is. What kind of example would that be to others?’

‘Please, I’ He was cut off when Loki slit his throat.

‘Nine, ten.’ Loki stood up and stepped away from his body as he fell forward to the floor with a thud. His blood pooling around him.

Ethan and Samuel moved in straight away to clean up. Loki strolled over to his desk as he pulled a napkin from his pocket to clean his dagger.

‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to play with your food?’ Ben grinned.

Loki chuckled. ‘Where would the fun be in killing him instantly? It’s nice to see them squirm.’

‘Why do you not use your gun? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you use it before. It’s much less messy and quicker than a knife or a dagger.’ David asked.

‘I prefer to get up close and personal, a gun makes it feel so… boring and cold. With a dagger you can feel the resistance in their body as you force it into them.’ Loki grinned wickedly as he finished cleaning his dagger.

‘On that delightful note, I better get going.’ Ben said, standing up. ‘Thanks for your help, Loki.’ He shook Loki’s hand.

‘Anytime. See you soon.’

Ben said bye to David then headed out.

‘I just need to make a quick call.’ Loki said to David, who nodded.

Loki called James. ‘James, it’s Loki. Find out what kind of treatment Matt Simpson’s wife is receiving. If she needs money, make sure she gets whatever she needs. Also make sure her mortgage gets paid off and there’s no outstanding debt… Oh, and put a few grand into a college fund for all her kids.’

‘Sure thing, boss.’ James said, taking note without asking any questions.

‘Cheers.’ Loki hung up and turned to David.

‘That was nice of you. Surely Matt has now cost you an awful lot?’ David asked.

‘Perhaps. But got to put good into the community, haven’t I?’ Loki smirked.

‘True.’ David nodded.

Loki’s phone pinged and he checked it. He smiled when he saw it was from Chloe.

‘Do you like pasta?’ He asked David.

‘I do. Why?’

‘I discovered last week that Chloe makes a fantastic chicken carbonara. She’s just asked if I will be home for dinner as she is planning to make it again. Fancy joining us?’ Loki asked.

‘Sure, that would be great.’ David nodded.

Since Chloe had made him the pasta last week for the first time, he had been desperate to have it again. So he was secretly delighted that she offered already.

-

Chloe felt a bit nervous when Loki text back saying that David would be joining too, so asked if there would be enough for the three of them.

Of course, she had said she would make enough, but part of her was regretting that she had text Loki in the first place about dinner.

But she was pleasantly surprised when they returned and she got to know David a bit better during dinner. He was actually really nice and charming, Loki seemed nice and easy with him too, so she knew that he was safe to be around.

‘That was absolutely delicious, thank you very much, darling.’ David said, wiping his mouth.

‘You’re welcome. I’m glad you liked it.’ Chloe said happily.

Loki moaned and sat back on his chair. ‘It certainly was. That’s my new favourite meal, definitely.’

‘You’re just saying that.’ Chloe giggled.

‘No, honestly. I actually think it might be better than sex.’

Chloe almost choked on her drink and David chuckled. ‘I never thought you’d say that food was better than sex.’ David teased.

‘Well, maybe not quite better than sex.’ Loki looked at Chloe and winked, making her blush.

David rolled his eyes and looked at Chloe. ‘You’re lucky, I’ve had to put up with him for years!’

Chloe laughed. ‘How long have you known each other?’

She knew that out of all the men she had met, who were his supposed business partners, that there seemed to be more of a friendship between Loki and David.

‘Since secondary school. He was a bad influence on me.’ David grinned, pouring himself more wine.

‘I think you’ll find it was you who was a bad influence on me.’ Loki corrected.

Chloe wasn’t sure if it was the wine that was giving her more confidence or if it was just the excitement about hearing stories of Loki, but she couldn’t help but ask.

‘What was Loki like as a teenager?’

‘Oh god.’ Loki shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.

‘A total nerd! Really into space and science. Aced pretty much all of his classes, except for PE for the first few years. He could barely run from one side of the football pitch to the other.’ David was in his element talking about Loki.

‘Really?’ Chloe looked at Loki with her eyebrows up.

Loki sighed. ‘It’s true. I was not into anything physical at all when I was younger. I was a skinny weakling.’

‘That soon changed though. It was, what, year three and he started working out hard. Put the entire class to shame by the end of that year.’

‘Did you two get up to mischief or was Loki a teacher’s pet?’ Chloe smirked, she knew by the look Loki gave her that she was in trouble later, no doubt. But she was finding it far too much fun.

‘As I said, David was a bad influence on me. When I started hanging around with him, I got into trouble more. The teachers were perplexed though, I was the smartest bad boy there was.’ He said proudly.

‘Highly intelligent, eventually strong and rather wicked. A dangerous concoction.’ David said. ‘I remember once when he almost drowned a poor kid in the swimming pool.’

Chloe’s eyes widened. ‘What? Seriously?’

Loki shrugged. ‘It was swimming class and he pulled a girls bikini bottoms down. She was horrified.’

‘Well… I guess he did deserve something back, but drowning him?’ Chloe gasped.

‘Correction, almost drowning him.’ Loki said with his finger up. ‘And in my defence, the teacher wasn’t overly pleased with what he did either. I didn’t get suspended or in too much trouble for attempted murder.’

Chloe just face-palmed, not knowing what to say really.

David told more stories from when they were younger. Chloe was ecstatic to be hearing about them. From Loki’s first crush on a substitute teacher where he brought her fruit almost daily and was heartbroken when the regular teacher came back, to trying his first cigarette and almost choking on it, never smoking again. Then the one Chloe thought was one of the best, was how he started up a business where he gave younger students answer sheets for exams that he made up himself, charging a fiver for each one.

‘He actually earned a good amount of cash from that. What was it, near five hundred quid?’

‘Just over six hundred, actually.’ Loki chuckled, smiling as he thought back of that fondly.

‘Bloody hell. So you’ve always been a business man.’ Chloe said.

‘I guess so.’ Loki nodded.

The three retired to the living room for a while and had a few more drinks. Then David decided to head home, joking that his wife would chop his balls off for being here for dinner without her.

After Loki saw him out, he returned to Chloe and sat down on the sofa. He was delightfully surprised when she put her drink down and moved along the sofa to drape herself across his lap, twisting his tie around her fingers.

He chuckled and rested his hand on her chest, the span of his hand so large that his fingers brushed against her neck.

‘Are you drunk, doll?’ He teased and started stroking her neck softly.

‘Not too drunk, no. I’m just… happy.’ She said honestly, looking up into his eyes.

Loki smiled fondly down at her. His other hand stroking her hair. ‘Well, I am very glad to hear that. Because I am too.’