#<- Yes...without hesitation this exact frame popped into my head

[bliss-wily]

Ohhh I can draw a parallel here :3

Should know by now if I can slap him onto something I will hehe.

[honeysuckleharringtons]

"Stars Around My Scars" ~ S. Harrington

Summary: What if instead of Jonathan and Nancy luring the Demogorgon out with blood… it was Steve and Reader? And what if, a year later, they feel bonded by their trauma?

Pairing: Steve Harrington x GN!Byers!Reader

Word Count: 1,157

Content Warning: lots of talk about the Demogorgon, lots of talk about scars, in depth panic attack, mentions of fire, mentions of drowning, mentions of tattoos, mild swearing, no use of Y/N, lmk if i missed anything!

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Extra Notes: one, no i will not apologize for the many taylor swift references in this. two, yes i will apologize for the terrible summary.

Based On: the lyric "You drew stars around my scars" from Cardigan by Taylor Swift; also based partially on the hotel scene from 2x05

Originally Written: 06/03/2023 through 06/07/2023

Beta Read By: @serenity-lattes 🫶🏻

honeysuckleharringtons masterlist can be found here!

pastel dividers | star dividers

Your fingertips grazed across the scar on your left hand, memories flooding your mind: your screams as that damn Demogorgon tried to kill you, the flames against your skin as you burned the hell out of it, the pace of your heartbeat quickening with every breath you took.

Anxiety washed over your body like a tidal wave, crashing around you in violent splashes. Your heart thumped aggressively against your ribcage, your lungs on the verge of collapse as the memories brought back the panic from last year.

A gentle but deep voice pulled you out of the dark hole, his words a lifesaver, pulling you up from the crashing waves of panic. "You okay?" Two simple words, yet somehow they felt like a raft in the ripping current of your anxiety attack.

A shaky exhale escaped your lips as you brought yourself out of your panicked state, poorly attempting to even out your breathing as you met Steve with wet, glassy eyes.

You shook your head, your eyes darting back down to the giant gash placed in the middle of your hand. "Can you…" you attempted to get the words out, "Can you just hold me for a while?"

Without hesitation, Steve hopped out of his bed and climbed into yours, enveloping you in his warm embrace and cologne-infused aroma. He pulled you flush against him, holding you to his chest and wrapping his large muscled arms ever so tight around your frame. "Not that I need a reason, because you're my best friend and I'd do anything for you, but is there something wrong? Is that why you wanted me over here?"

You nodded against his chest, tears slipping down your cheeks as you made another lousy attempt to even your breaths. "Do you ever get pulled back into that night? Like, you just see something and it instantly reminds you of November twelfth?"

He chuckled, and surprisingly the noise helped to ground you a little. "All the time. I can't even look at a nail without getting sucked back into it."

His words reminded you that you hadn't been alone that night, nor were you alone now. Still, that imperfection on your hand found a way to mock you, tell you the exact opposite of what Steve had just said. "Every time I see the scar, it pulls me back in. I feel like I'm drowning, like I can't breathe or hear or feel anything." Your tears picked up speed and your chest seemed like it was on the verge of collapse. "The sad part is that it happens nearly every day and I still can't tell when it's gonna hit me."

Something in his voice sounded like an idea had popped into his head as he moved away from you, reaching for the nightstand with one hand and grabbing your wrist with the other. "Can I see your hand for a minute?" Steve asked with furrowed brows.

You were nervous about the idea of looking at your hand again, but you trusted Steve with your life. He held your hand in his larger one, palm facing upward, and you suddenly became aware of his skin touching yours. "Close your eyes," he instructed, his breath hot against your ear where he leaned in close to you.

A shaky breath escaped your lips as you closed your eyes, trying to find something, anything to imagine besides that night. Just as your vision began to fill with painful flashbacks of that night, something cold and wet glided across your palm, and your eyes shot open to figure out what it was.

He must've found a Sharpie in the nightstand drawer, because he was drawing soft strokes around the scar on your hand with it. Your brows pinched together in confusion as you watched his movements. "What are you doing?"

Steve just kept on drawing. "Now, whenever you see this scar, you'll have something to focus on besides the memories. You can look at these and think about this memory."

You never realized just how big his hand was compared to yours until he flattened your palm and held it beside his. He'd scattered doodles of stars and sparkles around the gash on your hand, much in the same fashion as the tattoo he had on his own palm. You often forgot about the tattoo he'd gotten over the summer, a couple months after his eighteenth birthday, but after that night, you were sure you'd never forget it.

Your eyes went glassy again, this time with happy tears, as you met his gaze again. "I love you so much, I could actually kiss you right now."

It slipped out before you even had time to process the words. Your heart thumped as you muttered out an apology, though some part of your brain wasn't sorry for saying it. You'd loved Steve for a very long time, his gesture had only further confirmed it. On the other hand, he had been your best friend for longer, and you couldn't believe you'd screwed it all up, just by letting those twelve little words slip out.

"Hey, Byers?" he stopped you mid-apology, his aforementioned large hands moving to hold both sides of your face.

You gulped, not entirely believing this was happening. You'd dreamed and fantasized so many times that it would, but had fully convinced yourself it was all a fairytale, never to leave the pages of your mind. Your gaze flicked from his eyes down to his lips and back up again, your body involuntarily dropping hints of what you wanted.

For once, Steve figured out how to take a hint, pulling your lips flush against his. Your skin felt hot as you processed what was happening, and had it not been for your hands darting up to hold his, you might've simply assumed it was folklore you'd conjured up in your brain.

When he pulled away, he leaned his forehead against yours, neither you quite ready to break physical contact. His hands settled beneath your sweatshirt as he flashed that million dollar smile of his, and all the coldness of your heart melted away in an instant. It was the first time Steve had ever put his fingertips on you so many times in one night, but you hoped it would not be the last.

He chuckled, a couple happy tears falling down his cheek. "Figured if I can't make it go away forever, I could at least kiss it better temporarily," Steve admitted, a blush tinting the expanse of his face.

This time, your palms wrapped around the sides of his face, his jawline sharp enough to cause another cut on your hand. "You did a good job, Harrington. For a second, it almost felt like the world wasn't ending."

Teary eyelashes tickled your skin. "Mind if I do it again?"

You shook your head without a second thought. "As if you even need to ask."

-> taglist: @dungeons-are-too-cold @ducky-died-inside @awkotaco24 @liberhoe @princesseddie @aftermidnightwriting @manuosorioh @esoltis280

[the-darklings]

—𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒉 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒔𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆;

—PART XVIII. | THE TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wish to see him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keep him safe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s exactly the point though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fourth doesn’t move.

Here we go.

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

The closer they come, the tenser the air becomes.

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

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

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

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

Click, click, click.

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

The sharpshooter stands by his side, frowning faintly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can’t see him.”

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

“I have the right—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Winston has to bite back a small smile. Perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I will be in my room.”

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

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

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

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

“Gentlemen.”

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

Conversation over.

Fine by him.

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

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

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

Winston sighs, his shoulders dropping.

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

The concierge straightens, his hands folded behind his back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What will you do now, little hatchling?

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

He comes to a gradual stop.

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

Every breath takes notable effort.

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

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

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

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

“Drink.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why have you come?”

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

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

It’s him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here you are.”

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

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

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

A part of you…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What have they done to you?”

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

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

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

Do not let that fire consume you.

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

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

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

You swallow. Then again.

“You’re wearing it.”

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

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

It doesn’t explain much yet it explains everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is that supposed to mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I did not—”

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

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

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

How? Why would he even think—

The High Table would have—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” you exhale shakily.

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

So that’s why.

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

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

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

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

He knows. He’s known for weeks now.

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

Helplessness closes in and your eyes sting.

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

“What now?”

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

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

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

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

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

“But?”

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

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

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

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

You saved them, and you would never regret that.

“Is this love?”

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

He didn’t specify who the love is for.

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it that you want from me?”

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

“You want me to stay.”

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

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

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

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

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

“For how long?”

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

Because of course you know.

“For life,” you choke out.

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

Just no one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t help though.

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

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

The Elder hesitates. “A week.”

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

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

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

“And what bargaining power do you have?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

What would Winston do if he were here right now?

There is only one option, really.

Just the one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No time for that now.

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

And that’s exactly it.

Lose everything.

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

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

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

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

People like us don’t get happy endings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No turning back now.

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

“I accept.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In that freedom, you have unearthed a simple truth.

“Yes.”

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

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

“I always do.”

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

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

You both got what you wanted.

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

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

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

“Everyone but you.”

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

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

Cruel as he is kind.

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

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

Your mouth still burns but you ignore it.

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

E4 E5.

The roar inside your head is overpowering.

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

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

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

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

What have you done?

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

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

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

There’s too much to do. 

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

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

The taste of him is still in your mouth. 

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

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

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

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

Three months will have to be enough to…

To say goodbye. 

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

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

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

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

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

The Elder has once again thought of everything. 

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

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

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

It’s quiet. 

The roar inside your mind has quietened. 

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

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

“John.”

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

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

“V.”

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

Are you okay? 

Are you hurt?

What happened?

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

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

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

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

Your mouth goes dry. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He. The Elder. 

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

I can do this. 

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s wrong?” 

Still, he says nothing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly you feel sick all over again. 

Suddenly all you want—

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

John adores Helen still, loves her deeply. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?”

“It’s...”

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

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

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

“What about him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He answers you honestly.

“I don’t know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wish it didn’t have to be this way?”

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

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

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

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

“Do I wonder what?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why not leave again? Why live in a desert? 

It is my duty. 

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

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

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

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

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

He hasn’t. 

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

“Nothing about death is beautiful.”

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

“Your mind has been sorely missed, viper.”

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

You imagine that will change one day soon. 

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

“You wished to see me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello, Lucien.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Baring your teeth, you snarl, wrenching yourself back—

And freeze.

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

Lucien’s smile turns downright predatory.

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

A portable bomb.

You should have known.

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

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

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

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

“Then catch me if you can.”

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

You’re not running blindly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it’s not his city.

You know every nook and cranny of this concrete anthill.

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

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

Lucien should assume the obvious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have no intention of killing Lucien outright.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Safe haven. Home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Us.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The blonde hums mockingly, looking Hector up and down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your throat aches, something coiling inside your heart.

You feel…

Protected. Safe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart clenches painfully at that.

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

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

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

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

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

What’s going on? Where is Charon?

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

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

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

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

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

“Then where the hell is he?”

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

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

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

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

Sometimes you forget how brilliant they are.

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

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

Your blink at those resolute words, caught off guard.

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

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

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

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

“Fuck.”

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

“V?”

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

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

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

You want to go.

You…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod twice; shaky and a touch frantic.

“Capo.”

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

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

“You’re planning to go after him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And—

“Hector?”

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

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

“Whatever.”

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

Time to get some answers.

You hear him before you see him.

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

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

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

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

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

“Miss.”

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

“Charon.”

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s good to be back.”

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

“The Vipress.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why?

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

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

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

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

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

There’s nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You almost stumble.

What?

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

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

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

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

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

But why—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What if I just killed Tarasov now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

“Choose what?”

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

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

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

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

He thinks about Winston’s words for a bit.

“But I also live and remember Helen.”

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

You’ve just hoped…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have little appetite for that though.

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

“Winston.”

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

It hurts.

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

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

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

Footsteps.

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

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

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

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

The hour.

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

Now he’s paying for it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re not sure if—

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

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

“So be it.”

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

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

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

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

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

The Black Dragon men.

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

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

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

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

“Good evening to you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NF3 NC6.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well.

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

Now though...

It’s war.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s…impressive.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let them come.

You will make corpses of them all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John’s brows hitch, his eyes narrowing marginally, and his chin slants. “You enjoyed that,” he states dryly.

Blinking, you feel your lips quirk in an infinitesimal smile, blinking innocently up at him. “No idea what you’re talking about,” you demure pleasantly. John stares at you blankly and your small smile quivers, widening. “Okay, fine. I totally enjoyed that.”

A tiny quirk of his own mouth follows and it feels strangely nostalgic, near bittersweet, because it’s like years ago again. Just you two getting ready for yet another job together, you teasing him or firing questions at him. He’s always been patient with you. It was a kindness you never once took for granted. You were so alone, so lost, and he’d been the only harbour you had.

Despite his flaws, despite his mistakes, in many ways, John will always be that. It’s the one thing you never see changing.

You still miss that ease you once shared. Sometimes remnants of it appear, like now, and it just makes it harder.

But reminiscing now is a fool's errand.

Instead, you reach for another blade mounted on the wall behind him and bend your knee, slotting it against the special opening in your boot. He doesn’t take his gaze away from you as you do that, and you straighten, waiting to see if he will say anything else. He doesn’t. That almost makes you smile again. Typical.

Nodding at him, you look towards Charon instead, pulling out several vials, “For the guards,” you state seriously, your ease evaporating, and he takes them without a word. “Make sure they inject themselves at least five minutes before heading out just in case. It’s going to be a nasty toxic cocktail one way or another. You already know what to do.”

A firm nod. “Certainly, Miss.”

Satisfied, you walk past them heading towards the manager who watches you curiously as you approach. Cheeseburger raises his head at once, his tail wagging at your proximity. Your fingers brush over his head, petting him, and you hold another vial for Winston to take.

Nothing to do with protection and everything to do with arming him. Which, you suppose, is its own type of protection.

He stares at you blankly, a glass of what you only assume is brandy gripped securely in his hand.

“Oh, I sincerely hope you’re joking.”

He sounds completely incredulous and you roll your eyes.

“Precautions,” you shoot back, twisting the poison vial between your fingers and holding the entire length of it out to him. “Your wisdom, remember?”

“And you think that if they somehow manage to get through you, Jonathan, Charon and the guard, as well as at least two tons of metal, that will stop them?”

“No,” you answer honestly. “But it will make me feel better if you have it.”

Winston heaves a sigh, shaking his head but takes the vial all the same, leaning back in his seat. A single eyebrow lifts as if to say satisfied? and you fight back a groan. Why can no one in your life make things easy for you? Just once?

You part your lips, a playful remark on your tongue, only for distinct thudding to sound from above. It’s faint, barely audible, but you all freeze at the sound of it.

Your eyes drag towards the ceiling, just as Winston’s voice sounds, “Charon, would you be so kind as to welcome our new guests?”

The concierge strolls briskly towards the fuse control box, pushing one of the levers down with a deafening click.

Upstairs, you know the hotel has been plunged into darkness before emergency lights come into operation.

“Let's go.”

You reach for the last few things you can get your hands on, your focus narrowing down to tunnel vision.

“You will do the Continental proud,” Winston states, sounding so sure you can’t help but lift your head in his direction from your last minute prep. “Both of you.”

Your heart jolts painfully but you nod in acknowledgement all the same. Charon returns the gesture as well.

“And Johnathan?”

The assassin halts at his name, looking towards the manager in an unspoken question. “Do what you do best. Hunt.”

The four of you share a long, leaden moment before John moves first, followed by you. The vault door whirls close behind you, securing Winston and Cheeseburger inside, but you refuse to look back.

You will see them both soon.

Splitting at the mouth of the hallway, you watch Charon lead the guards down a different path while you and John take the elevator. Divide and attack on two fronts. John will be their main target first, then you.

The man beside you is as still as death, his body relaxed but senses alert. John doesn’t fidget, hardly blinks, everything about him is steady and tranquil. Just standing near him feels electric.

“Just like old times.”

His faint words startle you. A large machine gun in his hands, the black suit, an unforgiving stare—he looks near godly, as always, and you blink in his direction. Your tongue drags over your lower lip, pensive, and when you glance back at him you see John’s eyes jump up from your mouth.

“Just like old times,” you agree softly.

You’re not sure what he sees when he looks at you. You would like to think he sees someone who exceeded his expectations for you all those years ago. Strong and unyielding.

You hope he sees an equal.

The lounge is painted with sickly green when the elevator crawls to a stop, and you both move like an extension of one another. Falling into a routine is easy because it’s instinct. The lounge is submerged in smoke, obscuring your vision so you both move silently through it, gauging the situation.

Raising your hand, you feel John slow beside you, his gun raised, covering you. Your eyes journey over the lounge, spotting blurry figures creeping through the space, trying to discover you no doubt. The black uniforms make anger simmer in your gut, gnawing on your self-control.

A hiss joins the fray of noise as you lightly roll your own gas canisters across the marble floor, your paralyser joining the smoke seamlessly.

You should really thank them. They just made this easier.

Now it’s just a matter of—

A gunshot booms behind you and you pivot on your knees, watching John tackle two men who have taken a route from behind, hidden from sight by large stone pillars.

Each man takes several bullets to take down and you frown at that. Through the darkness, you spot the heavy armour—heavier than you’ve seen them wear—as well as goddamn gas helmets on their heads.

Rising, you jog towards the bodies. John throws himself at the other approaching men and you yank on the helmet on the dead soldier’s head. It slips off relatively easily and you curse under your breath when you note what filters have been installed at the base of it.

They’re significantly better than the last time you faced off against them. This paralyser will be nothing more than an irritant at this rate.

They’ve come more than prepared.

They’ve come ready to skin the snake and hang her by that skin.  

Snarling, you hurl the helmet at another uniformed figure that rounds the column, his rifle raised, watching it crash against his head.

Two shots follow from your Glock but the man only stumbles back, and you leap at him, slotting the nozzle under his collar before firing again. A bullet slices clean through his neck, finally killing him. You slide a blade in your other hand, spinning it once. Scanning your surroundings, you take the other side so you and John work back to back even at the distance.

Gunshots explode ahead and you know that Charon has joined in the fray as well.  

Your displeasure morphs into anger and then outright fury with each dead body. It doesn’t take you long to realise that your weapons are too weak to handle this onslaught. The calibre too low. The helmets make the paralyser nothing more than a tickle down their throats and an ache in their eyes.

While that slows them somewhat, their armour is too good for a simple pistol fire. No matter how many bullets you may have at your disposal.

Slamming a knee into one man’s gut, you yank his body to one side. His body soaks up bullets his friends try to shoot at you and you pull back. A blade buries deep in his neck, you jerk the deadman again, feeling a splatter of hot liquid on your face when the blade cuts deeper into his skin.

Duck, yank, slice.

You tear through the throng of incoming soldiers but you’re slowed by the fact that each person takes too much effort to kill unless you get up close and personal. That in itself is tempting faith.

One bullet, one falter, that’s all it would take.  

A man charges at you when his gun clicks empty, and you block his punch, pistol-whipping him across the head. The contact rattles through your bones and you bare your teeth.

A slice so quick he doesn’t even register it follows before his throat opens.

Nothing but a wet gurgle slips free and gravity does the rest.

Another follows after that, and another and another. It’s chaos and darkness. The floor is slippery with blood but you push ahead your expression contorted with pure wrath.

They want to kill you, do they?  

Rules have drowned you for years now.

But right now—right this second—you’re still free of your chain.

And they have no idea what you can do.

Let me give you something to be afraid of.

With that thought racing through your mind, you turn and dash towards the elevator, slamming your hand against the button. It takes long—too long—but you know it will be worth it. Throwing yourself inside, you press the basement button over and over again, practically beating it.

The ride down seems to last an eternity as well.

You prowl inside the cubicle like a wild animal ready to spring free. So much so that the partition nearly breaks with the amount of strength you use to yank it backwards with.

“Winston!” you shout from the top of your lungs, slamming your palm repeatedly against the vault. “Let me in!”

There’s a reverberating click only moments later but you don’t wait for the hefty metal to open fully before you push inside, breathing harshly as you do.

Winston blinks slowly at the sight of you. “V?”

There is a question and a sharpness to his regard, and the wariness with which he takes you in should probably worry you. But you don’t answer him. Instead, you head straight for the cabinet. Your pulse pounding and a clamour inside your head leaving you partially deaf. To a point, both John’s and Charon’s returned presence back inside the vault scarcely registers.

A red haze clings to everything around you.

“V.”

Your knuckles are starting to swell again but after this, it won’t matter—

“V.”

“What do you want?” you hiss, each syllable acidic to a point it catches John off guard.

He mutely offers you a shotgun and something at the back of your brain recollects mentions of “armour piercing shells” but you shake your head.

“There’s still some left alive at the back, and they’re regrouping,” you say instead, trying to quell your temper. “I have something else for the second wave.”

He reads between the lines of your plan.

“I’m not leaving you alone to face them.”

Your head snaps in his direction, and you hold out a vial—smaller than others, rounder, filled with liquid that seems to be caught in a perpetual state of half-brown and half-red—in front of his face.

“This,” you begin tightly, your vocal cords straining from how hard you’re working to hold yourself back. “Is something that will kill them helmet or not. They should know better than to think that some cheap plastic will save them from me.”

You pull out two canisters of gas, shaking both as you look towards the air system. “Air filtering still on?”

“Minimal,” Winston returns, his voice dull, stare watchful. “Don’t let it consume you,” he reminds quietly after a pause.

Your grip momentarily falters at those words but that’s the only reaction he receives.

“Then I’ll do it the hard way.”

John intercepts you before you can take so much as a step, his minute unease now gone. “Why didn’t we open with that?”

You’re not sure why the hell he’s stalling now to ask you questions but you answer him despite that. “This is a diluted version of something I created a long time ago,” you tell them. “It wasn’t created to be used as a vapour. This is also the only vial I have, and it will take at least a month to create more. I was saving this for the eleventh hour because no matter how many are out there, they’re about all about to experience a quick but very painful death.”

You’re not quite sure what to make of what you glimpse across his features. Some turbulent mix of emotions he doesn’t seem to wish and explain. Day by day he learns the full extent of how you’re no longer that girl that walked away from him with tears streaming down her face.

This is what you are now. What you had to become.

You wait for a reaction, judgement, but John only steps aside, his voice a low rasp, “Be careful.”

You soften somewhat at the muted worry you hear in his voice. “You too,” you say with a sigh. “Go ahead. I’m grabbing one more canister of gas just in case. Don’t go anywhere near the lounge for the next ten minutes at least.”

Both men indicate their understanding, not bothering to question you further. And there is comfort in that, in their easy understanding and trust. They both can more than handle themselves but a distinct worry still gnaws on your entrails as you watch them leave. Lack of presence from the other guards no doubt means they’re all dead already.

So that leaves only you three.

Three vs a small army of highly trained fighters.

But not for long.

“V.”

“A little busy, Winston,” you stress while rummaging through different compartments. “Can it wait?”

Silence greets your words. Then, “If I asked for your trust. Your complete trust,” he begins purposely, his voice deceptively serene. “Would you give it to me?”

Your hands still and you stare blankly at your collection for a beat.

Straightening unhurriedly, you try to digest his words, and tilt your head in the manager’s direction.

It’s only when you note his expression that you realise something is very, very wrong.

The lobby is a graveyard.

Both literal and figurative.

Bodies lay in heaps across the usually gleaming flooring, and you wait patiently while leaning against one of many marble columns.

Waiting you’ve gotten rather good at.

The poison sits in your hands, warmed by your palms, but still brimming that ugly dark shade despite now being transformed into a vapour. You’ve recreated two versions of The Drowning and haven’t used either since Chicago. That thought makes you glare at the ceiling above because the recollection of Rafael and Boutin still wounds.

The grandeur of the Continental never fails to impress you though. Not even years later. There is always something new to discover and admire.  

You’ve been waiting for at least five minutes now so when a creak sounds you don’t move at first. Muffled footsteps echo across the eerily quiet lobby, moving towards you.

But not from the direction of the entrance.

The louder the steps become the more obvious a secondary sound becomes as well.

Whistling.

Faint but melodic.

The familiarity of the tune causes you to stands straighter, focus on the melody.

Mr Sandman drifts through the air as a peculiar sort of goad; purposeful and sly.

“Oh, snakey,” a voice coos playfully, pausing the tune for a moment. “I know you’re hiding somewhere out here.”

Lucien.

Of course.

You’ve been expecting him to show up sooner rather than later. It’s good to know that you were right about him though. He wasn’t going to let you slip by him again. This time, you don’t want to, either. This time, you’re going to finish this.

You contemplate throwing the poison in his face but the High Table would not give up so easily. John and Charon might be cleaning up the remainder of the first wave one shotgun shell at the time but a second wave is guaranteed and soon. Logically they would want to try and overwhelm you. They’re hoping to wear you out.

“Come out, come out wherever you are,” Lucien calls out in a sing-song drawl, his footsteps slowing to a point they fade entirely. “Don’t make me find you. You’re not going to enjoy that scenario.”

“Who says I’m hiding?”

You round the column, finding his thin, solitary figure in the middle of the lobby immediately. The dark green light seems to only emphasize his gaunt frame and you take a step closer, then another.

How clever of him to wait until your paralyser is fully dispelled from the air before he came seeking you out.  

His head lowers, deepening the shadows under his eyes. “Did your guard dogs run away?” he wonders mockingly, his voice carrying. “Good, they were getting in the way.”

“Of what?”

“Our dance, of course,” he retorts, a shade angry like you should know better. “One last dance and the truth. Oh, if only you knew but you don’t. No point in secrets now though.”

You scoff, both of you watching each other as you draw nearer. “You like hearing yourself talk, don’t you, Lucien?”

The blonde assassin bares his teeth at the sound of his name—dangerous and macabre, dripping with heinous amusement—and he gazes at you for a moment. Something flickers over his shoulder—

“Not at all actually,” he states overly calm. “But you’re not the only one to have your life stolen. Maybe it’s about time you realised that,” he divulges, his voice softening into something as hateful as it is eager. Like whatever he thought he knew, he couldn’t wait to impart on you. “I’ll be waiting for you, viper.”

You aim the poison at his head, hurling it through the air with every fibre of your strength.

Lucien ducks, sliding across the floor at near blinding speed, and disappearing behind the armchairs and from your sight.

It’s at that moment that the Black Dragon’s men burst through the lobby door, their guns raised.

Following his example, you dash behind the column, an explosion of bullets following a split second later.

Rubble splinters under the abuse and you turn, avoiding the crumbling stone.

One, two, three…

This time your poison doesn’t escape in an unassuming tickle of vapour. No, this time it’s an impact of a small explosive going off, and it’s a matter of one, two, three before muffled screams and groans replace the gunfire.

Arching your back against the ruined stone, you allow your head to tip back, watching the ceiling thoughtfully. You wait till gunfire completely cuts out before moving. Then, you stride from behind the column studying the effects with a mix of cold detachment.

Your own nose and lungs ache uncomfortably—just a show of how potent the formula really is—but you don’t take your attention away from the dying soldiers. They’re more of a heap at this point, their gas masks that they no doubt were so sure would keep them safe now virtually useless.

It’s a quick but brutal affair.

Wet sounds and sobs of pain. Then, like dominoes falling, the men still one by one.

They might be only obeying orders, but they came to kill the only family you have and take your home, and you find yourself feeling little to no pity for them.

The haze is gone now, leaving the lobby even more chillingly silent than earlier.

Lucien is nowhere in sight.

You would have preferred if the poison got him but didn’t hold out much hope that it would. He’s too good and far too fast.

I’ll be waiting for you.

He will grow to regret those words.

Stepping over the bodies, you approach the spot you saw the blonde last, heading in the direction of the only corridor he could have gone down.

Glock aimed ahead, your movements are utterly silent, deadly. No matter how deep into the hotel you head, he seems to be nowhere in sight, however. This time, clearly, he wants you to look for him.

Corridor by corridor you find nothing. Then floor by floor. You know this hotel far better than Lucien does. If he really assumes he can hide from you here he’s sorely mistaken.

Gunfire rips through the air and you pause, tightening your grip on the pistol. Little by little, you decrease the distance just as a hush falls up ahead.

John’s dark hair is what you glimpse first and instinctively relax seeing that it’s him.

“John.”

The man turns towards the call of his name, and you squint at him, approaching cautiously. “Why are you wet?”

John breaths are laboured, rattling from his lungs in shallow pants, making his chest expand with each inhale. “Zero’s men.”

“The Male Lover found me too,” you tell him and you both fall into step. “Missed out on the poison party, unfortunately.”

The man at your side glances you over once—a completely wordless but attentive examination—and you huff a small breath, amused.

“I’m fine.”

You’ve forgotten how much of a mother hen he could be without saying a single word.

At least you’re a little calmer now after your previous display of explosive fury.

He seems to accept your words, and you both step into the elevator for what feels like the hundredth time in a span of only several hours.

You know what logic John is following though. Both Lucien and Zero have likely hidden up on the higher levels for two reasons.

More places to hide.

And they’re less likely to encounter any poison on the higher floors.

Leaning your shoulder heavily against the cool metal, you peer at the man only arm’s length away. Baba Yaga stands with his shoulders slumped and expression enervated. Yet he’s standing despite that. His gaze still burns with a fierce sort of determination.  

That might have been one of the first things you’ve fallen in love with—that determination and will. Followed by his often unspoken kindness.

What won’t you give for things to be different.

Going up the floors proves to be the right of course action the moment the elevator stops.

John throws himself against one side of the metal cubicle, and you do the same when a bullet whistles through the partition, piercing the metal where John’s head just was.

Pushing your hand out, you fire blindly, hearing shuffling in response, and use the distraction to peek your head over the edge. John does the exact same thing and you both fire simultaneously, hitting two men. John in the head. You in the chest. Neither moves.

Shoulders hunched and tense, you move in unison, and you conclude instantaneously that this is clearly a trap to draw you in deeper. Laying a path for you to follow until the trap springs shut.

Eyeing each other, you both move ahead despite that shared conclusion.

It doesn’t matter much now. You may only have the single magazine, and one vial of paralyser left on you after butchering your way through an entire hoard of soldiers, but it won’t matter.

There is a nagging thought at the back of your mind that you should ask about Charon but now isn’t the time for that, either. The concierge is likely back with Winston by now.  

There is a ruthless strategy to how you remove Zero’s men. One by one, shoulder to shoulder, and know that these men are afraid. That they know deep in their heart of hearts that they won’t survive the fight before it even begins but they still try. They’re strong and fast. A legacy of hard training and cruel discipline no doubt. But John is stronger and you are faster.

In many ways, they remind you of those soldiers from years ago who ambushed you in that freezing Tokyo alleyway.

Your bullets run out by the time you return to the administrative lounge. All you have on you now are two blades, paralyser, and Elder’s dagger, tucked away and out of sight. Both blades have been christened with blood two floors ago, and John is down to his bare hands.

It would put most at a disadvantage but not him. If anything, his ruthlessness only seems to grow.

But something is different this time.

Three main differences, really.

First, a jovial whistle of Mr Sandman floating through the air.

Second, three dead men that you recognise as Zero’s and finally…

Lucien leans again a glass case housing an old relic, his hands covered in blood and the tip of his blade scratching at his nail. There’s at least a few dozen of these glass cases littering the room, an old passion of Winston’s, and quite the point of pride for him. Some artifacts locked away here are worth a lot of money. Frowning deeply, you stall, drilling holes into his figure.

Lucien knows you’re here but doesn’t acknowledge you right away. He continues humming, seemingly set on finishing the tune before his head dips lazily in your direction.

“Run along, Mr Wick,” he says bluntly, his face splattered with blood. “This is between me and the viper.”

The man beside you makes a small sound at the back of his throat, near disbelieving, but you cut him off before he can speak, still staring at Lucien, “Go, John,” you say calmly. “He’s right. We have unfinished business, as do you.”

John’s stare burns into the side of your head but you don’t explain further than that. This is not his fight. You’re no longer in need of his shadow and in need of his protection.

Still, he doesn’t move right away, and you hear him audibly inhale as if he needs to say something but can’t force the words out.

You’re about to repeat yourself but he finally steps to the side, taking a path around Lucien and the dead guards. His gait is slow. He’s practically staggering because you can sense his reluctance but the fact that he listens does make you feel a tinge of satisfaction.

A part of you wants to look towards him as he disappears down the hall but you don’t.  

Lucien peers at you with a strange little smile on his face all the while, waiting till John’s footsteps fully retreat until his limbs shift. He’s still smiling faintly but you’re in no urge to finish this, so you’re fine with letting him play his games, waiting and watching.

“Had your fun?” you wonder, bored, gesturing towards the dead men at his feet.

Lucien cranes his neck, pushing away from the glass with a swiftness that makes you tense. He chuckles at your reaction, stepping over them like they’re nothing more than dirt under his boot.

“Oh, that was just a little warm-up,” he says brightly that faint, unsettling smile still lingering, and you can’t help but wonder what his deal is. He seems awfully cheery. It makes for a strange contrast to your last few run-ins. And his previous words, implying his own looming demise. “You kept me waiting. Don’t tell me you’re getting slow.”

Smiling, you too move in his direction, limbs relaxed, a peaceful hush over your body. “Are you hoping to talk me to death?”

“Now, now,” he mutters icily. “No need to be quite so rude. I just want a dance.”

Your smile splits into something bleaker, more cold-blooded, and you circle each other. Pale blue light dances across Lucien’s sharp features. A snap of jaws, a growl—there is something animalistic about the wordless exchange between you. Something brittle, a string being yanked upon repeatedly until one of you finally gives in.

Lucien leaps first.

Your knives are short, certainly not created for duelling but the clank of metal pierces the air as you both meet in the middle. Your exhausted muscles snap, tensing, coiling.

He swipes his elbow in your direction but you duck just in time, a whistle of wind tickling your temple.

Arms twisting, you both ignore the screech of metal, you punching him in the jaw while he gets you in the ribs. Gasping, you stagger back, ignoring the numbing pain. Time has dulled the memory of how hard he manages to hit if the hits land.

Lucien springs towards you again, his face contorted, lips stretched back. This time your arms are tucked at your sides and you greet his attack. Your knees knock but you manage to push him back. A swipe of your blade is your reply but he careens out of the way and you kick at him instead. He catches your knee, staggering back from the impact, and he grins at you wildly. A slight cut against the corner of his mouth bubbles up, spilling blood over his front teeth. It paints the white bone canvas with diluted scarlet.

“You didn’t answer my question earlier,” he says conversationally, and you try to sink your knife into his chest but he shoves you back. You stumble but stay upright, exhaling shakily at the pain across your ribs. “If he missed you.”

Ignoring him, you roll the blades between your fingers, drooping lower as you unleash one quick swipe after another.

Lucien lurches backwards, his expression tightening in concentration. He manages to stay out of the way, just barely. So you push him backwards till you’re back by the bodies, and the man drops to the floor so suddenly you’re left staring at empty air until your mind catches up.

He rolls across the floor, a blur of his golden hair and dark clothes the only visible thing, and you realise a second too late as to why.

A blade lays by one of the dead men covered in blood as well. You have no idea how he managed to take down three men with a minimum of two katanas at their disposal. But there’s no time to contemplate that because this time you’re the one throwing yourself backwards.

Lucien swipes the katana in a deadly arc.

His hair mused, face bloodied and a grin on his face, he gazes at you for a second. Your grip on your blades constricts.

“I wondered for years what was so special about you,” he reveals mildly, tipping his chin upwards, pulling the blade closer towards his body as he stands. “I fucking hated you, viper. Viper. I suppose that’s one of many titles for you, isn’t it? John Wick’s protege, the Vipress, the Italian’s whore, the Russian’s Viper, Lady Camorra. Honestly doesn’t your head…hurt from it all? Or does it add to your ego?”  

He spins the katana in the air, rolling his wrist—experienced and at ease, the blade like an extension of his arm. Your senses pinprick at that assessment, knowing he just made this much harder for you.

“Did the way he used to call you his desert viper make you feel powerful?” he wonders suddenly, tracing his index finger up the curve of the metal. “Gave you a sense of importance? It must have felt thrilling to be such an exception to the most powerful man in the world.”

Something inside your chest stills.

Lucien drags his eyes in your direction, watching you closely over the edge of the blade.

“My, you really do have no idea, do you?” he continues slyly, his expression slackening with amusement; malicious, wild kind that causes you to bristle. “None. Your life is, ah, what is the expression again? A hot mess, non? Oh, snakey, I thought you could be the one to teach me a lesson I failed to learn all those years ago, but your ignorance is truly disappointing.”

He cuts the air with the blade, lowering it back to his side, and you bite out a chilly, “What the hell are you talking about?”

He tuts, wagging his index finger in your direction, his grin fluttering like he’s trying to contain a laugh bubbling inside his chest.

“I kept telling you but you just don’t listen, do you?” he wonders with a click of his tongue. “I told you we were the same. Forged by the same violence. Alike in ways you failed to understand. Now, why do you think I would say that?”

You don’t respond, instead, you push yourself backwards, launching your full mass at him. Lucien greets you with a chuckle—a cold, hollow sound, teetering on manic just like the rest of him—his katana managing to absorb the impact of your shorter dual blades.  

“Tokyo, Chicago, Prague, the Albanians, the summit, us—did you really think it was all, what exactly, one funny coincidence?” he asks jovially, and a distinct chill sinks into your bones at his words, forcing you to pull yourself backwards, and dive for the other blade on the ground.

He lets you. Doesn’t bother trying to stop you, and you grip the handle in a knuckle tight grip, creating some distance between you once more. Again, he lets you, examining you with a dark but curious light gleaming in his eyes. Like you’re a lab rat he’s conducting a study on. His question rattles through your head and you squint at him.  

“You never even questioned it, did you?” he continues, his voice airy with disbelief, a joke that seems to entertain him endlessly. He’s lost interest in the fight between you for a moment, prowling across the gleaming floor but in no hurry to attack. This, clearly is more important to him. “The water, the tunnels, the darkness. A repeating pattern. All carefully put together to test you. Over and over and over again. And you exceeded his every expectation. Every challenge thrown at you, you triumphed. And even if you did wonder at the back of your mind, you never once were made to believe that someone else was pulling the strings all along. Think, snake. Think.”

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

What…

No…

No, it doesn’t…

It’s not possible. It…can’t…

Your head is empty and you gasp for breath but your lungs feel blocked, your throat locked.

Lucien attacks in a blur.

You just barely manage to muster up the speed to block him, a piercing screech of metal against metal. Your arms buckle under his strength and he kicks you, catching you in the gut. One, two—

A muffled curse slips free, everything spinning, and he grabs the spare blade in your hand, throwing it away.

Parrying for control, you attempt a punch at his head but it’s too slow and sloppy. He catches your fist, bending your arm at a sharp angle. You relax it as per your old training to avoid broken tendons or bones. The katana slips from your hand and you growl under your breath, your free hand managing to form a fist.

A punch to his gut hits him quicker than a snake bite. Brutally efficient, impacting the exact same spot you gutted him only weeks prior.

Lucien grunts. Swears. His teeth gleam, still tinged by blood and you feel his hot breath on your face. Death and decay and—

You’re too misbalanced that you don’t notice it fast enough.

Lucien kicks you in the stomach with enough strength to send you flying.

A second of weightlessness enfolds you and then comes the crash.

Glass shatters upon contact and you muffle a cry of pain, feeling glass explode and rain down around you. Hitting the floor with a deafening thud, you stay there for a while, everything ringing and blurred around you.

A feeble moan escapes you, pained and strangled.

You attempt to shake your head, your fingers twitching against the glass covered floor.

“Tokyo was just the beginning,” Lucien’s muffled voice sounds like you’re underwater and you groan, weakly tilting your head to spot his approaching legs. Glass crunches under his boots and you try to desperately block out his words. “He’s always been on the lookout for new members to join his inner circle. Best of the best. And he’s always paid close attention to poisoners like you. Tokyo was just a nudge to see what you were made of. But you didn’t break and it escalated too far. Do you know what the Elder did after you escaped? Why you never heard from Kishi’s little group again? It wasn’t because of Wick. It was because the Elder had the entire clan killed. Just that easily. Because they disobeyed him.”

“No, no…”

It can’t be true.

It can’t.

He has to be lying. It doesn’t make any sense…

Except…it does.

“Did you never ask yourself why Tarasov didn’t simply turn you into another whore or sell you?” he demands harshly. “Later, I imagine, it was a certain degree of fear of you. But initially, it was because of the Elder’s will. Even if all Viggo Tarasov knew back then was that the Table willed it so.”

You focus on your core, trying to get yourself to move but Lucien speeds up his approach, kicking you in the stomach.

Pain blinds you and you roll across the floor. Your forehead connects with the glass, your left eyebrow splitting on impact. You don’t realise it at first—not till numbness is replaced by a sensation of something wet trailing down your face.

Droplets of fresh blood hit the crushed glass beneath you, and you crawl ahead with a pained gasp.

“Next—and my personal favourite—Chicago,” Lucien narrates loudly, his voice echoing through the large space. You hear him behind you but utter shock wins out, locking your limbs, leaving you a frail mess on the ground for him to prey upon. A part of you wants to roar, another wants to cry. Your training battles against the yawning abyss you keep slipping down with each horrifying word. “Who do you think fed the father-son wonder duo their information? Why do you think you were taken to an underground facility that was spitting image of Tokyo? Why not just kill you and D’Antonio outright? Boutin thought he was getting a special task but the truth was that he had long since outlived his use. The Elder fed both Boutin and his son to you to see what you would do. Black Dragon and D’Antonio were just pawns to hide the real test.”

The highway. The way they just kept attacking but not trying to kill you. It was to see how long you will last.

You want to be sick, a dry heave bubbling past your lips, every word crushing you harder, harder, harder—

“And, once again, you did perfectly but not without a loose end,” he sneers, venturing closer, step by step, as is savouring your reaction. “He also knew that the fear of being found out will make you more compliant. Wasn’t it peculiar that he summoned you right after you returned to New York? It’s almost like he…knew. Well, he did. He always has.”

Biting your tongue, you try to push yourself up on your elbows.

Ignore him, don’t listen, don’t—

“Prague. Again. Poison that made you struggle,” he reveals, his voice pitching towards impatience now. “The syndicate that took your Italian had no prior conflicts with Camorra and for a reason. Another test and punishment. More pieces for you to remove.”

Santino was taken for no reason. Right after your return from the desert. Cognitionis had no former alterations with Camorra up until that point. They were far too small to ever risk the wrath of a powerhouse like Camorra. They hadn’t even made demands which struck you as so odd back then but you had chalked it up to them wanting to prove a point.

A poison the heir was poisoned with was sophisticated and took some time to reverse-engineer. So long, in fact, that Santino nearly died.  

“Albanians. Same thing,” Lucien voices harshly, punctuating every word. He’s gotten so close that when the second kick comes the pain is distant, muted. Because what he’s betraying is so, so much worse. “It wasn’t Camorra that started the conflict. It was made to seem that way. Tarasov was cautioned to keep a close eye on you. To a point he forbade you from helping Camorra, right? And what did you do after that, snakey?” he demands, bending down and yanking you upwards by the back of your neck.

He pulls you towards him and more blood trails down your face. Lucien’s narrowed eyes search for something in your expression, and he smiles faintly when he spots it. “That’s right. It’s all starting to click, isn’t it?”

Tarasov forbade you from helping Camorra, from helping Santino. It was the first time you ever talked back to him. First time you ever conjured up enough courage to do so.

And then, furious and upset, you ran. Straight to Casablanca. And nearly back to the man who always expected—knew, he fucking knew, planned for it—for you to come back to him.

It’s what he wanted from the start and it would have been your choice.

No forced loyalty.

You will always lose, and it will always lead you back to me.

Oh God.

If Santino had come just half a day later you won’t even be here right now. You would be with him, at his side, and none the wiser to this truth.

The terrible, dark truth of what loneliness can do to someone.

“I even told you it was him,” the man holding you whispers, his head dipping to one side when he drags his fingers over your face, wetting them with your blood. “You just don’t remember, do you?”

His disappointment is once again palpable.  

Except while you’re staring at the cutting lines of his face, a recollection does come.

The warehouse. You tied to a chair. A needle stuck in your neck as Lucien leaned his body over you. The scathing bewilderment at the fact that he has managed to find something powerful enough to knock you out for hours. Those thin, pink lips shaping words while whatever he injected you with coursed through your veins, and a name you didn’t catch.

The Elder sends his regards.

Lucien’s fingers sink deep into the skin of your neck, his expression clouding with rage the longer he gazes at you.

“You were his favourite,” he seethes bitterly, ripping you upwards and on your knees so quickly you’re left scrambling. Your legs drag across the glass shards and your hands lock shakily around his, trying to rip out of his grip. “No one after you was good enough! We trained until our bones broke. We could bleed ourselves dry, and it still wasn’t enough!”

Shódigan.

That’s why he asked if you knew about it.

You thought you did but—

He flings you ahead and your body slides across the gleaming flooring, leaving a trail of blood behind. Lucien follows, stalking closer, and squats beside you, this time yanking you upwards by the collar of your shirt. “He adored you,” he adds with a hiss, his fury scalding your skin; an old, festering resentment. “And now you’re paying the price for that adoration.”

He exhales with great difficulty, taking several moments to reign in his temper.

Now, you understand his obsession with you perfectly.

He is like you.

He was a candidate too.

He must have been.

Another face in a long line of candidates for the coveted disciple position.

This time when Lucien speaks, his voice sounds contemplative, “Though I suppose you should thank him too,” he states forcefully light. “One day you will be remembered as a legend, just like your Baba Yaga. He helped to forge you into what you are today.”

You’re too numb to feel anything else.

There is just a hushed sort of silence ringing through your head.

Undeterred by your lack of response, Lucien goes on, wiping at the blood on his face, “You know there is an old French saying: qui se resemble, s'assemble. Can you guess what it means?” he doesn’t wait for your answer this time, either. “Every man loves well what is like to himself. You are each other’s dark mirror. His counterpart.”

He giggles this time, grabbing your face, his fingers cutting into the flesh of your cheeks, and for the first time since he started his speech, something sparks in your gut.

Shock or not, your body is failing to respond but you battle against it, silencing your mind.

Hurt and betrayal slam like an overloading flood against your composure despite your best attempts to stay afloat.

You’re such a fool.

Such a lonely, naive fool.

So desperate to believe.

Hope.

Just like he was.

Lucien is right.

You and Elder are two broken halves of a mangled whole.

The same man you once saw as a chance for redemption, belonging, is the architect of the majority of the pain in your life.

One day, if you still wish it, I will tell you everything.

Everything. This is what he had meant by everything.

He ordered Winston’s death not because the manager broke the rules but because he wanted to remove your main tie to New York—the very tie that made you choose to leave him in the first place.

And John would have been the one to fire the bullet.  

You would have hated him for the rest of your days for taking the manager away from you.

Santino is still weak and so very easy for the Elder to dispose of right now.

The Lovers. Their mission to hunt you both down.

Another test for you, another tie cut if they succeed in killing Santino.

And you would have crawled to him on your hands and knees, hoping for his kindness once again. Heartbroken and alone with no one to turn to.

He would have won and you would have made it easy for him.

So very easy.

Lucien drinks in your tiny, wet breaths and glassy stare. Blood continues dripping from the cut against your eyebrow and you shiver in his hold.

A tear trails down your cheek and you can’t process a single thought. It’s too much, it’s…  

“He always feared you would find out,” this time his voice is softer, emptier, and the hollows that make up his eyes examine you shrewdly. “But it’s a fitting punishment. To care for someone so deeply, to desire them, only to live with the burden of knowing that you are the reason for their suffering.”

His fingers tremble, sunken deep into your cheeks, and another off-tilter laugh tickles from the back of his throat.

“I really did hate you, your shadow, for years. Until those tunnels,” he murmurs, his faint accent just a little more notable then, his grip easing, loosening. “Until I saw how much darkness lurks under that mask of calm. How much hate festers inside you but directed at the wrong people. I told you we were one and the same. You should have listened.”

He shakes his head, blonde strands brushing over his forehead, his mouth stretching into another beaming smile, all teeth.

Lucien lets you go and you drop the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

That’s all you are—comes the sinking, gutting realisation—a puppet for others to use and play with.

“He will kill me for what I’ve done to you,” Lucien announces, sounding like he’s made peace with that grim fact long ago. “But you know it’s funny, snakey. I always thought I would enjoy this more. Getting back at them by betraying his secrets. Seeing that realisation on your face. That crumbling hope and despair as your world unravels and crashes around you,” he says softly, near lovingly.

It must have taken him years to gain this level of trust, to learn this information.

You don’t move a muscle. All you can see are Lucien’s legs but you can feel him staring down at you.

The blonde tsks under his breath, nudging you with the tip of his boot but you don’t react. “You want to deny it, I know you do,” he begins purposely, and you suppose he would know, won’t he? “But you can’t. Because I bet every single thing that’s never made sense about your life before now suddenly does. Am I right, snakey?”

Your fingers tremble and you press them closer to your body.

“Looking at you now, I almost pity you,” he muses and there is a distinct note of uncomfortable surprise in his low voice. It almost makes you ponder just how large the line between this lucid Lucien and his insanity really is. “You’re just a little tragedy, aren’t you?” he adds thoughtfully.

Little tragedy. Little tragedy. Little tragedy.

It echoes.

You wonder, then, what you would have become had you been allowed to stay a girl. If you didn’t have to become a monster. Even though the monster kept you alive, kept you breathing and fighting.

What would you have become if you hadn’t been robbed of a future you could have had?

“Your life is not your own, it never was.”

Deafening, hollow silence follows that statement. Your heart thuds so painfully inside your chest, a part of you waits for it to stop on its own.  

Lucien’s boot settles against your waist again, pushing you onto your back.  

You stare up at the ceiling above you and count the beats of your heart.

The assassin straddles you unhurriedly as if expecting you to fight back but all you do is blink slowly.

Everything is rushing through your head right now. Every moment over the last seven years.

His fingers brush over the curve of your neck and he stares down at you with an almost rueful expression on his face.

“What a waste,” he starts tightly, followed by a long pause and he mutters something in French under his breath. His fingers settle around your throat—not squeezing, simply gazing down at you. “I knew it would crush you. But I hoped for that rage. For the abyss. For you to show me once and for all what I lacked that you had. Your lesson.”

So that’s what that was about.

“We might have been friends had we met sooner, serpent girl.”

His fingers constrict—

“My—”

Your voice cracks and Lucien’s grip relaxes instantly. The thin line of his eyebrows knits in confusion. “Quoi?”

Gulping a painful breath, you part your lips, “My…lesson,” you croak out, tasting blood on your tongue and how fitting that you should. “My lesson…I have the answer.”

A certain light devours his gaze, and although his features drop with surprise, his eagerness is tangible.

He leans closer, and over you, his fingers still around your throat, “Tell me.”

Your tongue feels heavy and dry inside your mouth, an acrid aftertaste coating it, and Lucien jerks his fingers harder around the fragile column. He presses closer, his body weight pinning you down—

You jerk your body, a blur of your arm, a gleam of a dagger in the artificial, cold light. The Elder’s dagger in your hand trembles but gushing scarlet coats it still.

“I’m faster.”

Lucien gapes, his mouth parted. He convulses, his grip on your neck slipping, and you lurch your hips upwards, throwing him off you.

He drops to the side, right beside you, unmoving but the heat of his body still warming you—and you clutch the dagger tighter between your blood-stained fingers. You press it to your chest and lay there till time becomes nothing.  

BC4 BC5.

Years ago when you escaped to Casablanca, eager to start your life over and join the Elder once again, Sofia told you something that has stuck with you ever since.

Sometimes you have to kill what you love.

You’ve thought about that a lot over the years. What exactly she had to sacrifice to have the power she now possesses—her daughter, flesh and blood, and good.

What you may have to sacrifice one day to earn your freedom.

Now, you suppose, none of that matters anymore.

Not really.

You’ve almost won your pyrrhic victory, Kishi purrs happily at your side, and you hear the subdued rumble of Tarasov’s laugh too, soon you can savour the rotting, sweet taste of it on your tongue.

The rooftop terrace door slams open, and you step onto the patio, halting the heated conversation with your arrival. There is an unsteady sway to your limbs that doesn’t escape anyone’s attention—John’s shoulder’s slump, Winston’s eyes narrow, the Adjudicator simply arches an eyebrow—but your expression remains steely.

The fire roars behind Winston and Charon—and it is, admittedly, a massive relief to see them both safe and unharmed—even if it makes you think how close you came…

No.

None of that now.

You’ve lived through worse (have you? liar, liar, liar, Kishi coos) and you give them a forced, fragmented smile.

“Mornin’.”

The Adjudicator grimaces subtly, and you know it’s likely because your injuries leave your smile bloody. Good.

“The Vipress,” the Adjudicator greets, standing to their feet. “I must express my apologies on behalf of the High Table. It does, indeed, seem like the general order in regards to you has...changed.”

They don’t look particularly happy to admit that but this is no time to goad, if you even could muster up the strength for it.

Instead, you stare blankly in their direction for a beat. “Excuse me,” you say, your voice a grating whisper, as you push past them. “Killing your lackies has made me thirsty.”

You shoulder past them, avoiding contact, your eyes momentarily jumping to Winston who stands right behind the Adjudicator, his stare cautious. Your eye contact lasts no more than a scant few seconds but it’s enough.

It’s a split second in which you grab a glass of champagne, ignoring the other snacks on the table.

You turn to face them, finding them all in differing states of confusion or uncertainty but offer no explanation as you drown three large gulps.

“Let’s get on with it, then,” you phrase bitingly, not bothering to hide the impatience, the sting of bubbling acid and, and… “I would like to have breakfast and take a shower. It exhausts a girl, having to take down armies. Hope you can appreciate that at least most of mine are in one piece. Less blood for you to wipe,” you comment idly, directing your words at the Adjudicator.

Coldness lurks in their regard, and you can tell that their opinion of you is less than savoury.

You don’t give a shit what they might think of you.

Every word slips past your lips on automatic; mindless, void syllables that feel drained of life. It’s an effort to register anything around you.

The blood, the champagne, the bubbles tickling your nose.

“While you have been pardoned of your crimes,” the Adjudicator resumes smoothly, clearly eager to get the conversation back on track and out of the way. “I’m afraid no such thing has happened with Mr Wick. A man who has shown no loyalty, no regard for the rules. It is by that logic the Table’s decrees that the punishment should fit the crime.”

Winston hums loudly, his head tilting as he nods in absentminded agreement.

You take another sip of your drink, frowning at the taste of blood in your mouth. Fitting, somehow.

You might have scrubbed yourself clean of blood before coming up here but it still stains the cracks of your skin. Cuticles stained with red, mouth stained with red.

Red, red, red…

John straightens at those words. He looks beat from his own fight but remains quiet. Yet, he can no doubt sense that something’s wrong.

“You’re correct,” Winston states, no affliction to be found in his voice and he steps closer, pulling something from behind his jacket. “Sorry, Jonathan.”

BANG

The gunshot is like a thunderclap through the too still morning.

John’s body jerks with the impact, a gasp sounding a second later, and you look at him while Winston steps closer.

BANG

John scrambles backwards, his bulletproof clothing absorbing the impacts but it won’t get him far.

“(Name)!” he calls out desperately, pained, his eyes seeking your form out, his voice cracking and splintering.

You can’t help and wonder if he’s scared. He sounds scared. There is something ironic—downright hilarious—in the knowledge that he’s facing death yet calling out your name like it may prove to be a salvation.  

It’s the first time since you asked him not to use your real name that he uses it. But you don’t move. Don’t respond to the plea for help. Mercy.

You just stare at him, indifferent and cold, knowing that even if you tried you couldn’t muster up any emotional response right now.

Winston fires again, and again, and John veers towards the building edge, his knees shaking.

The manager’s expression remains vacant, cold, and he shoots again, no hesitation in his aim. Not a single falter. It’s one of the most well carried out executions you’ve ever witnessed.  

John’s back hits the ledge and you watch in near slow motion as he tips over the edge falling at least twenty floors down and towards the concrete below.

You hear the metallic bangs as he hits a few fire escapes on his way down but still don’t move.

Then, impact so loud it splits the air.

Then, stillness.

The typical buzz of New York City waking up resumes. Time restarts and goes back to its natural flow once again.

Throwing your glass back, you drown the remainder of the champagne, licking your lips twice, yet blood still lingers.

Winston lowers his arm, approaching the edge but the Adjudicator gets there first. Charon is only a step behind them, and you force yourself to move after them as well.

The Adjudicator gazes down for a long, assessing moment, silent. Their head turns towards the manager who meets their probing stare flatly.

“I assume we’re done here?” he questions.

The Adjudicator inclines their head and, predictably, switches their attention to you. “You did not help him.”

A fact, not a question, yet it demands an explanation all the same. Your tongue moves on automatic, forming words that taste brittle.

Everything feels brittle.

“Why would I?” you wonder dully. “He betrayed me not so long ago, and nearly killed the majority of my friends less than a week ago. I learned my lesson.”

Chuckling, you turn your back to them, walking away leisurely. The glass clangs back onto the coffee table, a shriek of a sound. “I have served. I will be of service,” you echo the mantra pleasantly, faint with scorn.

Every word bleeds venom through your heart.

You don’t face them again, and no one stops you. The terrace doors slam shut behind you, and it’s a deafening bang that reverberates. You force yourself to put one foot in front of another. Keep walking, keep walking, keep—

It’s a blur, your feet dragging behind you. You’ve stopped bleeding but still have to halt at one point, leaning your palm against the corridor wall to rest.

You’re teetering and—

Your life is not your own, it never was.  

Your room sits untouched. The door opens with a click that’s like a kiss against your hair—so soothing and loving, comforting in ways that you could never quite explain.

The table is still an organised mess; notes half-unfinished, empty vials, dried ingredients—all littering the wooden surface, and you approach it slowly.

Exactly as you left it before you departed for Rome.

It seems like a lifetime ago now.

Everything is the same here, frozen in time.

Except nothing is the same.

Your fingertips trace over your notebook; a new formula, a collection of improvements on old ideas, scribbles that don’t make much sense to anyone but you.  

Your legacy. Your work.

This room is a testament to who you are. What you have become.

A tragedy.

Not a legend, or a fighter, just a tragedy of a girl.

A sound escapes you at that, strangely wounded, and you lean the heels of your palms against the table edge, your vision blurring.

Tragedy, tragedy, tragedy.

A puppet stitched together by different hands, influenced by different people.

You’re a product of someone else.

Every victory from your past sours and cracks with that realisation. You must have made him so proud.

You hate this room, this table, these plants, yourself.

This time a scream rips from the back of your throat. A brutal sweep of your hands wipes the table clean, everything plummeting to the floor with a booming crash.

You destroy everything in your path. Glass explodes, paper rips, liquids spills. You’re panting, sweating, and shaking by the time you come back to yourself. The floor is a mess, the whole room is.

A glint catches your notice when you spin on your heels, and your head snaps to the floor-length mirror across the room.

You don’t recognise anything about the bloodied, tear-stained, wild reflection that glares back at you. A monster is all that stands there. Alone and devoid of everything.

Distance evaporates between you, and you slam the hilt of the only weapon you still have left into the glass. The Elder’s dagger shatters the mirror upon contact. Cracks fracture your face before the mess crashes at your feet with another ear-splitting echo.

That uses the last tendril of strength left in your body—perhaps your very soul.

Your knees fold under you—and it’s almost soft, your crumbling.

Weightless and empty you settle on the floor.

Tears stream down your cheeks, hitting the crushed glass in front of you but you don’t wipe them away, don’t make a single sound. You can’t.

Your forehead lowers between your knees, your hushed sobs the only noise permeating through the peaceful room.

You don't get back up.

B4.

. . .

AN: 

well. 

now you know. 

not sure how many of you are even around to read this but a fun game to play now that you're done:

- reread COA from start to finish, noting every use of "honoured guest" in relation to V spoken by her enemies throughout the years, even the elder himself.  

[violet-knox]

The Family Secret

Chapter 1: Spinner’s End

Pairing: Young!Snape x Reader

Summary: Excited for your summer break, you make plans with Severus to visit him at Spinner’s End. Nervous about your visit, Severus does everything he can to make your stay delightful, but nothing goes as planned when his father comes home early from work. 

Word count: 6951

Warnings: Implied child abuse (not explicit) 

A/N: It’s been such a long journey finishing this story up. Things did not go as planned when I signed up and there were times I didn’t think I’d manage to finish it. But here we are, and I’m so happy I pushed through.

This story has 5 chapters and since I didn’t plan anything for Sev’s birthday, I thought I’d make it up by posting the first (and longest) chapter today. The next chapter will be posted on Wednesday the 13th and after that, I’ll be posting one chapter every Saturday in January, the final chapter posted on the 30th. It was a pleasure to participate in the @snapebang​ and I hope everyone enjoys it!

He could still remember the first time he’d told you about his home on Spinner’s End. You’d only been dating two weeks and he had no obligation to tell you anything about his life, but he just couldn’t help himself. He’d been hoping for so many years to find someone like you, someone he could care for that would return the gesture. Someone he could love, trust and he did. He’d found you and there was no one else in this world he would ever trust more than you. Perhaps that was why he told you where he lived after you said you lived in Cokeworth as well, knowing the reputation Spinner’s End had built for itself. Lily had never cared for his family’s financial status, but her sister had, as did the majority of those he’d meet. He was afraid you’d react the same way, that once again his parents would ruin yet another good thing in his life, but you didn’t. You didn’t even hesitate to smile. But if you’d told him back then what you’d asked of him now, he would have questioned your knowledge on the reputation Spinner’s End carried and reconsidered telling you about his upbringing. 

Filthy, poor, loathsome, shameful, pathetic; those were the words he and many others would have used to describe his home, yet you seemed completely oblivious to those characteristics. You didn’t care about how small he claimed it to be. You brushed away his own distaste for the place and his offer to take you somewhere else. You simply asked again: Can I come over this summer? 

The answer was much simpler than he’d made it out to be in his mind: Yes, but you shouldn’t. Yet he could only imagine the hurt in your eyes if he’d responded that way. He knew you’d understand if he explained, but you’d already tolerate so much of his own burdens. Who was he to ask you to carry anymore? In all honesty, he was surprised you’d stuck around this long after everything you’d seen at school. The way he was treated by others; like a filthy raccoon who wouldn’t stop trespassing on their property. You should have run for the hills the second you got a glimpse of who he was, but you didn’t. You stayed by his side and yet, despite everything you’d been through, he still questioned your loyalty. It was as if the moment you understood where he came from, the moment you’d seen his home, who his father was, you’d abandon him like everyone else before you. 

It seemed however, that no matter what he’d say, no matter how hard he’d try, you’d always find your way back to him to put his heart back together. He loved your loyalty to him, your compassion for him. He loved everything about you and only a fool would shun the insurance you offered him of your expectations for Spinner’s End. 

“Severus, if you don’t want me here, I understand,” you said as you followed his lead down the street of Spinner’s End. Reservation still lingered in his chest and judging by your tone of voice, you were certainly aware of it. He was nervous more than anything. Yes, his father was away for the weekend and his mother never bothered to care for his presence anyways, but he still couldn’t help the dread in the back of his mind. Bringing you home was a risk, one that could end your relationship if you hadn’t been sincere about your views of his family. 

“N-no! I do, it’s just-” He paused and squeezed your hand as he looked away. “My house- where I live… It’s not what you imagine and my parents- they aren’t exactly the best of people.”

You’d seen him distressed before, the sorrow in his eyes when Lily cut ties with him, the anguish he went through when James and Sirius continued their harassments at school after the Whomping Willow incident. But you’d never seen such disappear written on his face before, as if he was preparing to lose something he held dear. You’d never meant to cause such emotions when you’d asked to come over for a few hours, but if you’d known the stress he felt now, you would have buried the thought deep in your mind, never to see the light of day and save him the hurt he felt bubbling inside him now. 

The way he tightened his hold on you made you feel all the more guilty. This was supposed to be a pleasant evening and Severus was acting as though you held a gun to his head. But you knew that once you’d entered his house and shown him you couldn’t care less about his living situation the mood would lighten. 

“You know I don’t care for that. Your home and your parents will never change how I feel about you,” you said, pulling his arm closer to your chest. Your words had the exact effect you’d intended as you felt the tension in his muscles release. His shoulders dropped slightly, but his hand tightened its hold on yours. 

Turning his head, Severus looked into your eyes and felt the assurance you offered seep into his recurring horrendous thoughts of abandonment. He always felt so safe with you, assured of the exclusion of the terrors the world offered when he was around you. As much as he hated to admit it, you were his rock, he couldn’t live without you and that was precisely why he feared your visit to his house. Why would he risk losing someone as important as you? And for what? A glimpse into his sad childhood on Spinner’s End? 

Nothing was worth losing you and if protecting his relationship with you meant you’d never meet his parents or step foot on Spinner’s End then so be it. He could live with hiding his past. He could learn to move on, he wanted nothing more than to move on, but he knew he’d never be able to find anyone as thoughtful or as loving as you.

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” you offered, watching him hesitate to climb up the first step of stairs leading to the front door. “We can turn around and head to a park or something.”

You couldn’t stand how uncomfortable he looked. You didn’t want to see him like this, your heart aching as his hands shook, stuffing them into his pocket, clumsily searching for his keys. He was like a delicate, expanding bubble, ready to pop at any moment, exploding into a mess of emotions and you couldn’t bear seeing him in such a state.

“No,” he said softly, retrieving his keys from his pocket. “We can stay.”

Stretching out his hand, offering it to you, he took another step towards the door, watching you slide your fingers against his palm, gripping him tightly as you stepped forward as well. As much as he would have liked to take you up on your offer, he knew he couldn’t back out now because he knew exactly why you wanted to come over in the first place. Curiosity was a trait you’d never tried to hide and one that made itself more apparent the closer you got as a couple. You wanted to know everything about him because it made you feel closer. You wanted to trust him, to know him better than anyone else ever had. He could see your hurt when he told you about Lily, how much he’d wanted to share everything with her, how he thought she understood him, so he knew you’d want nothing more than to gain his trust enough to share everything with you.

Slowly, he put the key into its lock and turned it, opening the door to his childhood, his summer prison. Everything he hated about himself was all stored under one roof, all about to be exposed to you. There were no words to describe the hatred he felt for this place, Lily being the only reason he had to look forward to returning every summer but as she broke off their friendship, his willingness to withstand this house sizzled away, leaving him with nothing but animosity. And then he met you. You were his new light, a clean breath of air amongst the smoky darkness surrounding him. You were his new reason for withstanding Cokeworth and Spinner’s End. Withstanding another summer under this roof was only made bearable by the thought of you existing within the same vicinity. 

The smile you wore on your face as you followed him, stepping within the threshold of his less than desirable home eased him a little and he wondered if you’d intended to appear happy simply because you knew how much it soothed him. You were always canny like that, catching onto his likes and desires faster than he was willing to admit, but it didn’t bother him. He was grateful for it and only wished he could return the favour. 

“It’s nice,” you said to him as he closed the door behind you. Any expectations Severus had given you were shot the moment you stepped inside, the walls bare, a singular couch and armchair squeezed into the shoe box sized sitting room. The couch was old, probably as old as the house judging by the chipped drywall and the worn-out floors. It faced the ashy fireplace which seemed to endure the same negligence Severus had said he’d felt over the years. The armchair’s cushion dipped in the middle as if an invisible being was sitting on it, the arms themselves scuffed from the ends. The only decor you could find was a singular picture frame of a couple you could only assume were his parents that looked as though it had been gathering dust for a while. 

“You’re not being truthful,” he replied bluntly as he let go of your hand. He took a look around the room and sighed. No matter how much he tried, there was no way he could have made the place presentable for you, but at least he’d managed to clean the floors of any broken shards of glass or stains left behind by whatever it was his father had decided to leave around the armchair. 

“The way you were describing it, Severus, I would have thought you lived in a dustcart.” You turned to face him instead of the room, placing your hands over his arms to get his attention. His hair was already over his face, his insecurities spilling out of him and you’d barely been here ten seconds. The house was quiet at least and you knew if you just sat down a while, he would get used to the idea of sharing his space with you. 

Severus’ gaze seemed to be fixed on the scenery behind you, so you slowly moved your hands up his arms and onto his shoulder, one reaching up to gently hook under his chin, encouraging him to break free of whatever horrible trance he was under. Your eyes finally met yet he still wouldn’t let go of the fear buried deep in his chest. 

“Sev, I love you,” you spoke softly, entwining your fingers in his hair, taking a step closer to him. Severus leaned into you, your touch a comfort he could find nowhere else. The tension in his shoulders started to ease until he realized he’d forgotten to thoroughly wash his hair today. His hand jerked up to remove yours from the shameful oily mess on his head, kicking himself for forgetting something so trivial. Already this day was going downhill, and he could only imagine the treachery that would follow. 

“Can we sit down?” You asked when you felt his hand on your wrist, pulling you away. You could tell he was still so uncomfortable and a part of you had begun to wonder if it was really his home he was ashamed of or if it was you. 

Severus, unaware of your own worries, slowly nodded his head, turning towards the couch, inviting you to sit beside him. His actions were almost robotic; one foot after the other, his legs bending enough to sit in his seat. He wasn’t sure what to do next, or rather, he wasn’t sure if you were disgusted by what you saw and were just too kind to say anything. He wouldn’t blame you if the next thing you did was ask to leave. In fact, he’d sort of expected it to happen at some point, he just had no idea when you’d ask. 

“Severus?” Your voice seemed so distant, like you weren’t actually here and for once, he hoped that was true. Your scent however, the glimpse of your face in the corner of his eyes told him otherwise. “Sev, if you’re worried about me don’t be. I’m fine with your home, I really am.”

Severus looked down to find your hand on his knee, your thumb slowly rubbing circles into his trousers as a way of comforting him. His lips gently twitched into the subtlest of smiles, his hand overlapping yours as he looked at you with softened eyes. He nodded his head in understanding and found himself silently thanking you and everything you were. Your presence, your joy, your mere existence was all a gift he was lucky to have received. 

“I-I can make tea,” he offered, hoping it would ease the tension around you both. You nodded your head and he got up from his spot, asking you to stay where you were, Merlin forbid you see another inch of this disgraceful prison. 

Severus creaked open the door that led to the rest of the house enough for him to slip through, quickly closing it after he stepped inside so you wouldn’t see your vision wouldn’t be tainted with any more of his embarassing life. He hastily made his way to the kitchen where he found his mother sitting near the window reading yesterday’s paper, likely stolen from the neighbour’s bin as she smoked what he guessed was her third cigarette today judging by the time. 

Opening the cupboards, he found the old rustic kettle and filled it up with water before digging for the matches and lighting the flame on the stove. He left the kettle there as he went back to find two clean cups. He’d opened all the cupboards in the kitchen before looking around countertops. He found two mugs, both dirty on the kitchen table, but one was chipped to the extent he was sure you’d noticed, so he cleaned the acceptable one and continued his search. Waving his wand, he watched the ditry mug levitate to the sink where it began cleaning itself. Looking back around the kitchen he found another mug on the countertop of the window, used as an ashtray. 

“Mum, can I use that mug?” He asked her, hoping she was in a well enough mood to simply wave him her approval. He watched with anticipation as she took another puff of her cigarette, acting as if he wasn’t even there. This was rather usual for her, but unfortunately for him, it meant she wasn’t in the mood to be disturbed.  

“Why?” She asked, keeping her eyes on her paper as she blindly tapped the end of her cigarette into her makeshift ashtray.

“I-I have a friend over and I wanted to make tea.” He paused and watched her eyes move from one side of the page to the other. “I’d asked you yesterday if it was alright for her to come over and you said it was.”

Sometimes he wondered if she cared more about her smoke breaks than she did him because it was moments like this where she’d pay more attention to those sticks of tobacco than she would her own son that had him questioning her priorities. The cigarette hung from her lips as she turned the page, staring at him like he’d said something damning. 

“A friend? Didn’t that Evans girl stop speaking with you last year? And why on earth would you want to bring her here of all places?” She suddenly seemed very interested in his evening plans when he’d explained to her multiple times over the last few days he was planning to have you over. But why would he ever expect her to listen when she’d done nothing of the sort the last 17 years. He in fact, could hardly remember a time where she’d managed to hold even half a conversation with him.

“Why do you care?” He snapped back at her. Frustration rose to his mind, his face turning red with anger. She had no right to question his personal life. She had no right to speak to him like he wasn’t worthy of speaking to other human beings. 

His expression hardened when he locked eyes with her, watching her take another drag of her cigarette as her lips stretched into an ugly frown. Tossing her newspaper in the direction of the bin, each page flying around, landing all over the floor, she put out her cigarette in the mug before pushing it with her index finger so it fell off the windowsill. 

“Clean that up,” she commanded lazily, easing off from where she sat and dragged her feet along the floor to the door. “And I suggest you see your friend out before your father gets home.”

He didn’t take his eyes off her until she was completely out of sight, heading up the stairs, the house whining in agony with every step she took. Storming to the door, he closed it roughly, immediately regretting it when he remembered you were in the sitting room waiting for him. It was then he’d realized the kettle had been whistling, steaming angrily before he removed it from the stove and turned it off. He looked to his side where the broken pieces of the mug mixed with the ashes of his mother's cigarette. With a sigh, he took out his wand and wove it over the area, trying to focus on the task at hand, putting aside his feelings towards his parents. 

He’d been so used to locking himself in his room or storming out of the house, returning when it was pitch black after interactions like that, but he couldn’t do that this time and it threw him off. He had to get back to you, get back to the safety of your bubble. At least with you, he could stand to be in this house, he could bear the backlash of his mother and the miserable life he led here. 

The mug put itself back together and he picked it up to examine it. He’d gotten rather good with this spell after he’d begun taking every broken dish, jar or whatever else his parents felt like breaking that day back to Hogwarts and fixing it the second he was allowed to do magic again. Turning seventeen was one of the best gifts he’d ever been given. No more restrictions, no more rules. He was able to do magic freely now and it had saved him more than once this summer, apparting away if they ever got too loud, cleaning his room faster than he’d ever previously managed. It kept him connected to his real home, even if he was miles away. 

Placing the mug in the sink, he washed and dried it, stopping the spell he’d previously cast and set aside the dishes for now. He walked over instead to the mess his mother had made and wove his wand over it to vanish the ash and newspaper. Finally, he made earl grey tea and even managed to find some biscuits to go along with it. His smile slowly began to return as he made his way back to you, opening the door with one hand as he carried the tray of treats in the other. Placing it on the coffee table in front of the couch, he took his seat next to you.

“Sorry, we don’t have any cream but there’s sugar if you like,” he said, gesturing to the small jar next to the cups. Your lips twitched into a smile as you watched him pick up the jar and unscrew its lid. He put two teaspoons of sugar into his tea before looking over his shoulder to see if you wanted any. 

“One is fine. Thank you Sev,” you motioned to him. He gave both cups a quick swirl before picking them up and handing yours to you. He sat back on the couch and looked down at the liquid swirling in circles, the awkwardness settling back into place before you spoke, thoughts of the consequences he feared to face for bringing you here returning to him.

“Is everything alright Sev? I heard something breaking while you were in there,” you said, nodding your head towards the door he’d just emerged from. You didn’t want to push or make assumptions, but Severus had told you his father was at work, which meant the footsteps you heard heading up the stairs not long before he returned to you were his mother’s. He’d barely ever spoken to you about her, but you knew he wasn’t too fond of either of his parents. You were never one to pry on someone else's personal life, but with Severus it was different. You cared so deeply for him, you wanted to know everything, the good and the bad. But common dignity stopped you from asking him before about his family, hoping if you were patient, he would eventually trust you enough to share everything without you having to ask. 

“It was nothing, I just dropped one of the mugs, but I managed to put it back together,” he lied, looking away to take a sip of his tea. He kept his eyes on his cup as he lowered it, his hair defensively falling into position over his face. You noticed his gaze dropping and knew there was more to what he was telling you. Your shoulders fell in disappointment as you realized today was not the day he’d open up to you. But you had to look on the bright side, he trusted you enough to bring you to his home and you’ve been here a full ten minutes without him trying to push you out.

“So, will I get a tour later?” You smirked as you took a sip of your own tea. “Will I get to see your room?”

“Why do you want to see my room?” He asked, confused at your odd request. Your smirk didn’t help matters either. He was now unsure of how serious your question was. 

Sliding closer to him, you bit your bottom lip, unable to suppress your growing smile. It was absolutely adorable when he wouldn’t understand some of your hints. The way his brows would furrow, his eyes shifting like a lost puppy unable to comprehend where he was. “Well, wouldn’t you want to see my room if you came over?”

You couldn’t help but let out a chuckle when you saw his eyes light up with understanding, a sly smirk of his own appearing on his lips, his cheeks tinting a light shade of pink. “I suppose. But my room isn’t really anything worth seeing. It’s small and cramped. I keep everything worth keeping in my trunk. Honestly, the dorms back at Hogwarts are more appealing.” 

“I don’t care how it looks,” you said, placing a hand on his knee in comfort. What you would give to see him just a little more proud of himself, just a bit more confident. Sometimes you wondered if all that affinity shared between you meant anything to him or if he even realized how much you’d been there for him, how you’d always be there for him. But in the end, your crazy thoughts of his negligence towards you was always just that; absolutely nonsense. “I only care that it’s yours.”

“Alright,” he reluctantly agreed. It was odd speaking to you about something he’d always been so insecure about, yet the feeling of worry over whether or not you would leave him after what you saw was beginning to dwindle away. Even with his mum unable to spare him a shred of decency, the evening had felt as though it was going fairly well thus far. At least you seemed to be enjoying the biscuits enough to eat a second even though they turned out to be stale. Still, you managed to find a way to turn the situation around, dipping them into your tea. You’d even finished your tea before him despite his vitality to speak as little as possible. He would much rather listen to you talk about how your summer had gone so far and all the plans you had for your last year at Hogwarts than speak of his home and life on Spinner’s End.

Life could never cut him a break and just when he thought he was finally grasping at happiness, Fate had to intervene, ruining any spark of joy ignited within him. Fate was cruel to him today just as she was cruel to him when he’d finally found a home in Hogwarts, introducing him to Potter while taking Lily away from him. Today, Fate had decided to shake up his plans with you and test him instead. The sound of the front door opening dropped his heart down to his stomach. He knew it was over the second his father took a step into the house, to be greeted by his son sitting with a stranger he’d been told nothing about. 

“What is this?” His tone showed resistance as he stared at you and Severus sitting on the couch. He was holding back like he always did when they were out in public. Your presence was taming him, but Severus knew it wouldn’t last long.

“H-hello,” you hesitantly tried to introduce yourself, feeling the tension in the air. You assumed the man who’d stepped inside the house was his father, but judging by the look on the man’s face, he had no idea who you were. Did Severus not tell either of his parents about your visit? Thoughts of disappointment and guilt filled your mind as you stood up, stretching your hand out to him. “I-umm, I’m (Y/N).”

The man squinted at your hand, staring at you in silence. You felt wary of the situation you’d suddenly found yourself in. Your introduction clearly doing you no favours. Awkwardly, you lowered your hand to your side along with your gaze in embarrassment as you sank back down on the couch beside Severus. 

“We were just drinking tea,” Severus finally spoke, trying to explain with as few words as possible why there was a stranger in the house. Looking at him, you questioned why his voice had suddenly lost all its power. It sounded as though he was speaking to a wall, you’d never heard his voice so monotone before and it frightened you. Perhaps he was right, and you shouldn’t have come over. 

Severus watched his father squint at the two empty mugs on the coffee table, evidence that you’d both finished your tea a while ago. Severus could already tell lies was all his father would see. The way his father’s black eyes pierced his, he knew nothing he said now would forgive inviting you over. 

“I see.” Severus felt a slight shiver run up his body from his father's simple words, but he still maintained eye contact with him all the same, hoping he could at least try and brace himself for what came next. He watched the man take a few steps around the couch, speaking one final word as he opened the door to the rest of the house. “Severus.”

His voice commanded obedience from Severus and immediately he knew he was being asked to follow him to the kitchen. Shrugging his shoulders, he let out a small sigh. His hair fell over his face as he closed his eyes, trying not to think about what was to come next. Reluctantly, he stood from his place and motioned to begin following his father through the door when he felt a hand tightly grasp at his, holding him back. 

“Sev, is everything okay?” you whisper to him, your brows furrowed, and your voice muffled with worry. Severus sat back down on the edge of the couch next to you, his gaze still lowered in shame of the interaction you’d just had with his father. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to come home until the evening. 

“Severus!” His mother’s voice echoed through the room, a sign he was in deep trouble. His punishment was always worsened whenever both his parents were there to discipline him and he wasn’t ready to face those consequences tonight. Not tonight of all nights. He couldn’t handle it knowing you'd be in the next room. 

“It’s fine, just- umm, stay here,” he told you quickly before standing up, pulling away from you and marching straight into the kitchen like a soldier ready for battle. You sat there frozen for a moment, the silence around you deafening. Severus looked so upset when he’d left you, wearing the same look he’d have after an interaction with James and his friends. This summer was supposed to be about building your relationship with him, growing closer to each other and enjoying your time together. You never thought you’d see that look on his face in his own home with your company.

“SHUT UP EILEEN! THIS ISN’T ABOUT YOU!” The voice of his father roared throughout the house. Your heart stopped at the sudden burst in rage coming from the other side of the door. Your chest rose with panic and fell with worry. Against better judgment, you stood up and slowly walked over towards the commotion, fear of those doors bursting open as you got closer. Your palms pressed against the chipping paint as you listened in on the rest of their conversation.

“This is about your ungrateful son!” The man continued pouring his anger out on those in the other room. “How dare you bring some stranger into my house!”

Your heart ached for Severus. You weren’t a stranger to him and-

“I live here too!” You and Severus were a lot alike in more ways than one, but it seemed in this situation, your thoughts had aligned more than they ever had before. Unfortunately, it seemed his father didn’t care to allow Severus any sense of belonging.

“ON MY DIME!” The man screamed.

Your heart sank as the yelling continued, the more they spoke, the more you were certain Severus was living in a toxic environment, one you’d be forced to leave soon, forced to abandon the one person in this house that seemed to have a kind soul. You had to do something, you couldn’t just stand here. Intervening would be a horrible idea, you or Severus could wind up injured, or worse. No, you couldn’t let yourself be separated from Severus, you couldn’t leave him during a time like this. 

Every bone in your body resisted as you went to cautiously open the door enough to look through to the other side. You saw the light on in another room where all the yelling was emerging from, and quickly took this chance to slip through the door, closing it behind you and making your way up the stairs. You paused halfway up, crouching down in fear of being caught, hoping Severus could free himself of the entrapment his parents had suddenly put him in. 

“You should have quit that ruddy school a long time ago, gotten yourself a job and contributed to this household like I had when I was half your age!”

It seemed the man had no sense of pride, happy to have his son throw away his potential all for his own benefit. Helping him pay the bills instead of watching Severus build a future for himself was apparently the right priorities to him. Severus was a brilliant wizard, and you knew his skills would provide him with many opportunities in the future. You’d always told him that, even before you started dating, you’d never missed out on a chance to let him know how much he inspired you, how you had him to thank for so much of your own success at Hogwarts. It didn’t matter what his father thought so long as Severus knew he wasn’t wrong to focus on his studies, to strive for a better life than his parents, you were happy. 

You hurried up the rest of the stairs, optimistic they would finish their episode of abuse soon and began to look around on the second floor. You found two bedrooms and a bathroom. The first bedroom you would have assumed was the master bedroom as it contained a queen-sized bed, but the bundled up sheets and pillow in the corner had you second guess your assumption. It appeared as though someone had been sleeping on the floor, but when you entered the second bedroom, you knew that person couldn’t have been Severus. This second bedroom had to be his room. His trunk was in here, shoved into the closet, an old desk with one of its legs repaired with what appeared to be a chopped stick of a broom sat opposite of the twin sized bed that filled up most of the room. 

Sitting on his bed, you felt the springs in the mattress snap and you almost jumped up in surprise, but you kept yourself still, worried that any noise you made would bring you unwanted attention from downstairs. Poor Severus was already being scolded for your presence in this house, you didn’t want him blamed for the risky choice you made of sneaking into his room. Down below, you heard the sound of a door shoved open followed by footsteps before the shouting resumed.  

“She’s not there Tobias,” spoke his mother. Just as you’d suspected, they’d gone looking to kick you out of the house. What followed was a sentence you never thought you’d hear, something you felt so offended by, you would have given up your position just to prove them wrong. 

“Another friend abandoning you,” his father scoffed, a bit of spite in his tone as he talked down to Severus. “I could only be so lucky as to have the same privilege.”

Severus didn’t want to believe it. He didn’t want to believe you’d abandoned him, but he could however believe his parents scaring you away. He wondered how his summer would go now that you knew everything about his life. He tried to picture you receiving his countless letters begging to see you and throwing them in the trash without so much as glimpsing at his words. He tried to imagine how his final year would go without you by his side, celebrating his freedom alone, watching from afar as you went on to find someone else, all because of the horrible way his parents had treated you. 

You’d told him so many times, tried to reassure him so many times you weren’t going anywhere, but deep down he knew they were just words. They meant nothing and in the moment, you couldn’t handle the horrific truth. He didn’t want to believe it, but he didn’t blame you. He didn’t hold it against you for leaving. That luxury was only to be held by his parents. The luxury they’d held over him since the day he was born. Severus bowed his head in shame. He was embarrassed for opening up to you like that. For trusting you and thinking you’d be different. His shame slowly turned his disappointment into rage, tears pricking his eyes, daring to expose his emotions to his parents when he was already so vulnerable. 

Let them punish me. Let them relish in my embarrassment. I deserve it.

“I’m taking you to the mill tomorrow,” his father informed him. “You’re getting a job to pay back all the money I put into you the last 17 years.”

His life was over. He knew it and so did his parents. He was doomed to work for his father for the rest of his life, always in his debate. He wasn't to graduate Hogwarts, he wasn’t to send you any letters, he wasn’t to dream of the great wizard you said he could be. He said nothing in response, the pain he felt in his chest, his face, his ribs, his stomach, his heart all too great to allow him the energy to speak a single word. 

He watched his mother walk back to the kitchen and lift up the chair his father had thrown at him, tucking it into the small kitchen table. One of its legs was broken and he knew if anyone sat on it, it would break. But so long as it appeared put together, so long as it looked fine, he knew they wouldn’t care. His father went and sat down on the chair no one but him was to use and waited for his mother to serve dinner. 

Severus once again found himself completely invisible to them. They’d let out their emotions, lashed out at him and made sure he knew his place, then went back to their lives, pretending like he didn’t exist. He’d only wished they’d done that when you were here. If they didn't acknowledge your presence like they did his own right now, perhaps you’d still be together. Perhaps he wouldn't have to live the rest of his life alone, but such a mercy was too much to ask of course. He was made to be punished, he was born to suffer and that was to be his fate until the day he died. 

Slowly, he walked out of the kitchen, not to make a sound lest he be noticed again. He held his breath with each step he took, exhaling when he reached the second floor. He turned to make his way to his room, twisting the knob, ready to crawl into bed and drown in his tears, but the second he opened the door, about to throw himself onto his mattress, he was met instead with a sight he’d never dreamt of seeing. You were there, waiting for him, waiting to comfort him, your arms warm as you wrapped them around him. His lips trembled as he lost himself in you. He was falling in love with you all over again, the rush of emotions all too great to conceal. 

He’d barely managed to close the door, trapping you both in the cold darkness of his prison before everything he’d kept buried inside for 17 years spilled out silently. He trembled as he let his body lean on yours. His muscles giving out, too tired to continue standing, his mind too beat to stay strong. He couldn’t do it anymore. He was too exhausted.

“Severus,” you whispered into his ear, testing the waters, knowing you couldn’t let yourself be heard. His tears were silent, and you knew you had to oblige to the same rule, but you couldn’t hold back. You couldn’t let him think what you knew his mind would have concluded not moments ago. “I will never leave you.”

His grip tightened when you spoke, reminding him of why he’d opened up to you in the first place, why he’d trusted you. He hugged you with as much strength as he could muster, letting his tears leak from his eyes, soaking your shirt as you stood there frozen in time. He’d lost himself in his mind before feeling your hands move down to his waist, pushing him away just enough to guide him into his bed. The covers were pulled over his body as he nuzzled into yours, feeling its warm embrace comfort him as you held him once more. His tears began to dry as the safety of your presence soothed him, telling him it would be alright. He had nothing to fear, nothing to worry about because he had you and you weren’t going anywhere. 

Adjusting your position, you slid down the bed enough to lay on your side, facing him. His eyes were half open, his breath heavy as you rose your hand, gently cupping his jaw, your thumb slowly swiping his cheek. He relaxed under your touch, your eyes, your smile assuring him he was safe. The darkness welcomed him as he closed his eyes, focussing on your touch, the only sound in the room, his heavy breaths. 

“Sev?” You broke the silence, whispering his name. “I think you should come stay with me awhile.”

You’d been reluctant to offer an escape from this house, but the way he looked, the exhaustion on his face broke your heart. It angered you and you couldn’t let him stay here. You couldn’t let him endure one more second of the abuse in this house. 

His eyes opened and met yours, your chest aching as the light in his eyes faded away. He slowly nodded his head in agreement, fear of what his parents might do to him if he was caught trying to run away bubbling in his mind. He was afraid, yes, but staying here and living the miserable life they’d planned out for him was a much worse fate than anything else he imagined they would do if they caught him. He’d been wanting an out for so long, and here you were offering him just that. 

~

Next Chapter

~

@sleepysnapesnake​ @wanderingtrails @darkthought15​ @bush-viper-cutie​ @fluffymadamina​ @dracos-mudblood​ @mitchiesdungeon​ @severuslovebot​ @ravenhopeflyte54​

[mrvdocks]

Nightcall P.1

Request/Summary: Kurt is obsessive over a model and kidnaps her, taking her along for the ride of the night. 

After

The flurry of phones ringing off the hook and background noise felt foreign to you, it was just a buzzing in your ear. You pulled the safety blanket around you closer, grabbing it in fistfuls. You don’t know how long you’ve been here, but it feels like hours. The fluorescent in the room probably only made you look even worse for wear than you were hours before, but it didn’t matter now. In a span of 24 hours, your life had changed. 

The guarded door opened and an officer pulled up a chair in front of you, dropping photos of the gruesome scene you’d seen firsthand. She slides the photos closer, her thumb obscuring the killer’s face. You didn’t need to see it a second time.

“You were found in the residence of Mr. Kunkle, with one Jessie Adams and a John Doe, who seems to have been the victim of Mr. Kunkle’s spree amongst others.”

Even his name brings chills down your spine. 

“I already told the police everything.” You say groggily, your throat still sore from the whole ordeal.

“Yes, but there seems to be some doubt on your partnership with Mr. Kunkle. Footage, eyewitness accounts,” she’s studying you no doubt. Any sort of tick or movement you made without thought that could somehow lead her to think you were lying about anything you had explained earlier. 

“What was your relationship with Mr. Kunkle?” She pries, bringing multiple photos of Kurt to be splayed out in front of you. Some good, some bad, some….disturbing. 

“I - none. He just knew me through the socials.” 

“And you were also the target of his mania.” There’s something unsettling in how much she’s liking interrogating you. You ignore it. 

“You think it’s my fault he did this.” 

It was not your fault. None of this was. Kurt was just too power hungry. Maybe you were too trusting. You didn’t want to see Kurt for what he really was until it was too late. 

“I’m not saying it’s your fault, but your compliance does seem suspicious.”

“I-I didn’t know him very well. He was just my Spree driver for a day. But he was always nice to me.”

“He was also your kidnapper.”

“Like I said, he was a nice guy.” Your voice breaks. 

They’re all nice guys until they aren’t. 

“And you didn’t think to call the authorities when you were alone? Were you helping him lure these people?”

You can feel her eyes burning into you. 

“I’m not stupid,” you cry. “I know how this sounds. But I’m telling you, he gave me a ride and then he - all of this. Oh God.” 

You bring your shaky hands to run through your worn and tired face, specks of dried blood still prominent even through many washes with soap. It’s another way Kurt managed to stay with you. 

“Let’s start at the beginning,” she sits back with her arms folded. “And spare no detail.”

Before

He scrolls through your feed for the millionth time today.

Photos of you on your daily walks, exploring hidden LA gems, posting places you were shooting at, people you were hanging out with, all at the touch of a button for him. The bell notification alerts him, telling him that you’ve posted. He taps the screen in the blink of an eye, meeting your face as you giggle about falling while skating. 

You pout as you show the damage, remarking that it was lucky you weren’t shooting that day otherwise you would’ve had to cover up on such a hot day. 

In a vain industry, you try to keep yourself humble and that’s what he loves about you. Though he’s never met you, he thinks you could live up to the image he’s created of you. One that matches your optimistic and humorous one. 

He re watches your story, pausing at random moments where he screenshots and saves to his photos. His home screen is a shot of you in black and white, seemingly topless from chest down and looking back with an enticing smile. He loves the way your hair frames your face, the way pieces of it were meticulously picked out to give it a sort of messy look.

You could make anything look good, he thinks.

Bobby gives him a hard time about you, bragging about how he knows you and that although you’re more well known than he is, you are the one who should be grateful for his exposure.

Kurt thinks it’s bullshit but he wouldn’t be surprised if it were true, maybe you’d come around to meet him one day.

The vibration of a text brings him out of his daze, seeing Bobby’s name in big bold letters. 

He can’t believe his eyes when he opens the text. It’s an off guard video of you behind Bobby, giggling at something on your phone before noticing that he’s recording and flashing a cheeky smile and a peace sign.

“Found your girlfriend.” Bobby mocks before erupting into hysterical laughter.

Kurt replays it until his phone dies, Bobby’s words echoing in his head.

An idea pops into his head, it would be difficult if he didn’t know your exact routine but thanks to your fan accounts and the power of gossip blogs, it’s a definite success. 

He calls Bobby immediately, hearing him and his entourage in the background as they talked about a video idea. 

“What do you want, Kurt? I’m busy right now.” His annoyance is clear but Kurt is way too focused on you to notice.

“I need a favor.”

It’s amazing what the internet contains about a person. It’s also quite terrifying. Through just a few minutes of research, he’s found out your schedule along with where you went to school, where you live and your closest friends. 

In a photo Bobby had taken, the location of the next shoot you had taking place somewhere was barely visible.

He connects the dots, thinking about how your involvement could help him get  #TheLesson out and make him a household name. 

And it’s exactly what he does the day of. He parks near your neighborhood, foot bouncing and anxiously looking at his phone. He declines the others in hopes of finding you according to the schedule. You almost never use your real name on anything when going out but he recognizes your fake name and location, he puts the car into drive and talks himself up. 

He parks across the street, giving him a better view of you.  

His heart skitters when he sees you look in his direction, your brows quirk up as you give him an easy smile and cross carefully. 

You stop and bend to meet him at the passenger window, “Kurt, right?”

His name coming out of your mouth is something he’s dreamed of since he first saw you. He almost pinches himself to know if this is real. 

He knows he’s grinning like an idiot because you laugh at his speechlessness. 

“Sorry,” he motions to the backseat, “Hop in!” 

“I take it you know who I am.” 

You’re not oblivious to your recognition, but with some guys it was just always a hit or miss. They either wanted you to take your top off or asked for some weird things.

“Are you kidding? I’m like your biggest fan.” He beams, going back on the road. 

You’re not good at accepting compliments, so all you can manage is a shy smile and a, “Thanks!”

You notice his set up of cameras and ask him about it, to which he says they’re just for protection. Throughout the ride you learn more about him, particularly that he was going something the next day called The Lesson. He had a very particular view about this digital world you both lived in, talking about these odd jobs he’d been doing along with trying to build up his following. In between talking about himself, he mentions Bobby and the events of last night from the video. 

“Oh right, Bobby.” You roll your eyes at the mention of his name. 

Bobby was a pain in your ass sometimes, acting all high and mighty all the time and just like he was the overall shit. 

“Yeah he’s alright. He could just tone it down a little.”

“Oh yeah - definitely, he was the same when he was a kid. Just pure chaotic energy.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

In between other conversations, Kurt brought back the spotlight to you, asking you about different people you hung out with. It was pleasant conversation, you felt like you were talking to an old friend and letting off some steam. The red flags hadn’t gone off just yet. 

To let loose and make you live a little, Kurt races past a red light and nearly misses being in a collision. 

It startles you but he assures you there’s no danger. 

“You trust me right?” He asks, glancing back to you.

“I mean, yeah.” 

The confirmation is validation to him. It’s all he needed to begin.

He picks up another passenger, an older man who definitely did not hide the way he was staring at your body. You’re thankful for sitting a little father from him but when Kurt initiates conversation with him, everything goes downhill.

“I know you from somewhere.” The man points out, his obvious staring makes you cringe as you stay silent.

“You’re that model, I’ve seen your stuff around Westwood. Bangin’ body.”

You can feel the anger in your chest rise as Kurt finally notices.

“What’s going on?” He glances to the back, meeting your shifting eyes.

The man ignores him. “Sweetheart when someone compliments you, the nice thing to do is smile.”

That did it.

“Excuse me? I don’t owe you shit!” You grit.

“Whoa! Whoa! Sir you can’t be saying that anymore.” Kurt changes lanes, ready to stop if the situation gets worse.

“She should be proud she doesn’t look like her people. All of ‘em just fat and lazy.”

“Excuse me?! My people?” You’re sure you don’t look the least bit intimidating but it doesn’t matter. You were willing to kick this man’s ass if need be.

Kurt pulls off the the side of the road, “Alright, get out.” 

“What? No, I paid for this ride fair and square. I’m not leaving for shit. I can say what I want.” He says adamantly.

“Sir if you make those comments again I’m going to have to cancel the Spree.”

Something clicks in Kurt’s head as he remembers the water bottles. 

He motions for you to take the passenger seat which you do without much hesitation. 

Kurt waits a minute before merging again, glancing at the man every so often and taking more desolate streets. You don’t notice the absence of cars and you definitely don’t notice when the man takes a bottle and practically chugs it. 

Kurt smirks as he slows down. “Hey maybe you should let them know you’re not going to make it.”

Confused, you glance at Kurt and then at the man who’s now starting to grab at his throat and coughing violently.  

Your eyes widen as you attempt to get Kurt to stop the car but he doesn’t move, instead he keeps his eyes trained on the road.

“Kurt, stop the car.”

The man’s coughs get worse by the second and he turns a very bright red. 

“Kurt! Stop the car!” 

You’re frozen, helpless to watch the man as he tries to grab at Kurt from behind but coughs up blood and passes out in the backseat. You slink back in your seat, utterly terrified of what just happened. 

Adrenaline and fear course through you. You side eye Kurt who is not as affected by this as you are as he merely readjusts his camera. 

You begin to hyperventilate and try the passenger door. When it doesn’t budge you shut your eyes and cry.

“I won’t say anything. I won’t I promise. I promise, Kurt. Please.”

Kurt sighs as he retrieves a piece of cloth from his pocket. Your eyes widen as he comes close and pins you in your seat and smothers you with the cloth. You struggle under him, pushing against his chest to no avail. 

The smell of the chloroform inundates your senses and in a matter of seconds you feel your eyes roll back and everything go black. 

Once you’re knocked out, Kurt takes both your phone and the other passengers to knock suspicion off of him. He has plans for the racist prick in the back, but for you, he has much bigger plans.

[goldencatchflies]

𝗖𝗵𝗿𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗺𝗮𝘀 𝗠𝗶𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗹𝗲𝘀

⇾ 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @blakes-dictionxry @spencerreidstie @reese-the-edgy-enby @moreid187 @reidrights @agentshortstacc @hotchnerslut @ssaemxlyprentxss @abitcriminalminds @moreidism @pretty-b0yy // @thestrawberrygirl

⇾ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid, Jennifer JJ Jareau/Emily Prentiss

⇾ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3737

⊹ 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: The BAU finally decides to have a Secret Santa after they realize how much Penelope deserves it.

⊹ 𝐀/𝐍: This was originally gonna be separated into two chapters, but I didn’t wanna keep y’all waiting, so I’m posting it all at once. Credits to @sapphicstruggle for helping me with one of the gifts (Penelope’s), ily babes!!! PS. Like half of this isn’t proofread, so if there are any spelling errors or something sounds off, I apologize :// (yes I’m sleep deprived, no I will not go to sleep)

The month has barely started and the bullpen of the BAU was already the more festive place any of the members had ever seen. Courtesy of one Ms. Penelope Garcia, of course, and even though they weren’t too big on Christmas, they always appreciated the nice little decorations she put up every year. It was a nice change of scenery from that of gruesome bodies and psychotic killers.

As the team exited the elevator on December 11, coming home from a case, they were met with the most beautiful rug. It was large, and a vibrant shade of read, that was just vibrant enough to grab the attention of the team, but not too vibrant to hut their eyes. It had golden swirls at each of the four corners, and the fur was so soft, it almost felt... homey.

They continued walking in, knowing something big would be waiting for them, and they were not disappointed. As the profilers passed through the open glass doors they saw the lights dimly lit, and each of their desks was covered in fairy lights from the outside, and above the desk dividers. Golden garlands were set in hoops at the top of the walls, and rolled around the handrails that led them from the center of the bullpen to the conference room. All of the doors to separate offices had dark green painted door frames, and decorative wreaths that matched each other.

They each looked at their desks and noticed the name tags had changed as well, and once they sat at their individual posts, they all saw a little card with a candy cane tied to it with a nice little ribbon. All but Emily’s. Emily had 2, one assigned to her, the other to the blonde that always sat her desk after cases. The team smiled around at each other, before opening their cards and reading them silently to themselves. They smiled, some chuckled, but no one asked for what was in the other’s cards. It all felt too personal.

“Guys... how do we repay her?” Spencer asked in a soft voice. An idea popped in Derek’s brain, as he started to open his candy cane.

“You know,” he started, getting the team’s attention as Hotch and Rossi left their offices. It was so quiet in there, even through closed doors they could hear Morgan speak. “Every year, she asks for one thing we can’t provide...” they all looked around, watching each other’s reactions.

“You know we’re always away on cases, so we rarely get to spend Christmas together?” He asked, earning a nod and some guilt filled looks from the rest of them. “How about this year... we say screw it!” They all looked around wondering where he was going with this.

“Secret Santa...” Spencer said in a low tone, as realization hit him, and Morgen nodded. They all looked around wondering how the little genius could’ve guessed it.

“I mean think about it!” Morgan said after a while, the rest of them stayed silent. “We never get to do anything just us! Well, anything that isn’t work-related.”

“I agree!” Rossi chimed in. “We could all go to my place on the 24th, I’ll make diner, and with Secret Santa we only need to buy one gift!” He said, earning nods and smiles from the rest of them.

“We could have a sleepover!” Emily said jokingly, but smiled happily when Rossi said it would be fine by him. They all smiled, making small talk, mainly about Jack, Henry and Michael, and how they’d love to have a sleepover at Uncle Dave’s, but the conversation died as they heard an all-too familiar clacking of heels.

They turned around to the hallway leading to Penelope’s office, and saw as the blonde walked away from it, head down as she fumbled around in her purse, too focused to notice the team was there. She was pulled away from her thoughts, however, when she felt 8 arms all around her, looking up to see Emily, JJ, Derek and even Spencer huddled around her, thanking her in hugs. She hugged them back with no hesitation, obviously, but when she saw the bright smile on Hotch and Rossi’s face is when she realized how appreciated she truly is.

They all pulled away from her, and Derek was the one to break the silence.

“Baby girl, we uh...” he started shyly, looking around at the team for some form of confirmation, which he received in form of nods. “We were thinking on doing something a little special this year! We thought we’d all have diner at Rossi’s, spend the night and uh...” he said hesitantly, her smile only getting wider and wider. “We thought about doing Secret Santa!” He revealed, as if he were telling a child they get to go to Disney Land, and her reaction matched it perfectly. She gasped, and when they though her smile couldn’t get any brighter, it did! She wrapped her arms around Derek’s broad shoulders jumping in uncontrollable happiness, and rushed to place a kiss on all their foreheads.

Secret Santa was something she’d been asking for for so long, but every year they never got around to it. This year, with the promise of no cases, suggested by Derek and enforced by Hotch, they knew they had enough time to do all the things they’d been missing out on. And with that they all left the bullpen, each with a card in had that was way too special to be left forgotten in a drawer.

The next day, Penelope sprinted through the office with a colorful box in hand. She called everyone into the bullpen, and placed the box at the exact center of the round table. They all sat down with confused expressions, as the woman started to explain herself.

“In the box, there are 7 papers, each with our names on it.” She began, but couldn’t finish because of Spencer’s rude interruption.

“For Secret Santa? Nice!” He leaned from his place on the table towards the middle, reaching for the box only to get his hand slapped away by Garcia.

“Yes, and you will get your turn, eventually...” she squinted at him, and he leaned back in his chair, murmuring something of an ‘I’m sorry’ under his breath.

“Emily you get to go first, and we’ll go clockwise!” She emphasized. Given that Emily was sitting right next to Spencer, that would mean he’d be the last one, and the team chuckled at the punishment. They took their turns getting each of their papers, smiling and grinning smugly as they eyed the rest of them.

The rest of the week had gone smoothly, and the only cases they had were regional, so they didn’t have to fly to anywhere where their plans could be ruined. They made plans to go to Rossi’s mansion, given that it would mean they each had their own room.

—————

As they entered Rossi’s house mansion, one by one, they set the presents under the Christmas Tree, while they sat around the coffee table centered in the living room, and the couch right behind it. Hotch and Jack were the last ones to arrive, earning mocking cheers from the rest of the team as if it were a miracle. They shared some lighthearted conversation and laughter before Penelope grew impatient with excitement, and decided to start the gift exchange. Luckily, the kids had fallen asleep, and were taken to a guest rooms where they could sleep in peace.

“I’ll go first!” Derek said excitedly. “My person!” He announced, gathering everyone’s. “Can be mea-“

“Emily!” They all said simultaneously, not even letting Derek get a sentence in.

“Well, you’re not wrong, but you could’ve at least play dumb, no?” Derek mocked annoyance as Emily got up from her seat with a smirk. Derek leaned down to pick his present from under the tree. She tore the wrapper apart and gasped when she saw what laid underneath.

“You didn’t!” She said, a large smile growing rapidly on her face. “Derek Morgan, I love you, I love you, I love you!!!” She hugged him excitedly, bouncing on her feet with happiness as she opened the box to show a pair of two butterfly knives, one black and one white. She grabbed one on each hand, but before she could do anything, Derek took it away from her.

“We don’t need anyone loosing eyeballs on Christmas, now do we?!” She scrunched her face, faking mad, while the rest of them laughed. She put her knives back in the box, and gave Derek a tight hug.

“I guess I’m next,” she chuckled nervously before continuing. “My person is...” she pondered on how to describe the team member without making her feeling obvious. “Caring...

They’re always able to connect with the victims, and make a safe space for them. They value family over anything, and they could be a real badass with a gun!” They all shared a chuckle and started calling out JJ’s name. JJ got up, looking down as she made her way to stand next to brunette, trying to hide the blush that had mysteriously made its way onto her face. Emily handed her a flat box covered in colorful paper, and JJ quickly unwrapped it. She gasped, as she let the Christmas themed wrapping fall on the floor and opened the box. Tears started forming in her eyes, as she pulled Emily into a tight hug.

“Thank you!” She managed to choke out between tears as she handed Emily the box. “C-can you-?” Emily nodded as JJ turned around, and removed a silver locket from the box. The team watched the exchange in awe, realizing this was too personal to ask what the gif was. Emily placed it around JJ’s neck, and the blond looked down, opening it one more time. She stared at the picture of her and her sister for a few moments, tracing the oval shape of the necklace with her thumb, before wiping her tears away, and smiling at Emily.

“Jennifer Jareau, you are the strongest person I know!” She said, a whisper so low it sounded like nothing but soft mumbles to the rest of the team. “You have no idea how much you mean to me, Jayje.” Emily brought a hand to rest at JJ’s jaw while she praised the woman.

“And you couldn’t even dream of how far I’d go to protect you. And little Henry. And what I’d do to make sure you were safe!” JJ let a tear stream down her face before leaning forward, and pressing her lips to the brunette’s. The kiss was tender and sweet, as they held each other, even after they broke apart. JJ wrapped her arms around Emily, giving her one last hug. The team cheered lightly, and Spencer gave Emily a knowing look.

“I love you Jennifer Jareau!” Emily whispered against the blonde’s lips. “I love you, Emily Prentiss!” She let another tear fall, before they were pulled out of the moment once more by the team’s ‘awe’s.

“Right!” JJ sighed, as Emily sat back down. “Um, my turn, I guess.” She chuckled lightly, re-composing herself, as she removed her present from the Christmas tree. She smiled back down at Emily one more time, before looking at the rest of them. “My person is... often belittled by those around them, but they carry a special place in our hearts. Others might look at this person and make them seem less, almost infantile, but we know them, and we know just how untrue that is...” before she could finish, they all started looking at Spencer, and she noticed the way Derek looked him like he was the only person in the room. I guess Penelope and I sure got into his head, she thought to herself, as Spencer made his way from the couch around the table to stand next to her. She gave him a warm smile as she handed him his gift. He unwrapped it, and smiled brightly once his eyes landed on the object under the paper.

“JJ!” He looked between her and his gift before giving her a hug. “Thank you so much!” He said, not even bothering to hide his excitement as he ran a hand over where the title was engraved on the hard cover of the book. The Giver, he read to himself, faint happy memories reapering in his head. He flipped the book, demonstrating it to the team, but looking only at Derek. “Look!” He whispered, shaking the book a little, earning a chuckle and a nod from Derek and smiles from the rest of them. “I never actually read it, but my mom used to read this book to me all the time when I was little.”

He looked at the book mesmerizingly, “Thank you so much, JJ!” He smiled at the blonde, pulling her into another hug, and placing a soft kiss to her cheeks. She she sat back down, Spencer placed his book on the table, and fumbled around looking for his present.

“Um, alright, I uh...” Spencer struggled to find his words as he started at the object in hand. He looked at his teammates before continuing. “My person is constantly overlooked by those around them. The one asset that makes them stand out from the rest of the team is constantly brushed aside simply because-“ he stopped himself before he could say something that would completely give away who his person is. “Wha- what I’m trying to say is that, um, they are smarter then people give them credit for, and more caring then people want to admit-“ Spencer sounded infuriated, and Derek got up from his seat, placing a hand on Spencer’s shoulders.

“Is it me?” He asked with a shit eating grin, making Spencer chuckle and blush lightly.

“Yeah,” he breathed out while he nodded, handing the gift to Morgan who gave him a forehead kiss before shifting his attention fully to present. Spencer blushed a little harder thankful that the only light source was the colorful lights from the Christmas tree behind him. Tears filled Derek’s eyes as he unwrapped the gift and opened the box.

“Pretty boy, how-“ he stood there staring at the focus of his attention as shock filled his every facial expression. The thing about Derek Morgan is that you’ll only see his emotions if, A) He wants you too, or B) he’s too comfortable around you to be able to hide them. Something in Spencer’s brain hoped for the latter.

“I managed to pull some strings...” He said, and Derek just smiled at him. He was so lost in Spencer’s eyes he forgot time was passing, and was brought back when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He chuckled awkwardly, removing and reading the text from his mom. Did you get the present? She asked him. He looked back up at Spencer who just nodded. He took a picture of the box in his hand-his gift- that held his father’s badge on a glass frame inside, and sent it to his mom.

“Thank you so much, Spence...” he hugged the boy tightly before letting go. The team looked at them in awe just like earlier, except this time all they got were nervous chuckles and longing stares. As the boys sat back down, Rossi got up from his seat.

Morgan sighed happily, and didn’t miss the way Emily and Spencer looked at each other. He knew how significant both his and JJ’s presents were, and that’s when he realized they probably got it together.

“I’ll go next!” Rossi said, making his way to the other side of the table, right in front of the Christmas Tree.

“My person is probably the only thing holding this team together! Highly likely the reason those two finally got together,” Rossi said pointing to JJ and Emily, “and the reason those two are about to!” He directed his pointer towards Morgan and Reid, where the boys looked down and away from each other, as a blush crept onto their faces.

“They are very charismatic, and always ready to help and make everyone happy!” They all turned their focus towards Penelope, and she got up with a smile. “Merry Christmas kiddo!” He reached around the tree, grabbing one of the enveloped boxes, and handing it to her. She unwrapped her present, her smile growing wider once she saw what the colorful paper had been hiding.

“I love it!” She smiled brightly at the object in hand. She showed off her new desk ornament to her team- a brightly lit frog carved on a piece of glass that was set on a rock with the label ‘don’t froget to love yourself’-before she gave Rossi a tight hug, and he made his way back to his seat. She removed the second to last present from under the tree, her smile not dropping for a single moment.

“My person has a very big heart despite the fact that they try to hide it. They can be very cold, but we all know they’re secretly a big softy!” She described her teammate as she looked around to all of them.

“Hotch!” Emily called out, while they all smiled, and Derek clapped Hotch’s knee with a chuckle. Hotch smiled at Garcia, as she handed him his gift. Hotch smiled as he unraveled a tiny box, revealing two tickets to go see Broadway’s Wicked musical.

“Ok, I know musicals aren’t your think, but-” she explained, but he cut her off giving her a smile.

“It’s perfect, Penelope, thank you!” He said, somehow sounding more formal then he did at work. She smiled at him, and resumed her place on the floor next to JJ and Emily.

“My gift isn’t something really meaningful, like the rest of your but...” Hotch leaned down to take the last present from under the tree as Rossi got up. “Merry Christmas, Dave!” He said, handing the older man his gift. Rossi removed the colorful wrapping to reveal a bottle of some fancy wine no one but Rossi (and Reid, probably) had heard of.

“Good shit, Aaron!” Rossi chuckled, giving Hotch a side hug, as they sat on the floor across from the rest of the team.

They shared lighthearted conversations after that, JJ and Hotch sharing stories about their kids, Spencer and Penelope bonding over Dr. Who while Derek just watched mesmerized, and Rossi seemed a little interested in Emily’s butterfly knife. Eventually they tired themselves out, and decided to turn in, each going to a separate room except JJ and Emily who bunked together.

—————

At around 3, Spencer finally stopped pacing in his room and walked out, heading straight to Morgan’s. He didn’t even think about knocking on the door, but luckily, Morgan was awake watching something on the TV.

“He kid, what’s going on?” He asked, intrigued, and Spencer didn’t let his mind wonder what the covers hid under Derek’s very naked torso.

“Um, about, uh... about your gift...” he scratched his head, struggling to find the right words.

“Is everything ok? Do I have to return it? It’s ok if I do, pret-“ Derek began, getting up from his bed, making his way next to Spencer, and getting cut off by the boy.

“No it’s nothing like that, I just-“ Spencer let out a frustrated sigh as Derek too Spencer’s hand in his. He guided him to sit on his bed, and Spencer immediately fell back, facing the ceiling. “Can I get a do over?” He asked.

“What do you mean?” Derek asked confused, laying down me to him, and they turned and moved until they completely facing each other. Spencer took out a tiny box from his pocket and stared Derek in the eyes.

“I have... something else for you- and you can say no-“ His words started out soft, but turned a little panicky, and Derek just nodded, intrigued. “Ok, so...” he started nervously, not lifting his eyes off the gift in his hand. “My person is the person with the biggest heart I know,” he lifted his gaze momentarily towards Derek before continuing.

“This person manages to get on every single one of my nerves...” he chuckled lightly, “but... they have a special place in my heart. I’d lay my life for them, and I trust them with every part of me. They’re the one I think of when everything is going to shit, and the simple thought of them bring me out of it. They mean more to me then anyone could-“ he tried to swallow his tears, but failed miserably. As tear slipped down his face, he looked up trying to stop the rest of them. “Then anyone could ever imagine...” he smiled sheepishly, as Derek took Spencer’s trembling hands in his own.

Spencer handed him the gift, and Derek took it hesitantly, not taking his eyes off Spencer’s. He opened it to find a ring with the words “bound together through space and time” engraved around the outside and “for 500 years” on the inside. Derek raised his eyebrow and gave the ring back to Spencer, expanding his hand. The boy slid the ring on Derek’s ring finger of his left hand.

“Pretty boy, I-“ Derek let a tear slip down his face, speechless at the gift. He looked at his hand for a few moments before he brought them up to cup Spencer’s face. He placed his lips to Spencer’s, and the boy reciprocated the kiss almost immediately. They broke apart after what felt like an eternity. Spencer chuckled lightly, between the mess of tears they’d made.

“I’ve been waiting so long to do that...” he whispered against Derek’s lips as they smiled. Derek pressed another peck to Spencer’s lips before whispering back.

“I’m glad you finally did... thank you, pretty boy!” He rubbed his thumb on Spencer’s cheek, leaning back in to give him a more passionate kiss. It felt sort of weird that their first kiss was at Rossi’s house, in one of his guest rooms, but laying here with Spencer, kissing him senseless is all Derek could ever ask for. Spencer looked almost angelic under the dim lighting of the room, like his own little angle had come to keep him safe. Even the experience itself felt so surreal to Derek. One could call it, a Christmas Miracle...

[temos-era]

The Angel In Their Eyes

Officer Ronnie Peterson x Paul Sevier x Fem Reader

Words: 5.6k

Summary: A threesome with your husband and his best friend sounded like a good idea at the time...

Tags/CW: Threesome - F/M/M, Power Dynamics/Power Play, Established Relationship, Reader Is Married to Ronnie, Praise Kink, Degradation, Voyeurism, Masturbation, Oral Sex (m&f), PIV Sex, Anal Sex, Double Penetration, BDSM-ish, Ronnie Is Soft!Dom, Paul is Hard!Dom, Spitroasting, Dirty Talk, Multiple Orgasms, Vaginal Fingering, Squirting, No M/M, Food Play-ish, Jealousy, Paul Is In Love With Reader, Angst/Fluff/Smut

Notes: This is without a doubt the smutest smut I have ever written... And while this is mostly as a one-shot for those of you that have read Late Night Patrol this *could* be considered a continuation of that story too...

Availible under the cut and on AO3 & Wattpad

Shamefully flushed, you stole a moment away to compose yourself.

The boys always had a way of working you up and getting underneath your skin.

“You okay, Angel?” your husband questioned with curious intent as he joined you in the kitchen.

You hummed in response, pursing your lips. “Mm-hmm. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Ronnie’s shoulders shrugged. “You look tense.” His gaze locked on you as he leaned against the kitchen counter. “You know we're only joking, right?”

“I know,” you replied quickly, avoiding eye contact as you created work for your idle hands.

You never had an issue with their teasing. The boys had done it for as long as you could remember, but you’d be lying if you didn’t acknowledge that it ignited a particular unspeakable response in you - a response you’d never dare act upon...

Before you knew it, Ronnie’s strong arms wrapped around your waist, encircling your body in his as he stood behind you, nestling his chin against your neck.

“You like it, don’t you?” he prompted, breathing the question hot against your neck as he nipped at the skin slightly. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how your breath hitched and your skin grew hot when sitting between Paul and me.”

Your body froze.

“Admit it. You want it. Both of us."

You pulled back, eyes wide. “Ronnie. He’s your best friend.”

“Exactly. He doesn’t threaten me,” Ronnie reassured, his face deadpan. “Plus, he looks just like me, and doesn’t that turn you on? The thought of two of me fucking you?”

Nervously, you chewed on your bottom lip, lost in your thoughts as you considered the possibility. Paul Sevier was your close friend, the best man at your wedding, and was indeed the doppelganger of your husband.

Of course, the thought had crossed your mind on occasion, but it was a mere fantasy, not something you ever felt compelled to make reality and certainly not something you ever expected Ronnie to suggest.

“Are you being serious?”

“You don’t have to. It’s just an idea,” Ronnie clarified. “But yes, I’m serious.”

Your mouth twisted before settling into a smirk. “Okay, I’m interested.”

Ronnie cocked his head, grinning as he embraced you. “So, you think you can handle us both?” he whispered, his eyes narrowing. “My greedy girl.”

Your hands caressed the small of his back as you glanced up at him. “And what makes you think Paul would be interested?”

“Well, you know there’s a reason he’s not found anyone,” Ronnie divulged. “He’s hung up on a certain someone… ”

“Oh,” you mouthed, the realization dawning on your face. “So, Paul gets what he wants, and I get to fulfill my fantasy, but what do you get from this?”

“A happy wife and a live-action porno,” Ronnie smiled. “It’ll be just like watching myself fuck you, and, plus, what better birthday gift could we give Paul than a taste?”

Without further ado, you both made your way into the lounge, singing ‘Happy Birthday’ loudly as Paul shifted in his seat and tittered with unease. His eyes grew uncontrollably wide, and his pupils dilated as he swallowed the lump in his throat, watching in nervous disbelief as you kneeled before him, birthday cake in hand.

“Make-a-wish,” you prompted with a devilish grin as Ronnie watched from the threshold.

Doing as told, Paul closed his eyes momentarily and blew the candles out. “Thank you,” he smiled, glancing at you briefly before averting his gaze towards the cake. “Did you make this yourself?”

You nodded. “Red velvet with vanilla frosting. Your favorite, right?”

“Yeah, it looks great. I can’t wait to taste it.”

“She tastes better,” Ronnie murmured from across the room, catching Paul’s attention as he approached. “You should take a bite.”

“Excuse me?”

You sat back on your heels, seductively running a finger through stray frosting as Ronnie crouched beside you.

“Paul, you know I love her more than anything in the world,” Ronnie began. “And, I don’t make this decision lightly, but there’s no one else I trust to do this with.”

“Do what?” Paul asked, watching wide-eyed and slack-jawed as Ronnie took your frosted coated fingers into his mouth.  

“What Ronnie’s trying to say… ” you purred as his tongue swirled around your fingers, sucking gently. “...is that we’d like you to join us in the bedroom.”

Paul’s body stiffened at the suggestion as he swallowed dryly, unable to wet his parched throat. “What?” he croaked in disbelief. “Are you sure?”

Ronnie’s mouth left your fingers with wet ‘pop.’ “One rule,” he declared. “Her cunt is mine, and mine alone. Isn’t that right, Angel?”

You nodded in agreement. “Only my husband gets to fuck my pussy,” you affirmed, causing Ronnie to pull your body against his, claiming your mouth with a voracious hunger as Paul watched on helplessly.

“Such a good girl,” Ronnie groaned, pulling away breathless. “Now, go and see the Birthday boy.”

You licked your lips, swiping another fingerful of frosting before placing the cake on the coffee table and rising to your feet.

Paul’s chest rose and fell with rapid breaths as he watched you approach him. He kept his features deceptively composed as his mouth parted from the sight of you. Pretty and eager and all for him - a Birthday wish come true.

“Would you like a taste, Paul?” you questioned, displaying the frosting on your fingertips as you moved to place your knees on either side of his body, straddling him.

He nodded greedily, leaning back in his seat. “Please.”

You flashed a coy smile and ran a finger of frosting over his lower lip before swiftly leaning forward and sucking it off keenly as if you were famished. In all honesty, you had expected to feel more anxious, more timid, but there was something about Paul that made you feel at ease.

Perhaps it was his uncanny resemblance to your husband? Still, as your tongue licked at the seam of Paul’s mouth, forcing an entry effortlessly, you wondered how far their similarities would continue in the bedroom.

Deepening the kiss, Paul’s hands groped your pert ass and forcefully pulled you against him. The growing erection beneath you communicating his exact desires as he snaked his tongue into your mouth, and for a brief moment, you lost yourselves in one another.

“Do you like that, Angel?” Ronnie questioned from behind, reminding you of his presence as he brushed the hair from the back of your neck and placed hot, all-consuming kisses against your skin.

“Mm-hmm,” you murmured as you arched your back, pulling away from Paul’s kiss as you began to stimulate both men simultaneously. “I want you both… badly.”

You rocked your hips firmly against the restricted bulge in Paul’s pants as your hand reached behind you and rubbed at Ronnie’s growing erection, causing a chorus of male moans to engulf the room.

“Paul. Don’t be a fucking tease.” Ronnie berated with jagged breath as he began to remove his clothing. “Take her dress off.”

Without hesitation, Paul delicately worked to remove the thin fabric from your body as your head loled backward against your husband’s chest. You moaned softly as Ronnie sucked bruising marks of ownership against your skin.

“Fuck. You’re so, so, ex...exquisite,” Paul stammered as he gazed at your lingerie-clad body before blowing his cheeks out with a heavy breath to compose himself. You were everything he had ever wanted.

“Don’t be shy, Paul,” you whispered against his ear seductively as your hand reached past the opening of his mustard-colored shirt, touching his warm skin. “Have your way with me.”

Paul shot a hopeful glance toward Ronnie, seeking approval from his best friend before continuing. “Are you sure this is okay? She is your wife, after all.”

“Just remember that fact, and you’ll be fine,” Ronnie warned as he worked to free your breasts from the confines of your bra, causing you to shudder with excitement. “And, this is what you want, Angel?”

You nodded. “Please.”

The magnitude of varying sensations enraptured your mind, body, and soul as Ronnie’s hands molded around the swell of your tits, teasing your nipples into taut peaks with his fingertips before relinquishing his hold and sitting back on his heels.

“She’s all yours, friend.”

A flush of anticipation flooded your senses as Paul’s eyes flickered with a burning desire, and in one swift, unexpected motion, you found yourself on your back.

“I always knew you were an insatiable little slut,” Paul taunted, grasping your wrists in one hand, leaving you powerless as he held them above your head. “So desperate to please your husband. It’s almost pathetic.”

You couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped your lips as Paul looked down at you, his body on top of yours. The change in his demeanor unanticipated but welcomed.

“Tell me. Does she follow instructions, Ronnie? Or do we have to force her?”

“If she wants to come, she’ll do as she’s told.”

Paul smirked from the intel. His gaze meeting yours through the thin frames of his spectacles as he let go of your wrists. “Now, be a good little slut and get my cock out.”

You licked your lips and eagerly began unbuckling Paul’s belt, dragging his pants down to mid-thigh before slipping your fingers under the waistband of his boxers and allowing his heavy cock to bob free.

Instantly, your eyes grew lustful. Long, thick, flushed, and already dripping with pre-cum, you were almost disappointed you wouldn’t get to experience Paul’s fat cock in your pussy.

“Suck it,” Ronnie directed, his voice low in his throat. His breathy instruction caused you to glance over at him, your lips parting at the view.

You watched with hungry eyes as your husband stroked his length, slowly working his fist under his swollen head as the veins on his shaft bulged and shifted with every gentle upstroke.

“Eyes on me, Sweetheart,” Paul snarled as his free hand grasped at your jaw, forcing your attention toward him, your pupils dilating at the sight of his naked body.

Your breath hitched, and a sudden flush of warmth spread from between your legs as you parted your lips and took Paul into your mouth. The saltiness of his pre-cum filled your senses immediately as your tongue danced around the fleshy tip of his head, lapping it up gladly.

The taste of him was different. Not worse, nor better, just unfamiliar. Ronnie was without a doubt sweeter, but your mouth only grew wetter from the small appetizer Paul’s pre-ejaculate gave.

“Go on, Angel,” Ronnie grunted with encouragement. “Gag on his cock. Show him how good you are.”

You knew better than to glance at your husband, but you could feel his gaze on you, watching intently as your lips strained to wrap around another man's throbbing erection. You knew Ronnie was observing with bated breath as the scene unfolded before him, imagining the soft glide of your lips around his shaft as he worked his length.

Fluttering your eyelashes, you looked up at Paul as you enveloped him into the heat of your mouth. Slowly, you started to drag your lips up and down his length, pulling a strangled moan from his chest as you hummed happily around him.

You weren’t sure if it was Paul’s cock in your mouth of the thought of Ronnie fucking himself beside you, but you couldn’t help but rub your thighs together, desperate to create some friction to soothe the constant pulsing between your legs.

“Ffff-fuck. You were made for this, weren’t you?” Paul rasped as he raked a hand through your hair, watching with a hooded gaze as he thrust himself into your mouth. “You like sucking my cock, don’t you? Dirty slut.”

You moaned around him, signaling your agreement as spit pooled at the corners of your mouth. With that, Paul quickened his pace, fucking your throat in earnest as you greedily sucked, slurped, and gagged on his cock.

His breath grew thin and ragged as you hollowed your cheeks and tightened the hold around him, the vacuum-like sensation causing his member to twitch against your tongue.

“Oh. Oh, f-fuckk,” Paul stammered, his head falling back as his eyes fluttered closed. “I’m, I’m-a cum.”

The sound of sharp stuttered gasps and grunts escaped his lips as a gush of hot cum hit the back of your throat, a stifled yell tearing from his chest as you greedily swallowed the salty mix down.

Pleased with yourself, you smirked as Paul pulled his sensitive cock from your mouth before glancing over at your husband.

“Oh, Ronnie,” you cooed, gazing at him with doe-eyes as he continued to slide his hand up and down his shaft. “Look at you. Look at your big cock. I wanna taste you too.”

Ronnie’s eyes widened, his face softening. “Yy-yeah?” He questioned hopefully.

“Yeah,” you purred with a loving smile as Ronnie approached.

“Christ. You really are a cum-hungry-slut,” Paul scoffed. “Is she always like this?”

“O-ooh-oh, yeah… “ Ronnie stammered between grunts as your sultry lips wrapped around his aching cock. “... Fff-filthy whore likes getting fucked in police cruisers and hotel balconies. Always so… fucking... insatiable."

Paul groaned at the information, a mixture of jealousy and disbelief overwhelming him as he evaluated the challenges of your carnal desires. “Hmm,” he pondered. “Let’s see how many times we can make this greedy whore cum, Ronnie.”

His words caused you to moan around your husband’s cock. The threat of infinite orgasms a tantalizing prospect as Paul began to move down your body. He was determined to demonstrate his abilities and show you everything you had been missing out on as he placed rough, hungry kisses upon your inner thighs.

His touch was cruel but painfully enticing as he moved towards your core, rubbing teasingly at your clothed pussy. Your needy whimpers were muffled by Ronnie as he fucked himself rhythmically into your mouth. The vibration of each of your moans around his cock was just enough to push him over the edge as his hips canted forward.

“Aghhh-fuuuck-g-good wife,” Ronnie gasped, carefully wrapping a hand around the back of your head as he spilled himself down your throat. His thrust stuttered as he watched with satisfaction as you gladly swallowed him down before removing his spent member from the warmth of your mouth.

“Love you,” you murmured with a coy smile as Ronnie knelt beside you, his breaths slowing as he kissed your lips tenderly.

“Dirty cum-dumpster,” Paul rasped, causing you to quiver from the heat of his breath against your folds as he tauntingly pulled tight at the material of your panties.

You let out a whine and bucked your hips toward him as a yearning tore through your body. “Please, Paul,” you begged. You were helpless and frustrated; you needed your release.

“So desperate,” he taunted as he slowly removed your underwear.

Your skin grew hot and feverish from the vulnerability before a surprised yelp escaped you. Paul grabbed at your legs and ruthlessly spread you wide open, just for him. He paused for a moment and marveled at the sight of your dripping pussy before dancing a finger along your folds, gathering your slick.

“That pretty little cunt of yours is so warm and wet,” Paul remarked, causing a pleasured ache to flood through you.

“Do the two of us really make you that excited, Angel?” Ronnie questioned with bright, curious eyes as he stroked at your hair affectionately.

You bit your lip and nodded, your eyes pleading up at your husband. “Please, Ronnie,” you mewled. “I wanna come. Tell him how I like it, please.”

Before Ronnie had a chance to respond, you let out a high-pitched cry as Paul spread your pussy lips apart and spat on the throbbing nub of your clitoris. Your body convulsed from the sensation, the blood rushing to your core as Paul lowered his head and licked at your spread cunt with his warm tongue.

“Fucck!” you shrieked, arching your back in response as your eyes glanced down at the broad expanse of Paul’s chest between your legs.

“You like that, cumslut?”

“Yy-yess!” you gasped, overwhelmed by Paul’s insatiable hunger for information.

“What about this?”

Paul’s eyes watched your body intently as he pushed two fingers at your entrance, exploring with a curious fascination. You sucked in the air sharply; your slicked cunt squelching around his digits as he pumped into you. Captivated, he noted how each twist and turn of his hand caused a different reaction from you, both internally and externally.

You were lost in a wave of euphoria as a series of large, strong hands roamed over your body. You had never felt so desired; as Paul massaged your inner walls, Ronnie placed lusty kisses against your neck and palmed at your breasts, causing soft moans to escape you.

“God, I love hearing you enjoy yourself,” Ronnie murmured, flicking his tongue over one of your sensitive nipples, your body shuddering. “It feels so good, doesn’t it?”

You moaned in agreement, your hips jerking forward as Paul’s fingers curled upwards to grate against your g-spot, the sensation creating a fire in your abdomen.

“Ronnie,” Paul exasperated. “She needs restraining. I can’t get her off if she keeps moving.”

A refrained chuckle escaped Ronnie. “I have just the thing.” He smiled and gently pressed his lips against your forehead before leaving the room momentarily.

You exhaled deeply, a flush of anticipation overcoming you as Paul crawled up your body, placing hot kisses against your stomach and tits as he went.

You were so lustful that you couldn’t stop yourself from bucking against his erection. He was, so, so close to your entrance; you both knew that one roll of his hips, one quick thrust, and he’d be buried deep in your cunt - the one sexual act forbidden between you both.

“Look at you, grinding against me,” Paul breathed against your neck, brushing the hair from your ear. “You’re really desperate for it, aren’t you?”

Your body stiffened; you knew he wasn’t wrong. “W-we can’t,” you stuttered nervously—the sound of Ronnie returning, catching both of your attention.

“Hmm. Well, let’s show your husband how to really make you cum,“ Paul whispered with a smirk, your eyes widening in disbelief. “And remember, don’t scream my name too loudly... we wouldn’t want to upset that ego of his.”

With that, Paul returned to your cunt, his dark hair falling in front of his eyes as the sudden warmth of his plush lips on your folds forced a choked gasp to escape you. He darted his tongue at your entrance before dragging up, his nose grazing your clit on the way as he licked meticulous circles against your sensitive bud.

“Wrists,” Ronnie prompted with a suggestive grin - cuffs and lube in hand.

You shook your head, eyes pleading upward. “No, Ronnie. Please. I promise I’ll be good and stay still,” you implored, your legs shaking from Paul’s continued attention; you were getting close. “I-I wanna be able to touch you both.”

Ronnie cocked his head in consideration, his brows furrowing from behind his horn-rimmed glasses - you were always his weakness. “Fine, but you’ve gotta control yourself.”

You nodded in response, drawing your lower lip between your teeth in an attempt to restrain your movements, but Paul’s hands and mouth were relentless. The pressure of his tongue, the suction of his lips, the rhythm of his fingers as they penetrated your core created an overwhelming experience.

All of that mixed with Ronnie’s touch caused a coiling tension in your stomach; you couldn’t stop yourself from writhing as the pressure inside of you built.

“Paul, I-”

Your eyes squeezed tight as you leaned against Ronnie’s chest, your hand gripping his in support. You felt your toes curl and a shiver travel up your spine as your hips started to buck against Paul’s face, your breath coming in sharp pants.

“Aah fffuck…Paul, I-”

“That’s it, almost there,” Paul drawled, replacing his tongue with his thumb as he rubbed at your throbbing clit. His eyes mesmerized by your sweet little hole as it started to clamp around his fingers, watching with glee as you began to crumble from his handiwork.

Your hips stuttered, your vision blurred, your nails penetrated the skin on Ronnie’s hand before you let go completely. Your whole body shook. Every exhale was a sob as the force of your orgasm flash-flooded your senses. You felt something cataclysmic burst inside of you, a sensation you’d never felt before.

“Oh, yes! Good fucking girl,” Paul shouted in astonishment, his glasses askew on his flushed face as your cunt gushed, squirting clear liquid against his hand.

“What?... Are you?... Did he?!” Ronnie gasped, amazed and envious at the sight of you squirting. It was something he hadn’t been able to achieve yet. “… How?!” He demanded, glaring at Paul.

“Angles, Ronnie.”

You let out breathy, unrestricted murmurs of Paul’s name, too blissed out to maintain any filters between your brain and mouth as your walls continued to spasm and contract.

“Hey! She’s my wife,” Ronnie barked, jaw clenching. “You don’t get to blow her mind like that. That’s my job.”

Paul’s mouth set in a hard line as he analyzed the situation, quickly discerning the issue. “Oh. You mean, you haven’t?” he questioned, surprised. “Have you not? Really?”

You sat up and looked between the two men, sensing the tense atmosphere as your husband pursed his lips in frustration. “Ronnie… “ you purred, reaching your arm out toward him. “Come here.”

He drew in a long, exasperated breath and sat beside you. His body stiffened as you climbed on top of him, pressing soft kisses against his jaw. “Maybe this was a bad idea,” Ronnie whispered, discouraged, his shoulders slouching.

“No,” you reassured before glancing at Paul and signaling him to move closer. “Best friends help each other out. Isn’t that right, Paul?”

“Of course.”

With the boys sat beside each other, you shifted to straddle a thigh of each of them. “I love you,” you cooed at Ronnie, dispelling his fears as you sucked on his bottom lip before removing his glasses. “And, I like you,” you purred towards Paul, melting your lips against his as you removed his spectacles too. “My gorgeous boys.”

A shudder of pleasure surged throughout your body as you rocked your cunt against their thighs. The friction pulling a mewl from your chest as each of the boys fondled your breasts. They tweaked your pebbled flesh with their fingertips as their mouths kissed and sucked various locations on your body.

“Our beautiful girl,” they murmured in sync as you closed your eyes and moaned. The sensation of their touch filled you with an urgent lust. You were in seventh heaven and getting so, so desperate for the two of them.

“Please, I can’t take it anymore,” you cried. “I need you both inside of me.”

They turned to face each other, their brown eyes lighting up with excitement before gazing back at you. “Do you think you can take us both?” Ronnie questioned.

“Wouldn’t you like to find out...” you tempted with a seductive wink as you clambered off of them and swiped the bottle of lube from the coffee table—your husband and his best friend hot on your heels as you headed towards the bedroom.

In one swift, harsh movement, you found yourself head down, ass up, and hands cuffed behind your back. “You like being used by the two of us?” Ronnie taunted.

“She’s a cock-craving slut,” Paul chastised, marveling at the pucker of your ass as he spread your cheeks wide and inserted two lubed fingers into your tight entrance.

You whined as a thudding pressure rocketed through your passage, your body jerking forward from the sensation of the cool, silky gel. You felt entirely exposed, all their attention focussed on you and the tight pucker of your ass as it yielded to the intrusion of Paul’s digits.

“Such a pretty hole,” Ronnie admired. “Are you gonna be a good little fucktoy and let Paul destroy your ass while I fuck your pussy?”

“Please. Please, I’ll beg, I’ll do anything you wan-”

You were interrupted by the sharp, stinging strike of a hand on the soft flesh of your backside; your words replaced by a yelp as your eyes welled, uncertain whose hand delivered the smack.  

“Be patient, whore. I’m not going to fuck you dry, no matter how much you beg,” Paul hissed before directing Ronnie toward your front. “Shut her up with your cock or something while I finish prepping her.”

Your husband’s heavenly whiskey-colored eyes gazed down at your restricted body. “You’re so beautiful when you’re all flushed and wanting.”

You were convinced you could lose yourself in his adoring eyes - lose yourself in him. He was your world, and you were going to be, oh, so good for him as he slowly guided his cock into the heat of your mouth.

Your tongue swirled around his head, sucking desperate breaths through your nostrils as your pussy cried out for him, yearning for the fat stretch of his cock.  

“You ready?” Paul questioned as your body tensed slightly at the feel of the cold lube against your crack as he nudged the tip of his member at your aching hole.

You bobbed your head against Ronnie’s cock, conveying your desire and need to be filled as you pushed backward.

“Easy. I don’t want to hurt you,” Paul reassured, his familiar compassionate nature showing. “Tell me to stop if it’s too much, okay?

You hummed in acknowledgment, his considerate words alleviating all of your apprehension. You drew in a deep breath, allowing your body to relax as Paul eased himself into the sensitive cluster of nerves.

“You’re doing so well, Angel,” Ronnie praised, distracting you from the burning stretch as he watched your tight, little ass surrender to Paul’s girth. His hips bucking as your whines vibrated around his cock.

A deep grunt echoed in Paul’s chest as he continued to sink slowly into your clenched passage, his hips rolling gently when met with resistance, and eventually, you moaned out together when Paul seethed himself to the hilt.

“That’s it,” he groaned, grasping at your cuffed wrists to anchor himself as he started to gently fuck your ass. “Take it all, you greedy little fuckhole.”

The pressured penetration ignited a fire throughout your body, a needy, desperate burning that was all-consuming, and you wanted more. Your hands ached with the desire to touch and explore as they strained against the cool metal of Ronnie’s police-issued cuffs.

“You like sucking my cock, while he fucks you from behind?” Your husband grunted through thrusts as your slick, plumped lips sucked and drooled around him before popping off his length.

“I need you. I need your fat cock in my pussy,” you begged with desperation. “Fuck me until I can’t think, both of you. Please!”

Not one to deny you of your pleasured demands, Ronnie repositioned himself on the bed, leaning back against the headboard as Paul paused in his movements, panting as he pulled out and steadied himself.

“Is she on birth control?” he breathed as Ronnie freed your wrists from the constraints of his cuffs and moved you to straddle his hips.

“Yeah… for now,” Ronnie smirked knowingly, a hint of things to come as he merged his soft lips against yours and caressed your neck with his hand. “Why? Your not… “

Paul relinquished the hold on your hips and held his hands up. “No. Just ensuring the correct precautions are in place, that’s all. Her pussy is yours; I get it.”

Ronnie didn’t have a chance to respond as you suddenly brushed your dripping, wet cunt against his thick length, a whimper escaping him. “Shut up and fuck me,” you purred, lowering your mouth to his as you drew his lower lip between your teeth and tugged on it slightly.

“And aren’t you impatient,” he teased before grasping at your waist and pulling you closer. “So desperate to be filled up.”

Your breath hitched in anticipation as he pressed his hard, throbbing cock at your entrance, the sensation causing a sudden flush of warmth rushing to your core. Your body arched in response, eager for him to join his body with yours.

Then, with one hard roll of his hips, he entered your wet heat, and a collective moan filled the room, your head lolling backward in pleasure as he stretched you out. Your body rocked against his cock, easing him in and out of you slowly as you gasped for air, taking pleasure in every hot leisurely slide of him against your walls.

“You feel so fucking good,” you groaned, your thighs clenching around Ronnie as you bounced yourself on his cock, aching for more. “Fuck my ass, Paul,” you cried out. “I wanna be a dirty little slut for you.”

When you felt Paul’s expert hands spread you wide from behind and the cool, familiar gel against your skin, you began to question if your body could even handle another cock. The stretch of Ronnie was as overwhelming and heart-stopping as always; you couldn’t imagine two cocks seated deep in each orifice.

“Ready?” Paul queried before you murmured a breathy ‘yes’ in response.

He slowly pushed his girthy cock into your tight entry, watching how your body responded as he filled you up, inch by inch. You choked back the cry that was forced from your chest as Paul sheathed himself in you fully, your head resting against your husband’s chest in need of support and comfort.

"Relax, Angel. You’re doing perfectly,” Ronnie soothed, planting feather-like kisses against your temple. You were thankful that both men had paused in their movements to allow your body a moment to adjust to the stretch - you had never felt so full.  

Gradually, you started to raise up Ronnie’s cock, his hands guiding you by the waist as you bobbed on his length, his fingertips digging into your soft flesh. “Mmmhm-it’s, feel s-so g-good,” you stammered, mouth agape and eyes pinched shut.

“Ride me. Slowly, that’s it,” Ronnie encouraged as Paul pumped in gentle tandem.

Growing in confidence, enjoyment, and satisfaction. You started to snap your hips with more vigor as you gyrated against Ronnie’s cock. Paul’s hands moved to grasp the back of your neck as he followed your lead, penetrating your ass in rhythm with your hips; his eyes glued on how wide he was stretching your tight, little hole as Ronnie fucked your pussy from underneath.

“Fuck. Look at you taking both our cocks,” Paul cursed loudly, thrusting his pelvis in an unrelenting tempo as you squirmed beneath him. “You’re so fucking tight.”

Your movements caused Ronnie to moan out against your skin as he bucked up into your heavenly cunt, the sound of smacking flesh surrounding the room. “You look so beautiful when being fucked by us.”

You let out a sweet whimper. They were both so deep in you that you could’ve sworn you felt them in your throat. You were overwhelmingly stuffed, but the fullness was delicious. It was intense, yet satisfying as if you were getting the best of both worlds all at once. That when Ronnie snaked a hand between your bodies, brushing delicately against your clit you almost combusted.

“Oh-my-fucking-God!” His soft, broad twirling movements tightened into swift circles, right where he knew you needed them as you felt yourself dissolve into pleasure, and Ronnie saw it. “Please! Both of you, make of cum!”

They quickened their pace, fucking your holes in a frenzied manner; all of you now desperately chasing that sweet, sweet release of undeniable pleasure.

“Jeeesus fuck. Jjj-just like that!” You wailed, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as your body began to quake; you swore you saw stars as the pressure started to build - your body being pulled tight like a bowstring.

“Cum for us, Sweetheart,” Paul grunted, his hips stuttering as he felt his impending orgasm brewing.

There was so much pressure, so much penetration and stimulation that you couldn’t stop yourself from falling apart. Unable to handle the overwhelming sensations any longer, you let go and orgasmed loudly.

You were all feverish cries and jagged moans, unsure whose name you were moaning as your pussy gushed and clenched, your silky ridges gripping and contracting against Ronnie’s cock as you rode your high.

“Ohh, fuck. I’m gonna come-!” Ronnie sputtered, sucking a sharp breath through his teeth, unable to stop himself as your walls spasmed and fluttered around his cock, milking every last drop of his seed.

Your knees began to buckle as Paul grasped hard on your hips. “Say my name,” he begged. “Tell me you love me-my, uh, cock.”

“Yes, Paul. Fuck me. Cum in my ass; I love your big cock!”

Your words sent him catapulting into his crescendo. Shattered breaths and broken grunts escaped him as he reached his climax, emptying himself inside of you before swiftly pulling out and collapsing beside you.

The room was silent as you laid between both men, all of your chests heaving as you greedily sucked in breaths. You were completely blissed out, the feeling indescribable as you came down from the most intense and mind-blowing orgasm of your life.

“That was… “ you murmured, unable to find the words as you pressed breathless kisses of gratitude against each of the boys’ lips before nestling into your husband's embrace.

“Such a good little wife,” Ronnie hummed before you both gave in to exhaustion.

And as you slept soundly in Ronnie’s arms, making it clear where your heart was aligned  - Paul laid beside you wide awake, analyzing the events from earlier. He knew there was no use in denying it; he was in love with you - his best friend's wife, and there was no coming back from what had just happened.

—————

Thank you to @/MissPandulce on Twitter for the FANART 😍

[zuffer-weird-girl]

What if kai’s s/o goes to have tea with her friends and Kai sends someone to watch them from afar and they start talking about their marriage and kai’s s/o is just gushing over him and her friends are like he can’t be that great so she calls him and tells him it’s an emergency and then she’s like see I told you he is perfect

Me. That would be me. I already gush about him with my friends.

"Pleaaaase! I don't see then since the high school!" You almost whined to your husband as he only furrowed his eyebrows together.

"They are disorganized clearly. Wanting suddenly your presence for exactly tonight."

You winced at that. You knew how your husband was a very organized and perfectionist person, so things planned out of the sudden left him boiling in rage, especially when he was involved.

And your friends didn't helped much your case when he wanted to spend this night with you as well...

He growled while sitting down on the bed, you following and standing right in front of him.

"Kai they are always busy, so maybe this was a opportunity for them..." you tried in a gentle tone, only receiving a displease glare of his that clearly said 'do I look like I care?'

You sighed while rubbing the back of your neck. Thinking on something that could ease his mind a bit.

Your eyes locked with the bathroom that you just went out off a few minutes ago from a shower.

Perfect.

"Kai~" You cooed, not bothering with his glare and setting yourself on his side. "It will not take much longer I promise."

He rolled his eyes at that, resting his head on his hand as a sigh escaped his clothed lips.

You pouted before nestling your head in the crook of his neck, smirking at the way his mjscle tensed at the contact but yet no.hives appeared on his skin.

"Please? I swear I will come back as early as I can, and I will be all yours tomorrow and for the rest of the night." You brushed your lips against his skin, smirking at feeling his shiver but he insisted on that stoic face of his.

You didn't mind it. After all it was hot as fuck.

"Not that I am not yours every day anyway.." you purred close to his ear, him grunting at that "I." You kissed close to his ear "belong." Then his covered cheek bone "to you. Always."

You yelped at the sudden grasp on you, pullimg your frame straight to his lap as he took off his mask.

Chisaki scoffed, but his eyes were exactly like a hunter would look at his prey.

"You better control your words." He growled before resting his hands on your thighs "Angel of mine."

You hummed before getting close to him, looking at him with now puppy eyes as you embraced his neck.

He sighed in annoyance at that before slapping your butt, grinning at your yelp.

"Be here before ten or eleven. Or else I won't hesitate on a punishment."

"Oh I like the sound of that~!" Another slap which this time you giggled on his neck.

"Kinky little shit angel." He growled in false disaproval.

~

He waited the exact moment you left the door before he demanded Mimic and Chrono's presence. Pointing at the exit you just went out.

"Make sure she doesn't get hurt and I want all the details of those sick 'friends'. Don't let them to see you."

"Yes Overhaul."

"Sure thing boss."

These two are not even fazed anymore...

~

"OH MY GOSH COME HERE!" your friends yelled in union while you laughed, accepting their hugs and greetings.

"We don't see you in AGES!" One of them exclaimed as soon as she sitted down.

"Sorry! Busy life and all that shit!" You laughed at their mockery gasps while the oldest of the group called the waiter.

Neither of you aware of Chrono and Mimic not much away.

"One of them had in total 14 boyfriends apparently." Mimic whistled at looking at the folders as he wiped his teeth with a toothpick whiel Chrono taked his drink.

"Bad influence in Overhaul's opinion." He said while looking at his cellphone.

"Guys you won't believe, but my boyfriend just asked for my hand last week!" Some of the table screamed in joy while the other half clapped their hands.

"Congrats!"

"Thank you! He payed a lot for this ring! But is so beautiful, look!"

You all awed at how beautiful the tring in her hand looked.

"Pff, going to marry just to be stuck." One friend of yours scoffed in your side as she took a bite on her snack "Take (Y/n)-chan as example."

"Oh sure! (Y/n)-chan?" You hummed, still with the straw of your cold deink in your mouth. "How is marriage going? Your husband is the affectionateor cold type?"

"Cold? The man is from the freaking yakusa as I know by far! He is SCARY and COLD!"

You arched a eyebrow at that one before placing your drink down.

Mimic and Chrono perked their ears up immediately as Chrono silently dialogue Chisaki's number.

"What is-" Chisaki's blood boiled at beating both shushes of his commurates.

How dare they?

"This is your chick talking about ya Overhaul, might be interested."

That shutted him up...

"Answering you guys question, marrying my husband was the best decision of all of my life!" You exclaimed while some rolled their eyes and others awed.

"Please, is not like your husband can listen us! Spill the goods!"

"What isn't good about him?" You sighed dreamily "He is just, heck, the definition of perfection. I mean, not only he is a gentle almost all of the time but also has the body of a greek god!"

Chrono and Mimic muffled their snicker, thankfully not seing the faint blush forming on Chisaki's face and ears.

"Aham... But, like, marriage isn't always sunshine and rainbows, my husband is sometimes a little shit who can't even fry a egg! And daress to answer me on a argument even!"

"Yeah (Y/n), I think you just drolling on that husband of yours way too much. I mean c'mon... he can't be that great, everyone has flaws. And really? Greek god? Now you went overboard."

Chrono had to hold back Mimic at that one, preventing him to snao the woman's neck for 'InSUltIng ThE BoSS Of ThE YaKUSa LiKE ThAT'.

"Mimic set down. (Y/n) might see you two with a that fuss." Chisaki growled on the phone.

"I... I beg you pardon?" The three man arched their eyebrows at the sudden drastic change of your voice.

The cherry and full of joy sound of your voice had gotten into a cold, offended and threatening one... a very much similiar with Overhaul's himself...

Chisaki thought the worst as he got up from his chair, clenching onto his cellphone.

"Chrono, Mimic. What happened?"

"No fucking idea."

"Then search to know." He growled before he mentally sighed at hearing your voice again.

"Would you all give me a few minutes? I need to prove apparently something."

You got up from your chair and passed through the tables... only to stop and took a few steps back only to spot Mimic and Chrono there. Cellphone hanging up.

"Fuck." Mimic cursed as Chrono sighed in defeat.

Instead of being angry or even uncomfortable with their presence you smiled at then, shocking both.

"Hi Irinaka and Kurono-kun!"

"Did you imbeciles just showed yourselves to her? I swear that when you two get back I will-" you asked with your at Chro o if you could pick up his cellphone which he merely nodded.

"Kai?"

He stiffed subsconciously at hearing your sweet voice.

"Angel." He greeted back monotonously, easing up a bit at hearing that sweet laugh.

"After years of dating with you sending bodyguatds all the time with me, is not now that I am going to be surprised by it."

"They did a despicable job apparently." He growled back as you giggled.

"Can you come over here? Is not far from home please?"

"Chrono and Mimic can bring you back, no need for me to pick you up (y/n)." He deadpanned before he heard your whines and pleas.

Shit, he could only imagine that face of your with those cursed puppy eyes.

"Pretty please?"

You beamed happily after a few seconds at heafing his irritated sigh and a grumble that he was on his way.

"You two can go back home and rest guys, please." You looked at both men who visibly relaxed at your words.

"We will still wait for you and Overhaul though (Y/n) not only is orders but-"

"Is late as fuck." Chrono glared at Mimic whose only shrugged.

Not even a few minutes later Chisaki engered the place, black mask on his face as he scanmed the area with a stoic and disgusted look.

"Kai!" You went towards him and gave him the most dumb in lovs smile that he ever saw, he blinked before sighing out loud.

"Had enough?" He crossed his arms while opening his eyes to stare you down.

"Actually there is just this one thing, can you follow me please?" You pleaded while he groaned but attempted to your wish.

Your friends tilted their heads whils other seemed like their eyes were going to pop out of their heads. You smirked devilish at that but remained with your sweet voice and expression.

"Ladies. This is the man whose I had pride to call my husband!" You showed him with your palm "The young leader of the Shie Hassaikai."

Some gagged while others ttied to form words as their jaws hanged open.

You giggled at their expressions and your husband confused as heck one.

"What did I told you? Wha did I told you all?!" You exclaimed while dramatically waving yojr hands towards Chisaki, giving enfasis on his whole appearance.

"MY HUSBAND IS THE HANDSOMEST GOODEST LOOKING OUT THERE BITCHES! BE JEALOUS BECAUSE THIS WHOLE PACKAGE IS MINE!" you laughed maniacally, and if it wasn't for all of your years of knowing Chisaki, you could never tell he was dying inside as the point if his ears were bloody red.

"(Y/N)..." he groaned in irritation while bringing a hand to his face, to hide his blush or to ease his headache you couldn't know.

"Look at those arms and chest! Strong and so powerful! His hair is so soft and perfect and by god THOSE EYES!" you yelped and blushed crinsom red as your husband just picked you up in bridal style, sucefully shutting you up.

He glared daggers towards your friends before walking away without a word.

"TOLD YOU ALL HE WAS HUSBAND MATERIAL! SUCK IT!" you shouted before yelping with a giggle at the pinch he gave it to you.

"Shut your mouth." He growled while only putting you down after you two got out. "Explain."

"You're just too perfect and beautiful that it hurtssss" you whined before he flipped your forehead, smirk on his lips behind that cursed mask.

"Idiot angel, aren't you?"

[yeojaa]

TO THE MOON AND BACK - ft. ???

You feel winded and you're not sure why.  Like you'd been walking on cloud nine and were now falling through the atmosphere, plummeting toward the ground at incredible speeds.  When you speak, it doesn't really sound like you.  "Yes."  Because he was exactly right - you were a hopeless romantic.  Always had been.  It was hard not to be when your parents were childhood sweethearts and love was the thing you'd been chasing your whole life.

alt summary.  You use your one brain cell for love.  It doesn’t always end well.

pairing.  who knows, honestly.  the obvious ones are kim taehyung and jeon jungkook, though.  

tags.  blind date, strangers, strangers to friends, strangers to lovers, getting to know each other, alternate universe, alternate universe - modern setting, romantic comedy.

rating.  general (for now?)

word count.  ~6000

chapter 1.  

You weren't sure what you were doing here.

Sure, you'd signed the waiver, your favourite pen leaving a messy blue scrawl across the crisp weight.  You'd acknowledged all of the terms and dated the bottom left-hand corner, humming quietly to yourself as you'd done so.  You'd read the document once, then twice for good measure, politely asking for a copy of it when the petite assistant had come to take the pages off your hands.  

But you still weren't sure what had brought you here, to this exact place at this exact time.   

Standing in the spacious studio with a dozen hangers hung over your arms, ready to air your life for millions to see.  Were you really ready for this - whatever it was?

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, suddenly nervous.  Your fingers are experiencing a strange tingling sensation you only recognize from times of stress - waiting for your results after an exam, the minutes after a first date, any time your umma calls without messaging first.  It's descending down the tips of your fingers, shooting like electricity through the live wire of your bones.  Suddenly, every minute movement of your neck feels like it takes all the strength in the world and your chest feels like it might explode from the labour of your breaths.

"Ready?"  It's the assistant again, bouncing toward you in her Fila Disrupters.  Very stylish.  She's staring up at you expectantly, though that shifts quickly to concern when you don't immediately respond.  "... Are you okay?"

"Yes.  I'm sorry.  I'm fine."  To her relief, you answer her follow-up almost immediately, a chipper smile plastered across your face.  It's a touch forced, the edges pressing your cheeks a little too far into your eyes, the tension in your jaw almost making it look like you're grimacing.  Almost.

"Great!  Come with me."  

Your fingers fumble with the button of your jeans, missing the hole twice before a groan of frustration fills the enclosed space.  You're so anxious you can feel the nervous energy filling you up like a balloon, dragging your poor body from the familiar weight of your bones.  Your hands won't stop shaking and they're so cold.  You can feel the chill through the denim of your pants when you rub your palms over your thighs in an effort to bring blood rushing back to them.

"Please come out when you're ready."  The voice speaks over the public address system wired into the ceiling.

You glance up from your little dressing room, noting the soft yellow that now illuminates your space.  It floods the walls you can barely make out over the top of your dressing stall.  You notice, with some amusement, that it matches the yellow of your socks that rise above your ankles and disappear into the hem of pants.

"Relax.  It'll be fun," you tell yourself before counting to three and trying your button again.  

It slots into its rightful home on your first go.  That must be a sign, right?

You exhale deeply, pushing all the air from your lungs as you face the mirror on the back of the door.  You blink at your reflection, smoothing your fringe until it falls just right over the rim of your glasses, barely grazing your line of vision.  You watch the way you chew your own lip, grateful you've got nothing but bubble-gum flavoured lip balm on, and nod.  It's reminiscent of a child on their first day of school.

Then you force yourself out of the stall before you can talk yourself out of it, peeking around the corner of the door.  

You're not sure what you'd been expecting but it definitely isn't this.

Because he's tall and broad, with shoulders that fall like a mountain range and a mop of dark hair.  It curls over his ears and looks unkept but purposefully so, pushed behind his ears.  The coat he wears fits across his back, hugging his silhouette as it falls to his knees.  Plaid trousers hold his legs, cut directly above his bare ankle.  He looks like a goddamn fashion model and you haven't even seen his face.

"Oh, hi."  His voice is warm and heavy, like a weighted blanket or hot cocoa on Christmas Day. 

It envelopes you in bass and makes your stomach flip in anticipation.  

He's right across from you now, sliding into the high director's chair that sits directly opposite from where you are, half-pulled into your seat.  He's as handsome as you would've imagined, the slope of his jaw and curve of his cheekbone seemingly carved by Michelangelo himself.  Thin gold frames - eerily similar to yours - sit on the high bridge of his nose and behind them, eyes crinkle from the force of his big, boxy smile. 

You find yourself at a loss for words for the second time in not very long, only managing a soft, "hello."

He seems to find that endearing, a soft laugh - one that very clearly echoes ha ha ha in the quiet room - drifting from where he sits.  You feel your face flush, shifting through the colour wheel before landing on an embarrassingly vivid shade of magenta.  You can see if in your reflection from behind his shoulder when you finally make yourself comfortable, only then meeting his open, curious stare.

"I like your pants."  He gestures toward you as if he could be talking to anyone else, the diffused golden glow catching against the thin rings he wears.

"Thank you."  You try not to mumble, offering a sweet albeit small smile in return.  You're pleased with your choice and in turn, his compliment.  You loved these jeans, had worn them for years since you'd bought them one summer in Tokyo.  They hug you just right, sitting close to your waist and through your hips before relaxing into a chic 70's inspired straight flare.  It doesn't matter that there's paint on the left knee - from that time you'd hosted a wine and paint night at your apartment - or that the frays on the hem are in dire need of trimming.   

"Should we get started?"  There he is, leading the conversation again.  You feel a little bad, though that flies out the proverbial window when he's leveling you with another one of his smiles.  It's hard to feel anything but child-like happiness when he looks like sunshine and middle school crushes. 

You nod, turning your attention to your phone. 

The screen reads START: PERCENT OF INTEREST FROM FIRST IMPRESSION.  You immediately want to enter 100, your fingers moving to tap the requisite numbers before you're hesitating, hovering over the "1" as it taunts you.  Was that too high?  What if they showed him?  Would he be turned off by how eager you were?

You're dragging your bottom lip through your teeth over and over again, stuck on a decision.  Was he experiencing the same turmoil?

You steal a peek at him, hoping to be as covert as possible.  He's staring straight at you, amusement written into the way his mouth twists, fighting back the laughter that sounds like music to your ears.  His phone rests loosely in his right hand.  Clearly, he's made his choice already. 

You huff and enter 85, still not entirely happy with your decision by the time the next question pops up.

BASED ON OUTFIT 1 (SCHOOL), YOUR NAME IS _____, YOU ARE _____ YEARS OLD, AND YOU LIVE IN _____.

You had to guess his name?  That was going to be impossible.

Or not, you think as his fingers glide across his screen, seemingly unfazed by the challenges currently presented.  Maybe that was for the better, though.  Maybe it would help you gain some sort of idea into who this stranger was, with his soft white tee shirt and expensive Hermès belt.  

Even as you're filling out the answers, you can feel his eyes boring into your head like two little laser beams.  You're sure that's why your cheeks are burning up and your have to retype your last answer three times, messing up the characters like you haven't spent your entire life writing them.  How could he be so comfortable?  His fingers aren't even twitching, instead leisurely curled between his legs as he studies you.  He looks like he has nothing to hide, blinking innocently at you when you drag your gaze from his hands, his brown leather watch strap.

"Your name is Kim Nari."  He's speaking seconds after you've pressed enter, alerted of the fact by the small chime of his phone.  If he notices the way your brow furrows, he doesn't react, reading his answers with easy reassurance.  "You're twenty-threeyears old and you live in Itaewon."

It brings you some sort of joy as you shake your head, hand raised with your thumb and forefinger curled in.  "Three strikes and you're out."  You laugh and then he's joining you, the sounds slotting easily together like a harmony.  "My name is Cho Jiyeon."  His words are forming the syllables silently, as if testing out the way it feels.  You can't help but smile at that, nose scrunching as he does it again, repeating it like it's the most fascinating thing in the world.  " I'm twenty-two and I live in Hongdae."  You don't acknowledge the fact that he's technically right - your actual birthday is in a few days.

"I see."  Your corrections are accepted as easily as he breathes.  "Nice to meet you, Cho Jiyeon."

"Really, Nari?"  You can't help but tease, manicured brow quirking curiously.

"You're pretty, so I thought you'd have a pretty name," he says plainly.  You can't help but snort, hiding the sound behind your palms as laughter shakes your shoulders.  Had he managed to compliment and insult you all at once?  "You still have a pretty name."

Now it's his turn to laugh, your reaction of wild head shaking and face covering causing him to stifle his own into the back of his hand. 

"It's your turn." 

So it is.  "Your name is Yun Taewoo and you're twenty-five?"  The first two come as questions more than answers but you're almost certain of your last one.  "You live in Cheongdam."

By his smirk, you're either terribly right or miserably wrong. 

When his head tilts, you're reminded of a golden retriever or a teddy bear, his dark eyes twinkling at you from behind his spectacles.  "My name is Kim Taehyung."  You're not sure how you ever thought it would've been anything else by how well it fits him. "You're right, I'm twenty-five."  Here comes the winner, you think.  "And I also live in Hongdae."

Dammit dammit dammit.

Taehyung can see the disappointment in your eyes and his own are waning into crescent moons, dragged into the shape by his all-encompassing grin.  "My parents live in Cheongdam, if that helps."  It doesn't really, but you appreciate the effort, visibly relaxing at his concession.  You've known each other for all of fifteen minutes and he's already worming his way into your silly little schoolgirl heart.

"It does.  Thanks."  You're giggling around your gratitude, allowing your eyes to trail pointedly at the timepiece on his wrist.  It cost more than one of your semesters.  "The Cartier was kind of a giveaway."

"But you recognized it," he teases back warmly.

"Touché."

"My turn again."  A soft cough to clear his throat before he repeats the next question.

YOUR MAJOR IS _____, YOUR GPA IS _____, AND AT SCHOOL YOU ARE _____. 

"Your major is art, your GPA is 3.1, and at school, you're an outsider."  

You're not sure whether to be offended that you're seemingly so easy to read, a hand flying to your throat.  "Are you following me?"  You're asking before you can help it, earning a hearty laugh from Taehyung.  He's shaking his head, awfully proud that he's just struck the nail on the head.  "I'm actually doing a double major, so I'll give you that.  My GPA is actually 3.9, though."  You can't help your own pride from sneaking in, colouring your words in shades of gold as you beam.  It only falters when you consider his last guess.  "What makes you think I'm an outsider?"

Not that he was wrong, per se, but you're a little surprised.  You'd never been unpopular but you just kept to yourself, drifting from different friend groups as you saw fit. 

"You don't want to forced into a box, so you're an outsider.  You choose to be."

You have no answer for that so you instead engage in a peculiar staring match until your eyes burn and you're blinking rapidly. 

"Your major was business, your GPA was 3.5, and you were a total insider."  Maybe it's the fact that he figured you out so easily that you feel uncertain about your own answers.  

He shakes his head, ever the gentleman.  "No, sorry.  I was a fashion major and my GPA was 3.0."  He pauses thoughtfully, considering the implications of being an inssa.  He supposes you're right, though he'd never really thought of himself as one.  Just someone that was well-liked and never turned away.  "Good try, though."  Again, encouragement.  It makes you like him for more than his charming smile and fashion-sense.

"I'll get you next time."

"I'm sure you will," he returns without even a hint of sarcasm.  "Next outfit?"

You nod, slipping from your seat and all but skipping into your dressing stall.  As you disappear back inside, you catch his smile in the reflection of your door and bite back your own.

The nerves that had melted over the course of your conversation seem to have come back in full force, spreading warmth over your cheeks as you stare at yourself in the mirror.  You've smoothed your hands over the soft corduroy of your skirt at least ten times now, straightening the hem this way and that in the pursuit of getting it to sit just right over your thighs.  

"Just go back outside.  He's nice.  Stop freaking out."  The reprimands are filling the small space and you feel almost overwhelmed.  Outfit number two was supposed to be a date outfit and just the word had your hands clamming out, heat licking up the back of your neck.

It's not that you weren't used to dating - he was just really cute.  

Adjusting the collar of your turtleneck - soft, black, draped in all the right places and tucked neatly into the waist of your skirt - you nod again.  It's your little way of building yourself up before you're stepping back outside, arms sliding into the sleeves of your grey tartan blazer.  You look good.  Taehyung had even said so.  You could do this.

No, no, no.  You can't do this.  Not when he looks like that.

He's beat you to his seat, an Adonis in black.  Gone is the loose white shirt from earlier, replaced now by an inky top that sinks against his skin.  The collar is open, the top two buttons undone to reveal the honeyed expanse of his chest.  You're not sure whether you want to bury your face into it or his silky shirt and it takes you a moment to remind yourself that's terribly inappropriate. 

"I like this look," you offer, hardly able to tear your eyes away from him as you settle back into your chair.  You can't help but notice how he smiles, gloating like he's all too aware of his effect on you.  He even readjusts, opening his arms to you as if to urge you on, when you continue to inspect his clothes. 

The pants he wears are different now, an expensive textured fabric that hugs his thighs and drapes across his shins, falling just above his ankle like before. There's no visible sock line and his shoes - black calfskin loafers with little tassels across the tops - scream expensive.  You'd hazard a guess they're Saint Laurent or Prada.  The only thing carried over from his last outfit is his watch, now stacked with delicate silver chains and a single red yarn bracelet you'd noticed earlier.  Even his hair is different, effortlessly styled and sweeping across his brow in soft, easy waves that beg to be touched.

"I like yours, too," he coos, that smug expression never faltering.  You try not to blush beneath his stare, trapping your hands beneath your legs as you allow him the same courtesy. 

Your thigh high socks sit just beneath where your palms rest, black a stark contrast to your skin and the brown of your skirt.  Your toes wiggle experimentally in the boots you're wearing, the ever popular sock-style blending seamlessly with the material of your stockings.  You can feel the lines of your rings where your skin is exposed, the same silver resting at the small of your throat in layered necklaces and at your ears in intricate loops.

He can't help but linger when the light catches the metal of your jewelry or when you shift nervously, thighs pressing together.  More than a small part of him enjoys you squirming under his gaze.  It's coquettish, even if it isn't meant to be.

"Do you want to go first?"  The words break whatever spell you'd been under and you re-focus on the device in your lap.  You nod before you've read the question thoroughly, flushing once you've had a chance to do so.

BASED ON OUTFIT 2 (DATE), YOU'VE RECEIVED _____ ROMANTIC CONFESSIONS AND HAVE BEEN IN A RELATIONSHIP _____ TIMES.

They really didn't beat around the bush, did they?

You're tapping out your response, pushing forward when you stop to think.  It was just two numbers.  

When the familiar ding of your phones breaks the relative silence, you look back up.  Of course, he's already watching you, ever the active participant.  "You, Kim Taehyung, have received more than twenty romantic confessions and you've been in a relationship more than ten times." 

Something like surprises steals across his face, contorting his expression into one you hadn't seen yet.  

"Wrong."  There's no further elaboration and for a moment, you have the urge to apologize.  Had you offended him?  "I've received more than twenty romantic confessions but I've only been in a relationship twice."

Now it's your turn to be surprised, your eyebrows disappearing into your hairline.  How did someone look like that and not date?  It seemed like such a waste.  

"Shocking, right?"  Taehyung takes the words right out of your mouth but they feel wrong when uttered back at you.  "Both relationships were long-term.  Five and four years, respectively, so I never really had time to date anyone else."  A hand adorned in Gucci rings cards through his silky mop of hair, smoothing it away from his forehead before it falls back into place perfectly.  "Don't worry - I'm not offended you think I'm such a Casanova."

You can't help but scowl at his words.  He's right and you're being called out so hard.

"You've probably had more than ten confessions and..."  You're not sure whether he's really trying to remember what he'd written or if he's just drawing it out, teasing you mercilessly like its his newly discovered favourite pastime.  "Five boyfriends?"

"Ah - you got those right!"  You're not bothered by his accurate guesses this time.  In fact, you clap as if his success somehow belongs to both of you.  He finds that endearing.  He likes the idea of the two of you as a team.  

"Next one?  Go ahead."

You double check your next answer, trying not to laugh when you remember what you'd entered.

YOU FEEL ATTRACTED TO SOMEONE WHO IS _____.  YOU ARE ACTIVE/PASSIVE DURING THE DAY AND ACTIVE/PASSIVE AT NIGHT. 

"Kim Taehyung," you meet his eyes when you say his name and for a second, you lose your train of thought.  His lashes are so thick and dark and without his glasses on, you swear you can see the constellations in his irises.  "Um."  He snickers and you roll your eyes, rereading the small font on your device screen.  "You are attracted to someone who shares your confidence and who will rise to challenges with you.  You're active during the day and..."  You don't dare look up.  "You're also active during the night."

To your benefit, you both collapse into laughter, doubled over in your chairs as the double entendre sits salaciously between you.  

"You're not wrong," he drawls, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively at you.  If you were closer, you think you'd swat his arm or nudge his foot - anything to demonstrate that you think he's an absolute dork.  "I want someone who can be my partner in crime and I'm active all the time."  He leans heavily into the implication, dragging the "ah" in all out like he's trying to break it over his tongue.

"Okay, Casanova.  Your turn."

He hums, not even bothering to look at his screen as he studies you, eyes ticking from the way your long, dark hair cascades over your shoulder to the wine-stain you'd pressed into your full lips.  "You're attracted to someone who excites you and makes you feel wanted."  By the way he's drinking you in, you think he could be talking about himself.  "You're active in the day and passive at night."  

When he says passive, it almost feels wrong.  Dirty.  Like it should be whispered into the shell of your ear and not spoken so casually from three feet away.

You have to remind yourself you're sitting in a studio, surrounded by production staff.  

"I do like to sleep a lot."  You manage once the flutter in your chest has subsided, allowing you to find your breath again.  It still feels a little airy, a little like the wings of butterflies are tugging the words out of your chest.  "But I think everyone wants to be desired, don't you?  I don't think that's specific to me."

"Then why don't you tell me what kind of person you're attracted to?"  He doesn't say it but you hear it in his voice - the unspoken question.  Is it me?

You're not ready for that conversation, nor do you think this is the place to have it.  "I think we should change."

The third time you exit your dressing stall, you're out before Taehyung is, giving you a moment's reprieve as you climb into your chair.

You're more comfortable than you have been, both mentally and physically, but it's nice to have these few extra moments of peace.  He was just so much - it was hard to focus when he caught your stare or he did that thing with his tongue, pink gliding across his bottom lip.  You were ready to take back some control.  Hopefully his daily outfit was as casual as yours.  You didn't think you could handle another peek of that chiseled frame.

God, when had you become so easy to please?

"That was quick."  He's popping his head out of his room and gliding into his seat in what feels like one fluid motion.  Well, he certainly seems spirited.

"What can I say?  I'm fast."  It's enough to make him chuckle because very clearly, you were not fast, but he wasn't about to call you on that.  Not when you two were getting along so swimmingly.  "Shall we get started?"

You don't even wait for his response before you're studying your phone again, considering the two latest questions.

BASED ON OUTFIT 3 (DAILY), WHAT YOU HEAR OFTEN FROM YOUR FRIENDS IS _____ AND WHAT YOU HEAR FROM YOUR PARENTS IS _____? 

That was easy enough, you think, free hand fiddling with the pocket on your thigh.  The cargo pants you wear sit easily on your hips, the beige material matching the seat.  You're back in sneakers - all-white Converse with a small platform - and your glasses are perched on the bridge of your nose.  You're aware of a draft on your shoulder, the soft wool of your camel and blush cardigan having drifted low across your shoulder. 

You fill out your answer with ease, sparing Taehyung a glance when you're finished and realizing, much to your surprise, he's still typing.  

"You can go first, when you're done." 

The only indication he's heard you is the bob of his head so you take his preoccupation as time to admire his latest fashion choices. 

Wide-legged trousers that look extremely comfortable, falling easily over backless Gucci loafers.  His shirt is French-tucked, the drape of his taupe top relaxed.  The watch remains where it has been, though the other jewelry that had previously accompanied it is gone.  He's got a chic black beret pulled over his ears, causing strands at the nape of his neck to curl adorably.  He looks every inch an off-duty model and you have to remind yourself to stop gawking when he begins speaking.

"What you hear most from your friends is 'don't forget' and what you hear most from your parents is 'did you eat?'"

You think his streak must be running out and he sees that reflected in your goofy smile, one of his own framing his face.  "Nope.  My friends say 'get some sleep' and my parents ask 'how is school?'  Good try."

He shrugs, mouthing something like 'you win some, you lose some' before sliding his phone back into his pocket.  "Go ahead."

"What Kim Taehyung hears the most from his friends is 'I can't believe it' and what he hears most from his parents is 'visit more often.'"  You'd been reading your screen, lifting the words verbatim, so when you look up and catch his expression, you're startled.  For the first time, Taehyung looks unsure, though it lasts only a fraction of a second before he's nodding, his sweet laughter sinking into your molars like honeycomb and cavities.

"Close enough.  My friends usually say something like 'you're kidding me' but you're right about my parents."

Maybe that's why he looked so sad, you realize with a little twinge of guilt.  You consider asking a follow-up but by the way he pulls his phone out, you know it's a conversation better left for another time.  Like perhaps a second date.

YOUR ALCOHOL LIMIT IS _____ AND YOU SMOKE _____ A DAY.

He's already reading his answer to the second question by the time you tune in fully.

"Cho Jiyeon, your alcohol limit is two bottes of soju and you don't smoke."  You wouldn't say he's exactly right but you relent, nodding in agreement. 

"Between two and four, depending on the day."  There's a story there and it intrigues him but he says nothing, instead waiting for your appraisal of his tolerance.  He's ready to completely blow your mind.  "Your limit is... four bottles?  You definitely don't smoke."

It's with pride that Taehyung shakes his head, chest puffed out and lips pursed.  "My tolerance is one - one shot."  He can't help but laugh when you level him with disbelief.  "I don't like the taste," he continues, completely unashamed.  He's dealt with enough teasing from his closest friends so he's used to the incredulous stare you're currently giving him, unfazed as he beams at you. 

"I never would've guessed," you quip, thoughtful.  

"I'm full of surprises."  

You think it's a promise, like the guarantee of buried treasure or calm in the eye of the storm.  "I'm sure you are."

Your final change makes you feel like you're at home, despite the fact that you're nowhere close to it.  It's nice to be in your pyjamas in the middle of the day, even if you didn't normally wear the set that currently sits on your body.

"Last one," you say to yourself, peering closely at your hair, your lips, the way your shorts feel a little shorter than usual.

Then you pull yourself out for the last time and plop yourself into your chair, smiling brightly at Taehyung when he exits in the same instant as you.

He's in silk pyjama bottoms, the navy a stark contrast against his feet - which are slotted into soft shearling slippers.  The top looks oddly familiar, the white stirring a memory that you're not sure how to place.  "Hey - I recognize this," you state uncertainly, gesticulating at his broad chest.  He looks down and a smile so shy your heart could cry spreads across his face.  Maybe you're wrong but it looks like the tips of his ears are suddenly red beneath his crown of softly mused strands. 

"I don't normally sleep with a shirt on," he confesses, delicate fingers brushing the shoulder of his top.  He's not quite meeting your eyes, that seem dusting of rouge seeping over his hollowed cheeks and across his temples.  

"Oh," is all you can say, just as bashful.

As if to ease the unusual weight that's settled over the two of you, he speaks again, earnest.  "I like your sweater."   

You pick at the item in question, thumbing over the worn hem.  It's incredibly soft from years of wear, a gift from your father when he'd visited for business years ago.  The formerly vivid stitching on the first letter is starting to come undone, the remaining letters of HARVARD all in equal states of distress.  Still, it's comforting and oversized, drowning you in its shape and making you look more diminutive than your lissome stature already does.  

A leg draws up, about to pull to your chest, but then you think better of it.  You're in shorts - worn jersey ones taken from a matching pyjama set you'd once gotten as a birthday gift - and you're reminded of how little they'd covered when standing, so you settle for crossing your ankles.  The bears printed on your socks - three stacked at various levels across the top of your foot, your ankle, your calf - cross as well. 

"Thanks."

"Do you want to go first this time?"

It's nice that he's so considerate.  You nod, turning your attention to the last few questions.  You realize, with the smallest hint of disappointment, that there are only two left.

BASED ON OUTFIT 4 (PYJAMAS), YOU WANT TO LIVE UNTIL _____ YEARS OLD.  THE MOST IMPORTANT THING IN YOUR LIFE IS _____.

You're not sure whether it's the fact that your time with him is coming to an end or the questions themselves but you feel odd, a lump forming in your stomach.  Whatever it is, you try to push it from your thoughts, ignoring the weight it carries in favour of giving further consideration to your answers.  

"I think you want to live until ninety years old."  That made sense, right?  Most people wanted to live out there lives as long as they could, watching the generations span after them and basking in the pride of a life-well lived.  "The most important thing in your life is growth."  Okay, so maybe that was a bit of a stretch.  Could you really know someone that well after only such a short period with them?

You think so, because after everything so far, you felt like you did.

"Ninety would be nice,"  he agrees after a moment, biting his bottom lip as he weighs his next words.  "The most important thing in my life is being true to myself."  So you were wrong - but that was also a really deep question.  You feel like it's not fair and he can clearly see that when he grins, gracious and giving.  "I think growth means staying honest to myself, though."

You think you could kiss him and absorb some of that sunny goodness.  

"You want to live until you're ninety, too."  A small part of you doubts he'd use the same age, that suspicion deepening when he doesn't even bother looking at his written answers.  "The most important thing in Cho Jiyeon's life is love.  Am I right?"

You feel winded and you're not sure why.  Like you'd been walking on cloud nine and were now falling through the atmosphere, plummeting toward the ground at incredible speeds.  When you speak, it doesn't really sound like you.  "Yes."  Because he was exactly right - you were a hopeless romantic.  Always had been.  It was hard not to be when your parents were childhood sweethearts and love was the thing you'd been chasing your whole life.

The reason you'd even agreed to appear on this silly video segment.

"What about age?"  He prompts, not skipping a beat.

"I don't know," you answer honestly.  "I don't think I'd mind when I died if I found love before that."

You're not sure whether the look Taehyung gives you is affectionate or pitying because you're not really looking at him, instead focused pointedly on the paint that coats your nails and the way your knuckles flex beneath your ministrations.

"Last one," he chirps, snapping you from your careful consideration of your own humanity.

You don't answer, instead rereading the last answer you'd filled out.  

IF WE WERE LOVERS WHO BROKE UP, WE WOULD HAVE DATED BECAUSE OF _____ AND BROKEN UP BECAUSE OF _____.

It felt a little too close to home and yet, you were in the home stretch.  You'd be held here in this little piece of forever until you answered. 

He begins before you get a chance to, impossibly softer than he'd been previously.  "If we were lovers who broke up, we would have dated because you felt like my other half."  You have to remind yourself that it's all hypothetical but his voice is so alluring, like a lullaby you'd like to slip into dreamland listening to.  Even the way he details your imaginary breakup is beguiling, low timbre hitting some chord in your heart you weren't aware existed.  "We would have broken up because you'd always be chasing a vision of me - and not the real me."

Emotion wells in your chest and in your throat and behind your eyes and you have to swallow thickly, forcing the onslaught down before you're crying in front of the cameras and making a fool of yourself. 

You'd written something silly but as you prepare to answer the same question, it feels far too inconsequential, like a child playing dress-up.  

"If we were lovers, we would have dated because I was your muse."  His mouth quirks at that, though you can't see from the way you're staring at your hands still and it's short-lived.  "We would have broken up because I couldn't keep up with you."  It's not what you'd originally opted for but it feels better.  Right.  Like it could be true, in some fantasy world where people like him ended up with people like you. 

Silence drags on once you've finished speaking.  You could hear a pin drop - and think you do.  It might just be someone's pen slipping from their hand.

Your eyes meet, like kismet, after what feels like forever.  He smiles and you can imagine that same, sad thing mirrored in your own expression. 

"Please give us your percent of interest based on your final impression."  The public address system again, tearing your little illusion to shreds.  He's a stranger again, someone you've only met for the purpose of this YouTube video.

You glance down at your phone and without thinking, press that frightful "1" followed by two 0's.  You see him enter his score.

And then the lights are fading from a rosy glow, replaced by the standard professional lighting.  The curtains have closed and the production assistants are milling over, thanking you for your time and advising of when you might expect to see the video up.  You're barely listening.

Because Taehyung's already gone.

notes.   i've never written this much in one sitting.  i hope you enjoy it!  as always, feedback appreciated.

[sweater-daddiesdumbdork]

Interrupted

Summary- Curtis Everett x Y/N. Illness just seems to keep popping up in the tail end. Thinking it was finished, you and Curtis spend some time together or try to anyways. Smut- Oral.

Word Count- 6.5k

Your head was tipped forward against your knees, listening to the breathing in the bunk above you, it was raspy and shallow, so shallow. You didnt dare leave the bedside for more then a few minutes, and it had been days. You banned everyone else out of the area, since the virus was running rampant through the tail end.

You had banned everyone except Tonya from the area, Tonya refused to give you a choice, and you were grateful to have the woman there with you. You did your best to contain the virus, but it spread through the tail end rather quickly. With no medicine to distribute, it was almost impossible not to loose patients. So far youve seen the guards collect a few you couldnt help, and you could only mourn inside, not able to take a break among the sick and dying. Curtis tried several times to enter, only to have you stop him at the entrance, turning him around and pushing him away. Although he was one of the healthier members in the tail end, you wouldnt risk it.

Tonya slipped in and pulled up a stool next to you, frowning. “Girl you need some sleep. Get on out of here and I will sit with her.” Motioning to your current patient, and you shake your head, lifting it off your knees and looking at the girl. A teenager, what 14? 15? Hard to tell exact when they were train babies such as Melissa was, but she was struggling and you couldnt leave now.

“No Tonya, what if she needs me? I have to stay here.”

“Now Y/N, thats what Im here for. I dealt with Timmy being sickly right after he was born, I think I can keep watch over this child to.” Tonya placed her hand against Melissas forehead and then pulled back away.

“Still burning up, isnt she?” You ask, the girls face was flushed, sweat beading along her hair line and the blanket she was wrapped in shook as she shivered in her sleep.

“Yes, but the fever will break soon.”

“Well Im not leaving till it does.” Stubborn as always, you dip your forehead back against your knees, your hand moving up into the bed and taking the sick girls hand, squeezing lightly. Tonya doesnt pressure it further, but moves to attend to the other patient in the area, not nearly as sick, but still needing some mothers care to feel better. Soon enough Tonya could hear your softened breathing of sleep, and slipped out. She couldnt make you see reason, well... there is someone who certainly can.

Tonya marched right down the aisle, looking in all the usual spots she knew Curtis to frequent. Finally she found him with Grey, working on teaching defense techniques to a few others who had asked to learn. Right now Grey had Curtis pinned against the train wall, and as much as the larger man tried he couldnt break from his hold. “Okay man, I give.” he tapped his hand against the steel wall, and Grey released his hold. “Fuck, thought you were gonna take my arm right off that time.” He rolled his shoulder to loosen it back up when Tonya broke through the crowd. “Curtis, you gotta come get your girl.”

Frowning when he heard her, all the joking with the group gone. “Why? Whats wrong? Is she okay?” She had been in that damn medic area for days refusing to come out. She better not be fucken sick to. It was a risk, it had happened before, together you two had discussed it in the night, when you two usually talk over problems, In the end you had looked up at him in that way you do when you are being serious. “I cant not do anything Curtis.... I have to do whatever I can.” And now here he was, worried that your stubbornness put you in danger.

“No no, shes just fine.” Tonya smiled at him to ease the worry on his face, loosening as he moved to reach her, the two of them leaving the group. “Shes just bone tired and needs a good nights rest, she be sleeping now on the floor. Im sure you can move her without even waking her up.” Tonya ducked under the curtain, and sure enough you were slumped up against the frame, sound asleep. Curtis followed along inside and saw you curled up. “Oh baby... “ he whispered as he went over to you, easing a hand under your knees and embracing your back, Tonya kept the curtain open to carry you out.

You didnt even know, all you registered is familiar comforts, warmth, feeling that hollowed spot you normally fell asleep in, pressing your face in against his neck and sighing in your sleep. Feeling your breath brushing against his neck, and hearing that sigh, he chuckled softly at your soft noises and the way you curled up closer. Sliding you into the bunk, this is when you stirred, seeing him climb in behind you. “Curtis Everett, what do you think your doing, removing me?” you say groggily, moving to leave, but he catches you before you can get past him and places you back in your spot, his body blocking your exit. Unbuttoning the front of your coat, he looked at you sternly. “Tonya came to tell me you were passed out on the floor Babygirl.”

“Traitor...” You mutter but dont try to leave again, while Curtis removes your coat and eases you to sit back and you let him, cause you really are tired, and its nice to be taken cared of instead of the other way around. His hand grasps your calf and draws a leg up, removing your boot. Its not like he would let you get away anyways, once Curtis set his mind to something, that was just the way it was going to be. You had plenty of experience with that.

“So you need a break, a good nights sleep.” He draws off the other one and you shift back into your spot, folding arms over chest while he to draws off his own outer clothing to get comfortable, toeing off his boots in the process. Although your eyes are half closed your still fighting it. "Well I don't exactly know if I'm going to get a good night's sleep with you here." He yanked his beanie off and tossed it in your face, making you grin for the first time in a few days and you shoved it on your own head in retaliation.

"Mmmhhh, I love when you wear my clothes." He said as he stretched out to lay down, tugging on your shirt to join him. You yawned, one of those jaw popping ones that seemed to go on for ages. "Me to Curtis, Tonya promised to come get me if something happens?" His fingers brushed the shorter hairs near your temple back, the rest you had tightly wound in a braid. He missed being able to feel the tresses wrap around his hand, but tonight he let it go.

"She did, I made her swear it to me." Not really but he knew Tonya wouldnt hesitate to get them

"Liar, you did no such thing.... You know you dont have to stay, I'm sure it's not that late really. I can still hear the group at Gilliams" you rubbed your face in his shoulder and already worked a hand under his shirts to slide your palm lazily against his chest, your hand coming to a pause at his side, leaving it stretched across his stomach and chest Yea theres no way your letting me leave, he thought, amused you made the effort to offer though. Efficiently wrapping yourself around him, his fingers shifted from your temple down to rub along your back. "Baby we haven't been together like this is days... I missed you. Its hard to sleep alone now, it's cold and to big."

You grumble into the collar of his shirt. "You just miss the cramped sex." Snorting in muffled giggles.

"Well yea.... That to." He teased back, tilting your face up with the press of his fingers against your chin, catching your lips in a teasing kiss. "I'm a man, I got specific needs after all. Like being able to drag you off to bed."

"Mmmhm, and that's the only thing?" You nuzzle your face back against his shoulder. Its okay if I close my eyes, you think.

"The only thing worth anything tonight" He claimed and paused, sensing you must have nodded off. Your breathing was shallow exhales against his neck and your silence stretched longer then usual. Now that your finally relaxed and getting some rest, Curtis allows himself to relax and drift off. He wasnt lying when he said he had been having trouble himself getting sleep, although he wasnt complaining. You were doing what you needed to to keep people alive, he felt like he already didnt deserve you, he couldnt keep you to himself.

The hours passed without any disturbances till much later, what is now considered ‘Morning’ for the tail enders. Tonya made her way down the aisle, counting bunks. It wouldnt bode well to disturb someone else, and they all looked about the same. But she came to the one she suspected to be yours and Curtis shared space. “Curtis?” Tonya quietly says his name and Curtis reaches over to slid the curtain open enough to look out. “Yea? Everything okay Tonya?” His brow came together in worry, raising his hand to rub over his face, draw out the sleep his body was still wanting to fall back into.

“Yea Yea Curtis, I was just coming to tell you all that everything is fine, Melissas fever broke and she has already sat up and asked for a bit of food. So you tell Y/N not to rush back quite yet.”

Curtis looked over his shoulder to see you had your face buried in against the crook of your arm, and hadnt even stirred. Looking back at Tonya and smiling, he nodded. “Dont worry, I wont let her go yet to soon. Shes finally sleeping, and Im not gonna mess with that unless I have to.” Tonya gave a nod and bid farewell to Curtis, which he closed the curtain and slid back into the warmth of where you two slept. You still hadnt given any sign of waking, your shirt having ridden up your back, so he could let his palm slide against the warm softness of your lower back and the dip in your waist.

He let it slide gently, and then settle in heavily, the way you moaned and shifted in closer, seeking out the all familiar hardness and warmth, tugging your head to rest on his chest and a sigh signaled you had sunk back into that deep sleep. Your hand fisted into his shirt near his stomach and you wedged your leg around his. Wrapping yourself around Curtis, he kept his rubs on your back gentle, soothing. You stayed that way for a couple more hours, and Curtis was content to doze in and out during this period.

But when you woke up, it was with a jerk, your head lifting and not registering where you were, your hand pressed against his lower stomach making him gasp a bit as you sat up. “Oh shit, Curtis Im sorry” You squeak, his hat you stolen earlier was hanging half off your head, hair pulled out of your braid all curling around your face. He rubbed his lower stomach, and chuckled with a groan. “Its okay baby, but jeeze! You woke up like someone stuck you with a hot poker, why?” He moved to an elbow, half on his hip to face you.

“My patient, it occurred to me I should check on Melissa.” You confess with a guilty look, and Curtis reached up, removing his hat, and brushing back your hair with his hand. You looked like you were caught doing something wrong, although if he had it his way, you wouldnt have moved, rather content himself having you wrapped all around him.

“Tonya already came Babygirl, Melissa is fine. Her fever broke middle of the night, and shes asked for food, water. Sitting up.” Your eyes widen and a smile breaks out as you cant help contain the overall relief and joy you feel hearing that. “Oh thank god.... “ You breath out and lay on your back near where Curtis is leaning on his elbow looking down. Studying you for a moment, then saying. “You will feel better if you go check on her wont you.” You give a sheepish smile and nods, making him roll his eyes.

“Okay, lets go Y/N. Pain in the ass” He mutters teasing as you two get on your boots, and he slides out, turning around and grasping you around your waist, he lifts you down. Right now nothing could ruin your good mood, your patient was going to be okay. After all the one who came to you to late to help, you saved one. You considered it a win given the conditions you all live in. Pausing Curtis, you dont want him possibly getting sick, but no regards to yourself, you dart right on in. Curtis waits all of five seconds and just follows you in as well.

“Hey Melissa” You say as you go to the girl, Tonya doing some wash off in the corner and hanging stuff around to dry. The girl grins, picking at a protein block. How you wish you could get that girl some of your moms chicken noddle soup like you had back in the day. But she seemed so much better, some proper color in her face, her eyes werent that burning red, no runny nose or heavy wet coughs like a couple days ago.

“Hey Y/N, Curtis” she nods to the both of you, smiling. You perch on the edge of the bed, and reach out to touch her forehead. It was nice and cool this time around, the fever seemed to be truly gone. “Tonya said if you thought it was fine, I could probably walk around a bit today, my legs are itching for a stretch.” She leaned forward to grab her toes, effectively stretching her legs and back in the process, but it certainly wouldnt hut. “I dont see why you cant, just dont wander off to far and stick to the aisle.” You smile at the girl, whom in turn looks so relieved, you glance at the other bed and see it empty. Turning to ask Tonya, she never looked up from her project.

“I sent them on there way. It was nothing but an bit of wanting attention.” You smirk and look at Curtis and he scowls a bit, rolling eyes. He was in no way acting like that.

“Everything sounds good then, best day weve had in weeks.” You move to a stand and head to leave. “I will go tell Gilliam, so he can spread the news that short of a patient, we seem to be on the mend.” Tonya nodded, and once more the two of you left.

Once you were further away, you tugged on Curtis coat and backed the two of you in between a set of Pipework, dragging him down to kiss him deeply. You caught him by surprise for all of 2 seconds, but he responded in kind, an hefty moan coming from his throat, and his hands grasped your ass. Curtis pulled you up to your tip toes, to press against his hips so you can feel him getting hard just for you, so you could feel his whole body coiled, ready to claim you are his. Your hands grasp his biceps to hold onto, letting him lead the kiss now, his tongue filling your mouth, his lips pulling on yours till they were swollen, red. Once he broke, you were left panting softly, not really from loss of air, but in need.

“If it hadnt been like 2 weeks, I would ask why” He growls, squeezing your ass again as he finishes lifting you to perch on the edge of one of the water pipes, and your biting your lip looking at him in the same lust that he now had blazing in his eyes.

“Why is because its been 2 weeks Curtis that Im like this, you think I was implying it was just you needing some of that TLC Tonya was talking about?” Your hands cant help themselves, prying up his shirt enough to reach underneath the hem and sliding your hands over his stomach and chest, sure to curl your fingers and letting your nails slide slowly down over his nipples, along his pecs, sure to trail over his abs. He shuddered under your touch, and your legs part to draw him in closer, wrapping your thighs around his hips, letting yourself lean into him, tracing an ear with your lips, whimpering. “Fuck I have missed you Curtis Everett” You nip at his ear lobe, sucking on it.  

This caused a slight rumble from his chest as he pulled in against where you were perched, and rolling your hips in against where his erection was achingly large bulge in his pants. Two weeks might not have been that long, but you was feeling it now in every way that counted and you were shrugging off your coat and dropping it, Curtis pressed up your shirt, impatient to tease you, he nipped on one hard tip already sensitive to the fabric. Dragging your teeth across your bottom lip and grasping his head to press him closer.

You start squirming, his mouth making your bra wet and clinging to your skin, his teeth still sharp through the fabric, whimpering sharply to get his attention, pressing your feet against the back of his thighs. “Curtis. Get. It Off!” you stressed about your bra, but he just tilts his head to tease the opposite side, a glance up of his blue eyes chuckling at you before he slid his hands up to finish getting rid of your shirt. “Impatient baby girl? I was having fun.” You give him a glaring look at his smug teasing one and go to take your bra off.

He caught your wrists though before you could, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “Oh I will take it off when Im ready.... “ His hand going up your back and toying with the clasp but not releasing it yet. His head dipped against yours and he claimed your lips, in more of a bite then a kiss, your tongue daring to meet his, the only opening he needed to turn it into a strong heated kiss, he actually pulled you a bit forward in it, where you wrapped your arms around his neck to keep from falling off the pipework

Suddenly you felt his hand yank your bra away and a warm hand clasp around a breast, pushing and squeezing, you hadnt even realized he unclasped it in the first place. He sucked on the curve as he plumped it towards his mouth, dipping a hand to rub between your thighs, tracing that cored center that was covered in clothing, damn in the way clothing. You so wanted to feel those thick fingers just open you right up for him, plunging into you over and over till you came undone all over him.  

“You all wet and messy down there baby?” A nod on your part, rocking your hip and groaning when you felt him push back so you could get some friction.Your starting to pant, and fist your hands into his coat so you could lever yourself further, and thats when your name, once more for the hundredth fucking time, it felt like in those two weeks, was called. No, fuck no!, your mind is crying out in frustration, and he curses much more louder at having your moment taken away. You give a soft cry when he moves his hand and clasps your thigh as your still jerking slightly to keep you seated on the pipework, and moving enough so your naked chest would be covered by his broad shoulders. “I know baby, just hold on.”

Hiding your face against his chest, you could feel the rumble start before he even yelled out “Shes occupied! Is this an emergency?” And the person looking for you paused, now seeing Curtis just beyond some of the pipework, glaring over his shoulder at them. “Errr- well no, not really, we were just-” Curtis cut him off right there. “Get the fuck out of here now. She will find you later... “ There was a pause and a wide eyed look, he turned on his toes and promptly walk away. Your hands smooth against Curtis chest, trying not to laugh, biting the inside of your cheek as you peek up. Oh the frustration you were feeling was written all over his face. But a thoughtful look crossed. “Do you trust me?”

“Uhhh with my life yes, why?”

He reached down to yank your discarded coat off the floor and wrapped it around you, and then grabbed your other discarded clothing. Pressing a shoulder to your midsection, he lifted you off the pipework with a clasped hand over your ass, making you laugh and try to twist enough to look him in the face. “Curtis! what are you doing?” You duck your head to keep from looking at people you two were passing. Not that it mattered, everyone knew who you were. He seemed to be looking for an empty lower bunk, and he dropped you in one, skittering back as he followed you in.

There was no slowing Curtis down, he slipped his coat off. “Take your coat off, mines bigger” You did as he asked, unsure why. Nervous as anyone walking by could probably see you, he shrugged his off and draped it around you, yanking off his shirts and balled them up to toss them in the corner of the bunk. “Pants off” He directed and you worked them down, falling back to kick them off. Kneeling before you, his hands clasped around your waist and he fell back, dragging you to straddle his chest, your hands slapping against the bunks frame work to keep from falling forward. “Curtis!” you exclaim in surprise, and he shifts enough to get himself comfortable.

“I want you to ride my face.”

“Ride your face?!” You tried tightening your thighs at the idea, but his shoulders are firmly wedged between your knees. “I would suffocate you.”

“Babygirl, your not going to suffocate me. Its going to make you feel so good. Didnt you say you trusted me?” his tongue darted on his lip in anticipation, blue eyes flashing for you to take the challenge, to trust what he wanted. You worked your own lip, nervous, intrigued at the idea. He splayed out his coat you were still wearing, making it so you two were tented. Curtis though got a full view of you, from how you were seated. Your wet little pussy pressing against his chest, your stomach tightening, although you had nothing to worry about, to your breasts, so perfect in the way the fit his hands, how responsive you were to his tongue. Fuck you were beautiful, and all his. Always will be all his. A smirk flashed up at you, and his hands cupped your heart shaped ass, sliding fingers around the curves and pressing against your cheeks. “Come on babygirl, let me taste that pretty little pussy, let it just soak my face.”

You bite your cheek, and then nod, arching up to shift closer and hover over his face, still nervous about what hes asking for. But once you committed, he guided you in closer and before you could pull back, he buried his face into your pussy, giving a deep swipe through your slick folds where you had been so close to coming last time. “Oh-OH!” you huff and look to find anything to grab onto, lifting your arms above your head to grasp the metal frame work. His arms fold over your thighs to keep you from lifting away from him, and actually press you down onto his face harder.

There was thick long licks filling your entrance and up to flick his tongue against your clit, swirling figure eights around the swollen bud till it was driving you mad, then sharp bite would tug on it, swelling further, teasing more till a gush of arousal would flood you, making him groan in appreciation. The hairs of his beard would burn your folds, scratching the tender skin. You couldnt pull away if you wanted to. Fuck you didnt want to, he was making you feel uncontrolled bliss, your hips rolling to follow his tongues strokes.

He moved his hands, moving from your thighs to dig into your lower back and continue pushing you down on his face. Muffled, but you still heard him say. “So fucken good sweetheart.” The compliment, and that particular curl of his tongue filling you along with the plunge of fingers curling in a come hither motion when he added that extra stretch, stroking your overly tender channel made your eyes roll back, and you fought some of the pressure he had on your back from his remaining splayed hand,  his hold was relentless, and you fucked his face cause that was all your body was capable of doing. There was no holding your self back, crying out his name. “Curits Oooh god!”

Humming underneath you, Curtis didnt hold back, enjoying every bit of you, from the way your pussy flooded in arousal, the roll of your hips slicking across his face, to those tiny mewls and squeals when he licked at a particularly delicious spot, and you would clench yourself around his fingers. It was sloppy, messy and Curtis was all set to be doing this again with you.

“Curtis- ah, baby. Fuck.... “

Another curling lick and several deep pumps of his digit in your tight hole.

“Mmmhhh yes baby?” He muttered before circling your clit once more, dragging his tongue over it and sucking the button between his teeth, rolling gently to hear you whine once more and reach down to clasp his head, pressing him in tighter.

“Oh sonofabitch” your words are whined out, run together in a lust filled cry. “Baby, I cant hold back anymore...”

You could feel him chuckling underneath you, his hand shifting from your back and sliding to find your breast, squeezing firmly to help you along. You grab your other one, the firm sting bringing you higher. “Then what are you waiting for, let me have it.”

You panted, you grind on him, at this point you were all about reaching that snap, and Curtis was fine helping you along, finding your g-spot, he rubbed the pads of his fingers across, it, lapped at your juices dripping and was sure to pay attention to your clit once more, teasing that little trigger bud. Chanting his name helped, maybe it was your way of telling him that you were his, you had no idea. It just fell from your parted lips, and gasping breaths. Your anchor from flying much to high. The man was bringing you to burn in your orgasms flames, but his name was your anchor to keep you safe. You allowed to waves to rock your body in quakes, his hands embracing you to keep you from falling. You squirted, several times, and diligent he cleaned the mess before easing you back a bit, and moving to a sit, cradling you in his lap.

You felt like liquid bliss in his arms, supple and content, maybe even a bit tired, although in your opinion he did all the work. Curtis hand came up to wipe his face clean, his beard though, still glistened from your mess, and honestly that just made you feel so damn sexy knowing that. You blush slightly, thinking about what you just did, and he grinned, feathering kisses across your face. “I dont know about you babygirl, but I really enjoyed that”

“Yea Curtis that was.... that was intense.” You admitted, stretching out your arms and rolling your wrists to stretch out. Your whole body just felt so content in that moment, wrapping his coat a bit further around you to keep yourself hidden from any passerbys. This wasnt the safety of your bunk. There was no curtain to hide the two of you away, although there was an abundance of shadows, and his black coat did well in keeping the two of you out of sight. Quiet though... well there was no real way to keep quiet.

“Im voting we do that again soon.” He is tilting your face to meet his and he kissed you slowly, you moaned softly at your taste now flooding you now, it was sinful, and you were loving it, rubbing your body against him, licking and sucking on his bottom lip, you pulled back and bit your lip. Curtis roamed his hands over your body, settling against the swell of your hips, loving how affectionate you were, that he was able to turn you on and satisfy you in any way you needed. Curtis was sure to see the flare of red in your cheeks, and the hushed whisper as if you were worried someone would hear you.

“Do tell why we never did that before” you thoroughly enjoyed it, and your hand found his erection pressing into his pants, forming your palm around him and stroking through the fabric. You were rewarded by his shuddering form, and a hiss between his teeth as his jaw snapped shut. After all he made you feel good, very good... it would only do to return the favor. Curtis let his head fall forward, the sensations riddling his body. Something so simple as your touch could bring so much pleasure. The slightly squeeze of your palm cupping around him made him throb, ache, need.

You leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “Oh Curtis, so big.” Nipping on his jawline and breathing in against his skin. It was a comforting feeling, your lovers hands so possessive holding onto your hips and the way he grew, hard, how whole body rigid just from your touch. He had the power over you, and you had the power over him, and how you loved giving him this kind of bliss, when the world would narrow between the two of you, just for a little while.

Dragging your tongue along the pulse of a vein in his neck, just a little more pressure, a little more friction causing his deep rumble from his chest making you squeeze your thighs together excitedly. He had rumbled frequently in a similar fashion when he was eating you out as a man starved, your hands moved up from his erection to tug on his pants. It was then another voice called your name out, the tone stressed as it searched you out. Your eyes lifted to meet Curtis, and his darkened gaze snapped in frustration, cursing out. “Son of a fucking bitch... “ The tight grasp he had on your bare hips loosened and went to tug his jacket wrapped around your body closed to cover your nakedness, and he moved to sit on the edge of the bunk you two just happened to be occupying to block the majority of the view behind him.

Curtis rubbed at his head, and his gaze sought out the woman further down, looking and asking for you, pausing at random people, her words hurriedly rushed only to meet with shaking heads and shrugs. He could tell she was a bit scared, a bit panicked. Great. Behind him, your hands slipped on his back as you curled up behind him, looking over his shoulder to see the same thing he did. “Curtis we have to help her” Your words were soft in his ear, and for once he wanted to ask, why? We dont know her... But instead he barked out a “Hey! down here” and she rushed to you two. “Oh thank god... please, its my son. I dont know whats wrong with him.”

You can see the panic riddling her face, how could you say no. “Of course, give me five minutes... Kathy, right?” you say, your hands still rubbing against Curtis back to calm him, you could feel him still on edge from playing earlier, from getting interrupted again. Kathy nodded and you smiled reassuringly. “Bring him to the medic area, Tonya might be there.”

You watched her rush away and you nuzzled Curtis neck, kissing softly before puling away to put clothes on, Curtis fell back, cursing once more under his breath. “I swear to fucking god, one day were going to have a room, with a fucking steel door.” That made you chuckle softly as you clasp your bra back on and tug on your shirt, moving to lean over him and nipped his lips, mummering against them. “Why steel? To keep everyone out?” you pulled back away to grab your panties and pants to tug them on. He smirked as he tipped his head back further to watch you, flashing him a nice glimpse of your ass, the wiggle making him rub his palm against his chest, spiking his heart rate. “Keep them out, maybe keep you in more like.”

That caused you to arch a brow at him and move over to the edge, sitting next to him to put your boots on. “Good luck with that handsome.” you shake your head while leaning down to wrap the shoestring around the boot a few times and tie it in the front, then double knotting it. You straighten out and pat his chest. “But you can try, I will let you have that.” Your about to get up and his hand catches you gently.

“I will be by in a few, m’kay?” He pulled himself up to sit, and looked behind to grab his shirt he had ditched earlier. Nodding as you go to a stand “Take your time, Im sure its nothing. We will pick this up later, dont think Ive forgotten I owe you a little something something” You teased as you got up and left him. Curtis watched you head down and groaned as he reached behind to get the coat you were wearing earlier, wrapping his hand in the still warm fabric, shrugging it on with a soft smile just for himself thinking of how much you had enjoyed yourself. Giving a slight whistle that was out of character for him, he went to go check on another matter.

Entering the medic area, you reach your hands into a bucket of water and give them a quick scrub, looking over at your patient. His face was drawn, dark circles under his eyes and his hand was pressed against his stomach. You are sure to smile at the boy when he looks at you, and you go to kneel before him so your level with him. His mother, Kathy fretted nearby, but you focused on the boy.

“Hi, my names Y/N” you hold out your hand as you would with any adult to shake hands. He glances at it a moment, and slips his smaller one in yours. Giving a pump, you drop it. “Your mom tells me your not feeling good, wanna tell me about that?”

His hand went back to his belly, and he took a deep breath, turning green, the look of being about to vomit crossing his drawn face. Oh damn! You move to get back up and take his hand. “Over here quick” You lead him to the sink and he drops his head in. Your hand rubs his back while he gags into it, Kathy coming up behind the two of you. “Jacks been that way all day, there isnt even anything left for him to toss.” You nod and once the boy finishes heaving under your hands, you bring him back to sit down on the edge of a bunk. “How long you been feeling this way Jack?”

He looked so dejected before you, humping forward a bit as he leaned his hands on either side of his legs, pressing them against the mattress, and his shoulders pulled in and together. “Since last night...”

“Did you eat or drink anything unusual Jack?” You questioned while searching him, your fingers brushing along his face, searching his eyes, feeling his forehead. He felt warm, but that could be caused from him just upchucking and heaving. Giving a shake of his head, you eased him to lie down. “You eat just your protein bar, did someone give it to you or did you pick it out of the wagon?”

“No mom got it for me” Which Kathy nodded to confirm.

“Its just easier if I go then having him wait in line, they know Im a parent so the guards dont give much of a fuss when I take two or three bars. It was just like any other time, I grabbed two off the top.”

Listening, you turned back to Jack and had him open his mouth to see if it was discolored. Afterwards you secured a bucket to be near the bunk, you had suspicions as to what was going on, how easy would it be for them to mess with there food and water supply. Certainly not wanting to cause Kathy to panic, you pull up a blanket around the boy. “Kathy, stay with Jack and I will be right back” Excusing yourself, you looked both ways trying to figure out where Curtis was, biting your lip in indecision until you saw him heading your way. Twisting to head his way, the smile on his face was a rare occurrence and you didnt really want to take it away. “Hey babygirl, just coming to see you.”

“Curtis, we got a problem I think.” You pull him off to the side for a second of privacy, spitting out what you walked into, getting to the last part.  “I think they are putting poison in our food”

“Well hold on, are you sure Y/N? I mean, so far its just the one case.” He frowned, rubbing the back of his neck. “If we think our food is getting poisoned, its going to cause panic.”

Maybe you were jumping the gun, your arms folding over themselves and you glanced back towards the medic bay, biting your lip. You could be over reacting. The moment of indecision was soon taken away from you, Curtis could see that it was a battle behind your eyes, and his fingers grasped your chin, making him look at you.

“Wait a few days and see if there are anymore cases. If there is, then we will discuss as a group with Gilliam.”

You nodded, of course. It made sense not to cause a panic.

@curtisbbq​ @what-is-your-plan-today​ @jtargaryen18​ @p8tn0lish​ @stardancerluv​ @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123​ @official-and-unstable-satan​ @thatweirdwalangpake @imanuglywombat​

[neocity-sarai]

“Love in _____” series

❀ chapter 4: reader x jeno

❀ friends to lovers

❀ alerts: fluff, tinge of angst, language, suggestive, making out

❀ song rec: “somebody to you” by the vamps ft. demi lovato

Just splendid. The moment you had stepped onto the streets outside of the Los Angeles airport, you groaned at the piece of gum that clung to the bottom of your new high tops- a going away gift from your parents. They were overjoyed that you’d be interning at one of the biggest independent film studios as a makeup assistant- even more than you were. In your free time, you’d read magazines about the year’s top 20 cosmetic brands and brush techniques that were applied on Hollywood’s biggest celebrities. Some of your friends claimed that being a makeup artist wasn’t being an artist in itself. To you, it was the exact opposite. Makeup had the power to beautify and transform even when the canvas was already beautiful. 

So far, you didn’t feel the excitement yet. The air smelt foggy, grey clouds hung above the city in a clump, and you taxi driver had no interest to indulge in your conversation at all. You sat in the back seat, gazing out the car window as you watched the city blur past you. You passed the Hollywood sign that perched on it’s mountain and the palm trees that lined rodeo drive- cars parked on every meter of the block. As your playlist shuffled on, you couldn’t believe you managed to make it to California by yourself. 

After your taxi driver dropped you off at your air b and b, you settled yourself in the studio space: a cozy bedroom complete with a bathroom and living room area. Much bigger than your room back home, you didn’t complain at all. That evening, you decided to go grocery shopping as you cooked an adequate meal for yourself- excited jitters bouncing in your stomach. Tomorrow would be your first day at the studio. You promised yourself you’d give it all you’ve got. 

“Where is Matthew?!”

You stare back at a woman who’s dressed in a tight pencil skirt and white button-up as she continues to yell at you, “Are you Matthew?!”

Confusedly, you look around the film warehouse, “No- I-”

She turns to the left of you, stepping around you, “Matthew! You over there! Get on the coffee orders for the screenwriting team!”

A few fairs fall out of the woman’s perfect bun, her chest heaving from yelling, “Are you the new makeup assistant?”

Nodding at her, you speak, “Yeah. I am-”

“I don’t care who you are. Go report to Constance, she’s in aisle 4.”

Just like that, the woman leaves you standing in shock. You had interned with other film studios before, yet they all had welcomed you with soft-spoken voices and smiles. You were in Hollywood now, the epicenter of film and pop culture. It was no brainer that people seemed more abrasive. Eventually, you made your way to aisle 4- the cosmetics department. A girl no older than you stood by a row of vanities that made her darker-toned skin glow in the violet light that radiated from the mirrors. She was organizing an array of brushes, palettes, and hair products as she tied her hair into a loose braid. Black frames cover her eyebrows as they sit on the bridge of her nose, she wears a black uniform.

You lightly tap her on the shoulder, “Uh, hi. Could you point me in the direction of Constance?”

She turns to you, a smile gracing her mauve lips, “Are you y/n? The new assistant?”

You nod, “Yes, that’s me!”

Sweeping her braid over her shoulder, she replies, “Constance is out getting lunch for us right now but I’d be happy to take you around the studio? My name’s Terra!”

Reaching out your hand, you shake Terra’s hand firmly, “I’d love that.”

You ask her, “So what do you do?”

Adjusting her glasses, Terra chuckles, “I’m Constance’s personal secretary. I help train the newcomers, organize her schedule, and book her clients. I’m sure we’ll be working together very often.”

“Thank you for showing me around, I was really nervous when I first got here. Someone thought I was Matthew?”

Terra eyes you knowingly, “Was she a woman about yea tall, office outfit and had a bellowing voice?”

Nodding, you laugh, “Sounds like a perfect description.” “Don’t mind Valencia. She's a handful. She intimidated me until I found out that she just worked for PR. She likes to be bossy.”

As you and Terra breeze through the aisles, Terra gives you a tour through each of the studio’s sections. First was screenwriting and producing, the director’s office, and costume/set design. You continued to keep up with her, people waving to Terra with a bright smile as she told you stories and funny moments that occurred within the departments.

“Don’t tick off anyone from PR, they’ll give you an earful. If you want snacks, go to screenwriting because they like to keep the clients happy and full. If you want to talk to someone about a problem with work, the board office is over there.”

Nodding along, she leads you to a set that rests in the corner of the warehouse. Your eyes trail over the numerous light stands and propped up green screens, wires scattering like a web on the ground. With a blurry flash, a boy comes into view. When you look up, you don’t expect to be met with such a handsome boy. He wears a pair of black dress pants and a flaming red jacket, his dark auburn hair gelled back. You take note of the sharpness of his jaw and the way his features harden in the spotlight, “Terra! What’s up?”

Terra socks a punch into the boy’s arm, “Jeno, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

Terra turns to you, her eyes motioning towards Jeno before he smiles at you, his eyes curling into crescent moons, “Who might you be?”

You barely choke on your words, “H-hi, my name’s y/n..”

Jeno extends his hand to you, you feel the texture of his callous fingers on your skin- a blush creeps onto your cheeks unwillingly. He’s still smiling at you, “My name’s Jeno. Welcome to Sunfire studios.”

Terra bumps her elbow at your arm, “Y/n’s gonna have to go through the whole process just like the old days.”

Chuckling, Jeno runs his fingers through his dark hair, “We did it, everyone’s gotta I assume.”

Terra places a hand on Jeno’s shoulder, “Well, we’ll leave you to your project. See you, hotshot.”

“Later, Terra. Good meeting you, y/n. See you around?”

You nod a little too quickly, “Yeah-right- Jeno?”

Jeno grunts in agreement before disappearing behind a set of double doors by the green screen. Terra tugs you along, her eyebrows wiggling, “So, what did you think of everything?”

You chuckle at her, “Everything seems great. I'm really excited to be here.”

Terra eyes you, “Any burning questions you have for me?”

At first, you try to decide against it. With a random surge of confidence, your question comes out in a sputter of words, “N-not that it’s my business but are you with Jeno?”

Terra raises her brows suggestively, eyes widening, “Really?”

You squeak, “Uh, yes?”

Terra bursts out into violent laughter, “Jeno and I are just good partners- we’re friends. Plus, I’m more into girls anyway.”

You breath hitches in your throat, “Oh.”

“What, don’t seem like it?”

You wave your hands in the air at her, “No! No, it’s not that. I just thought seeing you two, you were-”

A sinister smile creeps onto Terra’s face, “I see what it is. You have a crush on Jeno, don't you?”

Shaking your head wildly, you almost manage to spit in her face, “No! I- that’s not it!”

Terra gives you a slap on the back as if you were old friends, “Not to worry- every newcomer experiences a crush on Jeno.”

You pause, “What’s that mean?”

Terra pushes up her glasses again, “Be careful if I were you. Being here for 3 years, I’ve seen Jeno break a lot of hearts without him meaning to. He’s not a play boy or an asshole. When girls confess their feelings to him, all he can talk about is his dream of becoming the best film-maker and how he won’t let anything get in the way of his dream- including romances.”

Gulping, you nod, “Right- I was just wondering.”

You try to ignore the sinking feeling in your heart and the momentary butterflies of a boy you literally just met. What were you hoping for? You too, weren’t at Sunfire for distractions either. Terra puts an arm around your shoulder, “Jeno spends his time trailing after the directors like a love-sick puppy, you’ll only have to work with him for a short time. I want to see if you can break the string of girls who fall for him.”

You nod at her, “Right, I won’t lose my focus.”

A smirk graces Terra’s lips, “Time will tell.”

When you make it back to the cosmetics department, you finally meet Constance. She’s an African American woman, her jet-black curls bounce over her clothed shoulder when she hands Terra a bag of takeout. Terra speaks first, “Constance, this is y/n- the assistant.”

Constance turns to you, her irises glinting with glee, “Ah yes! Welcome y/n! If you ever have trouble with anything, don’t hesitate to contact me alright?”

Nodding, you smile at her, “Thank you so much. I’m happy to be working under you.”

“Yes! Yes! Now, eat!”

After lunch hour was over, you found yourself sneaking glances at Jeno when he’d talk to Constance. You were given the task of sorting the new and expired makeup from the storage room, not the job that you’d hope to have. Still, you were grateful that Terra and Constance were kind to you. Rummaging through boxes of eyeshadow palettes, you hear a voice from behind you. You see Jeno lean his body against the closet’s door frame, “Working hard y/n?”

You fall back onto your butt from your crouching position, “Jeno- don’t sneak up on me like that..”

Jeno laughs, his thin lips stretching across his face, “Sorry, I’m on break right now.”

“You’re good. How’s the project  going?”

Jeno’s contorts with surprise, “Terra told you about my project?”

“Well, not specifically? just that you are working on something for the directors?”

Visibly, you watch Jeno let out a relieved sigh, his hand placed on his heart, “Oh good. Yeah- the directors gave me a film assignment to do. I’m taking a while because my creative juices have been stunted.”

You reply back to him, “Why is that?”

Instead of answering you, Jeno grumbles as he bites his lower lip, “The assignment is difficult is all.”

“Maybe I can help?”

In front of you, Jeno waves his hands in front of you refusingly, “No, no. I must do this on my own. Otherwise, I can’t give my 100% effort.”

From behind him, you hear Constance yell at Jeno, “Jeno back to work! Break time’s over!”

Jeno flashes a toothy grin at you, “Have fun sorting through expired makeup y/n.”

Scoffing, you smile, “Have fun doing whatever secret assignment you have.”

“Later, y/n.”

Like that, Jeno walks back to his corner of the warehouse- leaving you in the dusty closet alone as you sigh at the numerous boxes you have yet to go through. 

A week later

Constance and Terra make sure to debrief you of everything that’s happening at the studio today, a line of investors are working with Sunfire Studios to arrange some kind of agreement. You try to avoid the cold eyes of the burly men dressed in freshly-pressed suits as they pass the makeup department by. You swallow the lump in your throat from the intimidation. Terra whispers in your ear, “Those guys can’t ever control their temper, I always hear them screaming at Mr. Stevens.”

You flick your eyes back up to Terra, “They would scream at the director?”

Nodding at you, she frowns, “In the film business, everyone’s critical of everyone.”

Cautiously, you and Terra clean the makeup brushes in order to lessen Constance’s load- you hadn’t seen her all day as she was sitting through grueling meetings with the other departments. Suddenly, you spot the investors exit out the door as they grumble to themselves, rolling their eyes. 

“Do you think the meeting went well?”

Terra tuts, “Based on their faces, I don’t think so. Be prepared for Mr. Stevens to be snappy for the next week.”

Conveniently, you hear Mr. Stevens bellow his voice at Jeno, waving his hand around, “You call this good work?! You’ve been off your ball game Jeno! At this rate, how can you make films if you can’t put together a measly project son?!”

Terra looks up from her brushes, “There he goes again.”

“Shouldn’t we step in? Is it okay for him to yell at Jeno like that?”

Shaking her head, Terra sighs, “No, it’s best to leave them be. It’s always like this, Mr. Stevens is trying to teach Jeno the ways of the industry. Jeno gets frustrated for a few days and then he works too hard until he faints.”

“That’s not healthy?”

“No, but it works for Jeno.”

Though you hadn’t known him for long, you couldn’t help but feel concerned. You watched Jeno storm out of Mr. Steven’s office and out the back door, slamming it out of anger. You want to help him, to comfort him. Terra’s hand on your shoulder, stopping you, “Don’t anger him further, let him cool off a bit.”

Closing your mouth, you go back to work. Like that, another day passes by and when you lay on your bed at night, you still think of Jeno. 

In the morning

“Terra! Y/n!” 

You step beside Terra, taking in every piece of Constance’s instructions. Constance guides a younger girl into your view. Constance continues, “Today, we will be participating in the creative pitch meeting today. Here is the film we will be working on and the makeup looks that production has asked us to do. If Mr. Stevens doesn’t approve, we will be sat out of this production. This is our only shot.”

You nod determinedly, “Let’s do it.”

Constance motions the girl to come forward, “This is Mr. Steven’s niece- she will be helping with small tasks and observing.”

Terra flashes a bright smile and a thumbs up, “Welcome to the team kiddo!”

You add, “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Timidly, the girl tugs on her blonde ponytail, “Blair..”

You squeeze her hand, “Want to help me test out lipstick shades Blair?”

Reluctantly, she runs over to you, a laugh drifting out of her lips after you lift her on to one of the chairs that sits in front of a vanity. Constance smiles, scratching her chin, “Terra, do you mind coming with me? I need you to help me get some of the fabric samples in the costume department.”

“Sure, Constance. You’ll be okay y/n?”

You reply back with a wide smile, “Of course. Don’t worry.”

While they’re gone, you receive a text from Constance. 

<12:54 PM (Constance- Sunfire Studios): hey y/n. Can you get started on the hair dye? The actresses will be here a bit early and the hair department is low on staff at the moment. You’ll need A34 in Chestnut Copper, B78 in Licorice Black, and D56 in Electric Blue. Thanks, it'll be a big help!”>

<12: 55 PM: Leave it to me!>

Placing your phone in your back pocket, you run to the storage cabinets and grab the exact colors listed in Constance’s text. You start opening the boxes, Blair staring at you as you work. You try your best to coax her, “So, what do you want to do when you grow up?”

Blair grins at you, gaps in her teeth, “I want to be like you!”

Laughing, you pat her on her head, “The film industry is an amazing place, makeup is a beautiful part of it.”

You also grab bowls in order to mix the dye in, realizing you forgot to grab brushes and spatulas to apply the dye on to the actresses. You smile at Blair, “Sweetheart, I have to go grab some things. You stay here alright?”

She nods, sucking on a lollipop that Constance gave her. By the time you make it back, you see Blair staring at her uncle from farther away, watching him as he directs the different departments. Constance and Terra make it back too, they help you to stir the dyes with the brushes you found. Eventually, you hand it off to the team of hairstylists. Within an hour or so, you hear a woman shriek as if she has seen a monster, followed by an angry Mr. Stevens. He shouts, “Makeup department! Get here now!”

Constance and Terra eye you confusedly, taking Blair’s hand in yours as you lead her towards the hair department. In view, you spot Mr. Stevens as red as a tomato, Jeno standing behind him with a frown on his face. The actress is practically in tears when her hair looks like a sloppy accident- her head covered in brown and blue spots. Mr. Steven’s voice makes you jolt, “Who is responsible for this?!”

Constance runs to his side, pleading forgiveness before Mr. Stevens holds a hand at her, “You and Terra were busy reporting to costumes. I’m asking who mixed the dye!”

Terra stares down at the ground, Constance says nothing. You already feel sweat dripping down your back, your hands feel clammy. Quietly, you whisper, “I did sir. It was me.”

Mr. Stevens breezes past Constance and Terra directly to you, “Who even are you?”

Constance is still pleading, “Forgive me Mr. Stevens, I was the one who asked y/n to do it. It’s not her fault.”

“But it is. If she can’t even mix hair dye correctly then how can she be your assistant? I should fire you right now.”

You cast your eyes down to the floor, tears welling up in your eyes as it blurs your vision. Suddenly, you hear the seriousness in Jeno’s voice. He tightens his jaw, “Sir, y/n didn’t do it.”

He glares back at Jeno, “If not her, then who?”

Jeno points at Blair, “When we were talking with production, I saw her mixing them together while y/n was grabbing supplies. It was out of her control.”

Visibly, it looks like Mr. Stevens will explode. He growls at Jeno, “Are you going to accuse my niece now? A little kid?”

Your voice cracks more than you expect, “No. I take full responsibility. It’s my fault and I accept it.”

Letting go of Blair’s hand, she gives you a sad frown, clutching onto your sweater, “Don’t go-”

“Y/n. You’re off the cosmetics team. You’re fired.”

Like that, you feel the pain of the silence. You feel the sinking of your heart. You hadn’t just gotten there and you failed. What would everyone back home think? The tears start to fall, your cheeks wet, “I will go collect my things.”

You hear Terra calling after you but you wave her off. Once you’re done collecting your things, you burst out the door and into the hot Los Angeles heat- the roads empty of any cars. The dryness you feel in your throat doesn't help when you’re still sobbing- you decide to take the bus home. The bus driver pays no mind to your tears, her eyes focused on the long road ahead. Plopping into the front seat in defeat, you receive notifications from Terra and Jeno but you don’t look at any of them. When you manage to make it home, all you can do is throw your box aside- some of the objects breaking from the impact. When you were told it was hard, you didn’t know that it would be this difficult. You felt like a failure, your dreams of working as a makeup artist withering. After a few hours of moping and crying into your pillow, you think it’s only common courtesy to respond back to Terra at the least.

<4:00 PM (Terra): Y/n? Are you okay? Can we talk?>

Dialing her number, Terra answers it almost immediately, “Y/n?”

Your voice sounds hoarse, “Yes?”

“How are you doing?”

Sighing, you roll onto your side, “Not the greatest but I’m alive.”

Her voice sounds deeply concerned, “Listen, I know I can’t do much to  help but I care about you as a friend and co-worker. How about we go out today?”

Your reply becomes more snarky by the minute, “Listen, Terra- I appreciate the sincerity but I don’t feel like going out right now.”

“Come on, y/n. You have nothing to lose. If anything, at least you won’t have to be yelled at by our boss anymore. Just one night.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Text me at 7!”

With a click, Terra hangs up on her end- leaving you with the silence of your room. You sigh, throwing a hefty punch to your pillow out of frustration. Did you want to go? Fuck it. At this point, there wasn’t holding you back. It’s not like you had to go to work the next morning. 

7PM.

“Yes! Y/n, we’re gonna have the best night of our lives! Let’s get drunk!”

Terra’s voice explodes through your phone speaker, you wince in pain when you feel your eardrum throb. 

“We’ll see, Terra. Just two hours alright? The least I can do is have a good night’s sleep.”

“Deal!”

Within 15 minutes, you see Terra drive up to your driveway, boxy black shades sitting on the bridge of her nose. She’s sitting in a cherry red convertible, her smile brightening, “Get in loser! We’re going shopping!”

Perhaps, you could allow yourself to have a little fun. Though you had just been fired that day, you couldn’t fight the growing smile that graced your lips. You stuck your arms out above you, belting words as Terra yells along with you. The feeling is like being in a coming-of-age film where you’re zooming through rodeo drive to the highway that stretches over the ocean blue, salty air drifting under your nose. Terra cranks up her radio, some Beatles song that you don’t know, Terra belting out the lyrics while you shut your eyes in content- the sun dipping into the horizon. Flowery bushes line the side of the road, the people on the beach look like small ants in the distance. Suddenly, Terra turns down her stereo, “Hey- I hope you don’t mind but I asked Jeno to hang with us. He felt really bad about earlier and I just think he needs to get out more!” 

You widen her eyes at her, “You asked Jeno?”

Terra gives you a suggestive smile, her lips smeared with red lipstick, “Technically, this was Jeno’s idea to take you out!”

Nodding, you whisper, “Jeno did?”

Before you know it, Terra pulls up to a modern-looking apartment after passing the Hollywood walk of fame, goldcast stars lining the road. In an instant, Jeno whisks through the lobby doors and you felt as if your breath had been knocked out of your lungs. He cards his fingers through his mahogany hair, his body fit with black, ripped jeans and a tangerine-colored bomber jacket. His fingers are clad with silver bands, his eyelashes accenting his coffee irises. He smiles at you first, “Glad you could make it y/n.”

You nod, “Right, thanks Jeno. Thanks Terra.”

Terra giggles, “Don’t thank me! Now, I am famished so let’s get some grub.”

You ask her, “Where are we eating?”

Terra jabs you in the shoulder, “Just you wait, I know just the place.”

By the time you reach the so-called place, you now understand why you wanted to be in California so much. Terra expertly maneuvers her convertible up a series of hilled roads, parking on a ledge that overlooks the ocean. Jeno laughs, “This place never gets old.”

You watch him gaze out into the depths below, his hands resting on the railing. The sun casts rays of golden honey onto his hard features, his hair lighter from the effect. Terra yells at you both, “Hurry up guys!”

You’re amazed at Terra’s choice of an establishment. It’s a retro diner that overlooks the ocean, a large neon sign reading: “Jubilee’s Diner.” When you walk into the space, the checkerboard tile extends to the bar area as customers sip on milkshakes piled with whipped cream. The booths are lined with leather that matches the shade of Terra’s car, waitresses zoom past you on rollerskates. One woman approaches you three as she breaks into a smile, picking up 3 menus, “Terra, my girl!”

Terra laughs, motioning us to follow the woman into a booth that sits by a large glass window. Terra scoots in, the skin of your thigh rubbing against the leather seat as Jeno sits across from you both. The woman hands Terra a menu, “I’m guessing you’re looking for Cheyenne?”

Suddenly, Terra’s whole presence lights up, her head bobbing up and down, “Is she in tonight?”

“She is.”

Terra looks at you, “Hey, are you and Jeno okay with hanging out for a bit? If not, I’ll stay. Seriously, I don’t mean to ditch you guys or anything.”

“No, go. We don’t mind.”

You scoot out of the booth for Terra to get out, she practically skips all the way to the backroom in excitement. When you sit back down, you see Jeno chuckle. 

“Who’s Cheyenne?” you ask.

“Terra’s been flirting with Cheyenne since we started coming here. I think they’ll be a thing soon.”

You nod, “Ah, I see.”

After a few minutes, another waitress takes your order as you opt for a strawberry milkshake and Jeno ordering chocolate. For some reason, you had never felt anymore natural with anyone else than you had with Jeno. It felt like time was zipping by, Jeno getting brain freezes before laughing at your jokes. You’d throw a fry for Jeno to catch in his mouth, a moment you recorded on Jeno’s camcorder he brought with him. In turn, he’d film you as you tried to balance an onion ring on your face, your eyes crossing because of it. When you were done, you watched the sun set on the ocean- amarine yellows and watermelon pink clouds fading into a starry night sky. Of course, Jeno recorded that too- zooming on your face even though you protested. You’d swipe ketchup on his nose, Jeno pouted at you playfully. Looking back into the kitchen, you caught Terra and Cheyanne standing in the doorway as they laughed into each other, flirtatious whispers being exchanged. Jeno turns to you, “Do you want to get out of here?”

Nodding, you smile at him, “Best not to disturb them.”

You follow Jeno outside the diner, a cool breezing hitting your face. Jeno looks at you, “Do you mind if I show you something?”

“Of course.”

Like that, you start to climb up the hill that goes beyond where the diner is, cars full of teenagers zooming past you in Jeno. He tells you about his dreams and why he believes that Hollywood is his destiny. He tells you about his family too, how his father was a filmmaker and had bought him a hand-held camera for his birthday when he was a child. You dance along the road, socking your fist into Jeno’s playfully as you tell him about your rambunctious family back home and how you discovered the dream of being a makeup artist for cinema. When you reach the top,  you realize that the Hollywood sign sits on the other side of the hill as the city lights glow in a golden ocean below you. Jeno grabs your hand to help you slide down, your shoes covered in dirt. Finding your balance, you and Jeno sit in front of the letter ‘L’ beside each other. 

“Now this is a view.”

You take it all in, seeing how the lights don’t even end. You feel like you’re on top of the world. 

Jeno smiles at the sight, “This is where I come when I can’t think.”

Jostling him in the shoulder, you laugh, “How many girls have you taken up here?”

You feel Jeno tense, his eyes narrowing, “None actually. You’re the first.”

“Huh.”

Both of you sit in silence, Jeno playing with the rings on his fingers. You can’t think of anything to say. Finally, you jolt at the sound of your phone pinging. Pulling up your messages, you see you’ve received a text from Mr. Stevens. 

It reads: “Hello y/n. Firstly, I’d like to sincerely apologize. It was unprofessional and not good of me to lash out at you this morning as Blair made it clear she was the one who was playing with the dyes. I was the one who asked you to take care of her, it is not in your control. I should have taught her better. I hope you can forgive me if you’d like to come to Sun Studios tomorrow morning and start fresh? I am deeply sorry, no hard feelings. Have a great evening.”

You practically feel your heart drop at the sight, you almost lose grip of your phone. 

“What is it??”

Immediately, your hand flies to your mouth, “Mr. Stevens just gave me my job back! He finally admitted I wasn’t in the wrong!”

Jeno’s eyes are wide before he breaks into a smile, his hands coming up to the side of your arms, “Holy- That’s amazing y/n! But, I knew that already.”

You eye him with confusion, “How’d you know?”

“Because I was the one who proved your innocence. I got Blair to confess.”

Tackling Jeno to the ground, you bury your face into Jeno’s chest, his back flat to the sandy dirt underneath you both. 

“Thank you Jeno! Thank you!”

When you pull yourself off Jeno, he holds you down with his hands, your legs in between his own. You see his dark eyes flick to your lips. You want him to, you really do. Your skin tingles when Jeno molds his hand to your neck, you see a flash of hesitation. The feeling is gone when Jeno removes his hand from your skin, placing it on the ground, “We should go check on Terra. We have work tomorrow.”

You sit back, kneeling in front of him. You’re sure your jaw is wide open, confusion scribbled on your face, “What?”

Jeno places his face in his hands, “Oh, god.”

You can’t control the irritation that erupts from inside of you, “Is this some game to you? You flirt with me all night and then you make me look so eager? Am I fool to you?”

Jeno’s eyes contort with concern, his head shaking, “No, No- that’s not what I meant-”

Getting up from the ground, you begin to climb back over the hill, “No Jeno, save it.”

“Y/n, wait-”

Your anger consumes you. You raise your voice, “Do you know what Terra told me when I first got to Sun Studios?”

Jeno rubs his neck, his brows furrowing, “What did she say?”

You scoff, “She told me that you’re a heartbreaker. Girls flirt with you and then you tell them that you don’t want anything serious so you can achieve your dream.”

You continue, “If that’s so, why did you try to lead me on? I thought we had a chance- I thought I liked you. No, this is a whole joke.”

Jeno visibly sinks behind you, his shoulder slumping with defeat. The whole time you climb back up the hill, you two don’t say a word- Jeno is careful to trail behind you instead of beside you. The car ride back to your place is the same way, Terra droning on about how much she likes Cheyenne--unaware of the tension between you and Jeno. Collapsing on your bed, you replay the dark vision of Jeno watching you and Terra drive away, his eyes longing. 

5 days later

Your way of coping is burying yourself under work and errands from the departments. Eventually, Terra had caught wind of the situation in which you explained to her, the reason why you hadn’t spoken to Jeno in 5 days. Terra’s mouth forms an ‘o’, patting you on the back in effort to comfort you.

“I’m sorry y/n. I don’t think Jeno means harm, that’s just the way he is. He’s a boy who doesn’t know what he wants. Still, he’s been asking me about you.”

“Well, he shouldn’t ask. He shouldn’t use people until he knows what he wants.”

Going home that night, you felt tears stream down your face in frustration. Your pillow feels too hot, your clothes feel sticky on your body, and you feel exhausted from work. You lie on your bed in silence, lazily staring out your bedroom window. You’re thankful that you fall asleep quite quickly, you’d rather not think about Jeno anymore. That’s when you hear a knock on your window at around 2 am, your head still dizzy from sleep. What creep would be knocking on your window? You sit up, only to be met with Jeno’s face pressed up the glass, “Please let me in.”

You jolt, “What the hell Jeno? It’s like 2 am?”

“I’m sorry, I know. I’ll explain.”

Resting your hand on your hip, you motion Jeno to walk into your doorway, leading him to your bedroom. 

“Can I sit?”

You scoff, “Well, now that you’re here.”

Sighing, Jeno rubs his eyes tirelessly before speaking, “I just want you to watch something first.”

You eye him skeptically, “What if I say no?”

Jeno pouts at you, his hair messy and his eyes sad, “Please. I didn’t get heavy eye-bags for this.”

You can’t help but smile. He hands you a USB drive from his pocket, his eyes flickering with reluctance. Grabbing your laptop from your desk, you shove the drive into the port, a video swishing into view. Plopping down next to Jeno, you watch it together. Jeno had edited a video sequence of you working at Sun Studios and the times where you joked around next to him, cuts of him and Terra laughing. The video was sentimental like it had a vintage-y feel, grain filters coating the images. It reminded you of why you came to Hollywood specifically.

“Jeno, it’s beautiful.”

You turn to look at the boy who sits next to you, his hair shades his eyes a bit, “You really think so?”

“Of course it was. It’s extremely well made. From all the sunset shots to the studio, and all of it seems.. magical?”

“I’m glad you approve because this is what I’ll be entering in Mr. Stevens’s film festival contest.”

“Wait- you what?”

Jeno smiles at you until his eyes form crescent moons, “You heard me. This is the piece I’m entering.”

“But why?”

You feel Jeno’s hand creep over yours, “Do you know what the assignment was?”

Shaking your head, you wait for him to answer you. “Mr. Stevens asked all the contestants to make a film about someone that would make them see a new perspective. Someone that they like.”

Your heart beats out of your chest at Jeno’s words. You’re sure your knees have turned into jello- did Jeno just admit that he likes you?

“Jeno, I don’t know if you-”

“Y/n. Here me out okay? When I first met you, I saw how passionate you were. I saw how you helped Terra and the makeup team tirelessly without rest and I got scared. I thought that liking someone meant I had to give up my focus on my dream. I was wrong.”

You don’t say anything. Jeno leans closer to you, his breath hitting your face, “I was wrong. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Leaning your forehead on his, you close your eyes. “Are you sure you want this?”

You hear Jeno hum in affirmation, “I’ll support you and you me, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Jeno smashes his lips onto yours, his tongue coming in too quick before you can register. Pulling away, you eye him before pushing up against him, his lips molded securely onto yours. He tastes like watermelon popsicles, his lips are stained with pink. Smiling into the kiss you ask, “Did you eat something watermelon flavored?”

“Do you like it?”

You close your eyes, molding your lips on to Jeno’s lips once again, his calloused hands holding both sides of your face. When you both catch your breath, you whisper at Jeno, “You better win this film festival, especially since I’m the star.”

He laughs at you, bubble erupting from his throat, “I’ll try my best for you. Still, you haven’t answered my question.”

Slapping him in the shoulder, you smirk at Jeno, “What do you think my answer is?”

“You like me too?”

“Let’s take our time, lover boy.”

Jeno shouts at you when you get up to grab a snack from your kitchen, his figure following you like a lost puppy, “Y/n, come on! Give me another kiss!” 

You were pleased to tell your parents that you were enjoying Hollywood, not only because of your job, but because of a certain boy named Jeno Lee- the vision of his gaze on the ocean engraved in your mind forever. 

[capricornus-rex]

Two Sides of the Coin (13)

Chapter 13: Strange Way of Finding Things | Jidné Sheedra x Cal Kestis

Summary: Hell-bent on exacting revenge and retrieving the Holocron, the dreaded Darth Vader is now on the hunt for the young Jedi Knight, Cal Kestis. Under the assumption that he still possessed the artifact, while fueled by the intrigue of the boy’s strength and skill with the Force, the dark lord hires the bounty hunter, Jidné Sheedra, to track him down and have him delivered alive. However, the task becomes a trial for young Jidné, as she faces a conflict that tests her beliefs of a scarred past she had hidden for so long.

A/N: This was supposed to be a full-length flashback chapter but I looked at the word count and I just-- 😳😵😧😬 So I just decided to split it because I don’t wanna drag you guys on with more than 5000 words of a single chapter. I would’ve broken my record average word count 😜 anyway, I hope y’all are ready for the angst

Also tagging: @silver-is-in-too-many-fandoms​ @berenilion​ @justtinfoley​ @stellar-trinity​ @peterwandaparker​ @calgasm​ @queen-destenie​ @calsponchoemporium​ @cal-jestis​ @ayamenimthiriel​ @sweeetteaa​ @fallenjedii​ @superwarsofthrones​

Also in AO3

Tags: Fem OC, Jidné Sheedra, Force-Sensitive! Fem OC, Bounty Hunter! Fem OC, Jedi! Fem OC | Additional (last 2 tags count as TW): Nomara Anesh, Jedi Master! Fem OC, Togruta Fem OC, Jedi Seeker! Fem OC, family separation, separation anxiety

Chapters: 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7 – 8 – 9 – 10 – 11 | Previous: Part 12 | Next: Part 14 | Masterlist

13 of ?

31 BBY

ESHYN, LAU’NON SYSTEM, OUTER RIM TERRITORIES

The clouds clear a path for the Jedi Starfighter, aboard it is the young Jedi Seeker, Nomara Anesh, one of the youngest seekers at only 34 years old.

Her aerial view of the archipelago captivated her as she flew by the land mass. The sapphire blue coastline surrounded the island, high mesas with a vast carpet of grass framed the formation while the torrential waves kissed the rigid rock faces with its ivory-white seafoam and mist.

It was simply breathtaking.

Though it saddened her that the Trade Federation has begun to press its ugly thumb into this tropical masterpiece. Prior to her visit, Nomara did her reading on the planet, its current political and economic state as well. She has always been the curious one amongst her batch—said her former master—thus resulting to her inquisitive upbringing.

“There it is, Evy,” Nomara peered through the side window of the cockpit. “Sa’Junna: where we need to be.”

She afforded another pass above the main island, searching for a safe place to land with the assistance of the astromech droid.

“Do you see anything, Evy?”

The droid, EV-65 or Evy as Nomara personally nicknamed it, chirped in excitement, equally as captivated as its Jedi owner; the droid popped out a tiny satellite from a small hatch on its dome head.

The young woman managed a smile at her droid’s happy trills, but something stirred within her as she approaches the island. The closer she got, the swirling at the pit of her stomach became stronger—though, it didn’t alarm her because she doesn’t sense anything wrong with it; nevertheless, whatever the Force was subtly telling her, it intrigued her.

“Bee-beep!!”

“Great job, Evy. Override the landing cycle now,”

“Beeep-doo!”

It took Evy a few seconds before relaying the area coordinates for a safe landing area to Nomara’s dashboard. A virtual map of the island flashed and a green blip blinked over the center section of the land mass. The Jedi followed the lead and managed to dock her ship in between the capital and a village half a mile away from each landmark. The droid remained on the ship while Nomara dismounted the vessel.

The city of Sa’Junna was developed by a civilization of old, and then later cultivated and nurtured by the past generations until the current one. Having grown and thrived for countless millennia, a great majority of the residents were humans, but other humanoids like Twi’leks and Nautolans have migrated to this idyllic sanctuary. The place appeared to have seen better days priors to the Trade Federation’s occupation.

Nomara could see the bustle of trade in the city, it wasn’t as grand as Coruscant or Naboo, but the prosperity is evident.

Upon alighting her starship, she was promptly greeted by a tall stature of a human male with a greying beard that covered half of his olive-skinned face. He gestured with open arms, welcoming the Togruta, while subtly keeping a tinge of caution in his words and actions.

Nomara bowed slowly and solemnly in greeting.

“Welcome, traveler. What is it that you seek in our already-disturbed home?”

“The exact disturbance you speak of, friend.”

The tribe leader introduced himself as Sentuk Nirmo, he governed one of the villages that networked with the main city—where most of the trade transpires. Seeing that Nomara bore better will than the Trade Federation’s emissaries, he invited her into their settlement where they could speak openly within closed walls. As they walked, Sentuk briefed Nomara of their situation.

“At first, they wanted the metal. But when they found the deeper caverns, that’s when they’ve completely sucked our mines dry! The Federation has robbed us of our own homeland.” Sentuk grieved, and then added. “They barricaded the Yishen Strait—our main trade route—from civilians and real traders. Since then, business has been slow for many of us.”

Sentuk’s voice trailed off when he noticed Nomara subtly panning her head left and right, as if searching for something. The Jedi apologized for zoning out, the tribe leader dismissed it as a fascination towards the planet as well as exhaustion—and so he invited her to their settlement. The Togruta follows the Sentuk into the village; along the way, he explains that each village has a leader which then comprises the council. With every step, the faint trace of the Force that Nomara has picked up gotten stronger.

Sentuk presented his humble home, it seems that the Federation has already left its mark in this village along with the others surrounding the capital city—Nomara looked around and found children playing out in the open, whilst weavers make baskets and rucksacks out of their looms for the hunters to store their game, other residents tend and plow their modest vegetable gardens and orchards.

“It seems so peaceful here,” Nomara’s smile faded as instantaneously as it appeared. “But I sense the distraught in these people.”

Sentuk hummed in agreement, recalling his grievance of their overall predicament. Nomara’s brows pulled together, she closed her eyes for a moment to detect that trail she’s picked up.

“There’s something else,” she mumbled so quietly that Sentuk barely heard.

The Togruta blinked her eyes open and the first thing she saw was a small girl watching the other children play—she looked like she had just learned how to stand and walk. Forgetting that she stood with the tribe leader, Nomara approached the child slowly until the girl acknowledged her with wide, quiet eyes bursting with curiosity.

She knelt down to level with the child, she offered her open palm, and without a single ounce of hesitation the toddler placed her pudgy hands on the vibrant red-skinned palm of the visitor. Their eyes met, Nomara’s heart leapt for a reason she can’t explain, her lips involuntarily curled and by impulse, her fingers folded around the soft, tender hand.

“Jidné!” a melodic voice beckoned from the cottage.

Both Nomara and the child turned to the direction of the voice, it was the mother. Nomara slowly hoisted herself back to her full height, when the mother stepped out of the doorway of their home, two more little girls followed behind her—presumably the little one’s older sisters—but they kept themselves close by the skirt of their mother, intrigued and at the same time shy of the unusual-looking visitor.

“I’m sorry, I just…” stammered the Jedi softly. “Your daughter.”

The mother flashed a friendly smile, “Yes, what about her?”

“She’s strong with the Force. For someone so little, she carries a significant amount of it within her.”

The woman immediately got the hint, she’s heard the stories, though this is the first time she’s met one in the flesh. Her eyes wandered to the waistband of the Togruta’s robes and spotted the silver hilt shimmering, dominating the neutral colors of her clothes.

“You’re a Jedi, aren’t you?”

“Yes, my name is Nomara Anesh,” the Jedi bowed her head briefly as soon as she uttered her own name.

“My name is Tymara Sheedra, I see you have met my little Jidné,” the woman peeked over the backside of her skirt, spotting her two other daughters, she introduced Krea and Maryn—aged eleven and eight respectively. The girls greeted the Togruta who beamed a gentle smile at them as she returned the gesture.

Nomara clarified that she was a Seeker and stated her purpose to Tymara, the Togruta’s emotions synched with the other woman’s—that friendly smile reduced into a poker face and then replaced with a blank smile.

“Um… Why don’t we talk inside? I just finished making supper,” Tymara invited the guest into her house, who politely obliged despite the tension.

The single-storey cottage was quaint, although each room was cramped and limiting to a number of persons inside. The kitchen was in the same space as the dining table—which lacked chairs and had woven cushions and mantles in its place. If one is to peek a little bit to their right, they could see the bedroom—the girls’ beds were thick-enough cushions each sitting atop a wooden frame, whilst the parents’ bed is settled on another side of the room; the only thing distinguishing the “rooms” was a wooden divider panel.

Nomara wagered this house couldn’t fit any more family members, Jidné would be the live marker of the home’s limit. She settled herself by the table—across where she sat, the three girls played in a small space that only fit them perfectly without needing to duck or crouch, the two older sisters watched with great fascination as Jidné lift a doll off the floor without touching it, Nomara watched intently along with them.

Tymara offered her a bowl of broth and bread on the side.

“I’m really sorry about our house. It’s not exactly much, isn’t it?” Tymara initiated quite apologetically, poking the bits of meat in the soup.

“I don’t mind,” Nomara awkwardly chuckled, parroting Tymara’s nervous poking before scooping up a spoonful and then bringing it into her mouth.

“What is it that you Seekers do?”

“We search the galaxy for Force-sensitive children. We bring them to the Jedi Temple in Coruscant and then train them into becoming Jedi Knights like myself.”

Tymara bit her lip and gawked emotionlessly at her food, it took her a good minute before she started to touch her food again. She spoke again, but didn’t face Nomara when she did.

“Have you come for her?”

The Jedi’s head perked to the mother, Tymara let the bottom of the spoon float above the soup—sensing her fluctuating appetite swirling together with the anxiety slowly eating away her mind; Nomara inhaled deeply, ceasing to touch her food to find the right words to say.

“Not specifically. I didn’t even know it was her until I… well, found her. The Force—or perhaps the universe—has a strange way of showing things we need to see when we least expect it, no matter how difficult it is to accept the signs.”

“And this Force… showed you to my daughter?”

“It would appear so,”

“Are you going to take her from me?”

“I wouldn’t force it,” Nomara replied somberly, as if understanding the grief of separation. In a way, she has felt that in one way or another.

There was silence, even the girls have purposefully hushed their voices and giggling to secretly listen to their conversation between the guest and their mother—even the little, two-year-old Jidné followed suit of her sisters.

“Eshyn isn’t what it used to be anymore, this was my home, and my husband’s, and our parents…” Tymara mumbled, watching her daughters resume playing. “We thought the Federation would make us prosper—because that’s what they promised us. You could imagine how stupid we all felt when the Trade Federation delivered the perfect opposite of what they told us. Ever since then, life has been hard for all of us. Especially the children—even if they don’t see it that way, at least not yet.”

Nomara understood Tymara’s sentiments, after all, she is a mother just looking for out for children and wanting what’s only best for them. The collective giggling of the girls was the only thing that warmed the abode today.

“Where’s their father?”

Tymara’s clasped fingers tightened around one another, she breathed deeply and bit her lip before she spoke a word.

“I lost him to a mining accident… because they wanted more metal. That’s all we ever heard from them. More metal. More work. More yields.”

“I’m sorry,” Nomara averted her gaze to the food that had now gone cold.

Little Jidné approached the table, specifically to Nomara’s side. She waddled towards the Jedi, the baby stared and studied the vibrant indigo patterns of the montrals while feeling its texture; then her pudgy paws found the tassel of turquoise beads that framed the side of the Togruta’s face, mistaking it for a toy. The two women giggled, endeared the little one’s innocence as Jidné continued to lightly swat the accessory and watch it dangle, immediately and easily entertained. Eventually, her sisters joined in and bombarded the Togruta with questions of wonderment—to name a few, they asked her where her species lived, if the white patterns on their faces were actual skin or tattoos, and how long can their montrals grow.

Nomara is simply overwhelmed by the cheeriness of these three girls combined, but the unexplainable lightness of Jidné prevailed. She knew it was the girl’s Force energy, but also the purity of her heart and spirit.

Tymara smiled at the sight of her youngest daughter getting along too easily with their visitor, but it was a sad smile—in her mind, she was already arguing against herself for the betterment of her youngest. With the occupation rendering them dirt poor and being a single parent, she had to make the toughest decision of her life. It took Tymara the entire evening to let it sink into her and toughen herself up even though she’s already falling apart because of their economic state.

By sunset, the entire village was rattled by the presence of the Trade Federation emissaries and their guards—a small unit of battle droids. What barred them from taking a step further into the settlement is Sentuk, with his warriors and hunters united to making a barricade out of themselves to protect their home.

“Not one step further!” Sentuk bellowed.

“I am sure you are aware of your settlement’s dues, old man,” the Neimoidian official flapped its trouty lips at the tribe leader.

“Your demands do not have a single drop of realism in them! You demand large yields over a short period of time, not even the manpower of two villages combined can make that quota,”

“Yeah, with what you’ve done with our mines—that quota is ridiculous!” added a spear-wielding warrior standing beside Sentuk and the men behind them murmured in agreement.

“Is your brain smaller than what it appears?!” taunted another man in the barricade, the joke was received differently from each party.

Vexed and provoked, the Neimoidian emissary raised a finger at Sentuk.

“I have given you more than enough time for that quota and you have failed me once more! I told you what would come to you should you not do what you are asked!”

A hasty wave of the hand prompted the guards to aim their rifles at the people making up the human barricade, the people in the village shrieked in fright—many of which have already retreated into their homes but peered through their windows. Nomara, who had been observing the sour exchange between the leader and the slimy emissary, rushed into the scene a split second after the command to fire has been given—killing off five of the men already and fatally wounding Sentuk after being shot in the side of his stomach.

“Jedi!? Here!?” the Neimodian screeched in a panic.

All of the villagers completely retreated into their homes—including Tymara and the girls—while Nomara aided the warriors in eradicating the battle droids, leaving the empty-handed emissary standing amongst the pile of dead clankers. Completely befuddled and frightened for his life, Nomara had him at swordpoint.

“I… I didn’t give the order! I’m just a messenger…!” he whimpered and his sheer terror had unconsciously dragged his legs to make him run away, leaving the wake of the ruined droids behind him.

When the tension eased, Nomara quickly turned her attention to the wounded Sentuk. A group of people have already gathered around him.

“Bring him to your healer, quickly now!”

The group carried their leader by the feet and underneath his arms, they briskly brought him to the cottage of the village healer while Nomara caught her breath and examined the droids’ remains. She felt the gaze of Tymara piercing right through her, she found the mother and children huddled by the doorway after the skirmish; Nomara saw the sad, disdainful sigh of the mother as she herded her children back into the house again.

After tucking the girls to bed, Tymara joined Nomara who was overlooking the coastline; the ocean breeze made the ladies’ robes and skirt billow wildly above the grass. There was a voiceless banter between the women, as if they have already began this conversation in their minds and linked it to each other.

“Will she be taken care of?” Tymara blurted.

Taken aback by the question, Nomara turned her head to the mother and stared at her for a long moment, unaware that her lips have parted due to the surprise. She turned her eyes back to the ocean slowly being devoured by the evening’s darkness.

“What?”

“Jidné. If you bring her with you, to become a Jedi, will she be taken care of?”

“Tymara, a Jedi’s hard life is a hard life,” Nomara shifted her body to face Tymara. “Jidné will have to grow up facing a lot of dangers as she grows up if she comes with me.”

Tymara bitterly chuckled, more of a nasal exhalation than an actual laugh, “Better than scratching the earth for her next meal. At least I know that she lives fighting for something honorable.”

“What about you? And Krea and Maryn?”

“We’ll manage. They’ve already learned how to loom and tend farms, they know their craft well. But for Jidné, well…” Tymara licked her lips. “This will always be her home, but I know she’s made for something greater. I just know it. You can never underestimate a mother’s intuition.”

Nomara smiled, although sadly, mostly for Tymara and the girls. Having nothing more to say, the two of them continued to look into the horizon, finding an individual sort of comfort underneath the pale blue moonlight.

“No, I suppose not.”

That night, Tymara snuck upon her sleeping daughters, but fixated her eyes on the youngest—plump cheeks squished against the pillow, her round and supple belly rising and falling as she slept, and her twitching eyelids made Tymara wonder what the little one could be dreaming of. She knelt down by Jidné’s bedside, her hands smoothly glided over her soft head and fine head of dark hair, and leaned forward to kiss Jidné’s forehead—it was a long kiss, and even after she pulled her lips away, the roundness of the baby’s cheek perfectly fit the curve of Tymara’s nose bridge, inhaling Jidné’s infant scent.

The woman bit her lip as she battled with her tears. It’s going to be a long night for Tymara.

Nomara watched from the open doorway, arms crossed with each other, there was a heavy gloom around the house that suffocated her—not even sighing deeply helped. She retired to the space in the bedroom that Tymara had personally fixed up for her.

In the morning of their departure, Tymara held her youngest daughter for the final time and rocked her as if putting her to sleep. Her sisters, as well, bade their own tearful goodbyes to their baby sister, ceaselessly riddling her plump cheeks with kisses and leaving tears stains upon her skin—in a way, Jidné is lucky that she is unaware that this is the sorrow of parting.

Tymara nuzzled her cheek against Jidné’s smooth forehead. One last embrace and a kiss buried into the crook of the child neck; with her eyes closed, she imagined how Jidné would grow up to be—but she’s completely certain that she’d grow up to be a strong, courageous woman—and she painted a mental picture of how her daughter would look like once she’s come of age.

In a prayerful solemnity, Tymara whispered all of her wishes for Jidné to Jidné herself—be strong and brave yet remain kind, wise, and gentle; make good friends with the other children if she meets any; listen well to the instructions of the elders; and most importantly, listen to her heart.

Tymara savored this last moment, Nomara was kind enough to give all the time she needs—the Togruta passed the time by prepping her Starfighter and doing the necessary maintenance checks before takeoff.

“I love you… I love you so much, my darling girl,” Tymara feigns a brave face. She held Jidné right in front of her, then Jidné’s pudgy hands caressed both of her cheeks, and that’s when she lost it—tears streamed down her cheeks, wetting the child’s tiny fingers.

The true, final embrace and kiss from her mother before Jidné is transferred to the arms of Nomara Anesh.

“You have my word. She’ll be treated well.”

“I know,” muttered Tymara quite weakly, rubbing her arms together to whisk away the cold goosebumps pelting her skin. “I know.”

Tymara watches her daughter walk away in the arms of the Togruta. She watches a part of her heart and soul shrink in the distance, unaware eyes looking over the shoulder of the Seeker and back into the grieving eyes of her mother. Tymara’s hand flinched into a short-lived wave and quickly brought them to her lip, biting into her fingernails until her daughter has fully disappeared in a ship with Nomara and out of Eshyn.

[ciarawritesmarvel]

baker’s dozen - [bucky x reader]

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: like it’s just fluff i don’t know what to tell you

A/N: I’m in such an autumnal mood and this is the result of that. As always, let me know what you think and I love you all v v much :)

masterlist in my bio and tags in the reblog! please drop me an ask to be added to any tag lists!

---

September 1st - the first day of autumn. And incidentally, one of your favourite days of the year.

In the bakery, the swirling smell of pumpkin and cinnamon was thick in the air and there was a rising heat from the ovens that forced you to shrug off the oversized cardigan you’d worn to work this morning. There was definitely flour on your forehead, you could feel the niggling sensation, but there was so much flour and batter on your hands and forearms that any attempt to remove it would only make the problem worse. If you took a breath through your mouth, you could taste the rich dark chocolate.

You grinned, and took a deep breath through your mouth.

“Knock knock!” came an all too familiar voice, along with a knock on wood that really would’ve done the job without the verbalisation.

You grinned regardless and rushed over to the side door to let the voice in.

“Happy autumn!” you exclaimed happily upon sight, arms stretched wide in both a gesture and an invitation for a hug. Bucky laughed.

“Happy autumn yourself,” he said back, far more mellow as he moved inside and hugged you to his frame with one arm, the other carrying something that you had to step backwards to see.

“Is that-?”

“The finest hot chocolate in all the land? Why yes it is. Special drink for a special day,” he said, handing you the packet and you thanked him profusely, walking over to load it into the hot chocolate machine.

“You want one now?”

“I’ll make one for the both of us,” Bucky explained, heading over to the whiteboard and reading the schedule you’d written on there, with the times of everything in the oven so far and everything yet to be baked, “You’ve been busy already I see?”

There was a hint of worry in his tone, as there always was when he got to work on time and found that you’d been in for a few hours already. You waved him away, wiping your hands on the towel over your shoulder.

“I couldn’t sleep anyway, thought I’d come in and get a headstart. You know excited I get about today!”

“I do, doll,” he chuckled, grabbing his stripey apron from the peg, the peg that had his name written in glittery gel pen above it, upon your insistence. He made the hot chocolates in record time, threw in a few marshmallows and swirled an expertly crafted swirl of cream on top, “For the lady.”

He handed it to you with a flourish and you took it with a grateful thanks, taking an immediate sip and laughing as you felt yourself gain a cream moustache. Looking at Bucky and seeing he had the exact same one left the two of you in fits of giggles, until you winked at him and licked away the cream.

Bucky gulped.

A hop back over to the board and another glance at your schedule had him getting to work on the snickerdoodles that you had been about to start on.

You switched your attention to the maple cupcake frosting that had to be made for the current batch cooking away in the oven. Just as you were adding a splash of water to the mixture in one of your industrial sized bowls, you felt Bucky’s presence behind you and smiled as you turned to him.

“Can I help you?”

“That’s exactly what I was going to ask,” he grinned, holding up a cloth and your eyes narrowed suspiciously to which he simply rolled his eyes and said - “Hold still.”

He moved closer with a single step. Lifting the cloth to your forehead, he paused for long enough for you to stop him if you wanted to before he gently wiped away the flour on your head, with soothing circular strokes and eyes that sparked with concentration. Your gaze flittered downward and you briefly noticed his teeth grazing his bottom lip before you forced yourself back up to his eyes.

“There,” he said softly, almost sweetly and you smiled up at him only briefly before he’d gone and the warmth that came with him went too. Probably a good thing, you reminded yourself. This kitchen was already warm enough.

You continued with the frosting and Bucky resumed work on his snickerdoodles. A quick check of the clock told you there was an hour until opening time. You were only a little behind schedule.

“How quickly do you think we’ll sell out today?”

“I’m going for a record two hours,” Bucky replied, using a cookie cutter on his snickerdoodle mix.

“That would be amazing!” your voice betrayed your excitement, “I suppose it depends how quickly we can get through the queues.”

“We get quicker every year, Y/N,” he reminded you, “This is going to be our best September 1st yet, I just know it!”

You knew, somehow, that he had turned to you and so you glanced over your shoulder and grinned at his hopeful expression.

September 1st may not have been a big day in most calendars, but it was one of the biggest in yours. Every year, you and Bucky closed the bakery on August 28th, took one day off entirely and then set to work preparing for the new Autumn Opening. You removed all of the pastels, iced teas and fruity flavours from your menu and started fresh with warm spices, hot beverages and freshly baked snickerdoodles. It was a quick turnaround but one you loved nevertheless.

Autumn was the best time of year.

It meant coming into work in cozy jumpers, but no cumbersome coat, with a styrofoam cup warming chilly fingers. It meant reds, oranges and yellows came alive within the display counters. It meant cinnamon and chocolate lingering on your tongue throughout the day from that bit of batter you couldn’t help but try.

Just as you were getting into work mode and blocking out everything around you, even wistful thoughts of fall, music began playing from the radio in the corner and you didn’t need to look up from your work to know who was the culprit. The soft sounds of the 1940s did that for you.

“Music helps me work,” Bucky said by way of explanation and you shook your head fondly.

“I know. And you know that as long as it’s soft and slow, I’m all for it.”

Bucky made a show of twirling around to you and squeezing your shoulder before twirling off to his end of the kitchen. You didn’t look up at him, because you were concentrating, but also for fear of looking too fond or glancing too furtively, a fear that often plagued your mind as of late. The fear that any look in his direction might betray you, that any glance might let him know.

On the other hand, what with your hopeless obliviousness, Bucky was given free rein to glance with the reckless abandon of a man in love for the first time in a very long time.

The former Avenger had fallen in love with his new lifestyle almost as much as he had fallen in love with you. After a few years of being one of Earth’s mightiest heroes, Bucky realised he hadn’t given nearly enough time to being one of Earth’s actual citizens. So, with Steve’s hearty blessing and Tony’s gift of a modest apartment in the heart of Brooklyn, he set out on his own for the first time in his life and learned how to live a normal life.

It was about a month into this normal life that he met you.

He’d been walking along the street, an early morning walk he often took to get him out into the world, dreadfully hungry and too far from home to simply wait. A distinctly sweet smell came at just the right time and without much of a second thought he was entering the bakery and came face to face with...nobody. He took a longing glance at the array of cakes and biscuits on display then edged further into the shop, looking around for anyone who may be in charge.

All of a sudden, you popped up. Quite literally, as you appeared from behind the counter, pushed your hair back into place and put on your best smile, which ended up only looking 60% manic.

“Hello! Welcome to Baker’s Dozen! How can I help you?”

And somehow, Bucky couldn’t help himself.

“Are you okay?”

You blinked, the question completely taking you by surprise. You quickly collected yourself though, to your credit, and deflated before his very eyes.

“Well, no. I’m just having a bit of a breakdown-” you looked back down at the floor longingly as if you wished you could get back down to it and the thought crossed his mind that you might have been lying down on it, defeated. You quickly bounced back though and your customer service ready smile returned in a flash, “-but it’s nothing to worry about! Can I get you something?”

But Bucky was far too immersed now to go back. As he looking back on the memory now, he realises that even then his subconscious had noticed the kindness of your smile, however tired it was, and he could see the beauty of your past features in his minds’ eye. Though he would never have known it then, he knew now that he had been incredibly attracted to you, almost magnetically so, and it was that which drove him to push the conversation.

“You want to talk about it?”

“...Really?”

Bucky shrugged. Leant an elbow on the counter.

“I’ve got nowhere to be.”

You hesitated, wondering whether or not to confide in this total stranger of a customer, one that you’d never even seen in your bakery before, but whose eyes betrayed a person of trust, a person that seemed vaguely and pointedly familiar.

“It’s just that - well, my new hiring called this morning to say she no longer wanted the job, on the day she was supposed to start,” you laughed, hollow and empty, a laugh of someone who feels they have nothing left to laugh about but needs to laugh anyway, “So unless you know a keen amateur baker, I’m afraid there’s no point in talking about it.”

You sighed, raising a hand to your face and rubbing down it with a harsh touch.

And it didn’t take Bucky long from there to awkwardly offer up his services, for a peg to be cleared for his apron, for him to up to his elbows in cupcake batter in the back kitchen with a recipe by his side and you floating in and out from out front.

Nothing much had changed since then. And it had been three years.

You were still the main face at front of shop, with Bucky coming in and out with fresh batches and special smiles for regular customers used to seeing him around. One difference was that you now knew where you had recognised him from, of course, but none of his past was even a slight concern once you’d tasted his brandy snap recipe. You’d been joined at the hip since, an inseparable pair, an unstoppable team, a force to be reckoned with.

Having a former Avenger around only helped your business flourish, anyway.

You finished your final swirl of frosting with your piping bag and carried the tray out to the front of house, already seeing a small line of people outside the door fifteen minutes early. The mere sight made you grin and run back into the kitchen.

“There’s already people, Buck!” you nearly squealed, running over to him and jumping on his back, laughing at his little sound of indignation at the action. He quickly regained his bearings though, and spun on the spot until you fell from his back and back onto the floor, feet stumbling slightly and he held out a hand ready to steady you just in case.

“That’s great, Y/N,” he said sincerely, his smile radiating, “I think we’ll have a couple of high profile customers this morning too.”

He waggled his eyebrows and you hit him on the chest as you giggled. Bucky often called in a few of his Avenger friends on new season opening days, just to create a buzz and add to media attention. At first, you resented it, not wanting to use him for fame or anything of the like, but when you’d been assured that they actually loved what you two baked anyway, you didn’t mind so much anymore.

The renewed energy helped you to carry all the baked goods you’d made this morning and over the past days into the front area, arranging them neatly in cabinets and windows, exchanging waves and smiles with those you could see waiting in line through the glass out front. Bucky finally took his fresh snickerdoodles out of the oven just in time and brought them in, filling the room with the smell of sweet cinnamon and you helped him arrange them on a specific section you’d left empty especially.

“Finally finished,” you muttered happily, startling just a little at sudden arms encircling your waist from behind and a firm chest pressed against your back. Your breath hitched.

“You have no idea-“ a little content sigh in the middle of your sentence as you shuffled your head so it sat comfortably against his chest, “-how glad I am you asked me if was okay three years ago.”

“Well, I could hardly let you lying on the floor slip past me.”

“You could have. But you didn’t,” you replied happily, squeezing his forearms and turning around in his hold. You were far too close to him to be doing it, but the excitement of the moment and the tenderness held after tears of such close friendship made you throw caution to the wind as you leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, lingering more than you should, “Love you, Buck.”

He paused. You were already moving on, pulling away from his hold to go over to unlock the door, not wanting to acknowledge the moment for what it was and he decided to go along with that. He smiled fondly to himself. One day.

“Love you too, doll.”

The customers began flooding in and Bucky spotted Nat and Sam in the throngs of the crowd. He shot them a quick wave and a smile, turned to you to do the same then cracked on with the job at hand, contenting himself with his loving glances of reckless abandon for now.

[maraudererasmut]

Black and White (Part II)

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

Part V

Part VI

Part VII

Part VIII

Part IX

Part II:

Remus stood in front of a piece of art, plate in hand, filled with cubes of cheese and assorted crackers. He stared intently at the brushstrokes, the way they danced across the canvas, the texture of the paint. There was intention to every stroke, every line, every point where the brush kissed the canvas. It was purposeful.

"What do you think of it?"

Remus glanced to the side, where a young man in an expensive looking suit had sidled in beside him. Remus raised an eyebrow and smiled politely, taking in the man's appearance. He had rich mahogany skin, almost a burnt umber. It took a cool tone in the stark gallery lighting, but had a hint of redness just beneath the surface. The man had dark hair, a warm black, just a shade lighter than his suit. He was wearing a burgundy tie with yellow ochre stripes, matching his completion perfectly. He had red-framed glasses that sat on the bridge of his nose, ever so slightly askew. When he grinned, the man flashed a set of ivory teeth, perfectly straight and sparkling in the light.

"It's nice. You didn't paint it, did you?" Remus responded with a grin. It was Remus' own little joke, funny only to a particular few who had the same odd sense of humour as himself; nice was never used as a compliment.

The man returned the smile, russet eyes gleaming with something akin to excitement.

"If I said yes?"

"Then I'd tell you that your work is lovely and congratulations on the gallery show." Remus nodded, keeping his feigned confidence.

"And if I said no?" The man asked, a twinkle in his eyes and a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Then I'd tell you the work is adequate… for a contemporary piece of abstract painting. It's a pity that it's been done a thousand times before." Remus finished his thought with a grin of his own.

The man let out a sharp laugh, garnering the attention and glares of other patrons of the arts. Remus chuckled along, happy to have met someone who didn't take the art world so seriously. 

The man thrust his hand forward, grinning from ear to ear.

"James," he said, beaming.

Remus smiled and grasped the man's hand, giving a firm handshake. 

"Remus."

"Pleasure to meet you, Remus."

"Are you an artist?" Remus asked, trying to glean more information from his newfound acquaintance. James laughed again, running a hand through his already messy hair. 

"Me? No. Not even a little bit. I couldn't paint to save my life!"

Remus gave a casual shrug, glancing around at the other pieces of art on display in the gallery. 

"You don't have to paint to be an artist."

James shook his head with a playful sigh.

"Alas, I was born without a creative bone in my body. My wife, on the other hand…" James nodded towards the artist statement located next to the painting.

Remus felt the colour drain completely from his face as he realized James' implication, immediately regretting his decision of engaging the stranger.

"Oh, I am so sorry— " Remus began.

"Don't be!" James laughed, giving Remus a playful nudge with his elbow. "She hates this one, too."

"But I— "

"Honestly! She was gonna toss this one, but Sirius insisted on using it for his exhibition. Matched his aesthetic, apparently."

Oh.

James and his wife knew Sirius. Sirius Black. Owner of the gallery and curator of the show. Perhaps if Remus asked, he would be able to convince James to facilitate a meeting for him. 

"Oh!" James' exclamation interrupted Remus' thoughts. "I have to go. Sorry for cutting this short. It was a pleasure meeting you, Remus. I hope to see you around." 

Remus flashed James a well-practiced smile as he shook the man's hand, internally regretting not asking more about Sirius. As James disappeared into the crowd, it dawned on Remus that he had forgotten to exchange business cards with the other man. He groaned as he popped a cube of cheese into his mouth, mentally berating himself for his terrible networking skills.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a voice called from across the room, and Remus glanced up from his plate. "And everyone in between... I would like to welcome you here tonight, to the opening of Black and White."

The man who was speaking was unlike any person Remus had ever seen. He had alabaster skin that looked like it could have been carved from marble for all its perfection. A chiseled jawline, cheekbones so sharp, they could cut steel. His eyes were a shade of silvery blue, the exact colour of the sky on a perfectly stormy day, deep and expressive and frustratingly unreadable. He was wearing a navy blue suit with fabric that shimmered slightly in the light, paired with a tie that matched his irises. The man had long, dark hair, tied back in a slick ponytail, a brush expertly dipped in a bottle of ink. Remus couldn't help but admire this man who captured the attention of the entire room, his presence captivating the audience, radiating remarkable power and grandeur.

"As many of you know, this project has been in the works for some time now. Our exhibit, Foreshadow, is a perfect representation of things to come, of what you can expect to see from the gallery in the future. So, without further ado, enjoy the wine and the food and most importantly, the art!"

A round of applause broke out amongst the audience as the dapper man gave a dramatic little bow before turning away and greeting some of the gallery patrons. Remus couldn't help but stare as the man clasped James' shoulder, a bright smile flashing across his face. He shook the hand of a woman who wove her arm through James', presumably his wife. 

All three of them radiated light and joy, a warm glow surrounding them as they talked and laughed, greeting one another with broad smiles and kisses on the cheek. Standing alone by the edge of the room, Remus couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy. He longed for the types of interactions that these people had, the types of lives that they led. Living in the lap of luxury, these upper-class people had no worries, not a care in the world; they were able to follow their passions and have the security blanket of financial stability to catch them if their plans failed. 

Remus finished his plate of appetizers and turned towards the door. Today had been long enough, he didn't need to make it harder on himself by dwelling on things that could never be. 

"Remus!" A voice called out, right before he had reached the exit. He turned around to find James waving to him, a gregarious smile spread wide across his face. He beckoned Remus over and after a moment's hesitation, Remus decided to join the trio.

"Remus, this is my wife, Lily. She's the one who did that painting you were admiring." James gave a playful wink as Remus felt his chest tighten from embarrassment. 

Lily was tall and slender, with auburn hair that cascaded down past her shoulders. Her pale skin was dusted with freckles, Pollock-esque and surprisingly alluring. She had emerald green eyes, shining with the same depth that a real gemstone would, sparkling facets each releasing a different shade of brilliant green. Ruby read lips were parted in a genuine smile as a flush of pink spread across her cheeks.

Lily groaned and rolled her eyes before offering her hand for Remus to shake. 

"Please tell me he's not referring to the one near the entrance," she said, her smile never wavering.

Remus grasped her hand and shook it before responding.

"I had been looking at it earlier—" Remus began, unsure of where that sentence was headed.

"I can't believe Sirius put that one on display! It's wretched! It's so… derivative. It's been done a million times before. I think this idiot just liked the colours."

Remus smiled, grateful for Lily's honesty and humility. She was the type of artist that Remus could see himself working with.

"Speaking of this idiot," James said, turning to the person that Remus assumed was the illustrious gallerist. "Remus, this is Sirius Black. Sirius, this is Remus. We met while discussing art."

Remus extended his hand to Sirius, keeping his smile polite and professional, despite the sense of awe and terror threatening to bubble out. Sirius shook his hand, a confident smirk playing at his lips.

"A pleasure," Sirius said in his posh accent, his stormy grey eyes endless pools that Remus found himself sinking into. 

"The pleasure is all mine," Remus offered before tearing his gaze away.

"What is it that you do, Remus?" Sirius' question made Remus' heart skip a beat. This was his chance. The opportunity fell right into his lap, presenting itself on a silver platter. 

"I'm an artist, actually." Remus' cheeks were beginning to ache from his forced smile, but he kept it up. "I've been looking for the right gallery to show in for some time now."

"Well then," Sirius responded, his eyebrow raised ever so slightly, the corner of his mouth turned up. "You'll have to stop by with your portfolio at some point. I'd be remiss if I didn't give James' friend an opportunity to show me his work." He put a particular emphasis on the word friend, as if he was entirely aware of the fact that Remus and James had only just met a few moments before.

"That would be amazing, thank you!" Remus had to strain to keep the excitement from his voice and remain calm in front of the gallery owner. 

"Excellent. In that case, I'll see you around, Remus." Sirius turned, gave Lily a kiss on the cheek, patted James on the shoulder, and went about mingling with his other guests. Sirius' lips wrapped around Remus' name hung precariously in the air, filling Remus up with a sense of— something— he didn't quite know what.

"Thank you," Remus sighed, feeling eternally grateful to James and his kindness.

"It was all Lily's idea," he said, flashing his wife a look of admiration. "She's the mastermind in this family."

Remus turned to thank Lily, but she cut him off before he could even begin.

"You're welcome, Remus. It was a pleasure meeting you. I hope to see you again soon."

As the couple walked away, Remus couldn't help but stare at their backs in disbelief. 

Did that really just happen? Had Remus actually just connected with one of the most influential names in the London art scene after a happenstance conversation with a stranger? As he walked back to his flat, the memories of the night replayed through his mind, over and over again, wondering how on earth he got so lucky. 

[rosmarinys]

touch like a balm

dedicated to @panesars bc she’s lovely and helped me out with this and is also lovely love u dear. also this is a pushing daisies au yes agshsjsjs

"So, I bring can bring back the dead, but I also run a bakery, and I feel like the latter should get more attention, if I'm completely honest."

//

or the one where Ash runs a bakery, Dotty is trying to be the world's greatest private eye by cheating, and Iqra just wants to know what's going on.

read on ao3

chapter one – love like a wound, love like forgiveness

 Ash’s shit day goes like this: Dotty gets her another job, Keegan pesters her about bills, Callum and Bobby break a plate and Iqra dies.

It’s a lot.

//

 “Bills for you,” Keegan greets, leaning against the doorway to his office.

“You know, when I made you the manager, it’s because I didn’t want to deal with any of the managing part of the bakery,” Ash says, tying an apron around her waist. It’s so early in the morning that she doesn’t even want to know the exact time and she can still feel the imprint of her bed beneath her back, and she knows better than to close her eyes for more than a second after the last time she fell asleep standing up, elbow deep in dough.

Keegan snorts. “And yet we are partners, so I need your thoughts on what exactly we need for the next stock.”

Ash sighs but nods and runs their stock through her sleep-riddled mind. “Um, we’re running low on raspberries I’m sure. Strawberries, definitely, we’re down to the last ones today and I’ve been making less strawberry pies because of it. I had to give Dotty a cranberry pie yesterday and she threatened to never come back again.”

Keegan doesn’t look up from the list he’s making but he snorts. “Oh, how grateful we would all be for that. She re-organised all of my files last week, did I tell you?”

Ash chuckles. “No, you didn’t. What exactly did she do?”

Keegan does look up now, pad of paper and pen tucking underneath his arms as he crosses them as a frown flits across his face. “I had everything how I wanted it, everything was filed in terms of likability –”

Ash laughs, pausing in her weighing of flour in order to clap her hands before clasping them over her mouth. “You’re kidding. I thought you were joking when you said you were gonna file everything like that! Keegan!”

Keegan gestures wildly, a reluctant grin stretching his lips. “It works, ok? Or worked. Like, Ian is at the back of my third filing cabinet because he’s a Tory, and I remember that, I remember putting it there and thinking, fuck you. It was a good system!”

Ash giggles, absolutely delighted, and Keegan bites down his bottom lip to try and stop his own laughter. “Ok, ok. So how is organised now that Dotty has ruined everything?”

Keegan rolls his eyes and says with as much venom as he can muster, “Alphabetically.”

Ash laughs louder this time, her head shaking from side to side. “Ridiculous,” she grins. “You’re absolutely ridiculous.”

“But, that’s not all! She left a note on my desk with a charge for her ‘services’,” Keegan throws his hands up for air quotes, only making Ash giggle harder.

“Well, did you pay her?” Ash asks, picking up her flour again.

There is a pause.

“…Yes,” Keegan grumbles and Ash can’t help chuckling to herself, pulling a bowl of the last strawberries closer. “This is mutinous. You’re showing blatant favouritism to someone outside this partnership. I’m pretty sure I could sue based on that.”

“Oh, shut up,” Ash says and flicks flour at Keegan, watching Keegan duck to dodge getting any stains on his suit, setting her off giggling again.

Keegan turns to go back into his office, after a long death glare which Ash replied with a sarcastic blown kiss, but instead does a full circle to face Ash again. “Oh, meant to say, Chantelle and Gray vow renewals are next week, if you wanna come?”

“Oh, I- I thought that’d be a family event,” Ash replies, carefully, fingers frozen over a rotten berry.

Keegan doesn’t hesitate when he says, “Yes.”

Ash smiles at him. “I’d love to,” she says and watches Keegan smile back at her, his face like the setting sun.

He leaves and Ash touches the berry and watches it turn a glossy red, alive again like the rot had never existed.

 //

 This is how it is: Keegan has known Ash the longest. She remembers purple crayons and standing on stools with flour all over their face and staining their clothes while they watched Karen baked, babbling in a way that only seven-year olds can as Karen listened attentively.

They are all fuzzy memories, as though she is viewing them through rose-coloured glass, but she cherishes them all the same, cradles them in her heart like old relics of times when she felt sturdier on her two feet.

Some memories are clearer: her and Keegan, crouched over dead flies, a swatter in his hand and a stopwatch in her’s, her reaching out and touching one of the bugs and them watching in wonderment as it comes back to life, her finger pressing the stopwatch, timing how long she can do this, how long she can reanimate the dead. A minute later, a dragonfly dropped from the sky in front of them and Ash had turned to Keegan with wide eyes.

“This is-” Keegan said, face bright with child-like wonder, “Ash, you’re like a comic book character!”

She had grinned and they’d both ran inside his house, shouting happily to Karen that they had something cool to show her.

(Later, Karen would sit them both down and make them promise not to say anything about what Ash could do, that this had to be a secret between the three of them, and didn’t all superheroes keep their powers a secret, anyway? Just look at Superman, eh? Even later, Suki would scrub flour from Ash’s skin, and snipe about how she had ruined her clothes, tutting about how Ash couldn’t enjoy a cleaner hobby, like reading, just like she did when she was a girl.

But, for only a moment, there was only pounding feet, a rush of air in their lungs and their hands clasped together.)

 //

 “Got a job for you,” Dotty greets, tossing a folded sheet of paper onto the counter, not an hour after Keegan disappeared back into his office.

“You know, we invented the word ‘hello’,” Ash replies, exasperated with the company she keeps, not looking up from the dough in front of her. It’s sticking to her fingers and she reaches for more flour.

“Hello, I’ve got a job for you,” Dotty deadpans and Ash grins as she starts kneading.

“Bit busy here, what’s the job exactly?” Ash asks, gesturing with her bag of flour to demonstrate her point. Dotty scowls and picks up the sheet of paper.

“Middle-aged man turned up dead in the Thames, shot to death,” Dotty summarises, shoving the paper back into her pocket. Ash whistles and Dotty nods. “Exactly. Drama. And where there’s drama, there’s money.” She grins.

“My condolences to his grieving family of course,” Ash adds, giving Dotty a pointed look.

“Of course,” Dotty parrots. “His grieving, twenty-grand-paying family.” Ash raises her eyebrows, Dotty grins wider. “Drama,” she repeats.

“Well then, sounds eventful. Any witnesses?”

“Nope.”

Ash sighs. “Ah, never is. That’d be too easy, huh?”

Dotty waves a hand in front of her. “We don’t need easy. We have you and you’re – y’know,” she wriggles her fingers, spookily.

“Stop that,” Ash says, considering throwing a berry at her as she starts to fold her dough into a tin. “Also, did you re-arrange Keeagan’s files?”

“Yup,” Dotty replies, popping the ‘p’. “They were a mess and I refuse to let the company I keep be sub-par.”

“Right,” Ash chuckles. “And it has nothing to do with Keegan finding you your perfect office?”

“Yes,” Dotty replies, instantly. “And, also, I made him pay for my organisation, so. It’s not, a thank you or whatever.” Ash hums, unconvinced and Dotty scowls and turns her head to the side, staring at all the cutlery and plates stacked on one of the counters, her face flushing pink.

Ash takes pity on her and changes the subject. Dotty’s shoulders are getting too tense beneath that big woolly jacket she wears, the one that is several sizes too long so that it dwarves her frame, and Ash would rather be able to choose the music on their ride to the morgue. “Well, we can meet once The Pie Hole shuts at six, and head to the morgue, then?”

Dotty frowns and crosses her arms, face still a pale pink but Ash pretends not to notice.. “How come your bakery is more important than my detective business?”

“Because you can solve crimes without me, The Pie Hole can’t bake pies without me.”

“Then that just shows that you have a bad business model, doesn’t it?” Dotty smiles sweetly and Ash flicks some flour at her as well and watches Dotty duck the exact same way as Keegan did.

With a dirty look, Dotty heads towards the entrance. Ash doesn’t ask how Dotty got in considering the front door was locked and it’s five in the morning, simply assuming the answer is something that she can sleep better at night not knowing.

Ash goes back to kneading her dough and thinks about twenty grand and dead men.

 //

  This is how it is: Ash has powers. Well, a power. She can bring the dead back to life. There are rules and Ash spent most of her childhood figuring this out. One touch brings something back to life. Second touch, dead, forever. If someone is brought back for more than a minute, then something else dies, the balance of life and all that.

She uses it often now (in a way that some may view as cheating in the Private Eye business, but Dotty simply views as using the gifts given to you for good, though mostly money) but she remembers trying not to use it during her teenage years. She had felt like a god of death, the balance of deciding who should live and die a heavy weight on her shoulders but then –

(car, Kheerat, glass, bone, blood blood blood.)

there are always exceptions to be made.

 //

 There’s a loud crash in the sitting area and Ash sighs from the kitchen as she pulls a raspberry pie out of the oven.

“Sorry!” Bobby and Callum call and she sees them crouched over what used to be a plate when she comes through with a broom.

“Don’t touch it, you’ll cut yourselves,” Ash says, shooing them away and starts brushing up the mess.

“Sorry, Ash,” Bobby says, eyes wide and sad. “Callum was trying to get up and I bumped into him, you can take it out of my wages –”

“It was just as much my fault, I wasn’t paying attention, I’ll pay for it,” Callum interrupts, reaching for his wallet.

“It’s no one’s fault, it was an accident,” Ash says, gesturing to the now clear floor, the smashed plate all in her dustpan. “See? No harm done.” She can see them physically holding back from insisting again when she raises her eyebrow at them. “Well? Scatter.” She waves her broom at them mock-threateningly and watches Bobby smile weakly and turn to serve another customer whereas Callum lingers for a second. “Something up?”

Callum blinks. “Oh – sorry, it’s nothing, I just –” He sighs and sits back down in his stool at the front counter. Ash circles behind it to put the smashed plate in the bin and braces herself on the counter in front of him. He smiles at her weakly. “I have my job interview today and I’m scared I’m gonna screw it up.”

“Ah,” Ash says, nodding in understanding. “Well, listen, I’ve never met someone more qualified to be a paramedic, ok? So, just, deep breaths and trust yourself.”

Callum smiles at her. “Thanks, Ash. You’re a good friend.”

Ash smiles in return. “Oh, it’s nothing. I’m just speaking the truth, here. Also, you’ve saved me more than once. Nutmeg in my rhubarb pies? You really saved me with that.”

Callum chuckles bashfully and it’s a warm sound. “I-Well, it’s nothing. My mother, she-she made them like that.” He turns his head to the side, his fingers tapping restlessly on the counter.

“Well, she was a smart woman,” Ash says, expression soft when Callum glances over at her.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Yeah, she was.” They stay there, quietly, for a moment then he smiles at her again just before he leaves and when she looks down, she sees he’s left a five pound note on the counter, doubtless for the broken plate.

Ash smiles as she picks it up, already planning on giving Callum his next slice of pie for free.

 //

 This is how it is: Callum is a regular at The Pie Hole, his smile a constant companion to Ash whenever she places her pies in their display shelves, ready to be served.

He always orders a slice of apple pie and never leaves a tip less than three pounds, sometimes he leaves behind a napkin with a doodle on them of a dog on a skateboard and blushed down his neck when she’d asked about it, revealing that the dog was the main character in a comic he had made for his nephew.

(Ash had once forgotten her apron at The Pie Hole, and when she’d returned to get it in the small hours of the morning, she’d found Callum sat outside in the rain, his clothes soaked to his skin, clutching a baby’s blanket in his hands.

He’d stared at her blankly when she tried to speak to him but he went willingly when she dragged him into her bakery and sat him in a booth. She’d forced his hands around a warm cup of coffee in order to warm them up, but his grip was lax and so they sat with her hands cupped around his.

His skin had felt like ice and he only spoke once to murmur his nephew’s name before falling silent again and Ash had felt her heart in her chest splinter.

What was the point of having this power if she can’t save her friends from grief?

Callum doesn’t draw on the napkins anymore but he leaves bigger tips.)

  //

 The man on the table is dead, purple bruises stark against the placid white his skin has become. There are multiple holes in his chest. Ash checks the tag around his toe to avoid looking inside his grotesque wounds. Jack Branning, it reads. The name sounds familiar, but Ash can’t quite remember why. A horrid thought occurs to her, one where she might have once served this man at her bakery, might have known him when he was alive and now all she will remember is how he looked dead. It leaves goosepimples on her arms, even underneath her denim jacket.

“Well, let’s get this show on the road, yeah?” Dotty says, folding her arms in front of her chest. There has been a time in which Dotty would have made comments and digs at the victims’ wounds but even she has tired of it, especially after one of the victims had been a girl who revealed she’d been stabbed to death by her father, something that had left her looking as white as the corpses surrounding them.

Ash glances at her watch and waits for hand to reach twelve before tapping Jack lightly on the shoulder. The result is immediate; Jack shoots up and stares at them in shock, eyes blinking too quickly and chest heaving with breaths he doesn’t need. He opens his mouth to speak, and no noise comes out, his hands reaching up for his throat, fingers pressing into the purple left on his skin.

Dotty groans. “Great, now we need to play twenty questions.” Ash can hear her rolling her eyes without having to turn around. This happens too often, sometimes the victim’s windpipe is so damaged that they can’t speak properly. Once, Dotty left after three cases in a row with strangulation involved and Ash heard her groaning and moaning the entire time it took her to leave the building.

“Was it a man or a woman?” Jack stares at her blankly, so Ash tries again. “Mr Branning, you were murdered. Was it a man or a woman who killed you?” He doesn’t answer, instead looking around the room, at all the other closed cases in the morgue. She wonders how jarring this must be for someone, she wonders if there actually is an after-life or if it feels like a second has passed between shutting your eyes and opening them again to two women making weird requests. This is not the time to think about such things though, so she tries a different question. “Jack? Where they young or older?”

He turns back and starts gesturing with his hands, miming writing something down. Ash hears Dotty scramble for her notebook and pen while Ash feels the clock tick tick ticking. There is one second left until the hand hits twelve again when Ash taps Jack on the shoulder again, his body collapsing into the table he’s on, his fingers bent over the notebook he’d scribbled onto.

“Well, let’s hope this is good, considering we’ve got fuck all else out of him,” Dotty mutters and reaches forward. Ash sees what’s written when Dotty brushes Jack’s fingers asides and takes her pen and notebook back.

One word. Mitchell.

 //

 This is how it is: Dotty is more wolf than girl, dressed in plaid pinafores or ripped jeans, always with that dark woolly coat thrown on, so big that you can only see the tips of her fingers poking out the sleeves. She kicks her feet lightly when she’s sitting down and bites her nails down to the quick and spins a thin ring around her pointer finger, all while grinning with teeth.

Dotty caught Ash one day, having just brought a stray cat back to life, and showed up at the front door of The Pie Hole the next morning with a glint in her eyes and a business proposition.

“Can you bring back people too?” She’d asked and Ash had only nodded. Her smile grew wider. “Well, I was just thinking about how much easier it would be to solve murders if the victims could up and sing, huh?”

(They’re a good team, Ash thinks. Dotty’s a neon light in your veins, a fast-paced race-track that stills beneath Ash’s fingers when she touches her, like a live-wire finally finding a fuse.

Dotty looks at her like that sometimes, when Ash calls her a friend, as if she’s just woken up, like she’s been dead this whole time and Ash brought her back with a simple word.

She falls asleep on Ash’s couch sometimes, drowning in that big coat, finger’s twitching on that ring, face soft with sleep.

Ash pulls her duvet into the living room and sleeps on the rug next to her, seized with the urge to not let Dotty be alone, even in her sleep.

Dotty’s never said anything about it, but she always lets Ash borrow her eyeliner the next day.)

 //

 The rain makes her skin feel numb, even under her clothes as they become soaked and stick to her. Ash wonders briefly if this is how Callum had felt, feeling out of his body, The Pie Hole sign a beacon glaring through the noise.

(It had been an inside joke, you know. The Pie Hole. Keegan had whispered it as a joke when they were ten and Ash had proposed they run a bakery like the one she had seen on holiday once, both of them curled up in sleeping bags on his living room floor.

It feels like a million years ago, memories of sliding around in socks and running down streets till the soles of her feet felt fuzzy, her lungs too big for her body.)

She’s not sure how much time passes, leaning up against the building across the road from her bakery, thinking about Keegan, and her mother, and bakeries, when –

there is a blare of light that illuminates a figure on the street, a silhouette, before a car crashes into it and the scream of the tires is so awful that Ash thinks she’s in the car herself (car, Kheerat, glass, bone, blood blood blood.)

She stays frozen before she throws herself forward on autopilot, barely processing that the car has sped away and left the silhouette on the road, folded in on itself, purely running on the sharp pain in her temples, the blood in her mouth, power buzzing beneath her skin, whispering you were born for this.

Ash turns them over and sees their face, blood trickling down the side of their head and coating their dark hair. She barely manages a gasp before her fingers touch the side of their face and sees their eyes snap open.

 //

 This is how it is: Iqra Ahmed, on her way home from work, crosses the road without looking up from a text from her sister, and gets hit by a car and dies on impact.

This is how it is: Iqra Ahmed wakes up a minute later, chest heaving and staring up at a blurry face that’s there and then gone. There is blood in her mouth and her bones feel like dust.

This is how it is: Ash Panesar is so fucking tired.

[maandags]

Eidolon (Angel!Keith x Demon!reader) {part v}

*goes into hiding for 23455 years*

– – –

Summary: Keith is an angel, and he’s completed mission after mission for the Upper Hand, the organisation controlling all of the Above. He’s only failed a mission once: when he was assigned to kill you, a surprisingly charismatic demon. He roamed Earth–Middle Ground–for years before he was caught by the Upper Hand again, and things quickly go south.

Genre: angst YEEEET

Word count: 6.2K

Notes: masterlist - {previous} - {next} -- me: *doesn't update for 67 years* *updates* *doesn't update for 67 ye

– – –

And when I fall to rise

with stardust in my eyes

In the backbone of night, I’m combustible

~ King of The Clouds, Panic! At The Disco

– – –

“I got you caramel popcorn.”

You look up from where you’re tying your boots and raise an eyebrow. “Beg your pardon?”

A plastic box filled with the sticky treats lands on the couch next to you. “Caramel popcorn. You like it, right?” Keith runs a hand through his hair and plops down too, giving a small wince. He’s trying very hard to hide the fact that he’s still feeling pretty beat up, but he’s not very good at it. Or maybe you’re just very skilled at reading him.

You cautiously take the box, pop off the lid and pluck one grain from its siblings. “I do like it.” With a flourish, you stick it in your mouth and smile at the sweet taste. “How’d you know?”

Keith looks down. “You probably mentioned it while I was… out.”

Your fingers, halfway down the box already, freeze. “Say what now?”

He shrugs stiffly, the shirt draped over his lanky frame only barely moving with him. He’s lost so much weight while he was sick, and it’s affected him more than he cares to show. He still tires easily, needs a lot of sleep. He gets nauseous faster, and gets dizzy when he stands up too abruptly. Over the past few days he’s been getting better, staying up with longer intervals between naps every time but he still isn’t quite back to normal.

And it’s bothering him. You can tell it’s bothering him. He tries to help you in any way he can, though those aren’t many. You’ve had him buy groceries a few times so you could come straight home from work–but that was often quite late in the evening, and you right now you’re just about to leave for work.

“I keep getting these flashes of memories that aren’t mine. And–well–you’re the only person I’ve talked to for about two weeks, so I figured they were yours.” He gives a nervous laugh. “Well, practically the only person. I’m guessing it wasn’t the grocer who leaked some of his memories into my brain.”

“No. ‘Cause that would be weird,” you say, carefully removing your hand from the popcorn and placing the bucket on the low coffee table in front of you. Suddenly you feel cold again.

“Look,” he starts, and you firmly keep your eyes on the bowl of popcorn, not wanting to meet his, “I don’t know what you did or who you went to for whatever it is that cured me. But I do know that you saved my life, and I’ll forever be in your debt for that.”

“Keith–”

“No, seriously. I don’t need to know everything. That’s completely fine. But I don’t want you to get hurt because you were trying to help me.” And he sounds so sincere, like he means every word, and you look away and purse your lips and tug at your shoelaces because he’s really not making things easy for you.

Whenever you think you finally have your thoughts out in a row, Keith swoops in and says a line like that one and makes everything foggy again. He could have drop-kicked you in the stomach and you would be less confused. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You wonder if he’s doing it on purpose–if he knows you’ve been tasked with a mission that’s nothing short of impossible.

Not impossible in the literal sense of the word. In fact, it would hardly be a challenge at all; Keith’s still weakened and even without your knives you could overpower him in half a second. No, the impossibility of the task lies in a more complicated and nuanced territory: your morals. Your feelings towards him, to be exact, and how much you can ignore them. If you even want to ignore them, and up til now that’s not looking very likely a possibility.

The portal pass Prince Lotor gave you sits untouched in a locked drawer in your nightstand. At night, when the only sound filling the air is the nightlife of the city, you can feel it pulsing beside you, beckoning to be used. It’s tempting you, whispering for your touch, begging to return home. As far as you know, portal passes don’t have expiration dates, but you’re still hoping that the call will eventually weaken until you don’t even notice it anymore.

No, giving Keith up to the Below isn’t an option. But he’s growing stronger every day, and at one point he’s going to leave. He’ll leave, and you won’t be there to protect him anymore, and that means he’ll be fair game for any Bounty out there who caught word of the prize his capture will grant.

And really, you just want him to stay.

You want him to stay because your life has been infinitely more interesting since he showed up. You want him to stay because you took care of him for a week while he was dying, and you’re the reason he’s here, alive, in the first place. You want him to stay because you’ve grown to like him–and because he understands you in a way no one else can.

“I’m not hurt,” you assure him. Your fingers ghost over his briefly before you pull them back to your lap. “I won’t get hurt. I promise.” He gives a tentative smile and you zip your hoodie up over your t-shirt. “Let’s focus first on getting you all healed up, all right?”

“I’m fine!”

“Keith, you tripped over your own shoelace and immediately knocked yourself out. You almost threw up after going out onto the rooftop.” You tug a soft hat over your ears and, after a small moment of hesitation, grab a last small handful of caramel popcorn and cradle them in your palm. They really are good. “I’ll be back this afternoon. If anything’s wrong, call. I might not pick up right away but I’ll call back.”

He sighs, tugs at a strand of dark hair. “Okay. Bye.”

You snatch up your keys and open the door. “Take a nap,” you smile over your shoulder. You don’t stay to see his reaction.

– – –

The day goes by as most work days go by, and you huff out a breath when you sink onto a chair around lunchtime. “I’m taking my break,” you tell Emmie–the real Emmie–and she nods. It had been pretty weird to see her and the others for the first time after the whole Bountyhunter fiasco. You were pretty sure none of them noticed how you stiffened when they’d greeted you first thing in the morning, and even if they had they would probably just think you had a rough day or something.

Your phone buzzes and you jump. Before picking up, you glance at the caller ID. “Hey. What’s up?”

“Oh, did I get it right? I always forget when you have your lunch break,” Allura says.

“You got it right. I’ve literally just sat down.”

“Fabulous. It’s the hospital, you know. Messes with your perception of time.”

“I’ll take your word for it. I wouldn’t know.”

“Nah, you wouldn’t.”

You shake your head, but a smile tugs at the ends of your lips. “Did you just want to chat or did you need anything?”

“Nah, I just wanted to chat. We haven’t talked in ages! And also you won’t tell me what you’re doing or what’s going on or who is staying in your apartment… you know. Breezy stuff.” Her tone is light, but you can tell she’s a little pissed at you for ghosting her, and you honestly can’t blame her.

“Allura… I’m really sorry about that. My life’s just been really messy for the last two weeks or so. I’m working on it, I promise.”

She sighs, and you imagine the way her lips purse as she glares out into the distance. “You know,” she says suddenly, “I think I’ve been a pretty good friend so far.”

It takes you aback, and you choke out a startled laugh. “You have been. I mean, you are. You’re the best.”

“Then why won’t you tell me what’s going on? Maybe I could help.”

You lick your lips, lightly kicking at an empty cardboard box on the floor. “It’s hard to explain. I–it’s–it’s complicated.”

“Right.”

“Listen, I want to explain it. I do. You deserve to know what’s going on, but… I’m afraid of what you’ll think if I do tell you. And I’m afraid–” You only just manage to cut yourself off and swallow the words about to tip from your tongue. You let your head fall back. “Okay. What if we meet up tonight? After work? And I’ll explain what I can, okay?”

She’s silent for a moment, then says, “Fine. Okay.”

Silently, you let out a breath you’d been holding. “All right. Uh, how about the park? Let’s say half past eight?”

“Sounds good to me.”

You switch your phone to your other ear. “So, uh, see you then? I guess?”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Bye,” you say, but she’s already hung up. You growl, squeezing your eyes shut and raking a hand through your hair before rubbing your temples. “Fuck.”

Is this whole ordeal worth jeopardising your friendship with Allura? No. But then again, how much of a choice do you really have? What are you going to tell her? Oh yeah, I’m actually demon, and I kind of saved an angel that I then later learned is on the lam so now I’m harboring a fugitive. It just doesn’t ring very well.

But you’re going to have to tell her something. She’s starting to get suspicious–she has every reason to. Maybe you’ll just have to improvise a bit.

A glance at your watch tells you that your break ends in ten minutes, and you haven’t even had your lunch yet. You stand up and make your way to the snack dispenser, logging in a coin and, with a fair amount of shaking and punching the already-battered sides of the machine, plucking out a pack of raisins and a chocolate granola bar. Not much of a lunch, but oh well. Keith would have your head if he knew these were your only nutrients of the day.

Then you shake your head and frown. Since when do you care what Keith thinks?

As you nibble on the granola bar, you contemplate your phone that you laid on the coffee table in front of you. Part of you wants to call your home phone. Just to see how Keith’s doing. What he’s been up to (in the whole five hours that you haven’t seen him). Stupid, you tell yourself. Stop it. He’s fine. He’s a grown angel, for Hell’s sake. He can take care of himself.

Really, you just want to hear his voice. It’s comforting. He has a nice voice.

But you mentally scold yourself. Just because you decided you won’t turn him in doesn’t give you an excuse to get all cuddly with him. So you lick the last of the chocolate from your fingers, straighten your blue work shirt and stuff your phone in your back pocket. Tony allows phones in pockets as long as they’re switched off, so you make sure you do just that before you push the door open and resume your shift.

“Keith?” You shout his name before you even properly entered your apartment, and you’re greeted with an irritated hum from where he’s half passed out on the sofa. “Have you just been sleeping the entire day?”

“Hm.”

“Good for you. Wish I could get more than four hours’ sleep a night.”

He cracks open an eye. “You only get four hours’ sleep a night?” Oh. Not as unconscious as you thought.

“No, no,” you quickly lie, “nah, I was exaggerating. I get plenty of sleep. Don’t worry.” You kick off your shoes and drop your keys in their little box. “But you sleeping is good. It means you’ll feel better soon.”

“Hey, hey,” he says, suppressing a yawn and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, “don’t change the subject.”

“Keith. I told you I’m fine. Drop it.”

“No.”

You raise an eyebrow.

He looks at you, squinting with fatigue, but his eyes are determined and glint. “You look like crap. You’ve been working your ass off when you look like you can barely stand on your feet. I didn’t want to say anything because–well–I figured it wasn’t my place to tell you you should rest,” he adds, a bit awkwardly, but voice still firm.

“It’s not,” you say, eyebrow still raised and feeling your shoulders stiffen with ever word falling from his lips.

“But you should. Rest, I mean. I don’t know why you won’t take care of yourself, but I don’t want–” He catches himself before the end of his sentence, and when you narrow your eyes you think you can spot a faint blush dotting his cheeks. “Anyway. Just… be careful, okay?”

“Sure.” For some reason, it’s easier to be curt when he’s worrying about you instead of the other way around. Though you don’t think you’ll actually stop being worried about him until he’s a hundred percent back to normal, but him reaching out and voicing his concerns about you has your emotional walls immediately shoot up.

Up until now, you hadn’t realised how much you’d started to let them down.

You grab a cup and fill it with water, leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen as you gulp it down. Keith’s gaze is still fixed on you, and you pointedly direct yours at the floor.

“Y/N–”

“Keith. Drop it. Seriously.” You set the empty cup down on the kitchen table, maybe a bit more forcefully than necessary. “I’m actually going out tonight.”

He frowns, and again there’s that flash of concern that has you resist the urge to roll your eyes. “I’m just meeting up with a friend. I don’t know when I’ll be back, but you don’t have to wait up for me if you want to go to sleep early. God,” you add with a scoff when he purses his lips, “don’t look so disapproving. What are you, my dad?”

“Y/N–”

“I’m going out.” Your voice is quiet but icy, and you can see Keith knows he won’t change your mind.

He closes his eyes briefly. “At least eat something before you go.”

“I’ll get takeout on the way or something.” You turn on your heel and, after a split second of internal debate you pull your scarf from its place on the coat hanger and wrap it around your face. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

You don’t even wait to hear his answer.

Allura’s waiting for you on your bench, her purple scarf pulled around her cheeks and her hair piled atop her head in a bun. She looks up when you approach, then shifts a little to the side to make room for you. Her eyes are narrowed, though you suspect that’s due more to a mix of fatigue and a protection against the cold wind than it is anger against you.

“Hey,” you say, sinking onto the bench next to her.

“Hi.” She crosses her ankles and looks away briefly before focusing her gaze on you again. Her brows furrow slightly. “What happened to you?”

You freeze. “What?”

“I mean, why do you look like that?”

A hesitant laugh rolls past your lips. “Like what?”

“Like you haven’t slept, eaten, or seen sunlight in a week. No, don’t even–hey, look at me.” She grabs your wrists and forces you to look her in the eye. With every second she scrutinises your face the worry in hers grows, and she reaches out to tentatively touch the tender skin beneath your eyes. “Have you been overworking yourself?”

“No,” you say, deflated, though it comes out more like a whine.

“How much sleep have you been getting a night?”

“Allura, stop it. I feel fine.” It’s a lie, and she doesn’t look convinced. “I don’t need you fretting over me as well.”

She leans back. “What do you mean, as well?” Her lips purse and she takes your hands in hers. “Y/N, what is going on?”

You sigh, cursing yourself and this entire situation internally. You have to think very carefully about what you’re going to say and how you’re going to say it. You bite your lip, and after a moment of silence you say, “Remember when I called you a while ago about that fever?”

She nods slowly. “And I told you to sweat it out, and you said that wouldn’t work, so I told you to go find my uncle.”

“Right. Well, I did,” you sigh, thinking back to the strange excursion that was the trip by Coran’s shop.

“And did you find what you were looking for?”

“I did.” She raises an eyebrow, rolling her hand in a Go on gesture. You exhale, fumbling with the words in your mind before speaking them out loud. “It wasn’t for research purposes. I needed it because… a friend of mine–well, he’s more like an acquaintance, really–was very sick. And no, I couldn’t take him to the hospital,” you add quickly when she opens her mouth to say something.

She frowns. “Why not?”

You cringe slightly. For some reason, you don’t think He’s not human is going to cut it. “I just couldn’t, okay? Please just–just trust me on this. Listen,” you say, lowering your head into your hands, “there’s some things I really can’t tell you. I just can’t. But I’m trying my best.” Your voice catches and you’re surprised to find your eyes sting. You angrily wipe the forming tears away.

“I’ve known him for a while,” you continue. “But we never really… talked before. Because we come from… different places.” What a way to simplify it.

“So he’s, like… some kind of famous, rich, bourgeois-esque guy? Is that what I’m picking up here?” She’s trying to lighten the mood, you know she is, but the laugh you manage to grit out is bitter anyway.

“That’s one way to put it.”

It’s silent for a while, and the tension that cloaked the air before starts to fade. Allura can be quite hot-headed sometimes, but she doesn’t always manage to stay angry for long–though in this case, she would have every reason to. You’ve been avoiding her, even if you had a good reason.

Then she sighs. “I’m trying to understand, Y/N.” You glance at her, keep your mouth shut. “But it’s hard. And I’m not sure if this is just you being your mystical self, or if there’s something really weird going on, but I don’t like it. At all. Not if this is how it makes you act and feel.” Again she shoots a pointed look at your face. “But you’re asking me to trust you, so that’s what I’ll do.”

Your eyes, that narrowed as you looked down at the ground, snap open and you turn your head around fully to look at her. “Seriously?”

She nods. “Yeah. Seriously. And I don’t like it,” she repeats, shifting to sit on her hands and glaring out into the darkening evening streets, “but I trust you to not do anything stupid. Or, well, anything very stupid.”

And it makes you feel good. A huge weight seems to fall off your shoulders and you breathe a relieved sigh. “Thanks, Allura.”

“Well.” She sits up straight and hooks an arm over the back of the bench, turning fully to you, her mouth curling into a wicked grin. “Now that we worked that out, you’re going to tell me about this guy, because I want to know who you’re risking our friendship for, God damn it.”

Your head tips back. “Allura. Please. Don’t.”

“Nuh-uh-uh,” she tuts. “None of that. You owe me this. Fine, I’ll start easy. What’s his name?”

You slowly roll your head until you’re looking her in the eye. “Keith.”

She nods, grin turning smug. “Where’s he from?”

You flinch. “…Somewhere up north.”

“Ah. Touchy subject?”

“Eh.”

“Fine,” she huffs, “then answer this one. Why would he come to you now if you’ve never even spoken before? You made it sound like he was in serious trouble.”

“He was. And, well… I guess he came to me because he had nowhere else to go.”

Allura hums. Then, “You sound like you care about him.”

You start. “What?”

“You know. You took him into your apartment, you stayed home from work for a week to take care of him, you almost fucked up our friendship for him… that’s not just because you felt sorry for him.” She says it so breezily, the words more a joke by now than anything, but you still wish she hadn’t said them–if only because they ring so true.

“I barely know him,” you protest weakly.

“But you want to. Get to know him, I mean.”

“Fuck, Allura, I wanted to talk, not for you to tell me how to lead my love life,” you groan, sliding along the backrest.

She wiggles her eyebrows. ‘Who said anything about love?”

“Oh my god.” You jump up, dusting off your coat and giving your scarf a vigorous tug. “I’m gonna go now. Again, the coming days–weeks, maybe, I don’t fucking know–might be weird. There’s a bunch of stuff Keith and I need to sort out. I’ll call you eventually, but it might be smart if you kind of stayed out of it? I’d appreciate that. As a personal favour.”

“Uh, sure,” she says, looking equally taken aback and somewhat smug by your sudden flustered and rambly state. “Why’s that?”

“You know. I was already manipulated into thinking you were being tortured to get information out of me, so. I’d rather that doesn’t happen again. You know what, just pretend you don’t know me until I call you, all right?”

She freezes for only a fraction of a second, then scrambles up and grabs your sleeve.“Say what now?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s no big deal.”

“That absolutely is a big fucking deal, Y/N.”

“Figures. I’m really sorry you got sucked into this mess, Allura. You deserve better friends than me.”

Her lips purse, and before you know what’s happening she’s pulled you into a hug. “Please be careful,” she whispers into your shoulder.

You wrap your own arms around her and squeeze. “I’ll try.” Welcome to my shitstorm of a life, you think wryly, then you gently free yourself from her embrace. “I’ll call you when this is all over.”

She nods, and you’re about to walk back to your apartment when something occurs to you. You spin around again, mindlessly rubbing your forearm. “Hey, one last thing.”

“Yeah?”

You bite your lip, hesitate. “Your uncle Coran. He might be able to answer some of your questions. He’s… a special guy. I think he knows more than he lets on.”

Allura gives a small smile, then nods. “I’ll think about it.”

Your living room windows are dark, and that should have been enough to make you suspicious. Keith doesn’t put out the lights until you’re home.

But your mind is still occupied with everything you told–and didn’t tell–Allura, and you’re just feeling good that everything went the way it did. You won’t have to worry about her getting hurt anymore, and the light feeling of maybe everything will be okay after all is the reason you don’t notice anything’s wrong until you turn the keys and open the door to be greeted with darkness.

You freeze. “Keith?” No answer.

Slowly, you flick on the light switch beside you, blinking hard to force your eyes to quickly get used to the light. Nothing. The sofa looks eerily clean and made up. The blanket you gave him sits neatly folded on one armrest. Your heart speeds up, and you make your way over to the kitchen. The fridge’s contents have been rearranged. The tub of caramel popcorn is in the cabinet where you keep your sweets. He’d put it there before leaving. It’s a small gesture, but one so sweet and innocent and final that it makes a fist clench over your heart.

Somehow you sense that this is it; he’s not coming back. This isn’t one of his impromptu errands. He cleaned up after himself, made sure everything looked exactly the way it did before he even set foot in your apartment.

But it doesn’t feel right anymore. It’s empty.

Keith was never much of a presence. He wasn’t loud or brash or in constant need of attention, but he would quietly come sit in the armchair next to you when you were reading on the sofa, or he’d join you at the kitchen table and doodle on a notepad, one foot tucked under his butt and the very tip of his tongue peeking out from between his lips. His company made your apartment feel that little more alive.

Made you feel that little more alive.

And it’s not that you can’t handle yourself on your own. You can do that just fine. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy having him in your home. Another presence like you, to remind you that you’re not alone.

And it just feels weird. Why would he leave so suddenly? Without even giving you a warning? Without saying goodbye? It doesn’t make sense, and you sink down onto the sofa, fingers absentmindedly trailing over the fuzzy blanket. The room’s too clean for him to have been kidnapped or murdered; that would have looked way messier than this. No, he went by choice.

It’s late. It’s late, it’s dark, and if Keith really doesn’t want to see you again you don’t stand the slightest chance to find him in the nightly streets.

And yet, half a minute later you find yourself–all the while cursing and scoffing at yourself under your breath–outside once more, narrowing your eyes against the chilly evening wind. You hesitate for a moment, not quite sure of where to go, then you decide to just make your way to the nearest underground station and figure out where you’re headed from there. Keith knows this city, but you know it better.

So that’s how you end up in the underground at half past ten P.M, brain working at a thousand miles per hour, looking for a runaway angel that you know you have a very slim chance of finding. The cart is surprisingly crowded, and you have to crane your neck to find an unoccupied seat. You plop down beside a reading student.

The grind of the track below you makes it hard to think, so you let your head tip against the backrest of the seat and close your eyes with a sigh. A hand comes up to rub your eyelids. “What am I doing,” you whisper to yourself. The student casts you a half-curious look, but wisely doesn’t say anything.

If Keith doesn’t want to be found you doubt you’ll find him–but what if someone else does? What if someone who knows about the price Lotor fixed on Keith’s head finds him and recognises him? He’s in no shape to fight. He can barely stand upright for more than half an hour. He’ll be handed over to the Below, and then… You don’t want to think about what might happen next.

So you have to find him. You don’t know where to start, don’t know if you even can, but you have to at least try.

Your gaze flicks up to the screen where the route is all stippled out. You’re almost halfway, with four more stops to go until the final destination. None of them ring any bells at first, but then one catches your eye. You bite your lip, leaning slightly forward.

It could be. It would make sense.

You could be wrong, of course. But there’s a feeling in your gut. You’re jittery and fidgeting with the buttons on your coat and when the train slowly stops to a halt you’re the first through the doors. Your destination is clear in your head and you round corners without looking, confident that your feet will carry you where you want to go. After all, you’ve walked this route more times than you can count.

The factory is as silent and still as it was the first time you slipped through its broken gates and between its walls. You can hear faint voices coming from a room on the ground floor; laughter, music, chattering. Probably just a private friend get-together. Keith won’t be there.

It feels weird to retrace your steps from that night. The room where your painting still gleams proudly against so many others–an angel and a demon, red wings dripping from their backs. The painting makes your gut twist in a funny way, so you don’t stay very long admiring it. Then there’s the hole in the wall behind it leading to the staircase. You hop through, start climbing the steps at a leisurely pace, keeping as quiet as possible.

Only then do you start to think about what might happen if you do find him.

Up until now, you had only thought about the possibility of not finding him. But what if you do, and he explains why he left and tells you to go away? Or what if he doesn’t want to talk to you at all? Would you be able to let him go that easily?

You almost stop and turn back. Almost. But there’s something about him. Something about him that makes you feel a certain way, and you’d tried to push it down and ignore it but you don’t think you can do that anymore. And with every step you take your heart beats faster until you’re running the last feet up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.

You half expect to see him as soon as you walk through the doorway, but of course that doesn’t happen. You slow to a halt, unsure of where to go first. You take a step forward, and the hollow sound echoes in the hallway. You clear your throat before calling out. “Keith?”

Maybe not the smartest move if you were going for discretion, but you threw caution into the wind when you stepped onto the dark top floor. He’ll be here or he won’t, and you’ll figure out what to do then.

Another step, and you peek through the first doorway. “Hello? Keith?” Nothing. You steel yourself. You’ll go by all the rooms. You won’t leave until you’ve combed through the entire floor.

And then you hear him softly say your name behind you, and you whip around. He’s leaning against a doorway, a faint smile tainting his lips, sweet and genuine but a little sad, too, and all you want to do is run to him and wrap him in your arms and press your lips against his–

But you don’t. “Keith. Hey.”

“Hi.”

You’d wanted to be a little less forward, but just the relief of seeing him caused your verbal filter to completely disappear. You step towards him, your hand reaching for him despite him standing too far away. “Why are you here?”

He raises a brow. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“What–I came to find you, obviously,” you scoff, the words coming out sharper than intended. You screw your eyes shut, your shoulders bunching around your ears. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m just–I’m glad I found you. I was worried.”

He looks down, fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “Right.”

You bite your lip. “Keith.” His eyes meet yours, and you hesitantly close the distance between you until he’s a mere step away. “Why’d you leave?”

A shrug. “Don’t know.”

“Don’t believe you.”

He sighs. “I just–I feel like I’m being a burden. You’re looking more tired and sick every day and I’m just so useless.”

You start, recoiling slightly out of pure shock. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve noticed it, you know.” His jaw sets and his eyes grow cloudy. “How you try and leave the room every time I’m there. Or how you work overtime to make sure you have to spend as little time with me as possible. Or how every smile you give me is forced. They never quite reach your eyes.” His fingers twitch. “But I don’t blame you. I get it.”

You throw a look over his shoulder. The room he chose is empty bar a filthy pillow that looks like it came straight out of the trash and a blanket in the same state. “So you’ll just live here instead.” You kick an old, empty beer can out of the way. “Real homey.”

He shrugs again. Then he shivers, and it’s that small gesture that completely shatters you. Tears form in your eyes. “You wanna know why I did it? Pushed you away?” You don’t wait for an answer. “Because I actually like you way more than I should. And I was scared of what would happen if I let myself get close to you. I still am. But,” you add, nudging his arm, “that doesn’t mean I want you gone or living in a dump like this.”

“So you came to look for me.”

“Yeah.”

Now he smiles, rubbing his eyes. “You found me pretty quickly. That’s rather embarrassing.” With a sigh, he lets himself drop to the floor and props his elbows up on his knees. “Can’t even run away right.”

You scoff, sliding down the wall next to him. “Don’t sound so disappointed. I, for one, am glad I found you.”

His fingers ghost over yours. “Me too.”

And it might just be that you’re very tired because you’ve been on your feet since six A.M, or that you’re so happy and relieved to see him in one piece after running through all the possible horrible scenarios in your head. Whatever the case, you figure that if it isn’t clear now that he’s more to you than just an inconvenient guest, it might never be, so it wouldn’t mean anything if you were to take his hand in yours.

So you take his hand in yours. He stiffens for only a split second, then relaxes. After a while, he whispers, “How’d you know I was here?”

You hollow out your cheeks. “I didn’t. I wasn’t sure, I mean. But… I don’t know. I had a feeling, I guess.” You shoot him a pointed look. “You’re not gonna get sick again, are you? Last time we were here you almost died. I’d like to not have to try and find Coran’s shop again, ‘cause that was a complete disaster last time.”

Keith giggles. “I wasn’t planning to.”

You shove his shoulder with yours. “Moron. Don’t scare me like that again, all right?” The insult is kind of cancelled out by the fact that you’re still holding hands.

“Okay.” He bursts into a coughing fit and you throw him a sideways look, letting go of his hand to awkwardly pat him on the back.

“This is exactly why you need to come home,” you scold softly. “You’re not better yet. Come on.”

He casts you a look, hesitancy painted across his features. You raise your eyebrows slightly. “What?”

But then he shakes his head and pushes himself up again, holding his hand out for you to grab. “Nothing. Let’s go.”

You take it and let him pull you up, and then you’re face to face. Close. Closer than ever before. For a second you’re just standing, holding onto each other’s hands like it’s the only thing tethering you to earth. You want to kiss him. You want to kiss him. Your eyes flick down to his lips, ever so briefly. You want to kiss him.

“Let’s go.” Pulling your hand out of his feels so wrong, but you do it anyway. Reluctantly. You shove your hand in the pocket of your hoodie to hide its trembling. “We’ll take the underground.”

The ride back is not awkward. You wouldn’t call it that, but there is a kind of tension hanging in the air between you and him and you decide that you don’t like it. Another part of you whispers that it’s probably for the better. The tension means you won’t make any rash decisions. It means that you’ll think about the words you say and the things you do, important or not.

Maybe it won’t make a difference in the end. Maybe it will. At the moment it doesn’t really matter, because it’s late and Keith is half asleep in his seat, and you only allow yourself a brief moment to look at him–really look at him, study the little details of his face that would normally be clouded by lines of worry or fatigue. When he sleeps he looks so peaceful, without a care in the word. His skin smooths out. His mouth hangs open ever so slightly. He snores a little. He looks younger and, somehow, free.

But then your stop is announced over the loudspeakers and you startle as the train slowly grinds to a halt. You nudge Keith with your foot. “Wake up.” He groans, blinks a few times before hoisting himself up, softly muttering under his breath.

Your apartment looks exactly as you left it–which is to say, eerily clean and tidy. You pull a face and immediately march over to the sofa, where you shake out the neatly folded blanket and deposit it on a heap in a corner, after which you give the cushions a good shake. Keith stands in the corner of the room, hands in his pockets, a bemused smile on his lips. You crinkle your nose at him. “It felt too… orderly.”

“Because you’re not orderly.”

“That’s right. It didn’t feel like home. Like some unwanted cleaning lady came in and reorganised my entire apartment. I hated it.”

“So you’re mad at me for trying to tidy up your house?”

You roll your eyes. “Not mad. Not about that. If anything, I’m mad because you fucking ran away, but that’s forgiven and forgotten. Look, I’ve made your bed.” You point at the rumpled sofa and try to hide your mounting grin.

Keith shakes his head, laughs, and it’s a sound you will never grow tired of. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

There’s a silence, but this time it’s not awkward in the slightest. The tension’s still there, but along with it is a kind of quiet understanding. A little sad, maybe. A little longing. But it’s something you’ve both accepted as impossible, and at the moment, that’s okay.

Because he’s back. And he’s okay. And really, that’s all that matters.