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Joining Talon was simply a means to an end. It wasn’t meant to be anything more.
When Freja first started taking bounties, she went about it in a way that let her sleep at night. It was merely an extension of what she’d been doing in Overwatch, she figured. Helping the good ones, locking away the bad ones—the typical law enforcement type of deal. She didn’t do it for the money, either. She did it because it was the right thing to do.
But somewhere along the way, Freja realised there was little value in keeping her hands clean. There was nothing to be gained from sticking to her own neat and tidy little moral codex, the same one that she’d stuck to all throughout Overwatch. The reason was simple: so long as she got the job done, nobody cared.
“You’re efficient,” praised Vendetta, the type of thing that rarely ever left her lips. “Of course, you’d be far more so with a blade, limited no longer by such a meagre instrument.”
Freja’s eyes remained on the bullseye, sparing no glance in the voice’s direction. “Do you tell your butler how to clean your toilet, too?”
Perhaps that’s why Vendetta took an interest in her, Freja thought. Because, unlike the crowd of sycophants around her, Freja simply did not give a shit. Whether that was taking the hard jobs, swallowing the difficult pills, or refusing to do the whole song and dance that everybody else did… Well, really, it could have been any of those things.
But the point still stood: it was an interest that Freja much, much rathered her boss didn’t take.
Not because it was inappropriate, because clearly, Freja stopped caring about her morals long ago. But rather, because said boss irritated the hell out of her. In fact, it was practically a miracle that Freja even managed to use the word “boss”, considering how she wished to clothesline Vendetta with her crossbow.
The worst part of this? Vendetta seemed hellbent on trying to seduce her.
The first time Freja became suspicious of Vendetta’s intentions was just a few weeks ago. Board meetings with key stakeholders were routine, and with her current contract, Freja more often than not found herself obliged to attend. That was all the opportunity Vendetta needed.
“Bounty hunter,” she’d commanded, not even bothering to refer to Freja by name. “You will stay beyond today’s adjournment. I have words to speak with you.”
Since this was the first time something like this happened, Freja couldn’t brush aside her feelings of concern. Not for herself, of course, but for her reason for joining Talon—Emre. There was always the possibility of Vendetta taking advantage of him, and if that was what she wished to discuss, well…
With such concerns in mind, Freja spent the remainder of the meeting in an uncharacteristic state of anxiety. She didn’t show it, of course—a huntress knew not to expose her weaknesses, lest she, herself, became prey. But that concern continued to brew in her stomach, festering like a wound, all the way until the meeting finally ended, leaving the room empty except for the two of them.
Freja placed a hand on her hip, eyes fixed on the woman across the table. “What do you want?”
“Such bitter words, bounty hunter. Is a more affable greeting not within your vocabulary?”
Whether it was that patronising tone, or the smug look plastered on her face, Freja couldn’t decide—all she knew was that Vendetta looked positively shootable. “No,” she snarked. “Not for you.”
With a saccharine laugh—entirely fake, of course—Vendetta raised her brows. “You are fortunate for my interest in you, Freja. Otherwise, I would take far less kindly to such truculence.”
Always with the big words, thought Freja, and yet always devoid of meaning. “Do you have a reason for keeping me here?” she questioned, eyes narrowed. “Or are you just keen on wasting my time?”
Still seated at the head of the table, Vendetta rested her cheek against her fist. A golden bracelet jingled with the movement. “I merely intend to express my desire for your company.”
Somehow, Freja found herself at a loss for words. Was this some kind of strange joke? Sure, she knew Vendetta liked to toy with people, but if she was being honest, Freja had hardly expected herself to become the subject of her attention.
“Company?” Freja repeated her words, swishing them around her teeth like mouthwash. They left a poor taste. “I can’t say I understand.”
“You intrigue me, Freja.” Like a snarling wolf, her lips curled into a smile. “I trust I do not need to elaborate further.”
Sitting in this dark, gloomy boardroom, being stared down like some artefact on display; every aspect of this situation only intensified Freja’s discomfort. She didn’t consider herself someone who was easily intimidated, and that was still true. But whatever atmosphere Vendetta had wrought was bizarre enough to unsettle her.
“Whatever you’re proposing, I’m not interested,” Freja replied. Anxiety twisted in her throat, but she would ensure Vendetta didn’t notice it. “I have my reasons for being here, and to be honest? None of them include you.”
“But of course,” smiled Vendetta, a performance as rehearsed as ever. “I understand where your fealties lie. So devoted to your service, after all—it would be quite the shame for any harm to befall the object of your affections.”
If Freja wasn’t already on edge, now her patience was dangling by a thread. “What are you implying?”
Vendetta simply shrugged. “I was to believe you were otherwise betrothed. Perhaps I misconstrued your sentiments.”
“It’s—” Freja’s breath caught in her throat. Had Vendetta really attempted to strike so low? It didn’t matter, not when it was so effective. “It’s not like that,” she murmured, struggling to piece the words together. “There’s nothing like that between us.” She hardly needed to specify who ‘us’ referred to, not with the way Vendetta was smirking at her.
“Then enlighten me,” Vendetta retorted, waving a lock of dark hair over her shoulder. “For what reason do you reject my advances?” For all her fake politeness, she made little effort to conceal the displeasure dripping from her tone. “After all, I wish only to become better acquainted.”
In that moment, there were more than a few ways Freja could have responded. Perhaps she could criticise her principles, denigrate her character; maybe even insult her father’s legacy. But none of those were what she went with. Not when there was a much simpler way to do things.
“Because I don’t like you,” Freja replied. There wasn’t a hint of malice in her tone—entirely on purpose, of course. She knew it made Vendetta angrier that way.
For a second, something like shock flickered across Vendetta’s face. But in the blink of an eye, it was replaced with the same carefully practiced, perfectly polished façade that Vendetta was known for. And yet somehow, managing to dislodge that front—even just for a snippet of time—left Freja craving to do it again.
“Then so be it,” said Vendetta, her jaw stiffer than a rock. “You may be excused.”
If that was a one-off incident, perhaps Freja would have paid it less mind. Sure, Vendetta was obnoxious, and dealing with her was enough to make her want to rip out each of her piercings one-by-one with no anaesthetic. But if that was the only time? Whatever. She’d let it go. Forgive and forget, or whatever the saying was.
Except, it wasn’t a one-off incident. In fact, the situation couldn’t be any further from it. Not when Vendetta was so entitled, so indignant, that it was as though the very fabric of her being struggled to take no for an answer.
Not when Vendetta was so damn determined to get Freja to say yes.
Following that first rejection, Vendetta took every subsequent opportunity as a chance to try even harder to win Freja’s affection. And yet no matter how hard she tried, each and every attempt at courtship was a failure. The reason was simple: Freja refused to cooperate.
That was, until Vendetta finally realised the kind of opportunity that Freja wouldn’t deny.
“Bounty hunter,” she announced, meeting Freja’s gaze from across the corridor. In the dim light of dusk, her eyes glinted like drops of blood. “I wish to best you in combat.”
As it turns out, accepting this duel would be the beginning of Freja’s downfall.
When Freja arrives at the agreed destination, the first thing she notices is how quiet it is. The headquarters’ training area is no small facility, and given it’s a shared space, she expects to see at least a few more of her colleagues making use of its amenities. But she brushes it off. It’s late at night, she supposes, and not everybody fancies going blood-for-blood during sleeping hours.
“Rented the place out, did we?” Freja muses, crossbow held at her side.
As Freja approaches the centre of the room, Vendetta emerges from behind a column. “Of course,” she laughs. “I intend to fight a battle that the commonfolk are unworthy to witness.” Her words are as painfully theatrical as ever, just like that smarmy little grin on her face. Freja wants to wipe it clean off.
“Talking big, are we? Then I hope your skills match up.” Freja knows better than to let her irritation show, so she settles on mirroring Vendetta’s mannerisms. After all, she’s more than confident enough in her ability to prevail, provided she maintains her distance.
Vendetta takes it as a challenge. “Make your move, bounty hunter, and I shall demonstrate.”
Without a moment’s hesitance, Freja does exactly that. With one swift movement, she darts to the side, half-concealed by a pillar, and draws her crossbow. As one bolt leaves, quickly does another, slicing through the air towards her target like a needle.
With little to none of the same grace nor precision, however, Vendetta simply raises her sword, blocking the bolts with as much effort as one blows their nose. “This is all?” she taunts.
But Freja doesn’t let it bother her, not when hunting prey is a battle of attrition. Instead, she adjusts her position, dashing from behind one pillar to the next, using the artificial terrain to her advantage. Weaving in and out of cover, she releases bolt after bolt, the flurry of darts only ceasing when she stops to grab more ammunition from her satchel.
Unfortunately for Freja, Vendetta seizes it as her opportunity to strike.
“You think yourself a huntress, but you are little more than a hare.” As the words leave Vendetta’s lips, Freja has only just enough time to dash out of the way, before Vendetta’s blade slashes down on where she was seconds prior. “You dart around like a headless chicken, peppering cheap little arrows as though you expect anything to come of them.”
Freja drops down behind a pillar, catching her breath. With time of the essence, she quickly rummages through the satchel at her waist, retrieving a new round of ammunition. Without a second’s delay, she slots the bright blue bolt into the track, letting it lock into place. Once her equipment is loaded, she jolts to a new position, this time hiding behind an artificial boulder.
“Marksmanship is a skill,” Freja retorts, unleashing another array of bolts towards her target. Vendetta, of course, quickly blocks them. “I wouldn’t expect you to know that, considering all you do is swing a sword.”
Still brandishing her blade before her, Vendetta lets out a dry laugh. “You would do best not to underestimate the Palatine Fang, little huntress.” The way Vendetta talks down at her is enough to boil Freja’s blood, but she forces herself to remain level-headed. After all, mental clarity is half of the game.
“Little huntress?” Freja sneers, loading another bolt into the track of her crossbow. Taking aim at her target, she releases the string. “You’re no more than a party performer yourself.” The bolt just barely grazes Vendetta’s shoulder, planting itself in the wall behind.
If Vendetta feels any pain, she doesn’t let it show. “I take no criticism from a coward who refuses to fight their opponent up close,” she growls, her hard-light blade gleaming in the light. “Perhaps if you were more than a weakling, you would duel me hand-to-hand.”
The notion is so ridiculous, Freja finds herself caught off-guard. “Yeah, right,” she scoffs, reaching for another bolt from her satchel. But as just as before, it’s in that glimpse of weakness that Vendetta poises herself to strike.
This time, however, she doesn’t miss.
“How disgraceful,” Vendetta jeers. In the two seconds it takes for her to speak, Freja is already on the ground beneath her. With Freja distracted, she had been able to close the distance, and one overhead swing was all it took to assert dominance on her prey. The force was enough to send Freja’s crossbow flying across the room.
To her disappointment, however, Freja refuses to crack beneath the pressure. Instead, she simply gives Vendetta a smirk, watching the way she hesitates to press the tip of her blade to her neck. “What’s wrong?” Freja taunts, so casually that one might swear there wasn’t a woman pinning her down with a lethal object. “Do it if you’d like.”
But Vendetta stays locked in place, looming over Freja’s form with perfect stillness. Her hands stay gripped around the hilt of her blade, but she doesn’t move an inch. Instead, she simply lingers, letting her crimson eyes sear into Freja’s own. “Are you not afraid, bounty hunter?”
“No,” says Freja, flashing her a smile. “Not when you don’t have it in you to kill me.”
For a moment, Freja thinks it might have been enough to get a rise out of her. She watches the way Vendetta’s brow furrows, the ever-so-slight flare of her nostrils; but the woman says nothing. Rather, Vendetta simply inches the tip of her blade even closer to the skin of Freja’s neck, brushing against the fur trim of her cape. Then, quietly: “And what makes you so sure?”
With the sword edging closer to her neck, Freja would be lying if she said she didn’t feel the rise in tension. “It’s hardly difficult to see your interest in me.” She narrows her eyes, watching the way Vendetta stiffens. “In fact, if I didn’t know better,” she laughs, “I’d say you had a crush.”
With the way Vendetta’s eyes widen, it’s just enough time for Freja to make her move.
Seizing the opportunity, Freja shoves the woman off of her, just barely dodging the end of her blade against her throat. Her heartbeat pounding in her ears, she reaches for her bola, rolling out of the way and throwing it at Vendetta’s feet. The shimmering blue cord wraps itself around Vendetta’s ankles, bringing her to the ground. Her blade clatters to the floor beside her.
“How the tables turn,” Freja chuckles, watching the way Vendetta’s eyes follow her.
But she doesn’t have long to savour her victory, not when Vendetta breaks free from the restraints almost as quickly as they’d landed on her. It’s not at all what Freja expects, and she finds herself toppled over again almost as soon as she’d gotten back up. This time, however, Vendetta pins her down with her hands.
“I had thought you above running your mouth,” Vendetta breathes, bringing her face mere inches apart from Freja’s own—an intimidation tactic, she guesses. “But it would seem I thought too highly of you.”
“Oh, is that so?” Freja replies, blood thrumming through her veins like a battery. “Then it’s a good thing I never thought highly of you at all.”
Vendetta scoffs. “Such kind words,” she mutters, so close that Freja can feel her breath against her skin. As she speaks, Freja reaches into her satchel, pointing one of her crossbow bolts towards Vendetta’s neck.
“You know what I think?” Freja breathes, pressing the bolt even closer to her jugular. “I hate you. In fact, I genuinely despise you.”
Yet Vendetta simply laughs. “Baring your fangs, little bounty hunter?”
“If I didn’t know better,” Freja seethes, “I’d bite you with them.”
Right about now, the reality of everything begins to set in. The weight of Vendetta’s body on top of her own, beads of sweat dripping between overlapping layers of skin. The way Vendetta snarls, canines peeking out beneath a layer of red lipstick, enamel glinting white-hot like the fangs of a predator. The long, wavy hair that spills out from her ponytail and over her shoulders, wild and untamed.
Freja may be a huntress, but Vendetta is no prey. And in a situation like this, it’s the animal whose instincts prevail.
“Then I shall do it first,” Vendetta growls, slamming her lips against Freja’s with all the grace of a wildebeest.
When one thinks of kissing, usually, they think of something romantic. Delicate, passionate, loving. But this is none of those things. When Vendetta puts her lips to Freja’s, the first thing Freja does is bite them. Hard enough to draw blood, in fact. Then she licks up the flavour with a smile.
“Cavolo,” Vendetta hisses, pulling her mouth away. With the way she hesitates afterwards, it seems like she fully expects Freja to slap her. It would be completely deserved, of course. In fact, Freja is pretty sure neither of them know why she kissed her at all.
But Freja doesn’t. Instead, to Vendetta’s confusion, she simply stares up at her with a smirk. It’s a challenge. “Didn’t know that’s how they did things in the Colosseo,” Freja remarks, her tone as dry as ever.
“You had best watch your tongue,” Vendetta bites, “or you shall find yourself bent over my knee.”
The statement is hardly threatening, however. Not to Freja, that is. “Oh?” she says, quirking a brow. “Then if that’s the case, I’d like to see you try.”
The bolt is still held in Freja’s fingertips, dangerously close to the other woman’s neck. With one swift movement, Vendetta snatches it from her grip, tossing it somewhere over her shoulder towards the other side of the room. “Superfluous,” Vendetta jeers, as though a meaningful explanation.
But before Freja can land on some witty remark, she finds herself distracted with the way Vendetta’s now straddling her body. There’s a strange electricity in the air between them—something crackling and enigmatic. For all Freja’s displeasure, for all her irritation, somehow, it beckons her closer. Close enough to kiss Vendetta again, this time yanking her by the collar to close the gap between their lips.
When Freja tugs Vendetta closer, Vendetta doesn’t hesitate to bury one of her hands in her hair, sinking her nails between the pretty little braids on Freja’s scalp. Her grip tightens, pulling on the sensitive strands with vicious pleasure. It’s enough to make Freja gasp, and with her other hand, Vendetta presses it against her throat.
After a moment, Vendetta pulls away. Freja doesn’t miss the way her crimson eyes flitter across her expression. “Such poor behaviour,” Vendetta muses, her tongue drenched with venom. “If I knew no better, I would assume you were attempting to defy your position.”
“Position?” Freja laughs, narrowing her eyes. “You don’t control me.”
“How naïve of you,” Vendetta purrs, tightening her grip on Freja’s throat. Her manicured fingertips press just tightly enough to starve her of breath. “You speak such words, and yet you lie here beneath me.”
As the oxygen in her lungs begins to dry up, Freja lets out a mirthless chuckle. “And yet this is what you wanted,” she taunts, gasping for breath. “Isn’t it, Marzia?”
Vendetta’s hand slips away from her throat. Instead, she brings her palm to Freja’s cheek, and slaps her. The echo of flesh on flesh reverberates against the walls of the empty training facility. “You have little right to use that name, bounty hunter.”
But the stinging of her cheek does little to dissuade Freja. Instead, she runs her tongue across her lips, savouring the faint flavour of Vendetta’s blood. “Or what?” she laughs. “You’ll spank me? What are you, my mothe—”
In lieu of a response, Vendetta simply tears off Freja’s shirt.
With an ostentatious flourish, she tosses the garment aside, self-satisfaction dripping from her expression. “Your words bore me,” Vendetta whispers, somewhere between a murmur and a growl. “You would do best to be quiet.”
Freja’s tone is more acidic than ever. “How about you shut me up yourself?”
Like a wolf mauling its prey, Vendetta tears open Freja’s bodysuit, her claws ripping a gash through the taut grey fabric. Clearly, Vendetta cares not whatsoever about preserving the garment, not with the way she’s destroying it. As though slicing with a knife, she draws a long slit down from Freja’s cleavage to her navel, pulling apart the fabric to bare the skin beneath.
“What paltry attire,” Vendetta scoffs. “So easily torn apart, much the same as your bravado.”
Opting to ignore the destruction of her garments, Freja merely shrugs. Perhaps the lack of reaction is on purpose. “Usually, you don’t take clothes off by ripping them down the middle.”
Vendetta lets out a laugh. “And what will you do about it?”
“Depends on what you’re planning,” Freja retorts. She raises a brow, making an expression just smug enough to inflame Vendetta’s temper.
Lacking any care typical of intimacy, Vendetta grabs Freja’s breast, roughly grasping the flesh through what remains of her clothing. From the tear down the middle of her bodysuit, there’s just enough of a gap to reveal the fabric of her bra beneath, powder-blue and lacy. “Zoccola,” Vendetta spits, tearing the remaining fabric until her bra is fully exposed.
“How nice of you,” Freja remarks, her breath catching. She doesn’t need to understand what the word means, not when she can already tell it’s both a compliment and a curse.
But Freja doesn’t have the time to play cocky, not when Vendetta’s hands are grappling her body like there’s a time limit. For all her feminine wiles, decked out in manicured nails and rack upon rack of golden jewellery, Vendetta moves like something feral. It’s in her eyes, too; her irises burn like wildfire, just barely managing to contain the beast that dwells within.
Taking little time to enjoy the view, Vendetta’s hands continue to move lower, deepening the tear down Freja’s bodysuit as though unwrapping a present. Of course, with the expression she’s making, it’s enough to assume her Christmas gift is coal. With ruthless speed, she snaps open the remainder of the garment, ripping open just enough of Freja’s shorts to render her underwear exposed.
“Trying to tame me, are we?” asks Freja, eyeing Vendetta’s expression for any emotion other than contempt. “For all Talon’s goals, I didn’t know crusading women was one of them.”
But the jab falls on deaf ears, at least as far as Vendetta shows it. Instead, she simply traces her palms along the hem of Freja’s underwear, eyeing the curves of her hips. “What a shame it is.”
Freja raises a brow. “What a shame what is?”
Vendetta scowls, her gaze flickering to meet Freja’s own. For all the irritation in her voice, she makes no effort to hide the lust within her eyes. “Such a marvellous physique,” she murmurs, “wasted on such an insubordinate owner.”
“Insubordinate?” The word curls Freja’s lips into a smile, if nothing but to mock her. “I didn’t know it was possible to sound so obnoxious.”
Vendetta bites her lip. “If I did not know better, I would believe you enjoyed disrespecting me.”
Like clockwork, Freja can’t help but sting back. “And what if I did?” she mutters, noting the way Vendetta’s grip tightens on her underwear.
“Then I would be obliged to teach you some manners.”
Before Freja can register what’s happening, the flash of cold air against her skin is enough to realise Vendetta has her underwear ripped clean in half. The sensation is enough to warm her cheeks, but she doesn’t let it show—not with words, at least. That would be giving Vendetta what she wanted.
“With all that money you have,” says Freja, “do you tear off your clothes every time you’re done wearing them?”
“How touché,” Vendetta hums. “From our negotiations, I had come to believe you worked only to fill your own coffers.” She traces a finger along Freja’s navel, earning a shudder. “Perhaps I was incorrect.”
“You know nothing of my life,” Freja retorts. But as she does, her voice hitches in her throat, just barely managing to conceal her reaction to Vendetta’s fingertip trailing her bare skin.
With a boastful laugh, Vendetta judges her expression. “You are all bark, no bite,” she chides, her touch drifting ever closer to the dip between Freja’s thighs. “You act so callously, talk so sharply, and yet here you are, quivering beneath my caress.”
“Really? Well—“
Freja doesn’t have the chance to finish her sentence, not with the moan that shivers from her lips. Without warning, Vendetta had slipped her hand even lower, her fingertips brushing against the heat of Freja’s core. And based on Vendetta’s expression, the sound Freja makes is exactly what she’d wanted to hear from it.
“I apologise,” sighs Vendetta, anything but sincere. “Perhaps you ought to repeat yourself.”
It’s clearly bait, considering she doesn’t hesitate to begin moving her fingers against the sensitive bud between Freja’s legs. Whatever witty remark Freja had in mind crumbles to dust, replaced with the warm rush of pleasure. She tries to suppress the noise, but it’s a fruitless effort—the breath stuck in her throat is enough for Vendetta to know her movements are successful.
“What a shameful thing you are,” Vendetta mocks, her own breath quickening as she continues to trace circles with her fingertips. The sudden sensation sends shockwaves through Freja’s stomach, rumbling out into the gentle tremor of her thighs.
“Do you do this to every opponent?” asks Freja, the question whimpered out between heavy breaths. Of course, it’s completely insincere—Freja doubts Vendetta does, nor does she care to know. But when Vendetta is trying so hard to maintain the upper hand, all Freja can do is try to claw beneath her skin.
Vendetta frowns, spitting beneath her breath. “Watch your words, bounty hunter,” she warns, “or I shall leave you trembling without release.”
With Freja’s back still pressed against the ground, Vendetta pushes her body even closer towards hers. As the cold metal of her breastplate brushes against Freja’s skin, goosebumps blossom in its wake. Although Vendetta is still fully armored, Freja hardly expects her to undress, not when she’s so focused on teasing her into submission.
As Freja tries to level her breathing, Vendetta decides to toy with her further. With a curl of the index finger, she pushes her fingertip against Freja’s entrance, lingering just long enough to tease her. The sensation is enough to leave Freja a flustered mess.
“Make up your mind,” Freja stammers, a soft moan slipping from her lips. It doesn’t matter how much she wishes to maintain her icy front; not when Vendetta’s touch is hot enough for it to thaw.
Vendetta simply laughs, clearly revelling in the way Freja bends to her will. “And to think the frostbitten bounty hunter is no more than a harlot,” she muses. “Yet another reason why you sit beneath me.”
Freja flashes her a glare. “I’m starting to think you get off on degrading me.”
“What I ‘get off on’ is none of your concern,” Vendetta replies, echoing her words with spite. But it’s not hard to see the rapid pace at which her chest rises and falls, its pace in tandem with the movement of her fingers, still tracing and teasing Freja’s sensitive flesh. “It is as though you forget your own disgrace, so aroused with barely a touch.”
As the words leave her lips, she finally sinks a finger inside of Freja, hot flesh clenching at the pressure. Then, without giving Freja even a moment to adjust, Vendetta adds a second finger. The sudden stretch leaves Freja reeling, gasping at the mix of pain and pleasure.
“How pathetic,” Vendetta coos. “Such a sharp tongue, reduced to nothing but weakness.”
When Freja finally gets a hold of herself, she doesn’t hesitate to retaliate. “You’re enjoying this,” Freja gasps, jagged breaths pulling at her chest. “You walk with your chin held high—“ She pauses, swallowing her breath. “Yet you’re little more than a sadist.”
“And what of it?” says Vendetta, almost shamelessly. Her fingers quickly approach an aggressive rhythm, and Freja begins to blush, her head becoming lighter and lighter with every motion. “You seem to enjoy this, do you not?”
Freja wants to reply, but stringing the syllables together on her tongue feels like a futile task. The only thing running through her mind is the dizzying pattern of Vendetta’s fingers inside of her, coiling her wires up into a tangle of frustration. Vendetta practically infuriates her, and yet the only signal buzzing through Freja’s neurons is the desire to have more of her.
But Freja doesn’t just lay there and take it—that would be completely unlike herself. Instead, whilst Vendetta drives her fingers in and out of her core, Freja buries her own in Vendetta’s hair. Roughly. In fact, she sinks an entire palm into her ponytail, grabbing the long, silky mane and tugging Vendetta’s chin up. It’s an action solely intended to piss her off. One that works.
“You dare touch me?” Vendetta hisses, two long, slender digits still embedded inside of Freja. Even if just for a moment, the way the bridge of her nose scrunches in displeasure is enough to make Freja’s heart thud even quicker in her chest. Two can play at that game.
Right as pleasure begins to seep its way up into Freja’s abdomen, its warm glow blooming like a flower, Vendetta unceremoniously pulls out. The sudden loss of pressure sends a jolt up Freja’s spine, her muscles tensing in place, dissatisfied.
“What are you doing?” Freja nearly whines, not bothering to hide her disappointment. Her hand is still tangled up in Vendetta’s hair, holding her in place like a leash. Nothing about this is elegant.
Vendetta’s command is simple. “Unhand me.”
If Freja wasn’t dazed by the sudden loss of pressure, perhaps she’d bite back. But her head is still spinning, her walls are still clenching, and more than anything else, she wants Vendetta back. So she obeys, perhaps more eagerly than otherwise she’d like to.
Before Freja can ask for an explanation, however, Vendetta picks herself up off the ground, bringing Freja with her. Lifting Freja’s ankles over her shoulders, she hoists her over to a ledge embedded in the facility’s terrain, sitting her down there. Then, with no explanation, Vendetta returns to where she had pinned Freja down before, collecting the scattered weapons from the floor.
Freja frowns. “What are you doing?”
With her back towards her, Vendetta sighs. “Given the nature of your profession, one would assume you asked less questions.”
But Freja doesn’t have a chance to complain, not when Vendetta is already turning around. Along with her, she’s carrying her sword, to no surprise. But what draws Freja’s eye is the bola wrapped around Vendetta’s wrist. Her bola.
When Vendetta arrives, she first plants her sword in the ground, the blade half-driven into the floor. Then, she unwraps the bola, stretching it thin. “Lift your wrists,” she commands.
At first, Freja is too confused to think anything of it. But once the bola’s cord is wrapped neatly around her wrists, binding them together like a gift, Vendetta’s intentions click.
Freja gives her a glance. “I assume you intend to keep those pinned above my head?”
“Only if you learn to keep your mouth shut,” Vendetta replies, her lips curled into a frown. The roughness of her words makes Freja’s chest burn far hotter than she wishes it would.
Swallowing her lust, Freja watches Vendetta take her sword, retracting the hard-light blade into its smaller, dagger-like form. Like this, the blade is small enough to hold in one hand, but with enough length on its hilt to—
Oh. Freja traces her tongue across her lips. She can see where this is going.
With a dry laugh, Vendetta narrows her eyes, scanning over Freja’s form. Given the height advantage of standing on two feet, she practically looms over her. “Truly a degenerate display,” she mutters. “I suppose you are without shame.”
But Vendetta’s words are ineffective, given the way Freja looks up at her, an equally wry smile on her face. “Is that so? Then I wonder whose idea this was.”
With one hand, Vendetta pins Freja’s wrists up against the wall, holding them above her head. With the other, she drags the tip of the hilt along the inside of Freja’s thigh, trailing a long, smooth path over the half-covered skin. The sensation is enough to make Freja shiver.
“You are advised to hold your tongue,” warns Vendetta, “lest I remove it myself.”
But Freja can’t help but play with fire, considering the way she continues. “Then perhaps you should hurry up,” she breathes, staring directly into Vendetta’s eyes. “Unless you’re afraid, that is.”
“Afraid?” Vendetta repeats the word like it’s humorous. “The only thing to be feared is your own dissolution,” she retorts. Then, with a scoff, she pushes the hilt of her sword to Freja’s lips. “You will open your mouth.”
With more obedience than she’d like, Freja’s bottom lip parts, and with it, Vendetta pushes the hilt into her mouth. The gesture is so aggressive, however, that Freja nearly chokes. Of course, the sound of her gagging is enough for a malevolent chuckle to ring out from Vendetta’s lips. “Magnifico,” she spits, watching Freja struggle to take the entire length in her throat.
Once Vendetta deems the hilt thoroughly coated in spit—or whatever the hell else goes on in that sadistic head of hers, Freja thinks—she quickly pulls the hilt out of Freja’s mouth, almost as roughly as she’d pushed it in. The motion makes Freja gag again, gasping for air, painfully aware of the trail of saliva dripping down from her lips.
“You are truly pathetic,” Vendetta muses. “If I were less charitable, perhaps I would take you as a pet.”
Vendetta? Charitable? The association of the two is enough to make Freja laugh, no matter how much she’s still struggling for her breath. “You act as though everyone in this damn organisation isn’t already your pet.”
“Oh?” Vendetta raises a brow, amusement tugging at the corner of her lip. “If that were to be the case, then I suppose you are already included, bounty hunter.” Somehow, she spits out the last of her words with even more vitriol than usual, something Freja takes as a sign to prepare herself. One that proves correct.
With one of her hands still holding Freja’s wrists to the wall, the other grabs the hilt, dragging it towards the middle of Freja’s thighs. Vendetta doesn’t have to ask her to spread her legs—not when they’re already open and quivering. Instead, she simply drags the length up towards the sensitive flesh, watching with satisfaction as Freja struggles not to tremble.
Trying to hide her own weakness, Freja clamours to find a witty remark. “I never really understood the rich,” she breathes, ignoring the obvious irony of her statement. “Always with the weird fetishes.” Her gaze flickers back to Vendetta, having drifted away when she was more busy choking on the hilt. “I mean, do you fuck people with swords often?”
“No,” says Vendetta simply, catching Freja off-guard. “But if you are to continue such insolence? I shall make it a habit.”
Whilst Freja is distracted, Vendetta brushes the hilt against her entrance, her thighs rippling at the sensation. The moan that escapes her throat is choked, stifled; after all, admitting her enjoyment of this situation would mean defeat. Not when she’s literally being screwed by the boss she despises, using a damn sword of all things.
Freja has made a lot of poor choices in her bounty hunting career, but as for this one? It could go either way, she supposes.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, Freja doesn’t have to wonder much longer. With one swift, sadistic motion, Vendetta plunges the hilt fully inside of her, pushing it as far as it’ll go. The sudden pressure is enough to make Freja’s vision go black. To be quite honest? It hurts. A lot, actually.
But Vendetta knows that, given the way her own breathing spikes, clearly embroiled in her own voyeuristic pleasure. And with as embarrassingly wet as Freja is, it doesn’t take long for the sharp stinging between her legs to melt into something more enjoyable, the mix of pleasure and pain bubbling into a dizzying drug.
“You’re insane,” Freja gasps, the blood in her cheeks running white-cold. Her head is absolutely spinning, her vision only just returning to some semblance of normality after fading to void. “You are genuinely, actually—“
The words don’t have much time to come out, however, not with the long, desperate sound that drags from Freja’s lips. The loudness of her moan is almost humiliating. She shouldn’t be enjoying this, at least that’s what she tells herself; Vendetta is insufferable, intolerable, inexcusable. And yet here she is, the faint taste of her boss’ blood still lingering on her lips, the hilt of the Palatine Fang working her insides until she unravels into a quivering heap.
“You were saying, bounty hunter?”
Whatever thought was running through Freja’s mind melts away into a puddle of hormones, much like Freja herself. She can’t think straight, not when Vendetta is thrusting her sword so aggressively in and out of her core. The rhythm is rough, relentless; clearly, Vendetta’s never heard of ‘warming up’, not with the way she’s going zero-to-hundred like this. Luckily for her, however, Freja finds it difficult to care—not when it feels this good.
“You’re filthy,” Freja spits. At this point, it’s just about the only statement she can actually produce.
The words seem to affect Vendetta, however, based on the way she seems to quicken her thrusts to reach an ever faster pace. With a dry laugh, she shoots Freja a glare. “To your disappointment, I am sure, I do not take criticism from whores.” The look in her eyes is devilish.
“Whores?” Freja repeats, the word entangled between desperate moans. With her chest heaving and falling this quickly, it’s a miracle she isn’t panting, just barely managing to hold herself together despite Vendetta’s best efforts to wreck her. It’s a losing battle, however, no matter how much Freja tries to avoid recognising it. “If I’m a whore,” she breathes, “then you’re no better for fucking one.”
Vendetta raises a brow, as though Freja’s language amuses her. “You use such filthy words,” she chides. “Following our conclusion, I ought to cleanse your mouth with soap.”
Amidst frantic breathing, Freja stammers out a laugh. “Hah, you? You wouldn’t dare debase yourself.” It’s not wrong, of course; it’s comical to imagine Vendetta surrendering herself to such a lowly task.
In lieu of a response, however, Vendetta continues thrusting her sword with all the enthusiasm of a woman hoping Freja will break. With how she’s barely stopped for a moment, it’s as though the entire act is a challenge—as if to say, survive this. But it’s a matter of who fails first: Vendetta’s wrist, or Freja’s stamina. To Freja’s dismay, it appears to be the latter.
“Your resolve wavers, huntress,” Vendetta remarks. The words hiss between her teeth, saying Freja’s name like she’s spitting out a foul taste. “Surely you do not intend to lose.”
Freja wants to retort, but with the way her abdomen is loosening, she knows it’s a doomed endeavour. All she can think about is the bubbling release of pressure, rattling like cracked glass in a microwave, each wave of heat pushing her closer and closer to eruption. She sinks her teeth into her lips, trying to suppress the sound, but it’s hopeless. With the sounds Freja’s making, it’s impossible to try and stop herself.
Evidently, Vendetta is having the time of her life. “Perhaps you ought to surrender,” she coos. “It would be better to admit your defeat.” It’s all fake, of course—she doesn’t care about rules, fairness, or anything of the sort. In fact, it wouldn’t be wrong to assume that winning and losing no longer matter to her either. All she seems to care about is goading Freja into submission, grinding her resolve like dirt beneath her heel.
And to Freja’s chagrin, that’s what Vendetta gets.
When the pleasure finally bursts, burgeoning into soft, satisfying release, the only thing Freja can think of is the blood draining from her face. The duel is lost. This was her intention all along. Vendetta didn’t come here with playing fair in mind—why would she? She didn’t need to, not when Freja had given her exactly what she wanted.
When Freja finally gathers her breath, still clenching and trembling around the hilt of Vendetta’s sword, it takes all of her mettle to look Vendetta in the eye. “You’re a villain,” she murmurs, still clamouring for air.
For all the responses Vendetta could give, however, she simply laughs. “Was this not a game you chose to play?” It’s hardly what she expected to hear, and yet Freja hates that she’s right.
This duel, this chase, this courtship; all of it was a strategy, all part of Vendetta’s gambit, nothing more than a ploy to wear Freja down into submission. When the realisation settles in Freja’s mind, she feels like nothing more than an idiot. Knowing she’s no more than a pawn—a playing piece in one large scheme. Something she fell for, hook, line, and sinker.
And yet, the lust lingering in her veins doesn’t let her regret it. It’s the ebbing wave of a pleasure she knows she would do better to resist. One that she doesn’t, no matter how much Vendetta boils her blood. No matter how much of a mistake she knows this is.
After all, joining Talon was simply a means to an end. It wasn’t meant to be anything more.