*silk / spun.

where: the ritz hotel, piccadilly when: evening with:@zoyafinch

Robbie hadn’t thought to cross paths with Zoë again, not after she’d cut him loose all those years ago; so when he’d spotted her that night at the Red Rose, he’d needed a moment to think about how to proceed.

She was different now, of course, a far cry from the girl that needed him when she first arrived in the city, but wasn’t that to his advantage? He knew things about her - things that didn’t fit with her new life, with the swanky hotel he was standing in front of, carefully obscured from the watchful eye of the doorman. She wasn’t even particularly difficult to track down, in the end.

“Alright, Z?” Robbie called as he stepped away from the pillar he’d been leaning against, a stream of acrid grey smoke issuing from his mouth. His smile was rueful in the half light of the street lamps. Sharp. “Ain’t seen you in time, yeah?”

—

The madness of boredom necessitated chaos. Most nights, Zoya and the others within her circles — those of Jabberwocks and artistic aristocrats — were the cause of the chaos, not purely in creating a monstrous, loud bedlam in the streets, but by upsetting the imposed lawful order of the world simply by partaking in a pinch of crime, here and there. How fragile man-made things such as law were, when there was fun to be had, and all manner of consequence to be escaped.

But other nights ( few, and yet seemingly increasing in number ) the chaos was struck upon Zoya herself — such as now, with one particular broken bond discarded on the ground between them like religious sacrifice. Faustian, more like, given the quite literal ritz she gained upon leaving behind the rubble.

“Alright,” she responded gingerly, stepping closer to him in unrelenting curiosity. “You look well.” It was only half a lie, followed by an uncommon expression of truth. “Though, I rather liked your old hair. Spare me a ciggie?”

LOCATION: Supermarket shoppin’ prob Tesco’s

STARTER: open to everybody!

BEING next in line was a relief–– until she noticed she was missing her very necessary favorite peppers in her trolley. Cleo turned to the person behind her reminding them of her spot before she ran down the aisle to look for her can of gold. There they were in their pickled glory– on the top shelf, of course. Cleo was ready to expense all forms of independence since her pride refused any sort of help. First, she climbed the shelf, quickly stopping at the sound of glass clinking together. The loud machines beeping up front reminded her of her place in line and she couldn’t be that person to create chaos… at this moment in time. She turned wearily, ❛ Would you mind sparing some height? ❜ she asked the only other person in the aisle. She internally screamed at her state of defeat. ❛ I’m obviously rubbish at being tall today. ❜

—

Of course fate brought them together to the same store in preparation for the evening, when it was fate itself that they were meant to discuss over dinner, and Zoya moved accordingly, as if succumbed to the whims and wishes of some greater power than herself. That was to say: altogether slowly, eyes devouring each detail of the scene before her. Reading, assessing. Divining. Tarot and the cosmos could reveal a great number of things about a person, but so could the simple act of observing one — and, in this instance, Zoya determined that what the other woman needed was a vertically-blessed hero.

“Well, as long as you’re not rubbish at cooking...” The brunette responded with a feline smirk, announcing her presence with a simple flick of the wrist as she extended her reach just so to collect the jar. She handed it to her companion, explaining, “I’d call it ‘fate,’ but really — I just forgot to pick up alcohol. Then again, Mercury’s in retrograde, so... Who’s to say it’s not an act of divine intervention?”

Malachi’s tongue drew over his teeth, sopping up the taste of what broken flesh could deal out. Bright red painted over her lips, a new shade of gloss for her to wear, a branding of her own blood to sport around until either she could swallow it back herself or he could, a branding that might as well have had his initials imprinted into her mouth. He could see the spark of it in her eyes, his letters floating up to the glassy surface, the most primitive of communication being read and replied back with another flick against his teeth.

Slender fingers trailed over him, tracing, chasing temptation, having him press against them as he moved. His mouth drew closer again, a glint of a weapon already used, reflecting in the marks they had already caused and waited to be sown for a second time. All for them and her wants to get the chill of a single word. “Beg.”

No, he wasn’t the only gambler in the room. But he was the one who owned the house that always won. “What hand do you want to play? Right?” Tips of his own nails tangled in the roots of her hair, yanking back for the top of her skull to drag against the cold mirror. “Or left?” His free palm was at her hip, middle finger threading through her dress, tugging forward, front meeting him, body of hers twisted in two directions by design. “Feel that down your back?” he mused, letting his lips part a bit more to tease her nail before tipping his head forward, forehead brushing hers. “See how far it arches before it snaps, yeah?”

—

When he spoke, the quiet growl of his voice reverberated against her skin, resounded in her mind, and tantalized her tongue into utter thirst. It didn’t matter that underneath each promise was a threat, or vice versa; what mattered most was the line between them blurring under the haze of heated whispers and heady gazes, each delighted by the chase and chasing after each new delight. If this was to be the lock-and-step they fell into, then they were no different to a snake eating its own tail, cyclically challenging the other in the moments between moments — that was to say, endlessly — until one inevitably swallowed the both of them whole. 

As if to remit that possibility, Zoya responded, “Neither.” Dark skies of wanton need brewed in her gaze as her body bent according to his will — though not yet her mind. “I’m not blind to the bigger, better risk to take.” Her grin, at first as innocent as a waning crescent moon, grew sly and crooked as her finger danced over that by which her own lips longed to be claimed. God, I want to be painted by that bloody mouth.

“...You.” The simple word might have ruined the ambiguity of her game, but if it stirred anything perceptible within Malachi, Zoya would have found a far greater trophy than simply having the upper hand. Eager to mark her words, her mouth replaced the finger caught by his lips and kissed him hard, teeth digging into his bottom lip — harder. “Test out your theory,” she breathed, kiss broken but gaze steadfast. “See if you can’t bend me until I break.” A challenge and an acquiescence, sealed by lips on his as she pulled him closer, aggression teasing from beneath her veil of submission. Duality was the mark of the gods and so, with teeth bared, Zoya begged as instructed: “Please.”

Zoya’s denial was so short and abrupt and Rune was so taken aback by the whole situation that, for now at least, he didn’t think to question it. All he focused on for a moment was the press of her hand over his, and the flute of undeniably expensive champagne now on offer. It wouldn’t help, not in any traditional sense, but that didn’t stop Rune from tossing the drink back like a lifeline regardless. To his dismay, it didn’t steel him; it only contributed to his feeling just a little bit sick.

Rune shook his head as he set the glass back down on a tray as it was passing them, his eyes resuming their darting over the crowd even as he murmured. “If they’re here, that makes them incredibly stupid. Or incredibly brave.” Which Rune supposed they could easily be either, or both — if they’re taking a swing at a hornet’s nest, as they so obviously are. An uncomfortable energy churned in Rune’s chest, one he knew wouldn’t easily be extinguished with more alcohol.

His fingers tightened around Zoya’s. “The agreement can’t fall apart,” Rune said quietly, under all the conspiratorial murmuring. He said so both as a point of fact and a sort of plea. “It can’t.” Even if there was something to be said about anything supposedly too big to fail. “My name is the one attached to it,” he added suddenly; or rather, his father’s name, a surname Rune had never wanted to give up even as the Liddells took him in. Robert had always respected that. Rune didn’t care to think if that sentimental allowance had always held an ulterior motive. “Zoya- if they have a copy of the agreement, my father’s name is on that.”

—

Despite the careful cultivation of her image, Zoya Finch was rarely considered a grand architect whose schemes existed on an expansive playing field rather than the myopic one of her own wellbeing. To most, she was simply a pretty young thing used for distraction and not devising, forever expected to set aside whatever semblance of brains she might have in order to feature that which was most undeniable: her beauty. Rune, however, saw past all that, and now — especially now, with his world nearly crashing down by the simple prospect of a name irrevocably ruined — he needed that part of her more than ever. 

“It won’t,” Zoya replied in a hollow voice, less a promise and more an echo of the other’s words. She had no intention of being a mere parrot, but in this moment, the reiteration of his words served the simple purpose of buying time.Whatever pull she had over high society was magnetic — but hardly powerful enough to extend over into the world of politics and journalism, and even less effective against damage already dealt or wars already waged before either of them ( or anyone else ) were any bit the wiser. “If they’re smart...” she started, thoughts forming just before they became voiced, “They won’t release it yet. In fact, if they were me, they’d milk it for all it’s worth, and it’s worth quite a lot.”

Eyes still scrutinizing the room, she produced a much-needed cigarette from her favored little case and spoke again only after letting out a exhale of smoke. “That only means we have to be the highest bidders. Get them before they can get you.” Zoya returned her gaze back onto his handsome face, somehow made even more beautiful under the tensity of the evening. The how of it needed strategizing, but for now, she thought it most important to assure Rune: “And however that means... Just know I’d burn the city to the ground before I let them get you.”

“Oh come on, who will notice I’m not out there? ” Mr Liddell ? Did he really have nothing better to do than wonder where his accountant was spending her evening? Mr Sichantha? She doubted these people had nothing better to do with their evening. “Biblically?” An eyebrow raised at her friend, Ama leaned back into her seat and picked up her cup of coffee, taking a small sip. “Oh. Biblically.” She made a small face as she realized what that must have meant. She really could be one big fool sometimes. Glancing up, she couldn’t hold back a thin smile as the other twirled in her dress excitedly, like a child would in a princess costume. “I’m sure with an outfit like that, you’d find someone to dance with without a problem.” Which might have been the issue. “This being said, I’ll happily drive away any man that comes your way. All I gotta do is say : factorial notation, or logarithmic function. Both were high school level terms and yet would make most men sweat a torrent. They didn’t like feeling stupid, men. She knew that, and she made sure she never made them feel this way, because that was what she’d been raised to do. But annoy her friends? She could be a proper asshole. “Alright, let me finish this one line.” Highlighting another number on her printed spreadsheet, she sighed. “You’re aware that I’m doing you a huge favor, right?”

—

The thread woven through all of her various selves was one made of half-truths and lies of omission. They were rarely ever the most dire of sins committed, and yet — each persona, each facade had its own accompanying fatal flaw, and the farther it stood from something properly toxic, the more desirable it became. The version of Zoya that Ama had been presented with tonight was one quietly desperate for escape, even despite knowing the short length of her Jabberwock chains and the temperament of the only person who held the key to unlock them. And so, escape would come in the form of someone entirely different from her usual crowd — only, Zoya hadn’t quite expected the other woman to prove this much of a challenge. 

“Oh, wax mathematically poetic all you like...” The girl started with a cheeky roll of her eyes, already delighting at the idea of some half-drunk bore being scared off by whatever foreign language lent itself to sums and other calculations. “If you walk out of this dreary little room with me, I’ll be expecting at least one dance out of you. In fact,” she started, waltzing back over to Ama, “it’s my hope that, by the end of the night, you’ll realize that I’m the one doing you the favor.” With that, she placed a kiss to the woman’s cheek, not bothering to blend out the smudge of her lipstick on Ama’s skin. “Don’t you dare try to fix it,” the brunette giggled. “If you ask me, Princess Kate could do with a bit of scandal to liven her up. Now, hurry up before I start saying random numbers just to scramble all your sums.”

From the moment her fate and reputation had been bound to Malachi via his ever-tightening rope of demands, Zoya fashioned herself as the Jabberwocks’ black cat by night, broken mirror by day — irresistible and portentous all at once. That was to say: what the Emperor bid of her, she obliged and not just because those were the cards that she’d been dealt. Deeper than that existed the fact that there was something undeniably tantalizing about being something of a gateway drug to so many others, or an avenging angel leading a lost soul further astray.

Such was the general objective of her night, though the person who’d issued it had neglected to give further details beside revealing a time, place, and the vague expectation that he expected a smile. From whom, Zoya didn’t yet know — but, a wolf smiling was rarely ever a thing of comfort and so, she prepared all the necessities to make herself comfortable: three lines of coke, neat and straight, a drink in hand, and music turned up impossibly loud, drowning out even the sound of the door opening and the Prime Minister himself walking in the room.

The brunette leaned over the table to snort a line through a rolled-up fifty-pound note, letting out a deep sigh like she always did once the first wave of the high hit her, eyes fluttering open only to realize she was no longer alone. “Fuck,” Zoya giggled with faux-abashment, recognizing the man’s face even under the dim, red-hued glow of light. “Now I’ve got two famous faces to play around with.” At that, she presented him with the banknote placed between her fingers as though she was offering a cigarette — this time, one meant for a drug far stronger than nicotine, courtesy of Rune. “I won’t tell Her Majesty the Queen if you won’t.”

who: @zoyafinch​ setting: The Red Rose’s backrooms

“I really don’t think it’s such a good idea. I’m not good with parties,” which was why she had found the perfect retreat in her office. A Tassimo version of a cappuccino on her desk, and a box of Cadbury cookies in her drawer, Ama thought she didn’t have it so bad in here. The woman liked parties. She just didn’t like that party. She liked dancing, she liked getting sugary cocktails. What she didn’t like was that party, with these people. Technically, Zoya was one of them, but Ama felt as though the other at least understood her to a certain extent.

—

“You’re far more obvious simply by not being there than if you deigned to make an appearance for the plebeians at play.” Admittedly, the plebeians likely wouldn’t give a care — but the princes were a different story altogether, particularly ones with wolves attached at their side, teeth and claws far too sharp for girls in long, flowing dresses. “Besides, the right music has been known to make many a wallflower come alive, and I...” Dramatically, she leaned over the woman’s desk in a rather conspiratorial stance, mischief burning in her deep brown eyes. “...happen to know the DJ. Biblically.” Zoya’s smirk burst into a giggle before twirling away, putting her extravagant costume fully on display for Ama to admire. “Come on, you really wouldn’t spare a dance for little old me?”

Zoya learned early on in her youth that girls were expected to seek out quiet places to reveal their truths, for those liminal spaces were the only sites at which the moments between moments could be shared —  regardless if their company was sibling or stranger. Admittedly, the woman who stood at the ornate mirror beside her was neither of those; Eilidh was a familiar enough face only because Zoya made it a point to know the names of pretty girls with money to spare and influence dripping from their tongues. “Mind if I smoke?” The brunette started, already rifling through her purse and decidedly uncaring that the other could easily peer inside to find a treasure trove of plastic-bagged party favors befitting of the room’s name. That was the point, after all. 

She’d heard the rumors, seen the photographs, but now, Zoya wanted nothing more than to see if the girl lived up to the gossip. A cigarette found its way between two delicate fingers, hand fixed precariously close to blonde as she gestured casually about, speaking with a devilish little grin, “I’d offer you one, but something tells me a footballer needs her lungs.”

The mirrors that wrapped around them couldn’t rival the work of the two expressions that faced each other. They would only serve as mimicry, unable to capture the life that flared in matching smirks. Zoya’s plump lips were parted, an edge rising up to dent her cheek while Malachi’s own teeth glimmered back, if only a sliver of them showing, the tip of his tongue playfully bitten between the rows in the smugness that poured from him, spurred by her words.

His breath drew out in a silent laugh, the warmth of it dewing her lips, a thin gossamer of himself soaking into her flesh like nails digging for blood, or a hand around a throat that forced that air to pool in her mouth. “Doesn’t?” he questioned as if he was teasing her, stepping forward, making her join him by the neck, another, another, pinning the base of her skull to the cold glass behind her with a soft thud. “Looks like I’ll be having you right here.”

A thumb stretched up, easing the noose of his palm enough to let her take a breath, used up to talk, to wonder, to play. The thumbnail snagged at her lower lip in response, drawing it down as he leaned in, noses nearly brushing at the sides before his teeth grabbed hold of what his digit already had. Gloss coated the back of a canine, mixing with red iron, the flesh popping out of his grasp with a reminding mark in its wake. “Worth it to find out?”

—

Like any other street-savvy black cat, Zoya was prone to discovering which life she was on solely by seeing if she survived this one. Perhaps that was why her body demanded that she trace each threat of Malachi’s movements, her own teeth and tongue prepared to respond in equal measure as she refused to succumb to his portents of punishment. In short — she’d be damned to shy away now, even if he seemingly damned her regardless, catching her lip between his teeth in an opposing-end blur of horror and excitement. A shaking finger moved to her lips to confirm that which had already been made apparent by his own red-tinted smile, while her eyes, wide and dark and normally tinted ambiguous, conveyed to him in wordless confession:

It doesn’t matter what part of me you want to hurt. All that matters is that you want me. 

The spread of her lips grew from a shocked state of wonder — parted, lower lip creased and claimed by the bite of his teeth — to a small, curiously uncertain smile in acquiescence to his query. Brazen as an act of self-defense, her newly-stained fingers spread red across his grin as she stated rather defiantly, “More.” On purpose, it was a clear repetition of his demand from just moments earlier. “I want more.” Her touch threatened to reenact Malachi’s harm upon his own mouth. It would be so easy, she thought, sparing a glance down to her sharp stiletto manicure. Far more gently than he deserved, the long fingers of Zoya’s hands wrapped around his sharp jaw as her gaze followed up to his eyes of ice. Thumbnails pressed firmly against his bottom lip in emphasis of the dare unspoken by the question she posed: “Do you really believe you’re the only gambler between us?” 

*HALLOWEEN 2022 » Zoya Finch as THE QUEEN OF CLUBS.

He must have been the last person alive not to have downloaded the app on his phone, but catching a cab in a pinch had gotten him this far, an air of privacy coming with it, or at least the illusion of it. Samar had only shut the door behind him a moment ago, immediately taken by the very mobile that was lacking what could have prevented this altogether as the door swung back open. “We’re likely not heading in the same direction,” he spoke while he continued his email reply, too preoccupied to glance up, “but if you’d like to pay half of the fare for a tour of London…”

—

Unbeknownst to her socialite sphere, Zoya Finch only ever took a black cab when she was low on funds, using a precise mix of lies, looks, and luck in payment’s stead. It was a necessary evil of self-made origins, but she couldn’t deny loving the thrill of playing a feeble and entirely feminine game — one which, this time, took the form of long legs outstretched in the back of the cab, heels hanging precariously off her toes. The door swung open and in slid an unexpected intruder, blissfully ignorant to the girl who’d made her laughable best attempts at quite literally kicking him out, to the point of losing a shoe to a street now long passed. Deftly, a stocking-covered foot nudged his thigh, alerting him to the mishap. “Technically, you owe me a shoe. The least you could do is pay for my trip to Harrod’s,” she stated drily, eyes eagerly sizing the man up. 

.

Zoya’s diversion was quick, but Rune’s darting eyes were quicker — even if he only saw snippets, he saw enough on the brightly illuminated screen of her phone to piece together the whole.

AGREEMENT of SHAME. Biggest scandal. Unsettling truth. What will happen—

Her fingers in his hair brought Rune abruptly back to the room with a quiet, stuttering inhale he hadn’t even realized he was missing. He reached up to take her wrist, letting her hand settle against the side of his neck, grounding. “Zoya,” he breathed out, and so rare was it that Rune uttered her actual given name instead of picking from a list of endearments a mile long.

There was no follow-up. He said her name simply to say it, and didn’t know how to continue. His free hand moved to her phone, thumb sweeping a path through the scattering of powder, but all it revealed was the word SHAME glaring up at them. Rune brought his thumb to his lips to lick the pad of it, and wished in this moment it was anything but a placebo.

Finally he looked up and around the room, eyes darting from person to person as they scrolled their phones with rapt attention or murmured amongst themselves. Rune felt laid uncomfortably bare, his stomach sour and heart pounding in his chest. He assumed Zoya could feel it under the coolness of her fingertips. “What do we do? — We should find Mal.”

—

“No.” The brunette’s firm responds was spoken with impossible immediacy, almost as soon as the mention of a particular other left her friend’s pretty lips. Her hand stilled atop his, a thumb gently soothing the skin of his knuckles, though the repetitive action was just as much for him as it was her own reassurance. She needed to think, and figuring Malachi into her calculations only ever meant throwing the ever-unknown variable of utter chaos into the mess. 

Deftly, her mind worked through a thousand possible paths, the alcohol and outrage of the evening fueling a particularly swirled mess of desiring swift justice for her friend and reshaping the situation into something that benefited her. If it was selfish, she didn’t notice; by now, selfishness was simply her second nature. After a few moments more, Zoya motioned for a waiter to come over, and ordered a round of drinks for everyone in the nearby vicinity, with the explicit ( and unusual, given her penchant for recognition ) instructions that her name not be given as the source of generosity.  Wasn’t it silly what some were willing to do for little more than crumbs? Silly — and enabling. 

Her gaze darted around the room as the waiters brought out their finest selection of alcohol, hand never leaving Rune’s. In her mind’s eye, she could see it now: the revelation of the betrayer in their midst, and the secret of their identity exchanged for her freedom from under Malachi’s thumb. Yet, she revealed none of this to her friend. A chance at liberation was too rare and fleeting to risk conspiracy thwarted. “Look around — Who seems nervous? Who’s toasting to the hope of our demise? We need to find who did this to us. To you. And then, we can give Malachi a new plaything.”

The exhibit wasn’t theirs exclusively. It was no bubble waiting to be popped or snowglobe waiting to be smashed, it was an opened jewelry box with one dancer bolted to it, ready to spin for the nearest set of eyes. The set of blue ones held her in them, the reflection of her as finely detailed as those that surrounded them. At any point, there was a chance of it being shared, for any other soul to step in, take a glance at what sparkled, but those were the chances taken, the risk nonexistent.

Zoya’s voice painted a vivid picture, but not one good enough to be lost in. Malachi took apart the scene, word-by-word, squeezed the very meaning of life out of them to dissect. A set of teeth could tear right into it, a canine or two ripping into a tendon, the taste of iron coating the back of the throat from another that became the natural target.

“Didn’t hear me,” he murmured back before his hand clasped around her neck, fingertips digging into the sides, snipping at the rhythm of her heart. “I said every time,” he clarified, a voice that reverberated off of her mouth. “Not one night. Not one week. Not one fuck,” he ended with a breath of a laugh, barely any noise at all, propelled by how he shifted her closer, pressing her chest flush against his own. “I own you.”

—

His mouth neared hers, and for a moment, she believed he’d seal her fate by closing the space between. After all, fables of old would argue that a kiss almost always proceeded a trap, and that a kiss alone could chop off the wings of any aspiring angel. However, it wasn’t a kiss by which he ensnared her, but a far more literal clasp around her slender neck — still devilish in his own way, but not nearly as seductive as a Faustian tale would suggest. That’s almost a pity, Zoya thought, cat-curl of a smirk once again wrapping her lips around words left unspoken.

In truth, Malachi was not the first man who wanted to claim her, and he wouldn’t be the last. He was merely the one who had the most current reason to lay claim, which meant: The only way out was through. “So what if you own me?” Zoya breathed, voice rasping under the pressure of his grip, though she refused to shy away from his touch. “That doesn’t mean you have me.” Loyalty might have mattered little for a woman already caught in his crosshairs, left with hardly a choice, but she alluded to a greater truth he’d be wise to keep in mind: the only difference between an empire and a house of cards was the foundation, and no true power could ever be gleaned by controlling something ( or someone ) as shape-shifting as smoke.

Closer than they’d ever been, she scrutinized him once more with tones of deep amber, clouded by the distant burn of longing and the clearer glint of wicked curiosity. “What do you want from me?” Then, the more interesting question, whispered hungrily through a devilish grin: “And what happens if I disobey?”

Her pulse can be traced in the palm of his hand, running through the lines from his touch, the imprint that might be left behind by the time she changes. What’s between them can only be counted as a game, something to play with until it breaks, the counting of days before the inevitable wear becomes too apparent to keep going. But that’s not this day, and it won’t be tomorrow. Zoya’s whisper had all the proof needed to show there was enough life left on the board before the paint chipped off.

The lowered tone gets returned to her, the truth laid out for her that goes beyond betting, delivered with knowing eyes and daring turn of lips. “You don’t want gentle.” But it was a funny joke while it lasted, the kind that goes down without a laugh but still entertains. “Think next thing I grab on you is going to be your hand?”

Distance between them grew slim, reserved for a slit, enough for a few breaths. Zoya’s was laced in words that tipped up to Malachi’s ears, nothing that caused them to step away. He gave a short hum back, not in affirmation, as if it wasn’t enough. “More.” The single word was peppered with sharpened eyes, a strengthened focus. “If I call you, you come. Every. Time.”

—

Proximity like theirs was a risk taken by few. To willingly stand near a starved monster meant a rare unflinching nature, but to openly stare at its teeth with a teasing lick at one’s lips and invitation gleaming in one’s eyes signified an arrogance that challenged the laws of nature. Was Zoya so bold, then, to consider herself the same kind of monster as Malachi? She was good at indulging in their endless little game (sharks were born swimming in circles, after all) and knew intimately that monsters weren’t such bad things to be. At their root, they were heralds of the future, pieced together incongruously by the beautiful and grotesque. Deity and human. Sanctuary and storm. 

Zoya was someone who sought sanctuary within the storm, so if she was a monster, then she was the kind who only ever chased her own shadow — one that Malachi occupied with increasing demand. “Indulge me, then. Roughly.” She challenged in return, eyes flitting from his hands to the wicked curl of his lips, before meeting the ocean-blue storm of his gaze. His next words tempted her to succumb to said storm, but still she resisted, head kept above water only to see just how deep he’d set the anchor.

“And how would you prefer I come? On all fours? Having just crawled and begged and pleaded for release?” Though laced with teasing, both their words carried a weight she couldn’t deny. A beat passed between them, providing enough time for Zoya to regain some semblance of her usual half-haughty composure, lust now tremulously tucked behind sharp teeth. “So, the emperor truly is no different from a mere mortal. A good fuck and he turns a blind eye?”

.

A game. Automatically, easily, Rune brought his cheek to rest against the soft, immaculately smooth crown of Zoya’s hair, smiling mutely but just as easily. “Well…” He trailed off in consideration, taking his answer seriously. His eyes wandered around the room, half-unfocused, as he mulled over the options. Only briefly was he distracted as his attention settled on a Daily Mirror reporter — why would they let those parasites in? — whose gaze kept slithering towards them, and Rune wondered how many rumors about the pair of socialites being involved would be refreshed by morning.

“They’re all good options,” Rune said finally, decisively, his hand settling at its comfortable, familiar spot at the small over Zoya’s back. “They’re all perfectly plausible options. I will say this, though, I’ll be very disappointed if you were off selling drugs to law enforcement without me,” he adds, voice lower but with an obvious smile; he knows she doesn’t have to be looking at him to register it, not for how well they know each other.

“So, maybe that one?”

—

As her friend mused his response, Zoya’s attention went to her purse, knowing its contents could provide a story for the reporter and a confirmation of Rune’s guess. “You know me far too well,” she conceded, dangling a little plastic bag in the small space between them — not quite one of Rune’s specials, but that fact ( marked by a small symbol denoting the contents as powdery placebo ) would only be known to two of them. Instinctually, she retrieved her phone; the Italian marble table in the corner was a classic beauty, but a true user would always go for substance over style, meaning that the table’s rough crevices were passed over in favor of a perfectly smooth phone screen. 

“I’m feeling awfully exhibitionist tonight. Wanna play along and give him something good?” Zoya asked, the mischief in her tone only outdone by the dark gleam of hedonism in her eyes. Her hand moved to tap out a small bit of the white powder, but stopped short at the suddenly incessant buzzing as a dozen notifications illuminated the screen. Agreement of Shame. The headline was clear as day, but Zoya, knowing just how deeply this particular story of conspiracy would affect her dearest friend, only proceeded with her motions and poured out the entirety of the bag. Seemingly no different from the story that the spill of would-be substance aimed to hide, her actions were a messy cover-up — but was that not the girl’s natural defense mechanism when the reality of the world refused to align with her aspirations? 

So, with a performative smile and a gentle brush of her fingers through his hair, Zoya offered, voice a little less certain than before, “I promise that any story we give him tonight will drown out the Times for all they’re worth.”