Un Traditore tra i Traditori

Dio, did the dottore nearly stab a little girl—

Damn straight my hood is better.

Ah, that is what I like to see. 

cesare-borgia:

the-prowler:

Maestro. 

And here I see that my cunning wolf is doing well. /nods

Aren’t I always? <smirk>

Orders, sir? I am itching to get my hands dirty.

Maestro. 

deadly-bouquet:

the-prowler:

There’s dried blood in the gears. <frowns, snapping the poor, misused thing back into place> Fun? Hardly. They do not put up any sort of fight.

I’m sure you can fix it. You always do. /sighs, running a hand through her hair/ True. Still, they are strange enough for me to get close, but using this classless weapon on them is a bit too much. /lifts her dirty machete/ I rather kill with my fan.

You should not get too close. <glances at her, furrowing his brows> I mean it, Fiora, it is good to see you. Let us keep it that way.

deadly-bouquet:

the-prowler:

<jumps, startled by her voice> I— No, not quite. Almost. Good to see you, Fiora.

Good to see you, Lupo. /tilts her head to get a better view/ Looks clean enough to me. Had fun killing those things?

There’s dried blood in the gears. <frowns, snapping the poor, misused thing back into place> Fun? Hardly. They do not put up any sort of fight.

Is it clean yet? /chuckles/

<jumps, startled by her voice> I— No, not quite. Almost. Good to see you, Fiora.

<hanging around at the entrance to a safe room>

<mercilessly trying to scrub the gore from his blade>

[ oh no ]

In his dreams, he holds her. It’s deep into the night, moonlight pouring into the room from the balcony. He’s forgotten to close the curtains, but since it’s so hot, the breeze is more than welcome. 

She doesn’t stir, not even when he sits up. He curls his hand in her chocolate hair, brings it down to cup her softly rounded cheek. He strokes the pad of his thumb over the swell of it, over the corner of her lips, along their crease. He knows she’s awake at this point- her bitten, pale lips curl into a small smile. He grins down at her, even though her eyes remain closed.

“I didn’t mean to wake you, dolce mia,” he whispers, and she groans in response. Sleepy, indeed. He leans down to press a kiss to her temple.

“I wish you would sleep, Vicenzo,” she murmurs, and as always, her wish is his command, and he slides back down next to her. An arm snakes around her and pulls her flush against him. This is just how he likes her. Disarmed, vulnerable, all of her domineering confidence at rest. He himself is completely unmanned by her, flawless and in his arms.

Unwelcome light pours into the open balcony window. His dream dissolves, and his image of Fiora with it.