Kit, Riven and Archer

Low bass pulses through velvet and bone, lights bleeding gold and red across the booths like a slow bruise. Heat hangs thick in the air, not scent heavy enough to trip alarms, just enough to make instincts itch. Riven lounges in the corner booth like he owns the night because he does, long legs stretched, jacket discarded, drink untouched at his fingertips. His gaze drifts lazily across the club until it snags, sharp, deliberate.

“Archer,” he murmurs, voice barely louder than the music. Archer, passing the booth on his way toward the back offices, expression unreadable as ever. He doesn’t stop, not until Riven’s fingers hook around his wrist and tug. Just enough force to make a point. Archer looks down. Riven looks up at him, eyes cool, mouth soft, smiling like he already knows the outcome.

“Sit,” Riven says, gentle and unmistakably a command. Archer exhales through his nose, glances once over his shoulder as if checking the room out of habit, then allows himself to be pulled down. The kiss is brief but loaded, Riven’s hand sliding into Archer’s collar, mouth warm and unhurried, claiming without urgency. Archer lets it happen for exactly as long as he wants to. When he pulls back, his voice is low. “I’ve got a mess to clean.” Riven hums, thumb brushing Archer’s jaw. “Mmm. Come back when you’re done being responsible.” Archer straightens, eyes dark, already halfway gone. “Don’t start without me.” Riven’s smile widens as Archer disappears into the crowd.

Moments later, the side door slams. Kit slips back into the club through the staff entrance, knuckles split, blood drying along his jaw and collarbone, grin sharp and wild like the fight hasn’t finished burning in his veins. He doesn’t bother cleaning up just wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and heads straight for the booth, adrenaline still thrumming under his skin.

Riven watches him approach, amused. “You look feral.” Kit drops down beside him hard, thigh pressed close, heat radiating. “You should’ve seen the other guy.” He leans in, breath hot, eyes bright. “He forgot where he was.” Riven’s fingers find Kit’s chin, tilting his face, inspecting the blood with lazy approval. “Did he bleed on the floor?” Kit laughs softly. “A little.”

“Good.” Riven’s thumb smears a trace of red away, slow, intimate. “You always come back like this.” Kit sinks deeper into the booth, body loose and restless, shoulder brushing Riven’s chest. “Gets me worked up.” A pause. A sideways glance. “You saving space for Archer?” Riven leans back, arm draped behind Kit like it belongs there. “Always.” Kit grins, teeth bright against the dim light, eyes flicking toward the club’s entrance. “Good. I’m not done yet.” The booth settles around them like a den of velvet, heat, possession humming just beneath the surface waiting for the third point to close the circuit.