#chapter 2 in my chameleon faces series

[ohnoproblems]

Hey, I just finished reading Peregrine Phoenix vol.1 - I adored it enough to come poke the author about it. I'm a fervid martial arts guy, and I noticed that, despite the relatively sparse description of grappling in comparison to the abundant striking, both of Mokou's barehanded fights ended with suplexes. Interestingly, she fights taurs both times. I'd love to hear more about the process behind choreographing this, particularly the process of figuring out what might and mightn't work on a quadrupedal body plan. Were you inspired by judo, wrestling, something else?

thank you so much for this ask. it's maybe the perfect question so i hope i can do it justice.

it's been about 2-2.5 years since i wrote the fight scenes in book 1, so i don't have as precise an idea anymore of my peripheral inspirations. as far as personal experience with martial arts, i don't have a whole lot - i took karate in high school at a suburban McDojo and got to... brown belt? then a whole lot of nothing. but by the time i started writing book 1, my wife's interest and appreciation of Wing Chun got me into the off-and-on habit of doing daily Si Lim Tao with her.

because of this, i'm a bit of a chameleon when it comes to my influences. i rely on media depictions a lot. i see a cool martial arts movie (like the Ip Man movies for Wing Chun, or like The Raid for Silat, etc) and i'm like "well that's cool as fuck, and mokou loves to tussle and she's lived forever so i bet she knows that." i like to give her worldly influences and i also like to give her otherworldly/larger-than-life/future influences because she's been part of this unbroken continuity of being and her knowledge and practice should reflect that. so it's things like Wing Chun and Silat, but it's also things like Lunarian CQC from the Lunar Wars, Danneskjold Pit Style from her life across the Moghra'yi, or Heaven Sundering Fist from wherever the hell you learn fake anime martial marts in the time and space between Gensokyo and Qud.

the suplex finisher is for any number of reasons. number one, there's something incredibly decisive and definitive about a suplex. number two, it's flashy as hell and i love flashy things. number three, and perhaps most critically, it gets your foe off of their feet! and when you're facing a quadruped, that's very important, that's the root of their strength! they can get twice the leverage out of the ground as you can, so the sooner you can negate that advantage, the better!

writing this series has me thinking about the ergonomics and design philosophy of centaurs more than i usually do, which, if you look at my #taurposting tag, you can probably understand is something i already think about a great deal. whenever agate fobs off mokou's interest or training offers with "i have my own techniques" i'm always like god. but actually what do those look like. how do you get gains as a centaur in a world with no gyms. one of these chapters in one of these books i'll probably go into it.

mokou's moveset in ULiL/AoCF is also a big inspiration! she's got all these great stomps and kicks and flips and nasty fire-claw punches whenever she deigns to pull her hands out of her pockets. she's not a very "honorable" fighter, she cares way more about getting to cut loose. agate's lucky she didn't catch a handful of homemade explosives to the face!

my choreography process is usually like… well i do a lot of rotating these gals in my mind and seeing what would be the coolest thing for them to do, the most sensible thing for them to do, the most emotionally or thematically resonant thing for them to do, the best nod to that dope move in the martial arts flick i just watched, etc, and then whatever i settle on i try to depict as clearly as i can. then if there's room for textual flourishes i'll spruce it up some.

Judo wasn't really a direct influence over book 1's fight scenes - i think the first judo-centric martial arts film i've seen was Sanshiro Sugata (1943), and i saw that one for the first time in may of 2022, too late to influence book 1. hilarious movie for fight choreography btw, he just fucking shuffles up and GETS them and then they fly across the room and almost die and it keeps happening. beautiful.

that said, there's some tussles coming up in book 2 that give a nod to Judo! this is because i've been getting way into Sumo lately and Judo has a good playbook to help in Sumo bouts. also Judo is a great style for someone who is too depressed to regularly keep herself in peak condition, because a lot of it is about putting what force you have to best use, and using your enemy's force against them. Wing Chun is also good for folks who aren't in the best shape, so that's another of my justifications as to why she talks that one up.

and finally, caves of qud as a game is one that has sadly underdeveloped (though not nonexistent!) barehand combat support, so there's a bit less inspiration i can pull directly from the game. mokou's new in town anyway, so she hasn't had a chance to soak in the styles regardless. i'm gonna take this opportunity to plug the Qud-Fu - Mixed Martial Arts Skills mod which i keep meaning to install and play around with but so far haven't. but if i do it strikes me as one very likely to show up in the fic XD

thank you again and i hope this gave you better insight!

#weepingchoir #treatise on the peregrine phoenix #taurposting #caves of qud #touhou

[show-me-how-you-smile]

Current mood: Ilia’s 😠 face

Let it be known that I miss this face too, and want to see it directed at some racist Atlas assholes (immediately preceding their demise)

#ilia amitola #chapter 2 in my chameleon faces series #look it’s not my fault her face is perfect #she makes the best expressions and I love them all #mine

[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.  

#john wick #john wick x reader #santino d'antonio x reader #santino d'antonio #keanu reeves #riccardo scamarcio #john wick fic #john wick imagine #santino d'antonio imagine #fanfiction #fic: children of ares

[jennagrinsoverml]

ML Fic Recs - Episode-based

My third Miraculous Ladybug rec list! As before, I’m trying to rec fics that readers are less likely to have read, generally trying to keep to under 500 kudos on AO3. You can find my other rec lists on my blog under the tag #jennarecsml

If you enjoy these, please reblog so more readers can find these awesome fics!

Who doesn’t love a little episode coda? (We called them codas in my day, anyway, I don’t know if fandom has a new term for it.) These are some of my favourite fics based on a particular episode.

A Blanket’s Hug by @miraculouslycool

If she stayed any longer in his arms, she would become too comfortable. And then she'd never want to leave.

She had to get a hold of herself!

---------------------------------------------------------

In which Chat Noir happens to be way too adorable™ when he cursed with cowardice and Ladybug is Not Okay At All.

One-shot. Set during Reverser, these missing scenes are just gorgeous. I love the focus on Chat’s bravery, how even when he’s so afraid of everything, he still pushes through for Ladybug. And her thoughts towards him are so tender.

Confessions to a Statue by @kasienda

After Marinette bolts from his presence for the hundredth time, Adrien is scared that she doesn't like him. He thinks if he can just make her laugh, she might become more comfortable around him. He is about to instigate the best (worst) prank ever, but then accidentally overhears something that he wasn't meant to that makes him see his friend in a whole new light.

Contains spoilers for Season 3 - Puppeteer 2.

Multi-chapter. So, like many of you, I was traumatized by the statue scene is Puppeteer 2. I can handle a lot, but secondhand embarrassment?? Nope, cannot do it. Kasienda reimagines the scene with Marinette confessing without being humiliated and Adrien gets the insight he needs to be a better friend to her. Also has some really nice interaction between Adrien and Alya. 

A Longer Fight Than Usual by walkingonthestars

Rogercop declared Ladybug and Cat Noir outlaws at 10:30 in the morning. It was now 8:30 at night and getting dark out. Their families were probably worried.

In which Ladybug and Cat Noir call their respective families to let them know they're okay, and Ladybug finds out that her partner's life is much more lonely than she'd imagined.

Takes place in the later end of that ~ten hour time gap in Rogercop.

One-shot. This fic isn’t particularly romantic, but I love Ladybug getting a little bit of insight into Chat’s home life. My heart breaks in the very best way.

Face the Music by @gabriel-agreste-has-no-rights

Luka's replaced his broken guitar with a kazoo. Marinette realizes just how important that guitar was to their burgeoning relationship.

...Maybe she should've made sure no one was around before she ranted about that to Tikki.

(Set during/after the end of Miracle Queen)

Multi-chapter. Okay, so I’m probably not introducing anyone to Taliax and her amazing fics at this point, but this one is a particular favourite because I finished season 3 feeling really broken hearted and this healed that. 

hope dangles on a string by FastPacedFreeFall

Marinette gets a surprise visitor, who comes bearing a little sore-needed solace.

One-shot (though I think it’s part of a series? I haven’t read the others yet.) After Dark Cupid, Marinette and Chat Noir commiserate about failing to confess to their crushes. It’s super cute and sweet!

The right side of his face by walkingonthestars

Marinette and Adrien are able to remain in their new seats in the back of the room at the end of Chameleon.

One-shot. A Chameleon fic that’s salt-free?? You don’t see too many of those! This is just super cute and sweet.

Where the Heartache Began by somethingvaguetodo

Marinette isn’t interested in Adrien Agreste. But its not that she isn’t interested in him either.

One-shot. Set just after Origins part 2, this is an amazing imagining of Marinette’s thoughts and behaviour in the short period after the Umbrella Scene, before Marinette realizes and admits her crush on Adrien. It’s spot-on in its characterization and humour and absolutely deserves a read!

Amnesiac? More like Amnesi-Chat by therealjanebingley

Oblivio's back, and this time only Chat Noir gets hit. Based on his limited knowledge and the way Ladybug acts towards him, he makes some assumptions.

One-shot. This is hilarious. From Chat’s genuine glee about his superheroes to Ladybug’s affectionate indulgence to having Chat provide an “outside perspective” on Ladybug’s non-platonic behaviour towards him to the teasing… I could see this actually happening in an Oblivio 2.0 episode.

#ml fic rec #fic recs #miraculous ladybug #ml lovesquare #ml love square #ladynoir #adrienette #adrinette #marichat #jennarecsml

[etherealxgenie]

Why ‘Adrien is Oblivious’ is a Misconception || Miraculous Why?

(Before I begin, note that this is my opinion over the topic and am no way am bashing anyone’s love for a ship and/or character. I respect who and what you like, therefore expect the same courtesy. However, if this is something you cannot handle, please click the back button as this will be a heavily discussed topic. Critiques are welcomes, Flames will be deleted. Other than that, enjoy.)

So I know I said I don’t normally get involved when it comes to the Miraculous fandom, but there’s always one thing that’s been bothering me from nearly the beginning since the series began.

Even before I had the ugly divorce from the love square after Desperada, I always found it hard to believe with the way Marinette behaved around Adrien was completely unnoticeable. And because of the way Adrien seems to not take note of it, fans (pure and toxic) automatically make the assumption that he’s oblivious or dumb.

But did people ever take the time to divulge why and to view it in his perspective? Aside from the excuse of bad writing, I think there could be other reasons as to why Adrien doesn’t acknowledge her behavior. And she doesn’t hide her feelings around him either while wearing the mask either, so far that she makes the same stuttering speeches and frantic hand motions.

But here’s a list of reasons for Adrien to have which can be plausible:

1) He IGNORES it. 



Now before you go and start bashing the poor boy (god knows the fandom lacks the sympathy), keep in mind Adrien IS a celebrity of Paris. I dunno exactly how the celebrity lifestyle maybe different for the U.S, but I’m pretty sure this would have to do of how he was taught. As the face of Gabriel and with the reaction from several fans alone, Adrien was probably told by Gabriel in regards about fans and how they would react to him and how he has to ignore such barbaric measures. And given the way he sees fans react to him (Gorizilla), he believes his father is right.

In regards of Marinette, he hopes to make a friend for her instead of seeing her as one of his fans, even if he appreciates the support.

2) He’s looking for FRIENDSHIP, not ROMANCE

Adrien is starting a new chapter in his life and is looking for some normality at his new school. More so, he’s looking to make more friends. There could be to some reasons why for one of wanting a better friendship than what Chloe or Felix had set an example for. Mainly of course for the fact that Adrien is lonely and looking for companionship of his choice.

But he’s not in the rush for a straight out relationship.

I know what you’re thinking: “But he’s asked out Ladybug constantly! What the hell are you talking about?”. Well truth be told, Adrien as Chat may just be looking for an excuse to hang out with her. There’s no denial he’s attracted to her personality or admires her, but he DOES wants to get to know her first. Which is something Marinette fails to let happen as both herself AND Ladybug.

Now it is true Marinette has done things to help and may know stuff about him (either through stalking or researching online), but she hasn’t taken the time to get to know him on a personal level. She doesn’t know if he’s an anime lover, what he dreams of doing or how he likes puns. And as Ladybug when he show his more true self, she automatically rejects him with the somewhat reasonable excuse fear for identities. I’ll leave that alone as I’ll do another thing on identities later.

So in regards of Marinette’s ‘love’ (obsession), Adrien is just looking for friendship with her and not love. He’s not ready for a full on relationship yet where he’s starting fresh on friendships, which is why dating Kagami didn’t work out (I didn’t need to watch S4 to predict that). She pressured him into a relationship and expected them to be the perfect couple. It was clear he was not ready and yet seemed to ignore it anyway for her feelings towards him. For a healthy relationship to work, you need to think about the ‘we’ and not ‘me’ and to take time.

3) He’s SOCIALLY CHALLENGED

We don’t know how it really was when Emilie was around, but it seemed regardless Adrien had a strict childhood. His father, Gabriel Agreste, seems to have the main say of his life to control him as he saw fit, to mold Adrien the way HE wants him too. And because of such strictness, Gabriel is the kind of person to only tell Adrien the needed lesson to keep him under his thumb along with keeping him isolated.

Similar of how Judge Claude Frollo did to Quasimodo. Just as Mother Gothel did to Rapunzel and Cassandra.

And for those reasons alone, Adrien is left without the majority skills needed to make it on his own, including how to socialize and interact in a way with certain people. The only socializing skills he had probably was how to interact in regards of fans or how to avoid bad publicity. Something enough in regards to being a celebrity. Gabriel didn’t nor has planned for Adrien to have any interaction with others beyond that.

This particular reason alone helps understand his plight more and why 90% salt/bashing/hate thrown at him is completely unnecessary. Especially during ‘Chameleon’ and ‘Ladybug’.

Adrien is like Quasimodo and Rapunzel, being thrust into the new world after escaping their tower only to discover many things they’re not familiar with. Imagine being at the age of 14 but your parents haven’t been the best and haven’t taught you how to socialize with certain people. Then the teen could act in a certain way with anyone: friends, adults and even strangers in which they teen can be taken advantage of.

But how does he adapt quickly to being Chat Noir, you ask? Adrien probably had only but fantasies to fall back on whenever he’s isolated and alone. Probably even dreamed of a superhero rescuing him or taking him away to a new life where he’s free to be himself. His greatest nightmare shown in “Sandboy” is nothing about Ladybug or anyone else, but being locked away in his room for the rest of his life.

He’s no doubt a secret comic geek and probably dreamed of being a hero himself. Chat Noir is far from perfect, but he catches on of how a true hero should act. He’s also adapts quickly and is perceptive of behaviors. Like the way Ladybug and Fu doesn’t tell him the entire truth of what they plan for the future and try to isolate him from it. And between the two, Chat Noir perfects more of hiding his identity. Not for the fact of probably reading about it, but because Chat is someone he always wanted to be that he can’t as Adrien.

So the next time if you observe the show or read any works in regarding Adrien’s behavior and before you chalk it up as oblivious, dumb, stupid or selfish… how about you dive into his perspective and try to understand more of his side? There’s two sides to every story.

#adrien sugar #marinette neutral #kagami neutral #miraculous ladybug #miraculous why #artist opinion #artist speaks #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #adrien deserves better #kagami tsurugi #stockhom syndrome #gabriel agreste #//i'm just tired of people making this excuse for adrien

[flightfoot]

Since all of the recent drama around salt, I would like some recs for fics that deconstruct it, please?

There was recent drama beyond the usual simmering about it? Musta missed it, I’ve been pulling back from fandom a little (a LITTLE. Not a ton. Mostly just not checking all of AO3 every day) so it might’ve flown under my radar. Doesn’t surprise me though. Salt is VERY contentious, especially as extreme and common as it is nowadays.

In any case, there are a few I can point you to, though part of it depends on what you mean by “deconstruction”.

Starting off with stuff on the more parody end of things, there’s Five Nights at Pretzels: Salter Location by Mindwriter 2000. An akuma attacks that warps people and reality to resemble more their saltfic selves, with Marinette being the only one unaffected and wondering what the heck’s going on.

High Sodium Content by @ghostlyhamburger has a somewhat similar premise, but this time Marinette’s transported to an alternate salt universe, one combining Mari//bat with the “moving to a new school with cool new friends while kicking her former friends to the curb” tropes. She’s TOLD that this universe will be better for her and she spends some time there, but ultimately? She doesn’t like it. She LIKES her friends and family. She doesn’t want these new supposedly better friends.

Funhouse Mirror by Storygirl000 has a short one, with Alya coming face-to-face with her salt version. She ain’t exactly happy with what she sees.

SALTING AROUND AT THE SPEED OF SOUND by Miss Ecchi is mostly parody, with the canon LB and CN watching a saltfic go down and doing their own commentary (and making out) while the author’s desperately trying to keep them to the saltfic script. It’s pretty hilarious.

Then there are fics that don’t take on saltfics directly, but cover some of the same ground from a more in-character, realistic perspective. I *love* this kind of fic, and they tend to be ones that get my analyzer brain whirring.

Lies We Tell (Ourselves) by @mini-minou is one of my favorites (I’ve written two different analyses on it) and is the fic that got me to go from liking Alya fine, to being super invested in her. The setup’s similar to a typical (mild, not crazy, published soon after Chameleon released) saltfic, with Lila trying to turn everyone against Marinette and subtly trying to make Marinette look worse, along with having her try to give a ton of herself to others to her own detriment, and eventually withdrawing more with seeing that it’s not worth it.

But it doesn’t go to the extremes of saltfics; the classmates aren’t evil by any means, aren’t mean or even super demanding of Marinette (intentionally that is), and Marinette doesn’t seek revenge against them or declare them evil or anything like that. And while Marinette’s hurt by Adrien rejecting her in the beginning, he’s not portrated as being bad or evil or in the wrong for doing so, and she never considers that to be the case either; she’s hurt and can’t be around him for awhile, but she takes pains to establish that he didn’t do anything wrong by doing so. Chat’s mindset regarding Lila and how his own experiences play into his approach with her are also explored.

And with ALYA - oh HELL do I like how Alya’s portrayed. She’s operating off of limited information and doing the best she can to help mend whatever rift’s between Lila and Marinette, while being friends to both of them, but ultimately siding with Marinette most of the time when push comes to shove, along with having her own motives and dreams and how that impacts her approach and beliefs and... she’s HUMAN. She’s just very, very human and well-rounded and I love her. There’s a reason I wrote a 10000 word analysis on her portrayal so far, so I’m not gonna go more in-depth here. But I’m very happy with it.

Hold Me By Both Hands by @angelofthequeers isn’t as direct as all that, but still covers some stuff that salt often does from a more realistic, in-character perspective, like a more realistic Chloedemption that isn’t dependent on her siding with Marinette or doing one big redeeming deed, an exploration of boundary-crossing by several different characters that takes pains not to paint people as being bad or evil for doing so unless done with malicious intent, instead focusing on learning and growing, and Alya just having the issues with Lila’s claims pointed out early in a reasonable manner and modifying her views based on that, and Alya just being treated well in general. If you want a good reconstruction of Seasons 2 and 3, I recommend giving it a read!

(Also I wrote essays on it as well.)

And finally, I’m actually currently writing a deconstruction/salt parody, which makes me wonder whether the anon asked this in part to give me an opportunity to plug it; if so, thanks! I’ve been keeping it off tumblr itself so far since I was so nervous about it, but I’m five chapters into posting Divergent Points: ML Salt. 

Basically the characters from my Pointsverse series (canon-divergent from just after Heroes Day, with Marinette, Adrien, Alya, and Nino all learning each other’s secret identities and some of the consequences that arise from that, like Chameleon going down differently and Adrienette dating, along with fix-its to several other episodes) all wake up in salt-based worlds and are horrified by them, with a very, VERY heavy emphasis placed on how out-of-character people are in them - ESPECIALLY Marinette, since she’s usually *supposed* to be the hero in most saltfics nowadays, but is ironically one of the characters who’s butchered the most.

It’s been a difficult thing to write so far since it’s so meta and I’m trying to make it something that can fit into the rest of the world, plus there’s not much of a roadmap on how this kind of fic can go; those fics I listed above are the only ones I’ve found that come close to what I’m trying to do, and that ain’t a lot. Hopefully people like it!

#Miraculous ladybug #fandom salt #ml fanfic #fanfic recs #ask

[turning-dreams-into-chaos]

Series Master List

Masters

The 100

• Banished- Bellamy Blake x Reader (Ongoing)

Summary: When the 100 was sent to the ground, Y/N Y/L/N was one of them. Having been locked up for almost 8 years, how will she react to surviving on Earth? Especially when she gets banished…

*Series Rewrite*

Marvel

• Secret Life- Peter Parker x Reader (Completed)

*‘Spider-Man: Homecoming’ rewrite*

• Dead Girl- Tony Stark x Daughter!Reader (Completed)

Summary: The snap and what came next (2 endings)

• New Beginnings- Peter Parker x Reader (Completed)

Summary: Peter Parker, Y/N Stark, and their friends enjoy their class trip to Europe, and Peter begins to realize he believed he was in love with the wrong girl. While dealing with their own realizations, they both grieve a father and a mentor, bringing them closer together to fight against Msyterio.

*‘Spider-Man: Far from Home’ rewrite*

• Lost Without Her- Peter Parker x Reader (Completed)

Summary: It’s been 5 years since half the world was snapped away, 6 months since her mom, Natasha sacrificed herself and the world came back, but how does she handle it after her world flips upside down?

• Worth it- Peter Parker x Reader (On Pause)

• The Bodyguard- Peter Parker x Reader (Completed) (Social Media Au)

• Coffee, Cameras, and Kisses- Bucky Barnes x Reader (Completed)

Harry Potter

• The Lie - Remus Lupin x Reader, James Potter x Reader (Ongoing)

Summary: You slept with James while dating Remus, that’s definitely gonna come back and bite you in the ass...

• The Jimmy Jab Games- Sirius Black x Reader (Completed)

Based off The Jimmy Jab Games from Brooklyn 99

• Kiss the Girl- George Weasley x Reader (Ongoing)

Summary: George Weasley had to have been the most oblivious person Y/N knew if he couldn’t see the pain in her eyes as he fell for someone else.

•  Have my Back- Draco Malfoy (Ongoing)

Summary:  You always knew Draco would follow the orders of his parents, even when you believe anything but. He’s been by your side for forever, but once the Dark Lord comes into play, Draco must choose between the mark on his arm and the girl he’s secretly in love with.

•  It Was All Karen’s Fault- James Potter (Completed) (Social Media AU)

Summary: Fake dating your best friend always sounds like a great idea, especially when you both are well aware of the cliché and determined to be anything but, unfortunately things don’t always go according to plan.

The Flash

• Rain, Rain, Go Away- Barry Allen x Reader (Completed)

• The Chameleon- Various Parings 

Summary: Before your world was destroyed you jumped ship, landing face first somewhere not quite like home. What happens when you get closer to their world’s Team Flash? And what happens when you discover how similar a certain speedster is to the man you’ve loved as long as you could remember? Not good things, that’s for sure.

Warnings: Dealing w/ Trauma and attempted/mentions suicide (I’ll put warnings on those chapters)

#Peter Parker x Reader #Tony Stark x Reader #Bellamy Blake x reader #barry allen x reader #remus lupin x reader #james potter x reader #bellamy blake imagine #barry allen imagine #peter parker imagine #tony stark imagine #remus lupin imagine #james potter imagine #harry potter imagine #the 100 imagine #the avengers imagine #marauders imagine #the flash imagine #series masterlist

[votederpycausemufins]

Lila Gets Exposed 6

This is a one shot series I’m doing that is also posted on Ao3 here I’m fine with getting recommendations for other chapters

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] [part 5] [part 6]

----------------------

Madame Rossi - And here come the Consequences

note: this is a continuation of part 3

   Lila was sitting happily in class. Marinette by herself had widened the scasm between her and her former friends. Adrien still seemed to be on Lila’s side, doing nothing to stop her and of course wasn’t helping Marinette. Everything was going perfect. Well, it was until a knock at the door.

   Principal Damocles walked into the room, making everyone look over at him. A substitute teacher showed up next to him, panting slightly. “I suppose this is the class?”

   The principal nodded. “Yes. I would like Lila, Marinette and Mlle Bustier to come with me to my office.”

   “Is something wrong?” Mlle Bustier asked, looking between Damocles and her students.

   Lila did her best to keep a poker face. She hadn’t mentioned anything to their teachers or the principal. But likely it may have been one of the other students who told the principal about her trouble with Marinette.

   Marinette on the other hand was panicking. What had Lila claimed she had done? She looked towards Adrien hoping for support but he didn’t seem to be helpful, though she supposed there wasn’t much he could do.

   She Lila and Bustier followed Damocles to his office. Lila and her were both asked to be seated while their teacher stood nearby, and then their principal asked a simple question to her. “Mlle Bustier, I’ve received a few reports of conflict between these two girls from you. Can you summarize them as a review?”

   “Yes. Apparently Marinette has been treating Lila unfairly. She constantly claimed Lila is lying about her help and connections and recently it seems Marinette has begun to bully Lila.”

   Marinette tried to speak up to refute the claims, but Damocles quieted her. “Lila, what do you have to say of this?”

   Lila put on a sad act. “She’s right sir. I’ve just tried to be nice, but she doesn’t want to be friends. It’s like she’s trying to turn the class against me. And then recently she pulled me into the bathroom and threatened that she would take all my friends away.”

   Marinette stood up. “You did that to me and said you would if I didn’t stop trying to reveal your lies.”

The principal hushed Marinette. “You will get your chance to talk.”

   The designer slumped in her chair, crossing her arms as Lila continued to tell her lies, painting Marinette in a bad light. Then finally, it was her turn to speak. “Now what do you have to say about everything?”

   “When Lila first showed up, she told a lie that I knew was false, but I wasn’t allowed to share why. Instead I was trying to prove her other lies false. They had all seemed too good to be true. When she returned from her supposed trip, I was surprised to find everyone had moved me to the back. I would have been fine if I had been asked to be moved, but instead everyone got to move where they wanted but me. Everyone in the class thought I was jealous when I just felt ignored instead. At the same time she was making promises to the class of meeting with famous people. I wanted everyone to realize her lies both so that when her empty promises didn’t come true, the class wouldn’t be hurt and also because of how everyone was mistreating me because of it. When I wouldn’t stop, Lila tried convincing me one last time and when I didn’t give in, she threatened that she would take all my friends away from me, which she was already managing to do. From then, it’s been getting worse and my parents have been thinking of moving me from the school because of how toxic the class seems.”

   Damocles did not respond anymore than quieting Lila as she tried to speak. After a few moments, he gestured for someone to enter the room. Marinette has no idea who it was until Lila spoke. “Mama! What are you doing here?”

   “Your mother is here because she called me this morning to clarify some things. She says you were not away traveling during your absence from school and have no illnesses or disabilities.”

   “And now I am learning you have been bullying one of your classmates? Lila what is the meaning of this?”

   Lila gave a sad and worried look. “No! Mama! She’s lying! I’m not the bully, she is!”

   Gia shushed her daughter. “After what I have learned today, I am more likely to believe this girl than you. Because of your lies becoming well known news, I nearly lost my job today!”

   After this, Damocles stood. “You claimed to your mother the school was closed due to akuma attacks that were not solved. With your mother’s job, the supposed inability to stop these attacks could have been told to other countries and damaged France’s relationship with them. As it did not happen, there are no consequences other than what your mother may give you. However, what is punishable is forging documents such as these medical papers for the disabilities you do not have.”

   Damocles continued, but at this point Marinette zoned out from her own thoughts. She didn’t realize the lies were this severe. If she did, she would have tried harder to find proof and what not. It was also surprising that her lies had been found out at all. But the main concern was how Lila looked right now. She was definitely upset and angry. Marinette didn’t care that Damocles was still talking, Marinette still jumped up to stop him. “Sir! I don’t mean to be rude, but we may want to take precautions before Lila is akumatized again!”

   Damocles was stunned but nodded in agreement. Gia on the other hand looked back and forth between the principal and the two girls. “Again? What do you mean again? I was unaware she had been akumatized before!”

   “I’m sorry, but Lila has likely been akumatized three or four times already.” Marinette explained to the woman, leaving her speechless. “When she first appeared at school, she was akumatized into Volpina.  Since she was actually in Paris, she was most likely reakumatized on heroes day since most people were. Also since we’ve only had one illusion making akuma, and there was an illusion on heroes day before everyone was reakumatized, that was most likely Lila. Then the day she came back from her trip, she was affected by the akuma that originally went have me and became Chameleon.”

   Gia looked at Mlle Bustier and M Damocles to see if this was right. The teacher nodded. “I have been watching when my students are akumatized and the two that occurred here are true. On heroes day many people were reakumatized if someone was not able to reassure them which was hard if you were someone who believe that the illusion of an evil Ladybug destroying Chat Noir was real.”

   Gia just stood there with her mouth hanging open. She may have known some of what her daughter had done, but this was too much. “I guess there is only one thing left to do. You will be going back to Italy to live with your grandparents. Your father’s grandparents.” She added when she saw Lila’s eyes light up. “Mine are too lenient so you have likely already used your lies to get on their good side. I didn’t let you see your other grandparents because they treated you so harshly but now it is obvious to see why.”

   “No! Mama you can’t be serious!”

   “I am! What you have done is extremely serious. You have crossed too many lines and now that I know about it, you will not be able to get away from the consequences.”

   It was then that an akuma came into the room phasing through a window. The adults moved back, Marinette tensed and Lila moved forward. The second it was within the liar’s reach, Marinette jumped at Lila and pushed her away from the butterfly. Mlle Bustier moved next and did her best to shoo it away from the others, especially Lila as it was going after her and from Gia, who was blowing up after what just happened. “Lila! This is too much! I saw you going after that! You know what it does and you went after it! Willingly! This was the final straw. I mean, the forging notes and the skipping school was bad enough, but this villain is a terrorist! And you were about to willingly help him! You aren’t just going to be going to your grandparents anymore, this is much worse! The only thing protecting you is the diplomatic immunity you have from me. But with what you just pulled, I am revoking that from you.”

   Lila looked horrified. Not only had her lies been found out but she was receiving some of the worst punishment she could get. Marinette guessed it was sort of a mental whiplash for Lila.

   As the people of the room argued, Marinette quickly slipped out of the room and transformed. She circled around and came by the window of the office and was let in to capture the butterfly, letting Mlle Bustier rest. “Is everything alright here? I was contacted about an akuma being here meaning something must have happened.”

   “It seems one of my students had been manipulating my class and we just learned she was about to willingly let herself be akumatized because she reached for the akuma.” Bustier quickly explained.

   “That would make sense. Lila seems to have a grudge against me when I stopped her from manipulating someone by using lies about us being friends. Plus even though she has proclaimed our friendship, Hawkmoth has not gone after her while he has gone after Chloé Bourgeois. If it weren’t for the fact that Chloé is the daughter of Paris, I would have said it would be because of your political status, but obviously it must not be the case.”

   With that, the pieces fell in place within the minds of the adults. Not much later the police had been called and Lila was taken away for her various crimes. Ladybug followed them as Lila was escorted out of Paris and further to out of Hawkmoth’s range to make sure that no akumas went after the liar.

   Fortunately no one noticed Marinette’s disappearance as once the police arrived, none of the classes were able to focus from the commotion it caused and classes were ended early for the day.

   Even with Lila gone, Marinette ended up changing schools as the fallout of what happened was just as toxic towards her as when Lila was seen as innocent. Though it was Lila’s mother who started the reveal, Marinette was seen as the cause of what happened. Bustier’s class went downhill from there, but as the principal had improved and none of the other classes were problems, they were seen as just a fluke within the otherwise well run school. By the next year, many of the students were taken elsewhere and Bustier was changed to a substitute teacher rather than full time.

#miraculous ladybug #marinette dupain cheng #lila rossi #principle damocles #ms bustier #miraculous ladybug salt #ladybug and chat noir

[lucifer-lacroix]

Interview With a Witcher Chapter 2

Geraskier - Fanfic - Romance - Fantasy - Netflix Series - Wild Hunt - Future Plot - Ravenloft

(For Chapter 1 go here)

Geralt rode up to the castle that Jaskier had circled his map of Novigrad. Out on the far coast of the western reaches, a once-abandoned castle was in the middle of being rebuilt. Blanketed construction scaffold lined the wall while dozens of men brick and repair the stonework. A new settlement of families had moved in, and there were large dogs who ran around with kids in the late hours of the afternoon. The dinner bell rang in the distance as Geralt rode through the homes towards the castle. About three hundred meters off Jaskier came around the bend with sweat dripping from his brow and he struggled to catch his breath. He ran the entire way by hopping fences and using a shortcut to catch up to Geralt who was now in eyesight. By the time Jaskier had reached village his legs were ready to give out as he leaned against a tree trying before he could continue.

“Halt!" A guard dressed in black armour stopped Roach before she could step onto the bridge. "You have arrived at Castle Ravenloft. What is your business with his Majesty King La’Croix of Ferelden." The knight addressed Geralt with a salute. "I’m here on behalf of Julian Alfred Pankratz... Viscount of… Lettenhove, the owner of the Chameleon. The theatre wishes to personally invite his ...highness to the next show." Geralt nodded to the guard after stumbling over the name. "Sir Eckhart will show you the way." The guard motioned Geralt to cross the bridge where a man sat on horseback wearing midnight armour and a violet caplet on his shoulder.

As Geralt crossed the bridge, he felt his heart beating in his throat as Roach came to a stop in front of the black knight. "Sir Witcher." The black knight removed his helm and revealed himself to be a man with raven hair and tipped ears. "His Majesty bids you welcome. I am Sir Nathanial Eckhart, Knight commander and personal guard to his majesty Lucifer La’Croix King of Ferelden who is here fleeing from the blight with his people. If you pose a threat to his grace or his guests, I have authority granted to me upon King Radovid V ruler of Redania to strike you down where you stand. Are we clear?" "Crystal." Geralt replied as he was lead towards the stable up the mountain trail.  

Jaskier had finally caught his breath and took off running once again. Once he reached the gate he was just in time to see Geralt be led away by a knight. Jaskier cursed “Shit Balls fuck! Dammit! Geralt!” Jaskier quickly approached the bridge sliding to a stop. “Halt!” the guard said, “What business do you have at Castle Ravenloft?” Jaskier gave a small flourish, “I have come to invite the King my magnum opus performance The Princess and the Frog live on stage in three days time at the Chameleon. Forgive my friend he seems to have arrived before me and didn’t bother to wait for me. So hard to find good help these days.” The guard looked over the exhausted-looking mess which was Jaskier as he ranted. His hair mussed, and his skin clammy and red. The bolero he was wearing under his arm, with the top few buttons of his shirt undone.

The guard waved to the battlements above as a man with a crossbow ducked out of view. “You will have to come back…” The guard started to turn him away when Jaskier started protesting. “Wait, wait! I am a Viscount of Lettenhove. I am the proprietor of the Chameleon. Please let me prove to his royal highness that I am indeed the greatest bard that will ever rejoice his name.” The guard hesitated and looked away for a moment before lowering his spear. “Go a head.” He said and let Jaskier through with a wary glance. “You will wait for Sir Lionheart to lead you inside.” The guard looked up to the battlements again and waved. A teenager ran down the stairs and appeared a few moments later wearing scouts armour and a purple caplet “Sir…” the boy had a sour pout on his face as he walked up to the Jaskier. He had long raven hair tied in a ponytail, and youthful looks but walked about with a scowl as if someone had to spit in his waterskin. “So you’re the famous bard Dandelion?” Sir Lionheart asked. “You’re pretty old looking.”

Geralt and Roach followed Sir Eckhart in eerie silence, no questions or resistance into his person or his goals as Geralt stared at the silver sigil on Sir Eckhearts back. Suddenly he heard a familiar voice behind him, slowing Roach down to listen. Before he could focus, Geralt spotted a man with a crossbow pointed at him from the battlements. “Keep moving.” Sir Eckhart spoke, breaking the silence between them. “Not a very nice way to greet a guest…” Geralt spoke and stopped the horse as the Knight turned around and drew his sword. “You are no guest. You are a witcher who threatens this castle. March.” Sir Eckhart sat tall on his horse sword at the ready, making Geralt sweat. A fight was not what he expected and when Geralt tried to draw his sword he heard Jaskier close by.  

Jaskier followed behind Sir Lionheart. “Hey! It’s seems as if there is a misunderstanding, I know the King he came to my show last month!” Jaskier over sharing as he fluttered around the knight. “I apologize for my friend barging in without—- ” Jaskier noticed a glimpse of silver-white hair ahead of him. “GERALT!” He called out. “Jaskier what are you doing here?” Geralt asked and jumped off of Roach. If he was going to be shot, he didn’t want her caught in the crossfire. “Get on Roach and go.” Geralt said sternly. “I shouldn’t have come alone, but it’s too late.” he tried to speak, but Sir Lionheart drew a knife and pointed it at Jaskier’s neck from behind. “Not a step further. You will deliver your invitations in person. You know, because you’re so chummy with the King” Sir Lionheart threatened.

“The Witcher and The Bard will both be greeting his Majesty this late evening. We will see if you are telling the truth. Put down your weapons, you are surrounded.” Sir Eckhart spoke loudly to catch his attention. “I pray you mean no harm, or else we will be forced to ensure the safety of our own.” Nathanial said as Geralt and Jaskier shared a worried glance. Although directed to surrender his weapons Geralt did not remove the swords from his back. “No thanks, I will keep them sheathed but you aren’t touching them,” he replied.

In the main hall of the castle, a line of wine casks lined up along the wall each one the size of an elephant. Halfway down the foyer standing in front of a cask draped with red cloth sitting under a magnificent stained glass window stood a man wearing midnight blue evening robes, his long raven hair falling past his waist and tumbled into soft curls. It had been a while since he had last shaved and his balbo styled goatee was overgrown into a dense scruffy beard. Sir Eckhart escorted Geralt at sword point while Sir Lionheart held a dagger to Jaskier's back. They marched forward up to the King of the castle who turned to them with a wine glass in hand. "What is the meaning of this? Why are they being threatened." The King demanded. Jaskier had heard rumours but had not ever having been this close to King Lucifer La’Croix in person. His pale skin like snow contrasting his pure blue eyes which glowed in the dim light. "They claim to be inviting you to the theatre, but this one is a witcher he arrived in Velen by boat this morning." Sir Eckhart nudged his blade into Geralt's back, making him step forward. "So what? Has he posed a threat to me?" Lucifer asked, somewhat offended. Jaskier cleared his throat, “g—good evening,your highness,” he tried to greet the King, but he was slightly distracted with the dagger pointed at his back. His skin prickled with goosebumps knowing that this was a situation to employ wit and not brutality. “The Witcher is Geralt of Rivia. He is with me, not as a Witcher but as a fellow patron of the arts. My first muse,” Jaskier tried desperately to talk his and Geralt’s way to safety. Hopefully, Lucifer could sense his honesty and would be willing to listen.

“Wait, I know you,” Lucifer said, looking at Jaskier for a long moment. “Yes! You’re the bard Dandelion the one with the catchy tunes but can be off-key in the high notes Your theatre runs those boorish plays in the slums. You need a better writer.” Lucifer said as he placed his wine glass down next to three others All of which were filled with various wines in the middle of a taste testing. Jaskier’s lips pursed as Lucifer told him his notes were flat. “Perhaps you’re tongue can be used for other things here this will be better… well put down the blades, and everyone have a taste.” Lucifer walked up to Jaskier and handed him a glass of white wine. “Sir Eckhart, go back to your post. Sir Lionheart you can stay.” Lucifer waved them off, but Sir Eckhart and Geralt were in the middle of a staring contest. “I don’t trust this witcher.” Sir Eckhart said and sheathed his blade.

“I have not lived this long by not being cautious, my friend, Sir Lionheart, will keep an eye on me. Won’t you son?” Lucifer smiled graciously, and despite the rough greeting of his armed guards, the King of Ravenloft was welcoming and kind.  “Not interested. Jaskier wants to invite you to his show at the end of the week and to write a good review, there isn’t enough creativity in Novigrad, and your words put a dent in business.” Geralt spoke up in defence of Jaskier, however, was incredibly distracted by the words Jaskier had used. Why would he say muse? Also, why would he say that in the past tense? As Geralt battled those thoughts in his mind, Lucifer’s gaze focused on the witcher with intensity as if he knew. Jaskier took a sniff at the wine, checking the aroma then took a sip. “Hmmm… not bad, there are some nice sweet notes in it,” he commented, examining the glass. Jaskier noticed the intensity in the air and tried to think of how to change the subject back to the reason why they were there. “Right, I would like to personally invite you, most gracious King Lucifer La’Croix to my latest show at the Chameleon, it will be a grand affair of song, dance, wine and music.” Jaskier said with a flourish of his hand and a jovial bow. “I am hoping my latest piece will inspire you to review us more favourably.”

“No, you haven’t. You came to make sure Geralt didn’t try to kill me, you told him I am a vampire and witchers slay vampires so when he disappeared after your lovers quarrel you thought. What?” “Hold on that’s not fair.” Geralt tried to interject. “Oh yes, Geralt of Rivia, I know who you are the white wolf. My brethren have warned me of you.” Lucifer said with a smile, waving his fingers at Jaskier like he was a naughty child. “Oh, how the gods laugh upon me, a silly play is what reveals me to you,” Lucifer said and started to walk down the hall towards another cask. The torches in the room shifted as their flames all pulled towards the rear window, which was open. The sound of rain softly rattling against the glass as the leaves of trees began to sing. “I’m not come here as a Witcher.” Geralt snapped as Lucifer came to a stop at the next cast. This one smaller than the rest with a burned dwarven rune on the side of it. Lucifer poured another glass this one, blood-red with a pungent smell. Jaskier couldn’t place, but it was intense and inviting. “I admit, I invited him with me because I had figured out what you are and asked Geralt to accompany me because I was afraid to approach you alone,” Jaskier tried to plead his case to Lucifer. “But it was only to invite you to the show. That’s it, I swear to you. Nothing more, not even a threat for a good review! Your grace delighting our presence is all I need” Jaskier nervously laughed while Geralt stood there glaring at Lucifer with malice behind his gaze. “So you are a vampire?” Geralt asked as Lucifer brought the glass to Jaskier. “So what if I am? Does that make me the villain? A monster?” He asked and placed the cup in Jaskier’s hand after delicately taking away the white wine. “Tell me, do you find me that terrifying?”

Lucifer asked, his gaze like a mirror Jaskier could see himself within. A window into the truth which Jaskier wished to see more of. “What are you doing?” Geralt asked, noticing how intensely they were staring at one another. Jaskier’s eyes glazed over, and a small smile appeared on his face. “No, you’re not a villain. Someone with an acrolite carved face and eyes that shine like crystalline glaciers? Not at all… misunderstood perhaps… hmmm… I want nothing more than to make you melt with heated passion at my performance, ” the bard pondered a moment examining Lucifer intently. “I’m certain you have amazing stories as well. Ones that could inspire song and lyric that would enchant the world over!” Jaskier seemed quite taken with Lucifer. His eyes sparkled with inspiration Geralt has seen before. “Please your highness, tell me your story. I will make people better understand you and your greatness,” Jaskier exclaimed wide eyed as he waited for Lucifer to reply.

Lucifer hungry eyes gazed upon Jaskier wrist, his black painted fingernail grazing across Jaskier’s delicate skin along the artery in his forearm. Lucifer attention taken away at how calm Jaskier was. When their eyes locked Lucifer was suddenly infatuated by him. Jaskier spoke nothing but the truth and Lucifer quickly let go of Jaskier’s wrist. A small imprint in his skin that was about to bleed as Lucifer stepped back away from him. “My story? It’s long and complicated.” Lucifer turned away from the question. Geralt suddenly confused by the whole situation as the two exchanged longing looks. “Jaskier?” Geralt asked as he focused on the lovey-dovey face he recognized since Jaskier made it to every muse he had ever taken. “Hey, snap out of it.” Geralt marched up to Jaskier and snapped his fingers in front of his face. Jaskier seemed not to notice his attention on Lucifer. “I have time, please. I must know,” Jaskier all but begged at this point. Lucifer was the most fascinating person he had ever met and damned all to hell he forgot to bring his lute. “Geralt, you horse’s ass. This is not about you!” Jaskier cried with tribulation.

“A pity I feel like on a different day and under different circumstances I would have enjoyed your company, but alas I cannot tell you my tale oh sweet… Jaskier.” Lucifer turned to Sir Lionheart and nodded his head. “Take the Witcher to the private suite and lock him inside until I figure out what Jaskier’s real plan is. Come here.” Lucifer beckoned to Jaskier who forced by magic walked forward. “What! Jaskier snap out of it!” Geralt went to strike the bard, but Sir Lionheart attempted to grapple him. Geralt slapped Jaskier across the face in an attempt to break the spell as Sir Lionheart failed at trying to grab hold of his arm.

The teenager was not strong enough to fight against Geralt’s muscle. He palmed the boy in the face and knocked him on his rear using his Ard ability. The table leg holding onto one of the larger kegs broke as Sir Lionheart collided with it. Geralt watching at the barrel began to rock off its stand and onto the boy. Jaskier paused for a moment after Geralt slapped him across the face. He held his cheek looking a little dazed. “It’s alright, Geralt. I am just going to speak further about the cabaret. I very much want his approval,” still enamoured with Lucifer Jaskier would follow him anywhere. Geralt grimaced as Jaskier walked away and caught the keg before it rolled onto the kid. Lucifer watching them all as his expression fell to horror for what happened within moments of these two entering his castle. “It’s going to be that kind of night.” Lucifer sighed and with a wave of his hand, the table leg snapped back into place making everyone in the room stop for a second. “If you please. We will speak in my study. Come, Witcher, I will not harm him, less I steal from you his love.” Lucifer winked, and Geralt let go of the keg and used his Axii ability. Reaching into Jaskier’s mind using the powers of chaos taking control of his will for the first time. “Step back! He’s dangerous.” Geralt warned.

“Uh! That’s my move!” Lucifer gasped and noticed Sir Lionheart scramble up to his feet with his dagger drawn. “Halt!” Lucifer said to the knight before he attempted to stab Geralt from behind. Jaskier stopped moving and took a cautious step back from Lucifer. He blinked a few times as Lucifer’s charm went quiet at Geralt’s warning. Jaskier continued to step back until he was away from the vampire. His eyes didn’t leave Lucifer as he carefully and cautiously flead back to the witcher. “Geralt…” he whispered, “I think I should have just swallowed my pride and not have gone looking for the King’s approval.”

“You think?” Geralt snapped but realized he caused this situation at equal blame. “Listen, I am not here to kill you.” Geralt said firmly to Lucifer. Lucifer couldn’t read him, a blank slate and Geralt could not understand him. Jaskier was feeling overwhelmed while looking for and exit. He did not dare to move while a stalemate between his dear friend and a misunderstood vampire. The castle Ravenloft sitting in a cursed silence. It was an inspired moment, and Jaskier suddenly understood what he had been missing in his recent works. “Your Highness, I think Geralt and I would like to take our leave. I do hope to see you at the Chameleon at week’s end. I promise you it will be a show you will never forget!” Jaskier grovelled. “And walk into my assassination like a lamb to the slaughter?” Lucifer asked with a delightful grin. “How scandalous? You think once you came into my castle, I was going to let him go?” Lucifer asked, pointing to Geralt. “No, he does not leave… you may go and if you come back I will make sure you and everyone you love disappear. Luke take him away.” Lucifer dismissed the Bard and glared at Geralt. “You wish to fight me alone?” Geralt asked, noticing the room would be just the two of them once they left. Geralt’s witchers senses were paying attention to each and every little thing in the room. Lucifer was no ordinary vampire. The smell on him was old, like a carcass dug up from an ancient tomb. The simple parlour tricks Lucifer had shown so far just a hint from the aura of chaos which exuded from the King. Geralt hoped he had what he needed, superior oil for slaying undead creatures. A potion of black-blood already in his bloodstream to poison a blood sucker. All of these things which Lucifer had probably picked up on by the speed of his pulse. “Are you afraid of me?”

Geralt asked. Sir Lionheart following orders and forced Jaskier away. “Of course, a coward hides behind a lie. Is it so alarming that I fear death?” Lucifer replied nervously scratching his chin. Jaskier struggled against Sir Lionheart. “No, I’m not leaving without Geralt,” Jaskier had to think quickly. He needed to say something that would get Lucifer to let Geralt go. “I— I can’t perform the show without him! Geralt is one of my leads! Without him, there is no show!” Jaskier exclaimed as Geralt’s eyes widened with sudden enlightenment, and he nodded quickly. “Yes! I’ve been on the stage before with Irina and Pricilla last year. The play was called “The Doppler’s Salvation,” I played the witcher.” Geralt said speaking the honest to gods truth.

“Do you expect me to believe Pricilla, the gorgeous, the grand and my love Let you perform with her? That is a laugh you can barely express the truth let alone a human emotion. Who pre tell are you playing this time? Another witcher? Do you take me for a fool?” Lucifer said rather astounded at the garbage coming out of the wolf’s maw. Jaskier butted in to wrangle the conversation in their favour. “Yes, Geralt is usually very method, but this time he will be playing the villain. A glorious call back to his first role in one of my stories,” he was getting elaborate. “Of course Pricilla will be our leading lady and as for my role… that will be a surprise!” Jaskier sounded as if he had planned all of this from the start, but truth be told he was making it up on the spot and going to need to write a whole new script that night if Lucifer let them go. For More Fanfics go ( here )

#witcher #geraskier #gerlion #fanfic #lucifer #the wild hunt #future plot

[scoops-stevie-archive]

⭐️ connor’s 2019 fic rec ⭐️

total fic count: 60

also known as part three to my fic rec series! as usual, all fics are ordered alphabetically by title and all smut is marked with **. please let me know if any links are broken/linked to the wrong page!

and most importantly, please leave a comment and kudos on the fics you’ve enjoyed :)

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4

A Fortunately Unfortunate Afternoon - 4.5k, single chapter author(s): madlysanecatlady fandom(s): Good Omens pairing(s): Aziraphale/Crowley

Crowley doesn't startle easily, and he doesn't startle often, but when he does, there's an unfortunate side effect.

**All Eyes On You - 4.3k, single chapter author(s): Lacerta26 fandom(s): Kingsman pairing(s): Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary “Eggsy” Unwin

‘What’s this supposed to be teaching me Harry?’

‘That you can enjoy being looked at, that you can enjoy it when I take you out and show you off,’ Harry whispers in his ear, hand resting entirely too high on Eggsy’s thigh for this stage in the evening.

‘No one’s looking at us, Harry.’

Harry moves his hand to Eggsy’s hip, ‘aren’t they?’

*

Harry shows Eggsy how good it feels to be the centre of attention.

Breathe - 1.3k, single chapter author(s): telanaris fandom(S): The Arcana pairing(s): Julian Devorak/Reader

“Love…” Julian says, voice quiet and tender, comforting as he reaches for your hand, “my darling.” He interlaces your fingers and guides your hand, palm facing down, beneath the white gauze of his shirt to his chest, just over his heart.

You cannot choke back the gasp it wrests from your throats. Whether from the exhilaration of his reanimation, or the ferocity of your kisses, Julian’s heart is pounding, madly, in his chest. The strong rhythm of it is unmistakeable. And every beat of it confirms irrefutably: he is alive, alive, alive.

Bright Young Things - 2,3k, single chapter author(s): keepyourpantsongohan fandom(s): Naruto pairing(s): Hatake Kakashi & Namikaze Minato

Sighing, Minato leads his team into the light. When the man in the clearing gets a look at their faces, his whole body goes shock still. “Sensei?” he says uncertainly.

“Er, hi,” says Minato, with a sheepish wave.

**Bros Helping Bros - series, complete author(s): Tenebrosa fandom(s): Dream Daddy pairing(s): Craig Cahn/Robert Small

Craig needs to loosen the fuck up and damn if Robert isn't the King of Relaxation. How he does it might be a little...unorthodox, but really, who's gonna judge them all the way out here?

Care and Custody - multi-chapter, complete author(s): esama fandom(s): Kingsman pairing(s): Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary “Eggsy” Unwin

Eggsy takes out the medal in slightly worse circumstances, asking for a miracle.

**Couples Therapy - series, ongoing author(s): jane_x80 pairing(s): Anthony DiNozzo/Jethro Gibbs fandom(s): NCIS

A serial killer is targeting married gay couples. Gibbs and DiNozzo pose as one such couple, attending couples therapy, in order to flush out and hopefully capture the killer.

Crazy - 3.2k, single chapter author(s): wyvernwolf fandom(s): Kingsman pairing(s): Merlin/Gary “Eggsy” Unwin

It's Merlin's sixtieth birthday and he fears Eggsy will do something sappy and romantic. Eggsy does, but not in the way Merlin expects.

**Devour You - 1.7k, single chapter author(s): branewurms fandom(s): The Arcana pairing(s): Julian Devorak/Reader

You take a moment to savor the sight of him. Julian looks the perfect picture of debauched innocence. And isn’t that a ridiculous thought—but he does, with his white shirt still around his shoulders spread wide and baring everything, and that rosy flush spreading from his cheeks all the way down to his heaving chest, staining it a pretty pink.

**Easy Like Sunday Mornin’ - 3.2k, single chapter author(s): howdoyousleep pairing(s): James “Bucky” Barnes/Steve Rogers fandom(s): Marvel Cinematic Universe

Today is a Sunday and the universally-accepted laziness of the day may be why Steve finds himself wanting it slow and sweaty and deep. Bucky didn’t ask questions.

Efficient pictorial communication of complex ideas (the kids call it a meme) - multi-chapter, complete author(s): sorrens fandom(s): Good Omens pairing(s): Aziraphale/Crowley, Gabriel/Beelzebub

The one in which Aziraphale is forced headlong into millennial humour trying to work out what Crowley means when he says "Gabriel and Beelzebub are smashing".

Essentially Social Chameleons - 2.6k, single chapter author(s): Lolapola fandom(s): Good Omens pairing(s): Aziraphale/Crowley

In short, Aziraphale and Crowley are not as good at blending in with mortals as they think they are. There are better places to discover this than Newton and Anathema's baby's christening, but, well, we're here now.

Family is Family - 5.3k, single chapter author(s): hexicity fandom(s): Shadowhunters pairing(s): Magnus Bane/Alex Lightwood, Simon Lewis/Raphael Santiago,Lydia Brandwell/Isabelle Lightwood

The ad is messily stapled against the public announcement board in the quad.

It looks like someone wrote it with their non-dominant hand in the first pen they found. Its sloppy red ink reads in giant letters: “FOUR BEDROOMS. ONE BATH. PASSABLE KITCHEN. WILLING TO DELAY PAYMENT ON RENT. PLEASE DON’T TRY TO LIVE WITH US IF YOU’RE WEIRD, WE ALREADY HAVE SIMON.”

(or, Alec lives with three strangers and starts to like them more than his actual family)

Feathers on the Bedroom Floor - 1.2k, single chapter author(s): dunk_on_em fandom(s): Good Omens pairing(s): Aziraphale/Crowley

Aziraphale looked to his right to see Crowley, struggling to keep his head aright.

His dear Crowley. The one who had sworn he would leave but ended up coming back. The one who drove a flaming car for hours, just so he could be there to help. The one who stopped the sands of time, just to give Aziraphale a chance to talk to the boy. It was no wonder he was tired. So, so much had been asked of him today. Aziraphale pushed his shoulder gently towards Crowley.

“I don’t mind,” the angel murmured, as gently as he could. “I’ll wake you when we arrive.”

Finding Home - 2.1k, single chapter author(s): roseforthethorns fandom(s): Kingsman pairing(s): Harry Hart | Galahad/Merlin/Gary “Eggsy” Unwin

Without realizing it, Eggsy started to fall in love.

What he didn't know is that Harry and Merlin were falling in love with him too.

flour in your hair, love in your heart - 4.1k, single chapter author(s): mirkandmidnight fandom(s): The Song of Achilles pairing(s): Achilles/Patroclus

Here is how it starts. Patroclus takes an opening shift one day in late September, because Briseis has gotten the stomach flu and swears that if she moves from her bed, she may vomit. So he ends up working with Odysseus and Iphigenia, who never does a damn thing but gets to keep her job because she's Fucking Agamemnon's kid, and can you spell nepotism? Patroclus can. That higher education isn't going to waste, oh no.

forever isn’t too long, when i’m right where i belong - multi-chapter, complete author(s): owilde fandom(s): Shadowhunters pairing(s): Simon Lewis/Raphael Santiago, Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood

Raphael sat on the living room chair, the cup of tea Magnus had practically forced on him balanced on his knee, while Magnus himself was slouched on the sofa, laughing. "You," he wheezed in between hysterical fits of giggles, "are going to propose? To Simon?" Raphael pursed his lips, praying for strength from anyone.

**For Here Is Rest - multi-chapter, complete author(s): Nimravidae fandom(s): Turn: Washington’s Spies pairing(s): Benjamin Tallmadge/George Washington

After a devastating personal loss, Benjamin Tallmadge retreats from the life he knew in Connecticut. Seeking solace, he finds himself in rural Virginia fixing up a small house with only the company of the surrounding woods and his reclusive widower landlord, George Washington.

"Every spirit builds itself a house; and beyond its house a world; and beyond its world, a heaven. Know then, that the world exists for you. Build, therefore, your own world."

Foxes Are Vermin - 1.6k, single chapter author(s): sweetasamuffin fandom(s): Kingsman pairing(s): Harry Hart | Galahad/Merlin/Gary “Eggsy” Unwin

Daisy wants to meet her mom. Eggsy's there to help her.

Gold on Your Fingertips (Fingertips Against My Cheek) - 1.8k, single chapter author(s): ziracrow fandom(s): Good Omens pairing(s): Aziraphale/Crowley

Post-apocalypse oneshot after they decide to spend the night at Crowley's flat together.

His Sweet Kiss - 2.1k, single chapter author(s): Frozen Hearts pairing(s): Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier fandom(s): The Witcher

Geralt comes back to camp after hunting a monster only to find Jaskier entangled with....

... himself?

Human Incarnate - multi-chapter, complete author(s): nikkiRA fandom(s): Good Omens pairing(s): Aziraphale/Crowley

“They think I’m immune to demon fire, see,” Aziraphale said, in a slightly airy voice. “So they had to… get creative.”

“Aziraphale, what. Did. They. Do?”

“Can’t you tell?” Aziraphale gave a little laugh. This must be what shock felt like. “Can’t you sense it?” He grabbed Crowley’s hand and pressed it to his chest, so the demon could feel his rapidly beating, very human heart. “I’m a human now, my dear. Very, very mortal.”

Aziraphale is punished. Crowley refuses to accept it. Shenanigans, feelings, and plots ensue.

**I Found Myself With You - multi-chapter, complete author(s): bibliomaniac pairing(s): Jesper Johanssen/Klaus fandom(s): Klaus

After everything settles down, Jesper is trying very hard to not think about how he's developed feelings for Klaus.

Unfortunately, he's not very good at not thinking about it.

More fortunately, it actually doesn't matter that he's not good at it. He never needed to hide in the first place, after all.

If We’ve Got Nothing (We’ve Got Us) - multi-chapter, complete author(s): Kedreeva fandom(s): Good Omens pairing(s): Aziraphale/Crowley

Two months after the world didn't end, Aziraphale finds the first dark feather growing in his wings.

**Intelligent Design - 5.5k, single chapter author(s): manic_intent pairing(s): Alexios/Brasidas fandom(s): Assassin’s Creed: Odyssey

“What are you doing here, sister?” Alexios scowled as he stalked through the sun-dappled olive grove. “Sparta is mine.”

“Don’t be so childish.” Kassandra was leaning in the shade of a tree, watching something in a glade beyond. She wore a golden cuirass hung with intricately patterned leather straps, gems, and purple strips. Her helmet was nowhere to be seen, her thick braid curled over one blue-cloaked shoulder. The Aegis was strapped to her back with her spear, though Medusa’s head was sealed out of the battlefield, visible only as a fine etching on shining brass.

**i see it, i like it, i want it, i got it - 2.7k, single chapter author(s): hellstrider pairing(s): Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier fandom(s): The Witcher

he's not entirely certain if it's sincere, when it starts.

I took heart from his eyes on mine - 3.3k, single chapter author(s): madeoutoflight fandom(s): The Song of Achilles pairing(s): Achilles/Patroclus

Achilles knows his destiny, has always known it—it has been written since before he was born. There is one detail the prophecies have left out, however, and it turns out to be the most important of all.

it was stolen (or exchanged) - 3.8k, single-chapter author(s): wolfiery fandom(s): Shadowhunters pairing(s): Simon Lewis/Raphael Santiago

“Oh my god,” Simon baffles, sounding horrified as soon as he recognizes the song playing that’s echoing throughout the whole lounge. “Is this Mozart? Are you listening to Requiem Introitus?”

Raphael feels the annoying start of goosebumps when the fledgling starts speaking to him, interrupting a perfectly quiet evening to enjoy reading. It seems he was wrong.

“The Death Mass,” Simon explains with disbelief. “Even for an immortal, that’s incredibly morbid of you.”

**like gold - 1.8k, single chapter author(s): fernic fandom(s): The Song of Achilles pairing(s): Achilles/Patroclus

Patroclus answers by kissing his open palm, tracing along the very lines of fate that he desperately wants to change.

Look Both Ways (Before You Cross the Street) - 5.4k, single chapter author(s): ForevermoreNevermore pairing(s): Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier fandom(s): The Witcher

The forest is greener than Jaskier thinks he's ever seen it. Until it's suddenly not.

_____

Or, it's all fine and dandy until you get attacked by bandits.

love isn’t always magic (sometimes it’s just melting) - 3.3k, single chapter autor(s): mostlikelydefinitelymad fandom(s) Shadowhunters pairing(s): Simon Lewis/Raphael santiago

He can hear Simon's breath hitching (breathing, you must or the mundanes will notice) the closer he gets, can smell the hot blood in his veins and thinks:

Don't leave me in this heaven alone. Don't go.

A hand cups his cheek, lips against his ear. "I was an idiot, I'm sorry."

loving you’s a bloodsport - multi-chapter, ongoing author(s): tolvsmol fandom(s): One Direction pairing(s): Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson

harry is a bratty prince, louis is a guard who works in his palace, and niall is the only who's got his life in control.

Magnets and Dust - 2.5k, single chapter author(s): graceling_in_a_suit fandom(s): One Direction pairing(s): Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson

Harry moved closer, ignoring the red flashing of his LED display and the ever-present announcement, foreign object, foreign object.

He wanted to read it. He wanted to understand it.

To his dismay, the only letters he could make out were, l o u i s, spaced far enough apart that Harry knew they weren’t supposed to form a word.

Or: the story of Roombrry and Tinouis.

**Of Coin and Candlelight - 2.2k, single chapter author(s): coffeeandcas pairing(s): Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier fandom(s): The Witcher

After getting caught in a rainstorm, Geralt and Jaskier find creative ways to warm each other up.

On the Road to East Flubria - 3k, single-chapter author(s): ant5b pairing(s): Guy Am-I/Sam I-Am fandom(s): Green Eggs and Ham

They’re 888,888,001 zilometers away, and it’s raining.

Pray For Us, Icarus - series, complete author(s): Atalan fandom(s): Good Omens pairing(s): Aziraphale/Crowley

For three centuries, Crowley has been reincarnated over and over as a human with no memory of his past. Aziraphale has tried to find a way to restore him to his true self, but all he seems to do is hurt them both. This time, he only means to steal a brief moment when he walks into Crowley's flower shop. But Crowley can't let it go...

Revelation - 2.7k, single chapter author(s): zebraljb fandom(s): Kingsman pairing(s): Harry Hart | Galahad/Merlin/Gary “Eggsy” Unwin

Alphas Merlin and Harry adore their omega Eggsy. They come home from work to a surprise dinner and an anxious scent coming from their lad.

Ring Around and All That Jazz - multi-chapter, complete author(s): Pemberley_Press fandom(s): Kingsman pairing(s): Harry Hart | Galahad/Merlin/Gary “Eggsy” Unwin

Eggsy Unwin knows the facts about soulmates just like everyone else,but it was still what he wished for and dreamt of.

He continues to dream even though he knows that a scentless beta like him has no hope of ever having one soulmate, let alone two.

But a boy can still dream yea?

**Runaway - multi-chapter, complete author(s): grumblebee fandom(s): Turn: Washington’s Spies pairing(s): Benjamin Tallmadge/George Washington

Benjamin Tallmadge, through unfortunate circumstance, can no longer go to Yale. With home life becoming unbearably toxic, he leaves home in the dead of night in search of a better life. His new life takes him to the Appalachian Trail, miles and miles of wilderness that stretch down the East Coast. Ben forages, hunts (pitifully) and pretends he is just another hiker doing the 6 month trek. But summer is waning, and the first cold snaps are rough in the mountains. Barely making shelter, Ben hunkers down for what might be his last night. But someone else is here. And well, what would you do if you were a runaway; cold and alone, when a tall man offers you a warm bed for the night...

Runaway Land - multi-chapter, complete author(s): daggerinrose fandom(s): One Direction pairing(s): Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson

Louis is sure he’s stumbled upon a secret, underground nightclub, though that is far from the truth. He’s also pretty sure he’s stumbled upon Apollo, which… isn’t very far from the truth, actually.

Modern Greek mythology AU.

**Save the Last Dance for Me - multi-chapter, ongoing author(s): Wonderdyke fandom(s): Kingsman pairing(s): Harry Hart | Galahad/Merlin/Gary “Eggsy” Unwin

Eggsy was used to being the ‘bit “o’ rough’. Used to being the pretty little omega that rich tits liked to pluck outta the gutter and promise the moon to. All “bond with me and you’ll never work again”. Since only ten percent of the population were omegas and forty alphas it was not surprising that those with money and power tried to buy them a pretty little piece like Eggsy to keep safe and pregnant… even if he were a bloke. ~ Harry turned, unbuttoning his cuffs and gently rolling them up to his elbows. Merlin's husband was a fucking menace, a temptation in a bespoke suit and he knew exactly what he was doing; what sort of intimations those slim fingers were making as they bared his forearms. Damn him for a fool but even after their many years together he was utterly besotted with the man. ~ Harry heard Merlin growl in his ear, rough and predatory but not jealous. Possessive. Harry was fairly sure the sound was meant for the boy, and not his husband. Harry would’ve happily teased the other alpha about it, except his blood was rushing in his ears and he was hard enough to hammer nails.

**Shutterbug - 2.4k, single chapter author(s): grumblebee fandom(s): Turn: Washington’s Spies pairing(s): Benjamin Tallmadge/George Washington

Ben is not excited about making a trip back to Setauket for Thanksgiving weekend. Dinners at home are tense, and awful, and he'd rather be at home in Virginia with George. In a moment of homesick fueled inspiration, Ben decides to snap a few naked pictures of George to take with him on his trip. George, in turn, asks for a little something on camera to keep for himself.

Sleepsong - 1.6k, single chapter author(s): QueenForADay pairing(s): Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier fandom(s): The Witcher

Some part of him wishes that people could see this – the man that they all fear so much, the Witcher, a hunter of the supernatural and evil, placated by his bard’s voice, melting into his arms. All he’s missing is hearing Geralt purr like a housecat. Every so often, Jaskier’s ears prick at the sound of a murmur of a hum leaving the other man, particularly when Jaskier presses a kiss to the crown of Geralt’s head, or runs his foot along the length of Geralt’s bared leg.

And at the same time, he would gladly pick up a sword and kill anyone who even thought of intruding on a moment like this.

**Slumber - 4k, single chapter author(s): howdoyousleep pairing(s): James “Bucky” Barnes/Steve Rogers fandom(s): Marvel Cinematic Universe

“Bucky, honey. Can’t get enough even when you’re sleepin’, huh?”

so cruelly you kissed me - 1.7k, single chapter author(s): litathesissy pairing(s): Geralt of Rivia/Jaskeir fandom(s): The Witcher

Jaskier is a soft thing. Delicate in all the ways Geralt is not. He supposes this is always true, always obvious.

**Sold My Soul To A Three Piece - multi-chapter, ongoing author(s): Comp_Lady fandom(s): Turn: Washington’s Spies pairing(s): Benjamin Tallmadge/George Washington

Love, as Paul told the Corinthians, is patient, and kind. It does not envy. It does not boast, it is not proud, it is not rude or self-seeking. Love is not easily angered, and it keeps no record of wrongs. It does not delight in evil, but rejoices in the truth. Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.

Ben is a sub, his first long term contract with a Dom ended abruptly. Leaving him drifting in waters he’s never really explored before. After over a year of keeping his head down and subsisting on small scenes with different Doms Ben finds himself wanting more. Wanting something that will last.

George is a Dom with a long line training contracts and episodic scenes in his younger years. Now he wants something permanent. He wants a sub who he doesn’t have to train from the ground up. A sub he can build something good with.

They meet at a club.

**Speak Love - series, ongoing author(s): zebraljb fandom(s): Kingsman pairing(s): Merlin/Gary “Eggsy” Unwin

Eggsy is a shy young man rendered almost speechless by years of abuse by his ex-stepfather. He starts his first day at Merlin Software by getting stuck in an elevator with a handsome Scottish man.

stained glass variation of the truth - 1.5k, single chapter author(s): mostlikelydefinitelymad fandom(s): Shadowhunters pairing(s): Simon Lewis/Raphael Santiago

"Why are you here?"

Raphael's carefully sewn stitches are coming undone after decades of holding himself together and he lets them.

Thunder cracks with a loud boom, Simon takes two steps forward.

"To be honest, I don't know. I started walking and every sidewalk kept leading me back here."

Take Me Home - 1.8k, single chapter author(s): Casey_Wolfe fandom(s): Kingsman pairing(s): Harry Hart | Galahad/Merlin/Gary “Eggsy” Unwin

There was a cough, and then a strained, “Harry? Eggsy?”

**Talk to Me - multi-chapter, complete author(s): zebraljb fandom(s): Kingsman pairing(s): Merlin/Gary “Eggsy” Unwin

Eggsy is a shy young man rendered almost speechless by years of abuse by his ex-stepfather. He starts his first day at Merlin Software by getting stuck in an elevator with a handsome Scottish man.

The Litmus Test - 5.5k, single chapter author(s): bokunoanime fandom(s): Kingsman pairing(s): Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary “Eggsy” Unwin

“Drop your fucking weapon now!” the man with the gun trained on the boy was shouting.

The boy spit blood and stretched his jaw as he watched Simon, frozen in place. “I don’t fink ‘e’s gonna listen, bruv,” the chav accent thick as it spilled from his bruised and swollen lips. “Leave the Princess out of this, an’ fight me like a man eh?” His sneer at his captor earned him another backhand across his cheek and Tilde screamed. Simon jumped at the action, watching as the man behind Tilde seemed to grow complacent.

Simon weighed his options.

OR:

The one where Merlin has a new final test for his new recruits. (Because shooting a dog was never a good judge of character.)

**The Man with Too Much Power - multi-chapter, complete author(s): CherryEmbly fandom(s): Junjou Romantica pairing(s): Takahashi Misaki/Usami Akihiko

Marukawa Publishing wishes to partner with the famed author Akihiko Usami for an interesting adaptation to his best selling novel, but he's left the entire decision up to his young boyfriend, much to the editor's dismay.

The Prime Minister and the Tea Boy - multi-chapter, complete author(s): LelithSugar, Paxdracona fandom(s): Kingsman pairing(s): Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary “Eggsy” Unwin

HART THROB IN NUMBER TEN proclaims The Sun’s front page the day Harry Hart takes up residence as Prime Minister. He can’t say he was really expecting to become a sex symbol at the age of fifty two and the peak of a divisive political career, but at this point, Britain was going to fancy pretty much anything.

**The Way You Kiss Me Will Work Each Time - multi-chapter, complete author(s): givemesumaurgravy pairing(s): Cal Price/Garrett Laughlin fandom(s): Simon vs the Homo Sapiens Agenda

“Fuck, you’re cute,” Cal says, though it’s quiet and Garrett can’t really be sure he’s heard him right.

And just like that two things become really clear to Garrett: One (1) Cal Price is really fucking attractive Two (2) Garrett would really like to kiss him

the world is watching - 4k, single chapter author(s): spraycansoul pairing(s): Eric Bittle/Jack Zimmermann fandom(s): Check, Please!

Or: five times Jack Zimmermann accidentally interrupted a vlog, and one time it was deliberate

Umbrella Shotgun - multi-chapter, complete author(s): Stratisphyre fandom(s): Kingsman pairing(s): Harry Hart | Galahad/Merlin/Gary “Eggsy” Unwin

Less than forty-eight hours after the total destruction of Statesman, Agent Tequila, Ginger Ale, and a reluctant lepidopterist find themselves in a tailor shop in Savile Row.

whispers of earl grey - 2k, single chapter author(s): wildenessat221b fandom(s): Good Omens pairing(s): Aziraphale/Crowley

The apocalypse was supposed to change the universe.

It didn't.

A cup of Earl Grey tea came far, far closer.

(crowley struggles after the averted apocalypse, until he doesn't anymore.)

With Care - 2.3k, single chapter author(s): angel_ponders fandom(s): Good Omens pairing(s): Aziraphale/Crowley

After the apocalypse, Aziraphale finds a kitten outside of his shop.

you messed my life (it’s some kinda wonderful) - 2.6k, single chapter author(s): mostlikelydefinitelymad fandom(s): Shadowhunters pairing(s): Simon Lewis/Raphael Santiago, Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood

"I love you," Simon murmurs. "More than coffee," he adds with a grin.

For him it's the ultimate declaration of love because yeah, frappés. Raphael hopes he never gets used to the awkward comic relief that is Simon Lewis, hopes he wakes up every night to eyes reflecting love back at him and argues with him for an eternity.

**you taste like the fourth of july - 5k, single chapter author(s): canniballatrix fandom(s): Kingsman pairing(s): Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary “Eggsy” Unwin

It isn't as if he's ever had the time or inclination for pursuits of the romantic sort before...before Eggsy came along, all smart mouth and vulnerable eyes that he tried so hard to hide behind squared shoulders and an insouciantly tilted chin, and Harry had been helpless to deny him anything: and here Eggsy is, handing him his most tightly locked away fantasy on a fucking platter, soft and pliant and fucking perfect for him.

He's never loved anyone more in his life.

#the witcher #kingsman #shadowhunters #yuri on ice #good omens #mine #i didn't read as many fanfics this time around #fic rec #masterpost

[rikudiora]

Unintentionally Seducing Emotionally Compromised Chameleons: Chapter 2

There were many things that Ilia disliked doing when she’d just woken up in the morning after having arrived to her current place of stay later than planned the day before. Trying to act friendly to the other people in the hideout, for example, was particularly straining on her newly sleep roused brain, so that was one of the first things she shucked out the window during mornings like this. Any greetings or questions she got were exclusively answered with noncommittal grunts as she dragged herself to the White Fang’s most shameful, yet simultaneously sacred relic;

The Schnee-tech industries XXL Turbo coffee maker(TM).

It was only after she had a cup of extra strong black coffee in her hands and she’d taken a few sips of it Ilia finally became able to interact with the rest of the world. Sadly, the first of these interactions would be one that she had dreaded in the back of her mind ever since she got back to base yesterday, and she knew that she couldn’t put it off anymore. Sighing, she threw her head back and swallowed the rest of her coffee in a series of loud gulps, the burning pain rising up in her throat helping to further wake her up. She’d never been a fan of the taste of coffee anyways, only really seeking out the caffeine, so she considered her intake of the liquid rather efficient, happily ignoring the horrified stares from the other White Fang members around her in the kitchen as she put her mug among the rest of the dishes and wandered off to the debriefing room.

Adam Taurus’ seemingly perpetually frowning face appeared on the viewscreen in front of Ilia the moment that she pushed the call button, and he didn’t waste so much as a second before interrogating her like she knew he would.

“You didn’t send any reports yesterday, Ilia,” Adam growled out slowly, his tone as bitingly cold as the featureless expanse of his mask. “I thought I’d made my orders very clear regarding your duties once arriving in Vale, but apparently not. You also chose to not answer any of our calls to your scroll either for some inexplicable reason. Care to explain yourself?”

Ilia winced internally at the venom in his voice, but the sooner she gave her side of the story, the sooner she could get out of here, scolded or not. It helped that she’d somewhat prepared what to say regarding her whereabouts.

“Sir, yesterday’s journey did not go entirely as planned, sadly, and I apologize for my absence. I was attacked by a pair of human scum and dealing with the situation brought unforeseen… consequences, that kept me occupied for far longer than I had anticipated,” Ilia replied carefully, bowing her head. She was doing her best not to lie directly to Adam, merely leaving out certain details that she wasn’t too keen on sharing right about now.

Not while she still felt all tingly with strange emotions from the past day’s events.

Adam regarded her silently, seemingly considering her words, for a moment that went on for longer than Ilia would have liked. Now more than ever, she could recognize how rash or outright stupid her actions could be seen as, even if, to her, they’d felt entirely natural. Something told her that her fellow Fang members wouldn’t exactly agree with her, however, and she felt immense relief when Adam decided to move on from the subject.

“No matter. I can accept your excuses this time, but only if ensure it doesn’t happen again. You’re a valued part of the Fang, Ilia, but that doesn’t make you exempt from being punished for further insubordination,” he said, arms crossing in front of his chest.

Ilia simply nodded in understanding, letting out a breath she hadn’t noticed she’d been holding, before giving her only slightly altered report in full. She regaled him dutifully with all the information she’d been able to gather from people in the city, mundane as most of it was, and only left out one particular individual from her recollection of the previous day’s events. ‘Human interference’ and cleanup of evidence were believable enough ‘complications’ for Adam to instead focus on her new mission briefing. It did not take long for Ilia to zone out during the explanation, however, only paying enough attention to Adam to answer yes or no when needed and to make sure she had at least a passing understanding of what she was meant to do during the coming weeks.

“Humans bad, Faunus good, oppression and suffering, they live in a society, it was time for them to rise up.”

It wasn’t that Ilia didn’t agree with his ideals or opinions about humanity—with the exception of maybe one certain human—but she’d gotten a bit tired of hearing what essentially boiled down to the same speech every single freaking time she got a new assignment. If the White Fang were ever going to be successful as bringers of justice for Faunus everywhere, Adam really needed someone to write some new scripts for him to regale the masses with or risk causing alarming outbreaks of narcolepsy all across the world.

Instead, Ilia found herself thinking back to how Jaune had ‘saved’ her for what had to be the thousandth time since the event itself had taken place. She could still feel the slight spark that had happened when their hands had brushed against one another’s when he’d given her her bag, the memory giving her goosebumps all along her arms. She found herself wishing she could feel it again—feel him again—and for longer than just a split second this time. She envied the orange haired girl he was apparently on a team with, since she seemed to have an all access pass to hugging on clinging to Jaune whenever she wanted.

Though it wasn’t like Jaune was the only target of said girl’s rather enthusiastic affections…

Ilia’s attention was only brought back to the Adam’s visage on the viewscreen when she caught his explanation winding down, and she let out a resounding “Sir, understood, sir!” in response to his questioning look.

“Good. I expect you to not make the same mistake of delivering your report late again, or you will find yourself replaced on this operation.”

With that, Adam cut the video feed, and Ilia finally let herself relax slightly, some tension flowing form her shoulders as her body sagged. As one of her hands ran through her hair, she brought up her scroll for her actual mission details with the other—yet another reason why she didn’t feel too bad about not paying much attention to her superior when he started repeating his speeches again. These calls were essentially just a formality, or so Ilia thought, but she knew that complaining about it wouldn’t do her any good. Adam was her boss for the time being, and he wasn’t exactly the most even tempered Faunus she’d ever had the pleasure of knowing, which was probably one of the reasons why breaking up with him had made it easier for Bla-!

With a clench of her fist, Ilia quickly stomped that thought down on instinct, feeling that pit from the day before slowly starting to crack open. In her head, the picture of the citrine eyed ravenette started to appear, but then, suddenly, it stopped. Instead, there was only the ugly scribbled image from the day before, and almost immediately after another thought took its place;

With her conversation with Adam over, she was now free to go back to him…

Ilia promptly spun on her heel and all but ran towards the base’s exit, picking up a breakfast bar on the way and scarfing it down mid-jog. She had almost made it halfway when she suddenly remembered an idea that she’d had as the sun had started to set the previous afternoon, skidding to a halt in front of the large storage area where all their equipment was contained. She was skilled when it came to tracking and spying on people, but it never hurt to be more prepared…

XXX

Head requisition officer Striga only gave Ilia a deadpan look as she read through the list of items that the chameleon Faunus wanted to withdraw from their arms and armor stockpile for a second time. When she looked up from the piece of paper, trying to determine if this was some kind of prank or not, all she was met by was Ilia’s smiling, hopeful looking face.

Despite being just a few years away from becoming an adult, she looked remarkably like a little kid right about now, one who had just given their Christmas list to their parents and was eagerly waiting for some kind of response.

As oddly sweet as it may have been, however, Striga knew she couldn’t just hand out gear without proper cause. Especially not when the ‘requisition order’ contained such oddly specific items.

“So… you’re going on a scouting and reconnaissance mission, yeah?”

Ilia immediately nodded.

“And you want me to check out one of our XV25 Stealth-suits for you? Along with a scent marker kit? For a scout mission?”

Again, Ilia instantly nodded, albeit slower this time.

For a moment, Striga simply had to lean back in her chair and clasp her hands together in front of her mouth, processing the information before her along with the sheer audacity of Ilia’s requests. It wasn’t every day she had someone come to her asking to take their top-of-the-line equipment for something that was almost akin to sightseeing. There were even more items listed on the paper in her hand, a diverse mix that went from outrageous to mundane and back again, but she could not for the life of her imagine how Ilia might ‘realistically’ need most of this gear.

“I have been given this assignment directly from captain Taurus himself and have been given permission to requisition any and all equipment I may need,” Ilia said after another second of silence, her posture suddenly ramrod straight.

“Uh huh,” Striga replied, not particularly convinced. “Pray tell, what are you planning on using these...” she glanced down at the list again, “Blacksun filtration goggles for exactly?”

“Nighttime reconnaissance over long distances. I need to be able to make out all the details of whome- whatever I am scouting out, ma'am.” The practiced and obviously deliberate neutrality of Ilia’s voice didn’t go unnoticed by the officer. “I’d, uh, also like to make sure the model of goggles can minimize window glare,” she added with an awkward cough, now sounding much more honest.

“Kid, these things will let you see the specks of dust floating around on that cracked moon of ours. They can handle a few panes of glass, don’t you worry. Especially not considering I can’t just give a pair of them out without really damn good reason. Sorry to say, kid, but your job doesn’t qualify.”

A flash of irritation moved across Ilia’s features, and for a short second the requisition officer wondered if something bad was about to go down, but as swiftly as the emotion had appeared, it went away, and Ilia’s face instead became one of resignation.

“Alright, fine,” she huffed, leaning over the officer’s desk, their gazes locked. “Look, either I walk back to the briefing room and call captain Taurus just to get a confirmation message for you, which is exactly the kind of interruption that he absolutely loves to deal with, or you give me what I’ve asked for and we can both get back to doing something more productive. If I’m lying, then I’ll be the one in hot water for falsifying a requisition order, not you. You’d just be doing your job.”

Despite her suspicions, Ilia’s words were enough to make Striga take a pause to think for a second. She didn’t entirely believe Ilia’s claim about having permission from Adam, but she didn’t put it past the higher ups within the Fang to give an operative like Ilia her own, secret mission, along with whatever she needed to carry it out either. Refusing to give equipment to someone working directly for their somewhat temperamental captain, if it turned out that Ilia was actually telling the truth, would definitely bite her in the ass one way or another, so the kid definitely had a point.

‘All this inter-organization politics stuff is why I’ll never accept that promotion they want to give me...’ she thought to herself.

Despite knowing there was still a decent chance she’d regret this, Striga ultimately decided that she could pull enough strings to make sure Ilia got all the blame for whatever stunt she might be trying, and took out a scroll from the one of her pockets, fingers moving to fill out forms with downright professional efficiency.

“I don’t get paid enough to deal with this crap...” she muttered mostly to herself before presenting her scroll to Ilia. “Press your hand to the screen to confirm your requisition order then wait here while I get your equipment for you.”

As soon as Ilia had done as instructed, Striga snatched back both her scroll and the list she’d been given and entered the storage area. Had she chosen to turn around at any point, she’d have caught a certain chameleon Faunus fist-pumping wildly with the expression of someone who’d just pulled off a big heist on her freckled face.

Lucky for Ilia, Striga didn’t, and only a bit later than she’d originally planned, she was finally off to begin her ‘special’ assignment;

Operation find a way to meet Jaune Arc again was a go!

XXX

Hitting Pyrrha’s shield felt like he was trying to cut down the very tower they stood on with a butter knife, and Jaune felt the muscles in his arm groaning from the shock that went through them. Again, he tried to find a way to reach the girl behind the bronze shield, and again his sword was easily swatted aside, only for her own blade to smack against his unarmored side. She might have refrained from using the cutting edge due to their shared lack of protection, but the hit still made him let out a hiss of pain and take a staggering step back.

He felt so slow and sluggish compared to her, like he was trying to fight while submerged neck deep in syrup, and no matter how much the rational side of his brain reminded him that she had more fighting experience in her left toe than he had in his whole body, he couldn’t help but get increasingly frustrated.

When he’d fought that bastard in that alleyway, he’d been unstoppable, at least while his aura had been active, but against Pyrrha, he was nothing more than a light nuisance, a fact supported by the rivers of sweat that ran from his body that were nowhere to be found on her own, or the heaving of his chest as he greedily tried to fill his lungs with as much air as they could handle.

He was already exhausted, all the while she hadn’t even gotten a light workout.

As Jaune continued to stagger backwards, he soon felt his back bump against one of the walls beside the door leading to the balcony they were training on, and the feeling of a red-hot knife shot up his spine, his knees crumbling beneath him. He managed to throw his arms out to catch himself before his face slammed against the stone floor, but it was a small comfort when the whole of his back felt like it had been brutalized by a sledgehammer. That kick he’d taken from the lady the day before had evidently wreaked havoc on his nerves, and when Jaune managed to gather the strength to lift his head, he caught Pyrrha looking down at him with concern written everywhere on her features.

“Maybe we should call it a day, Jaune? I think your injuries still need some time to fully heal,” she said in what Jaune assumed was supposed to be a supportive tone, but he couldn’t help but hear as condescending.

“I’m fine,” he bit back, cursing himself inwardly at the flash of hurt that Pyrrha didn’t manage to hide. “Sorry,” he quickly added, somberly. “I didn’t- you’re not- ugh...” A sigh escaped him as shame crept into his stomach. “I’m just… sorry.”

It wasn’t Pyrrha he was angry at and she didn’t deserve him taking it out on her, not when she was spending so much time helping him despite how big of a fraud he was.

Giving up the struggle against his legs, Jaune let himself collapse against the wall, Crocea Mors slipping from his sweat slickened grip with a clattering of steel on stone. A bead of perspiration ran down his creased brow, finding its way into his eye, and he wiped it away with the back of his now free hand, sweeping back his matted hair in the process. His body ached all over, and it wasn’t just from the day before.

When Pyrrha settled down next time him, Jaune simply let out a deep sigh of disappointment and frustration at how little he fit in with people like her, Ren, Nora, or any of the girls in team RWBY. He felt more certain than ever regarding what he wanted to do after dealing with people like Cardin and the racist couple, but at the same time, his fake transcripts plan was only looking more and more rash and downright stupid.

His attention was pulled to Pyrrha when he felt her hand gingerly brush across his cheek, checking on one of his many bruises. Their eyes met, and Jaune had to ask himself just how he’d managed to get someone as amazing as her as his partner for what had to be the hundredth time. Despite having every right to tell on him to the headmaster, getting him kicked out and letting her get a proper partner instead, she was sitting here with him, helping him.

“I really don’t deserve you, you know. The training, the secret-keeping, everything really… I shouldn’t be here, dragging you and everyone else down with me,” he chuckled dryly, entirely humorlessly, before looking away just as Pyrrha did the same, her cheeks far rosier than before.

“You’re being too harsh on yourself, Jaune. There aren’t a lot of people out there in the world who’d willingly risk their lives like you have done by coming here just because they feel like they need to do something for mankind. It’s true your skills aren’t exactly on par with everyone else’s, but we’ve only just started. You’re growing faster than most.” She nudged his shoulder with her own as her expression turned contemplative for a second before her eyes lit up. “And don’t forget, if you had never come here to Beacon, you would never have been in Vale and therefore able to save that Faunus girl from those humans. If it weren’t for you, she could have gotten seriously hurt, maybe even worse.”

Jaune let Pyrrha’s words hang in the air between them for a moment, a part of him half tempted to brush them off, but then he remember the look in Ilia’s eyes when he’d handed her her bag, and a new sense of purpose found itself breaking free from the gloomy expanse of his thoughts.

Despite his back still stinging, a small smile quirked across Jaune’s lips as he let the cool stone of the wall behind them seep into his muscles, relaxing them. The fire of determination in his gut had been lit anew after being temporarily doused by his lack of skill compared to Pyrrha, and his fingers found themselves coiling around the grip of Crocea Mors again.

“Ozpin is far wiser than either of us put together and he wouldn’t have picked you to be our leader if he didn’t think you were the best person for the job,” Pyrrha added as she hoisted herself off the ground, extending her hand to him.

With a deep breath, Jaune intertwined their fingers and, with Pyrrha’s help, got back onto his feet with only a slight grimace of pain. “Thanks,” he said honestly. “For everything. You’re the best partner anyone could ever imagine, and I’m gonna make sure not to let you down.”

He was under no delusions regarding just how far he still had to go to catch up to anyone else at Beacon, but he could also feel that the only way he could truly fail in the eyes of his partner and teammates was if he gave up now. To showcase his new conviction, he tried to get into the ready-stance that Pyrrha had taught him, but the weight of the sword and shield in his hands was too much at this point, and all he managed to do was flail his arms with a tired grunt.

“I think that’s your body’s way of telling you that we should try this again tomorrow instead,” Pyrrha giggled from the other side of the balcony. As much as it irked his pride to admit it, Jaune had to agree, collapsing Crocea Mors into its sheathed form.

Feeling even more sweat soak into his hoodie, he decided to simply tug it off entirely, leaving him in just a thin, previously white tank top that clung to his chest. He just barely caught Pyrrha’s exclaimed “Head’s up!” before a bottle of water landed in his reflexively raised hand.

“Appreciate it,” he mumbled absentmindedly as he regarded the bottle, eventually electing to take a single deep swig from it and then dump the rest of the liquid contents atop his head.

In the very same moment, the feeling of being intently watched started scratching at the back of Jaune’s mind, and he looked around at the windows of the towers around them. He definitely hoped that no one had watched his rather poor excuse for swordplay aside from Pyrrha, and despite the coast seemingly being clear, the feeling didn’t go away.

“Hey Pyr, you didn’t catch anyone watching us train, did you?” he asked over his shoulder, still looking at the surrounding towers for any sight of a spying presence.

Pyrrha—who unbeknownst to Jaune had been spending the last minute or so ogling the way his now all but transparent shirt outlined his torso—shook herself free of her thoughts long enough to let out a stammered “N-no!” before focusing her gaze on the very interesting way her feet were fidgeting, praying to all known and unknown deities throughout the history of Remnant that Jaune didn’t notice her very fierce blush.

Despite what Pyrrha said, however, Jaune still couldn’t help but think something was up. The feeling was only further solidified when he noticed a weird flickering near the top of one of the opposing towers, like there was something distorting the air...

Ultimately, he decided he was simply being paranoid, trusting the attentiveness of his partner even if he wasn’t sure what his own eyes saw. Instead, he moved to pull on his hoodie again, only to remember his previous cooling-off-measures and how uncomfortable it’d be to put on something over his currently wet clothes.

“I think I’ll stay out here for a bit. Try to relax and stretch while waiting for this thing to dry,” Jaune said as he turned to face Pyrrha, tugging on the front of his tank top.

“G-got it. I’ll see you later then,” Pyrrha replied before quickly gathering up her gear and heading inside, forcing herself to keep her head and eyes looking straight ahead when she heard Jaune grunting. She was in no state of mind to stay and watch him go through the stretching routine she’d showed him, no matter how tempting the images her mind conjured up were.

Instinctively, she reached up and felt her nose, just to ensure that there wasn’t blood running from it, her cheeks practically matching her as she finally left Jaune to himself.

XXX

After having spent the latter half of the previous day making her way around Beacon unnoticed, Ilia had had a lot more time to actually think about her actions as made her way around the school, now knowing the routes she should take to avoid detection. The weight and gravity of the measures she’d taken were settling in, how much time and effort she was spending simply to keep tabs on what amounted to just another human hunter-in-training. At one point, as she scaled the sheer wall of one of the towers, she went so far as to wonder if she was going a bit crazy.

But then, right as the thought hit, she’d glanced to look behind her where, on the other side of a window, she saw the one human who’d ever been nice to her, and her whole stomach lit up with that inexplicable warmth, wiping away any questions.

Jaune Arc absolutely needed to be watched because she simply couldn’t get enough of the feelings that watching him brought up from deep inside her.

Deep down, Ilia knew that what she was doing was irrational, but she’d been so emotionally burned out these past couple of weeks that she simply couldn’t care. Somehow, Jaune made her feel nice things, and recently that had become a scarcity for her, so she had become deadset on savoring it now that she had the chance. Just like the day before, after he’d helped her, seeing Jaune smile or laugh made butterflies flutter throughout Ilia’s stomach, accompanied with a longing to be the one said smiles and laughter was directed at rather than his teammates or friends.

Just remembering the scene she’d stumbled on was enough to make Ilia frown, her eyes flicking down to her scroll on which she’d recorded numerous notes regarding the people that Jaune had surrounded himself with. Most of which pertained to the females of his circle of friends (a collection of people that Ilia absolutely refused to think of as ‘competition’, the word all but banished from her word catalog, much to the delight of her chaos-feeding mind gremlin).

Chief interest among them was one Weiss Schnee, an individual who Ilia had already harbored many negative feelings towards due to her obvious familial relations, but had recently made her way to the very top of the Faunus’ rather short but important ‘people-who-deserve-several-swift-kicks-in-the-bloody-shins’ list (patent pending).

For some ungodly reason, the pompous heiress had somehow earned Jaune’s attention in ways that did not at all make Ilia feel pangs of jealousy (no sir!), and instead of cherishing every minute she could spend with him around, the special snowflake of a Schnee instead told him off at seemingly every given opportunity.

The dejected looks that Ilia had seen on Jaune’s face after he’d spent any time talking to Weiss were almost enough for her to want to blow her cover, and it was only the knowledge that Adam had very special plans—violent plans—in mind for every member of the Schnee family after the Faunus uprising had officially begun that made her restrain her fury.

Why exactly Jaune thought that the Schnee heiress was worthy of his time, Ilia had yet to understand, but her preliminary findings were still plausible enough to conduct further experiments.

“Jaune Arc attention grabbers(?): Long hair. Short?

Family history of Faunus exploitation???

Skirts.

Riches?

Lack of development???”

Rereading her list, Ilia looked down at herself, considering her own assets, or lack thereof, for a moment before she had a sobering thought.

‘Never imagined I’d be so relieved to be a B-cup… also, I need to get a skirt...’

As the afternoon sun began to shine its rays over the impressive structures that made up Beacon academy, Ilia felt a twinge of disappointment well up inside of her that she’d have to leave the school to conduct the actual reconnaissance that she’d been tasked with, but then, just as she’d started to prepare her exit strategy, the sound of a door opening reached her ears, and as she turned her eyes to check whether she needed to hide or not, a very familiar head of blonde hair stepped into view.

Ilia watched with rapt attention has Jaune and his partner, the world renowned Pyrrha Nikos, walked out onto a balcony of which she had a perfect view of. What they spoke of, she couldn’t make out, but before long they got into positions that she immediately recognized as sparring stances. Why they weren’t training in one of the academy’s facilities, she didn’t know, but she wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth either. Not when said horse took the shape of being allowed to watch Jaune in action again.

For the next two hours, Ilia sat fixated at the simultaneously enrapturing and vexing display that was Jaune Arc sparring with Pyrrha Nikos, her hands clenching whenever Jaune stumbled or made a poor move. Even from her vantage point, Ilia could easily tell that he wasn’t acting with the practiced ease that a student at Beacon should be, that he lacked the coordination that she’d consider crucial for someone training to fight Grimm, and he struggled far more than he aught to be against someone who clearly wasn’t putting their all into their fight.

It was confusing, to say the least, and only made more so by the fact that Ilia could tell there was something else going on beneath all the mistakes. She was a person who knew how to fight, far better than most in fact, and as such, seeing Jaune keep getting up after his mistakes were punished with surgical precision by his partner, especially considering the beating she’d watched him receive the day before, baffled her. What the boy lacked in skill, he almost entirely made up with endurance the likes of which would put fully trained and hardened White Fang members to shame, and every time he fell, Ilia could feel that he’d learned something from it. Anyone else that she knew of would have simply stayed down after the third or fourth defeat, but not him. She’d lost count of how many times he’d been brought down only to rise up straight away.

As Jaune finally sank to the ground and stayed there, Ilia felt as if she’d seen something impossible. There were hundreds of questions buzzing around in her head, but before she could find any answers to them, something else caught her attention.

Something that she recognized, even if she didn’t want to.

Whenever Pyrrha Nikos looked at her partner, there was an unmissable veil of longing shining from her expression, and despite her best efforts, it didn’t quite go away when Jaune looked at her. Whether he had noticed and was ignoring it willfully or if he was somehow unaware, Ilia had no idea, but one thing was very, very obvious to her;

Pyrrha Nikos had feelings for Jaune Arc.

And the reason Ilia could tell was because she had seen that very same expression on her own features whenever she’d looked in a mirror after being around Blake Belladonna...

By now, it had almost been a full day since the ebon-haired Faunus had entered Ilia’s thoughts, something she hadn’t even truly noticed with everything that had happened with Jaune, but her return made a feeling almost akin to retching rise up Ilia’s spine, her hands curling into fists and jaw tightening until her teeth started to hurt. All of it was unwelcome, unneeded, but despite closing her eyes and doing her best to clear her head, the feelings and thoughts remained.

Anger erupted within Ilia’s chest as her attempts at finding equilibrium failed, washing her emotional plate clear for a moment. It was the unfairness of it all that she found herself focused on, how Blake had been allowed to simply leave without any signs of distress—like she hadn’t ever cared—while Ilia was left with all these untethered and blood-raw emotions.

It simply wasn’t fair.

Nothing in her life was, she was slowly coming to realize, and she hated it.

She had to wonder if the foul taste of betrayal would ever wash out of her mouth.

As these thoughts threatened to forever blacken Ilia’s heart, she glimpsed down at the balcony again just in time to see Jaune getting up off the ground, his posture changed from just a minute earlier. He stood straighter, with more purpose, and for whatever reason, the sight begun to resonate like a struck cord within Ilia’s turmoil filled heart.

Again and again, she’d watched him fall, but he didn’t let himself be kept down. He didn’t give up, despite the clear gap in skill there was between him and his partner. To Ilia, it felt downright inspirational. She was instantly reminded of how he’d looked the day before; bloodied but unbroken, with that smile that was more genuine than anything she’d seen before.

If Jaune could get back up again after getting beat down, so could she, Ilia realized. She unfortunately didn’t know him well enough to understand all his own thoughts and emotions, but something deep in her heart told her that he wouldn’t want Blake to control her like this, no matter how deep of a wound she had caused when she’d left.

All of a sudden, Ilia felt as if a great weight had been lifted off her back, like her breathing was now easier and her eyes had become clearer. Something had clicked again, and the chains that had kept her from moving forward from Blake had been shattered in an instant.

She felt free.

And all from witnessing the resolve of a human who had risked his own safety to for her sake.

What had once been a massive, impossibly realistic, and exquisitely radiant painting of a young man with golden-blonde hair and eyes the color of deepest of oceans inside of Ilia’s mindscape was at once transformed. No longer was the shirtless stud contained within canvas and frame; instead, there now stood a statue so grand and impressive that it would have had people come from far and wide to leave gifts and offerings to what had to be a deity of masculinity and glory were it to actually exist in real life. Perfectly cut marble, the likes of which not even the greatest artisan on Remnant could have chiseled, gleamed and glinted in the shine of a heavenly light from on high, every single breathtakingly beautiful detail from the painting made three dimensional. Warmth, safety, hope, inspiration, all were exuded from the statue.

It was a dream that was too good to be true, but at the same time, to Ilia felt entirely accurate when it faded away, melting into the image of Jaune Arc looking down at a water bottle in his hand.

It was then that time caught up to the chameleonic Faunus, and she realized fully what she was looking at. For once, there was no fantasy playing out before her mind’s eye, she was actually looking at Jaune, in the flesh, with his big hoodie on the balcony beside him. In a flash, Ilia had a pair of binoculars in her hands, focusing intently on the incredibly distracting way that Jaune’s arms shifted and moved minutely with every breath he took. A light sheen covered his exposed skin, and it only helped to accentuate the muscles she could clearly tell were being grown throughout his body. There was strength within those arms, the kind that had always existed but never been truly used until very recently, and Ilia observed them carefully as they worked to bring the bottle of water to their owner’s lips.

What happened next all but caused Ilia’s heart to skip and entire minute’s worth of beats, all the while her brain simultaneously fried itself like a server farm being hit by a firehose.

What had just been a clingy, damp tank top only a second earlier suddenly turned almost entirely transparent when Jaune decided to empty a water bottle atop his head, drenching his entire upper body and making Ilia catch herself on the tower she was sat atop lest she fall right off it. It certainly wasn’t the first time she’d seen a half-nude man before, the relatively small size of the White Fang hideouts she’d all but grown up in hadn’t exactly had privacy or modesty as a chief concern, but something about seeing Jaune in such a state, and not just in her head for once, was so very different.

Never had she appreciated how wide a boy’s shoulders were before, nor how solidly built their chests could be, or simply how big they often got compared to her, but she most definitely was now. Unlike the imagine that her subconscious had conjured up for her, Jaune’s entire body wasn’t made up entirely of rippling muscles the likes of which could crush stones between them, but in a way, the real thing made her stomach tingle far more. This wasn’t the body of a seasoned warrior, instead it was a firm foundation from which said warrior could be forged like a sword by a master blacksmith. And Ilia liked the look of it. Liked the look of him.

A lot.

So much so that Ilia only had a fraction of a second to duck down when he realized that Jaune was looking right at her hiding spot, her eyes wide and hands clamped over her mouth to contain the squeak that hap almost escaped her lungs. For a full minute, she just laid on her back, hardly breathing, as what she had seen replayed itself over and over again in her head. Had she looked down at herself, she would have seen the spots covering her dusty brown complexion practically glowing a hot reddish-pink, but she remained entirely frozen, vehemently ignoring the small trickle of drool that had begun to dribble down her cheek sometime ago.

Once the shock had mostly faded, she very slowly rose up into a sitting position, eyes just glancing for the briefest of seconds down to where Jaune was now stretching before her head snapped around and she focused on the sky in the opposite direction.

‘Holy shit...’ she thought as her hands finally moved away form her mouth and down to her stomach where she felt a completely foreign throb shoot through her, the temperature all around her feeling as if it had risen by several hundreds of degrees. The little gremlin in her mind whispered in her ear about how she should look back down again, make sure that Jaune was still there, but she couldn’t risk being caught like that again. Not when seeing Jaune in this state did so many strange things to her.

Ilia wasn’t entirely sure how long she spent sitting and looking anywhere that wasn’t in Jaune’s direction, but when she finally heard the distinct sound of a door being shut, she chanced a glance over her shoulder and was both relieved and disappointed to see that Jaune had returned inside. As strange as he was making her feel, deep down, it all felt good in a way, and losing ‘access’ to it was less than fun.

With a groan, she stretched her back out until she felt a satisfying pop and rose onto her sore legs. She hadn’t noticed just how rigid her whole body had become after sitting still for hours, but now she regretted not getting up sooner. She couldn’t exactly go back and change her actions though, so now she had to live with the consequences.

It was getting fairly late, and Ilia knew it was time for her to get back to her actual mission now that Jaune had finished his training and the chances of her spotting him again were pretty slim. Doing a final stretch to limber up her arms, she began to descend from her ‘perch’, making sure to follow the same route she’d taken when climbing up. For such a prestigious academy, she was kind of surprised at how easy it was to bypass the alarms and guards, but she figured it was an ego thing. With some many hunters and combat-ready students, the headmaster probably thought they didn’t need the kind of security that might have made her job difficult. Not that she was complaining though. Lax security meant she was able to focus more of her attentions on more important subjects rather than making sure no one spotted her.

A small shiver tip-toed up Ilia spine as she remembered how broad and strong Jaune’s shoulders had looked when he’d taken of his hoodie.

‘Man… I wonder how it would feel to wrap your legs around those…?’ she pondered for a split second, before immediately pushing the idea out of her head when she almost slipped out of one of her footholds. ‘No! None of that! Not now! But maybe later… when you’re back at base… and alone...’ Unknowingly, Ilia’s teeth latched onto her bottom lip at the prospect, her markings once again a radiant hue of red.

At this point, she wasn’t sure what she was doing anymore, or where her actions were taking her, and at some level that should have worried her, she knew that, but it just… didn’t. Not really. Not when she could simply imagine the smile of her ‘savior’ and be filled with a sense of comfort.

Nevertheless, one thing Ilia knew for certain was that she was going clothes shopping whenever she got a chance.

‘Need to buy a skirt… and maybe put my ponytail on the side...’

AN: Now comes the tricky part; where do we go from here? First off, I'd really like to know if you guys enjoy the level of humor that has been on display in these two chapters so far. When I originally thought up this idea, it was a lot more... crack-y, if that makes sense, but I am rather new to writing funny shit, so I abandoned that route since I couldn't get the timing right, I felt. The result is a mix of some "serious" moments and then jokes, mostly at Ilia's expense, but if you guys think I should lean into either side more, I'd very much like to hear your opinions.

Secondly, seeing as I haven't got a roadmap for this story yet, I'd love to hear any and all suggestions for scenes that might make it into future chapters (with the exception of Blake and Ilia confrontations, since that moment I do have planned fully already), and what kind of direction you think would make for the more enjoyable story; a complete romantic comedy, or something with a bit more meat to it?

Please leave your ideas and thoughts in the notes/reblogs, or send me a PM. Have a good one!

#RWBY #Fanfiction #Jaune Arc #Ilia Amitola #Adam Taurus #Pyrrha Nikos #Humor #Romance #Dorkmeleon

[hellyeahheroes]

Bendis Brings Back Legion of Super-Heroes!

And not only will they get a new series by Bendis and Ryan Sook, who has made new designs for the characters, including Cosmic Boy, Lightning Lad, Saturn Girl, Brainiac 5, Shadow Lass and Chameleon Boy. Bendis will also launch them at the heels of a miniseries Millenium, which shall connect many of DC futures into one continuous timeline

Per DC, Millennium focuses on a most unlikely tour guide to the 31st century -- a familiar face to DC fans who finds herself suddenly immortal. As she learns to cope with her newfound immortality and the reason she was chosen for this quest, her 1,000-year odyssey will connect all of DC’s future timelines for the first time. Along the way she encounters a host of DC heroes from the future, as drawn by some of comics’ most popular artists. The first issue will introduce a near-future version of Supergirl, drawn by Jim Lee; Batman Beyond, drawn by Dustin Nguyen; Kamandi, drawn by Andrea Sorrentino; and Tommy Tomorrow, drawn by André Lima Araújo. Legion of Super-Heroes: Millennium #2 will bring Booster Gold, drawn by Nicola Scott; OMAC, drawn by Jim Cheung; A DC “off-world” chapter, drawn by Jeff Dekal; and finally the Legion of Super-Heroes, drawn by Sook.

This is DC second attempt at establishing connection between the Legion and other possible futures after Electric Warriors tried to do the same for Legion and Kamandi.

Here is the interview

So you led into your Superman run with The Man of Steel, which is a storied title with a lot of fan affection behind it. Millennium, well...not so much.

This is speaking more to the actual shape of what it is. This is actually a unique experience of a character experiencing an entire millennium. The audience is going to experience it with them, and there really was no other word for it. I know the word has connotations, but I thought it's more of a tip of a hat than it is anything else. Because, there really is no other word that describes what this is.

These characters have been off the board for a lot longer than you have been with DC. What has it been like to immerse yourself into this broad, deep, crazy mythology?

It is the most -- and I say this with the curve that I know what real hard jobs are, but in the world of comics -- this is the absolute hardest job on a craft level. I think you can just see. The Avengers have six people on the team and four friends, right? Legions has, at their lowest, somewhere in the twenties and at their highest, in the forties. They're all from different planets, and they all have a couple of different aliases and a history and a power, and they all interact in unique and different ways.

It's all based on a history that's coming, based on a history that we have. It is the most unique, the most exciting, and the most demanding job in all of comics. I was talking to a fellow, past X-Menwriter who literally said to me, "So, it's literally like writing like the entire X-Men universe, but in one book." And I'm like, "Yeah, it really is. It's phenomenal."

It's an enormous task, and the most fun I've ever had. I'm literally vibrating when I'm writing it, it's so exciting. Because there's a feeling people get from Legion, and the people who have been missing it all this time. Legion gives you a very special, almost uniquely potent feeling of imagination and hope. It's almost like the whole theme of DC Comics, but amplified by how it's laid out.

The people who want it are desperate for it, and so our job is to give that feeling -- but the modern version of it. It's an enormous task that we've been working on literally since I walked in the door at DC.

How much of the development time was spent with kind of getting the tone? It seems like this is a property that gets reinvented every time they turn around, and so there are a lot of options, not all equally good.

It's all like a lot of franchises, its high marks are so high that a lot of people look at Mike Grell and Keith Giffen's work on Legion as being as good as superhero comics can ever be, right? That's a very high bar to be reaching for. People still read "The Great Darkness Saga." It's everything you want comics to be. Right? It's so imitated everywhere you look. One of the earliest of events events storie like we have today. So, to try to accomplish that, to make that our goal but from a modern setting. You go, okay, now we want to give people the feeling of a "Great Darkness Saga," let's say. Or, the feeling of the Mark Waid issues of Legion, but from the perspective of today. Building all of that, but starting from this standpoint of a modern comic reader, and that could only get us into brand new kinds of sci-fi, and that's exciting.

That's kind of where we are right now with our development is we have tried so hard not to indicate anybody we've specifically said, "No homage to Kirby, Moebius, or John Berkey," because so many people do that right now, there's so much of it, let's make it our goal not to do that and see what we get. Because, that's what Kirby, Moebius and John Berkey did. Ryan and I are right in the middle of building that language, and that's pretty exciting. And, we'll all see what it is together.

Every time there's a big continuity shakeup, the Legion gets the brunt of it -- but we almost never see how and why the changes happened. Here, it seems like you're walking the audience through whatever changes you might make to the backstory. Is that fair?

I'm with you on that. That question you just asked was one of the first questions I asked. People who have read Legion before will be excited, or interested that we're doing this, but for people who have never read Legion before, or have only heard about it (usually in very positive tones), it's up to us to invite them to the 31st century. It's a buy-in, right? You're coming to a new part of the DC Universe, so we want to invite you.

I thought, I wonder if there's a way -- and this is what Legion and Millennium is -- I wondered if there was a way to literally walk the audience from today, right to the Legion's front door, giving them a tour of what happens to the DC Universe...some of which we know because we've seen these disparate futures from different creators over the years.

Why don't we tie them all together and really walk it up to the Legion's door, because the point of the Legion of Super-Heroes is how it reflects back on the era of the Age of Heroes, right? We can take a character from today and walk them through how the icons and the heroes thrive and survive and altered and changed and ended up on the Legion's front door with a guide.

And this is what Millennium is: every chapter is by a different artist, some of the greatest artists working in comics today. Each I handpicked, or [the artists] handpicked, the future they wanted to do. And a character is walking literally from today to the Legion's front door, connecting everything from Kirby's Kamandi, to Dan [Jurgens]'s Booster Gold to Batman Beyond and Tommy Tomorrow. All of it, it gets threaded together in a very exciting timeline. If that seems like a load of work and research, absolutely. [Laughs]

At what point did you decide that, of all the people you can work with, Sook was the right fit for this book?

When you saw the first pages of Man of Steel, that's about when I knew. I knew as soon as Ryan said he'd do something for me. Your head can't help but go, "that would be the coolest Legion of Super-Heroes book I could see." It was just saying, what would I buy? But, I didn't know Ryan at all and also, it's like the biggest project. It's a huge project.

It literally took months just to design the characters, and he's working on it every day. I reached out to him and sold this enormous insanity that you see in front of you. and lo and behold, it was exactly what he was looking for. He was looking for the biggest challenge, and he has taken it on immensely.

My favorite thing from this whole year that no one knows about, is that Ryan sends in all these designs -- usually with a pamphlet of notes and character ideas -- and he's truly creating this with us. I get to share it with our other peers and they get to flip out and get impressed, it's fantastic. Ryan is an artist's artist; they love him, and this is the work of his life. I'm so honored to be part of it. So, yes, Ryan was a very early part of this.

Everything you have done so far at DC is bigger, bigger, bigger. What do you think comes next? What's bigger than reinventing the future?

Well, Legion is the next thing. It is still actually actively happening and one of my Legion goals is, and this isn't a criticism of other creators, but over the years, Legion doesn't have the consistency that other books have had. To attempt what we're attempting, and then keep it a consistent book for a while that really builds to something at the level of "The Great Darkness Saga" or other high-water marks of Legion, is a big goal for this and for us.

I think people buying in on this want the biggest thing in the world. That's what they're coming for. We're really going to try.

A lot of that, as far as what you said about the ambitions that I've had at DC, is because when I first came here, I thought so much about other creators that have come here over the decades, and what they did, or what they tried to do. I have such an immense opportunity, I should really try on every level, everywhere I can. I'm so happy a year later, that people can really feel the effort because I've been given such a beautiful opportunity. To waste it would be almost a crime.

It's exciting for Legion fans to hear about a commitment to consistency, since so often, DC puts a high profile creative team on Legion to launch it, and then after an arc or two, they're gone and the book doesn't have the same direction.

Yeah. As a fan, I would like a commitment from me to do what I just said. Beyond just launching it, which is exciting, having an excellent issue #12 is even more exciting, in a way. That's my goal.

The Legion also feels a little bit like the New Gods: you have this incredibly rich mythology that only a small number of readers really understand. How do you thread that needle of taking one of the most passionate and detail-oriented fanbases in all of comics, and giving the Legion fans what they want while still "walking everybody else to the door?"

I thought about that exact question quite a lot, and this is my answer: I have had this opportunity a couple of times, where I like something a great deal that I know only a few other people like. I think my reasons, or our reasons -- our cult's reasons -- for liking it are so legitimate, that it would just take a little nudge in the right direction to get other people onboard. Like Luke Cage or something like that, right?

I think along the same terms with Legion. Us passionate fans: oh, boy, how fun are they? My Twitter feed is fun all day with Legion. I think Legion fans love being teased more than they like seeing the book. But that kind of passion is infectious. You have some readers who, because let's say Avengers: Endgame and all the movies, think they've seen it all and are really itching for a next-level experience. And there are people who go, "Oh, Legion actually is a next-level experience." And then, we're there for them. That's what we're offering for those who think they've seen it all: you haven't, alright?

Or, those who want to see just another way to tell these stories. It's using the our infectious feeling towards it and just sharing it with other people. I've had that experience before. It's kind of my favorite thing. I had it just at DC, having people literally discover the Wonder Twins blind. They never heard of them, and are reading Mark Russell's book, and are so happy, it's the best feeling. I got to share that with you; I got to have a moment with you over a story, and it wasn't even mine.

I know that you guys are keeping it under wraps for the time being, who our point of view character is going in through Millennium, but is this a character people are familiar with? Is this a deep cut, or a new character?

For those who are worried, it's a character that can leave the DC Universe and walk a thousand years, and not mess up your favorite comics. Right away, I just want to let the Reddit people know. Immediately, they think it's their favorite character and I'll destroy their book. Wait 'til you find out, I will say it's a character that I'm writing right now. It's someone who I get to tee up to the walk. Almost like it was planned nicely...!

Also the character, and the reason we picked this character, is that it's a character whose morality shifts based on this scenario they are in. As they go from chapter to chapter, that is also a question: how are they going to react to what's going on around them?

Listen, we're saying a lot of words here, but I got, I can sell it with so much easier. Andrea Sorrentino drawing Kamandi. That's it, hashtag, done. Jimmy Cheung drawing OMAC.

A lot of these characters are characters you don't see much, but it's that story where "this is your favorite creator's favorite thing."

Yes! Also, what I got really happy about when it was all put together, is that your favorite creator's favorite thing is now so sturdily a building block towards something in the future of DC Comics. When I ran it by Dan Jurgens -- the Booster Gold stuff, right? -- he was stoked about it because it was like, "oh, now, it's not only just a cool story, it's part of this big thread that takes us somewhere."

It's funny, seeing Booster becoming part of a building block to the Legion, since he has sparred with them a few times about his stolen Legion ring!

Speaking of which, the Booster Gold chapter is drawn by Nicola Scott, if you need another reason to buy this. I love Nicola's work so much, but she's one of my closest friend's closest collaborators. She works with Greg Rucka so closely that I never thought I'd get a chance to do something, and we did this thing together. It's just, on a personal level, one of my great moments as a comics creator that I got to do this with Nicola.

I won't lie: at either San Diego or New York last year, I spoke with her briefly and we ended up talking about how much she wanted to draw Booster.

That happened a few times on this project. I don't want to speak for the other creators, but I had accidentally said, "Hey, I think you'd be perfect for (blank)." And they go, "That's my favorite thing, I can't believe you're asking!" It happened quite a few times on this project. I get excited, because I know for the few pages they're drawing, it's going to be among the best pages of their whole careers, because they think this might be the only chance they get to do it. Nicola's Booster pages reek with the feeling of, "Oh, my God, I finally got to draw Booster Gold."

The way you are framing this -- the idea of someone walking through the DC history -- almost feels a little like a "man versus self" story from 8th grade English class. Is there an over-arching threat to Millennium?

Our Legion is going to be a little different than past Legions. I know that sometimes in the past, the Legion have gotten together because things are so peaceful, they can't stand it. Our Legion is coming together out of what they think is dire necessity. Things are starting to crumble, and they're crumbling fast, and it really feels like it's time for a new Age of Heroes for the first time in a millennium. That there's a genuine sense of threat to all things.

It's funny because there are 34 lead characters. There are a lot of perspectives that the story is going to be handled from. So, so many perspectives that almost no story will be left unturned. Not every character will see things the same way. It's like every great team: some will be on the same page, some will not. It's going to be a time of great chaos and struggle in the galaxy, and it's up to them to get to work and figure it out as they're going; they're young.

You have been working with a lot of younger heroes not just at DC, but throughout your career going back to Miles and Peter on Ultimate Spider-Man. Does working on THE teen team feel a little like the culmination of that?

They are! And if you start really building the world around them, and the universe that they're part of...they're pining for an Age of Heroes. They want to make it themselves, right? You're coming into a universe of ideas about self and all the kinds of things that "self" means as far as anywhere on the spectrum. You can think of about religion, or sexuality, or anything that makes a person individual, and apply all these intergalactic ideas to it...and it is an explosion of imagination and hopefully a real, intimate reflection of the world we live in.

It's basically all I think about. Really, it's about making sure each one of those characters has their personality with a shiny, smooth wall of all of the amazing imagination that Ryan brings to every single panel.

Listen, what I'm so excited about this Legion/Millennium project in particular, is that the Legion fans who have been waiting...we wanted to give them something special, for the wait, all right? I know it wasn't my fault they were waiting, but, I'm like, "yeah! We were all waiting together, let's make this a real something, a unique storytelling experience that you deserve." So this lead-up is such a celebration of DC Comics's art and history, and at the same time its future, that I was like, "Yeah, this feels like a Legion-worthy launch."

#Legion of Super-heroes #Legion of Super-Heroes: Millenium #Lightning Lad #Shadow Lass #Cosmic Boy #Chameleon Boy #Saturn Girl #Kamandi #Kamandi the Last Boy on Earth #Tommy Tomorrow #Batman Beyond #Supergirl #DC

[grigori77]

Movies of 2019 - My Pre-Summer Favourites (Part 2)

The Top Ten:

10.  GLASS – back in 2000, I went from liking the work of The Sixth Sense’s writer-director M. Night Shyamalan to becoming a genuine FAN thanks to his sneakily revisionist deconstruction of superhero tropes, Unbreakable.  It’s STILL my favourite film of his to date, and one of my Top Ten superhero movies EVER, not just a fascinating examination of the mechanics of the genre but also a very satisfying screen origin story – needless to say I’m one of MANY fans who’ve spent nearly two decades holding out hope for a sequel.  Flash forward to 2016 and Shyamalan’s long-overdue return-to-form sleeper hit, Split, which not only finally put his career back on course but also dropped a particularly killer end twist by actually being that very sequel. Needless to say 2019 was the year we FINALLY got our PROPER reward for all our patience – Glass is the TRUE continuation of the Unbreakable universe and the closer of a long-intended trilogy.  Turns out, though, that it’s also his most CONTROVERSIAL film for YEARS, dividing audiences and critics alike with its unapologetically polarizing plot and execution – I guess that, after a decade of MCU and a powerhouse trilogy of Batman movies from Chris Nolan, we were expecting an epic, explosive action-fest to close things out, but that means we forgot exactly what it is about Shyamalan we got to love so much, namely his unerring ability to subvert and deconstruct whatever genre he’s playing around in.  And he really doesn’t DO spectacle, does he?  That said, this film is still a surprisingly BIG, sprawling piece of work, even if it the action is, for the most part, MUCH more internalised than most superhero movies. Not wanting to drop any major spoilers on the few who still haven’t seen it, I won’t give away any major plot points, suffice to say that ALL the major players from both Unbreakable and Split have returned – former security guard David Dunn (Bruce Willis) has spent the past nineteen years exploring his super-strength and near-invulnerability while keeping Philadelphia marginally safer as hooded vigilante the Overseer, and the latest target of his crime-fighting crusade is Kevin Wendell Crumb (James McAvoy), the vessel of 24 split personalities collectively known as the Horde, who’s continuing his cannibalistic serial-murder spree through the streets.  Both are being hunted by the police, as well as Dr. Ellie Staple (series newcomer Sarah Paulson), a clinical psychiatrist specialising in treating individuals who suffer the delusional belief that they’re superheroes, her project also encompassing David’s former mentor-turned-nemesis Elijah Price, the eponymous Mr. Glass, whose life-long suffering from a crippling bone disease that makes his body dangerously fragile has done nothing to blunt the  genius-level intellect that’s made him a ruthlessly accomplished criminal mastermind. How these remarkable individuals are brought together makes for fascinating viewing, and while it may be a good deal slower and talkier than some might have preferred, this is still VERY MUCH the Shyamalan we first came to admire – fiendishly inventive, slow-burn suspenseful and absolutely DRIPPING with cool, earworm dialogue, his characteristically mischievous sense of humour still present and correct, and he’s still retained that unswerving ability to wrong-foot us at every turn, right up to one of his most surprising twist endings to date.  The cast are, as ever, on fire, the returning hands all superb while those new to the universe easily measure up to the quality of talent on display – Willis and Jackson are, as you’d expect, PERFECT throughout, brilliantly building on the incredibly solid groundwork laid in Unbreakable, while it’s a huge pleasure to see Anya Taylor-Joy, Spencer Treat Clark (a fine actor we don’t see NEARLY enough of, in my opinion) and Charlayne Woodard get MUCH bigger, more prominent roles this time out, while Paulson delivers an understated but frequently mesmerising turn as the ultimate unshakable sceptic.  As with Split, however, the film is once again comprehensively stolen by McAvoy, whose truly chameleonic performance actually manages to eclipse its predecessor in its levels of sheer genius.  Altogether this is another sure-footed step in the right direction for a director who’s finally regained his singular auteur prowess – say what you will about that ending, but it certainly is a game-changer, as boldly revisionist as anything that’s preceded it and therefore, in my opinion, exactly how it SHOULD have gone.  If nothing else, this is a film that should be applauded for its BALLS …

9.  PET SEMATARY – first off, let me say that I never saw the 1989 feature adaptation of Stephen King’s story, so I have no comparative frame of reference there – I WILL say, however, that the original novel is, in my opinion, easily one of the strongest offerings from America’s undisputed master of literary horror, so any attempt made to bring it to the big screen had better be a good one.  Thankfully, this version more than delivers in that capacity, proving to be one of the more impressive of his cinematic outings in recent years (not quite up to the standard of The Mist, perhaps, but about on a par with It: Chapter One or the criminally overlooked 1408), as well as one of this year’s best horror offerings by far (at least for now).  This may be the feature debut of directing double-act Kevin Kölsch and Dennis Widmyer, but they both display a wealth of natural talent here, wrangling bone-chilling scares and a pervading atmosphere of oppressive dread to deliver a top-notch screen fright-fest that works its way under your skin and stays put for days after.  Jason Clarke is a classic King everyman hero as Boston doctor Louis Creed, displaced to the small Maine town of Ludlow as he trades the ER for a quiet clinic practice so he can spent more time with his family – Amy Seimetz (Upstream Color, Stranger Things), excellent throughout as his haunted, emotionally fragile wife Rachel, toddler son Gage (twins Hugo and Lucas Lavole), and daughter Ellie (newcomer Jeté Laurence, BY FAR the film’s biggest revelation, delivering to the highest degree even when her role becomes particularly intense).  Their new home seems idyllic, the only blots being the main road at the end of their drive which experiences heavy traffic from speeding trucks, and the children’s pet cemetery in the woods at the back of their garden, which has become something of a local landmark.  But there’s something far darker in the deeper places beyond, an ancient place of terrible power Louis is introduced to by their well-meaning but ultimately fallible elderly neighbour Jud (one of the best performances I’ve ever seen from screen legend John Lithgow) when his daughter’s beloved cat Church is run over. The cat genuinely comes back, but he’s irrevocably changed, the once sweet and lovable furball now transformed into a menacingly mangy little four-legged psychopath, and his resurrection sets off a chain of horrific events destined to devour the entire family … this is supernatural horror at its most inherently unnerving, mercilessly twisting the screws throughout its slow-burn build to the inevitable third act bloodbath and reaching a bleak, soul-crushing climax that comes close to rivalling the still unparalleled sucker-punch of The Mist – the adaptation skews significantly from King’s original at the mid-point, but even purists will be hard-pressed to deny that this is still VERY MUCH in keeping with the spirit of the book right up to its harrowing closing shot.  The King of Horror has been well served once again – it’s may well be ousted when It: Chapter 2 arrives in September, but fans can rest assured that his dark imagination continues to inspire some truly great cinematic scares …

8.  PROSPECT – I love a good cinematic underdog, there’s always some dynamite indies and sleepers that just about slip through the cracks that I end up championing every year, and 2019’s current favourite was a minor sensation at 2018’s South By Southwest film festival, a singularly original ultra-low-budget sci-fi adventure that made a genuine virtue of its miniscule budget.  Riffing on classic eco-minded space flicks like Silent Running, it introduces a father-and-daughter prospecting team who land a potentially DEEPLY lucrative contract mining for an incredibly rare element on a toxic jungle moon – widower Damon (Transparent’s Jay Duplass), who’s downtrodden and world-weary but still a dreamer, and teenager Cee (relative newcomer Sophie Thatcher), an introverted bookworm with hidden reserves of ingenuity and fortitude.  The job starts well, Damon setting his sights on a rumoured “queen’s layer” that could make them rich beyond their wildest dreams, but when they meet smooth-talking scavenger Ezra (Narcos’ Pedro Pascal), things take a turn for the worse – Damon is killed and Cee is forced to team up with Ezra to have any hope of survival on this hostile, unforgiving moon.  Thatcher is an understated joy throughout, her seemingly detached manner belying hidden depths of intense feeling, while Pascal, far from playing a straight villain, turns Ezra into something of a tragic, charismatic antihero we eventually start to sympathise with, and the complex relationship that develops between them is a powerful, mercurial thing, the constantly shifting dynamic providing a powerful driving force for the film.  Debuting writer-directors Zeek Earl and Chris Caldwell have crafted a wonderfully introspective, multi-layered tone poem of aching beauty, using subtle visual effects and a steamy, glow-heavy colour palette to make the lush forest environs into something nonetheless eerie and inhospitable, while the various weird and colourful denizens of this deadly little world prove that Ezra may be the LEAST of the dangers Cee faces in her hunt for escape.  Inventive, intriguing and a veritable feast for the eyes and intellect, this is top-notch indie sci-fi and a sign of great things to come from its creators, thoroughly deserving of some major cult recognition in the future.

7.  DRAGGED ACROSS CONCRETE – S. Craig Zahler is a writer-director who’s become a major fixture on my ones-to-watch list in recent years, instantly winning me over with his dynamite debut feature Bone Tomahawk before cementing that status with awesome follow-up Brawl On Cell Block 99.  His latest is another undeniable hit that starts deceptively simply before snowballing into a sprawling urban crime epic as it follows its main protagonists – disgraced Bulwark City cops Brett Ridgeman (Mel Gibson) and Tony Lurasetti (Cell Block 99’s Vince Vaughn), on unpaid suspension after their latest bust leads to a PR nightmare – on a descent into a hellish criminal underworld as they set out to “seek compensation” for their situation by ripping off the score from a bank robbery spearheaded by ruthlessly efficient professional thief Lorentz Vogelmann (Thomas Kretschmann). In lesser hands, this two-hour-forty-minute feature might have felt like a painfully padded effort that would have passed far better chopped down to a breezy 90-minutes, but Zahler is such a compellingly rich and resourceful writer that every scene is essential viewing, overflowing with exquisitely drawn characters spouting endlessly quotable, gold-plated dialogue, and the constantly shifting narrative focus brings such consistent freshness that the increasingly complex plot remains rewarding right to the end.  The two leads are both typically excellent – Vaughn gets to let loose with a far more showy, garrulous turn here than his more reserved character in his first collaboration with Zahler, while this is EASILY the best performance I’ve seen Gibson deliver in YEARS, the grizzled veteran clearly having a fine old time getting his teeth into a particularly meaty role that very much plays to his strengths – and they’re brilliantly bolstered by an excellent supporting cast – Get Rich Or Die Tryin’s Tory Kittles easily matches them in his equally weighty scenes as Henry Johns, a newly-released ex-con also out to improve his family’s situation with a major score, while Kretschmann is at his most chilling as the brutal killer who executes his plans with cold-blooded precision, and there are wonderful scene-stealing offerings from Jennifer Carpenter, Udo Kier, Don Johnson (three more Zahler regulars, each having worked with Vaughn on Cell Block 99), Michael Jai White, Laurie Holden and newcomer Miles Truitt. This is a really meaty film, dark, intense, gritty and unflinching in its portrayal of honest, unglamorous violence and its messy aftermath, but fans of grown-up filmmaking will find PLENTY to enjoy here, Zahler crafting a crime epic comparable to the heady best of Scorsese and Tarantino.  Another sure-fire winner from one of the best new filmmakers around.

6.  SHAZAM! – there are actually THREE movies featuring Captain Marvel out this year, but this offering from the hit-and-miss DCEU cinematic franchise is a very different beast from his MCU-based namesake, and besides, THIS Cap long ago ditched said monicker for the far more catchy (albeit rather more oddball) title that graces Warner Bros’ latest step back on the right track for their superhero Universe following December’s equally enjoyable Aquaman and franchise high-point Wonder Woman.  Although he’s never actually referred to in the film by this name, Shazam (Chuck’s Zachary Levy) is the magically-powered alternate persona bestowed upon wayward fifteen year-old foster kid Billy Batson (Andi Mack’s Asher Angel) by an ancient wizard (Djimon Hounsou) seeking one pure soul to battle Dr. Thaddeus Sivana (Mark Strong), a morally corrupt physicist who turns into a monstrous supervillain after becoming the vessel for the spiritual essences of the Seven Deadly Sins (yup, that thoroughly batshit setup is just the tip of the iceberg of bonkersness on offer in this movie).  Yes, this IS set in the DC Extended Universe, Shazam sharing his world with Superman, Batman, the Flash et al, and there are numerous references (both overt and sly) to this fact throughout (especially in the cheeky animated closing title sequence), but it’s never laboured, and the film largely exists in its own comfortably enclosed narrative bubble, allowing us to focus on Billy, his alter ego and in particular his clunky (but oh so much fun) bonding experiences with his new foster family, headed by former foster kid couple Victor and Rosa Vazquez (The Walking Dead’s Cooper Andrews and Marta Milans) – the most enjoyably portions of the film, however, are when Billy explores the mechanics and limits of his newfound superpowers with his new foster brother Freddy Freeman (It: Chapter One’s Jack Dylan Glazer), a consistently hilarious riot of bad behaviour, wanton (often accidental) destruction and perfectly-observed character development, the blissful culmination of a gleefully anarchic sense of humour that, until recently, has been rather lacking in the DCEU but which is writ large in bright, wacky primary colours right through this film. Sure, there are darker moments, particularly when Sivana sets loose his fantastic icky brood of semi-incorporeal monsters, and these scenes are handled with seasoned skill by director David F. Sandberg, who cut his teeth on ingenious little horror gem Lights Out (following up with Annabelle: Creation, but we don’t have to dwell on that), but for the most part the film is played for laughs, thrills and pure, unadulterated FUN, almost never taking itself too seriously, essentially intended to do for the DCEU what Guardians of the Galaxy and Ant-Man did for the MCU, and a huge part of its resounding success must of course be attributed to the universally willing cast.  Levy’s so ridiculously pumped-up he almost looks like a special effect all on his own, but he’s lost none of his razor-sharp comic ability, perfectly encapsulating a teenage boy in a grown man’s body, while his chemistry with genuine little comedic dynamo Glazer is simply exquisite, a flawless balance shared with Angel, who similarly excels at the humour but also delivers quality goods in some far more serious moments too, while the rest of Billy’s newfound family are all brilliant, particularly ridiculously adorable newcomer Faithe Herman as precocious little motor-mouth Darla; Djimon Hounsou, meanwhile, adds significant class and gravitas to what could have been a cartoonish Gandalf spoof, and Mark Strong, as usual, gives great bad guy as Sivana, providing just the right amount of malevolent swagger and self-important smirk to proceedings without ever losing sight of the deeper darkness within.  All round, this is EXACTLY the kind of expertly crafted superhero package we’ve come to appreciate in the genre, another definite shot in the arm for the DCEU that holds great hope for the future of the franchise, and some of the biggest fun I’ve had at the cinema so far this year.  Granted, it’s still not a patch on the MCU, but the quality gap does finally look to be closing …

5.  ALITA: BATTLE ANGEL – y’know, there was a time when James Cameron was quite a prolific director, who could be counted upon to provide THE big event pic of the blockbuster season. These days, we’re lucky to hear from him once a decade, and now we don’t even seem to be getting that – the dream project Cameron’s been trying to make since the end of the 90s, a big live action adaptation of one of my favourite mangas of all time, Gunnm (or Battle Angel Alita to use its more well-known sobriquet) by Yukito Kishiro, has FINALLY arrived, but it isn’t the big man behind the camera here since he’s still messing around with his intended FIVE MOVIE Avatar arc.  That said, he made a damn good choice of proxy to bring his vision to fruition – Robert Rodriguez is, of course a fellow master of action cinema, albeit one with a much more quirky style, and this adap is child’s play to him, the creator of the El Mariachi trilogy and co-director of Frank Miller’s Sin City effortlessly capturing the dark, edgy life-and-death danger and brutal wonder of Kishiro’s world in moving pictures.  300 years after the Earth was decimated in a massive war with URM (the United Republics of Mars) known as “the Fall”, only one bastion of civilization remains – Iron City, a sprawling, makeshift community of scavengers that lies in the shadow of the floating city of Zalem, home of Earth’s remaining aristocracy.  Dr. Dyson Ido (Christoph Waltz) runs a clinic in Iron City customising and repairing the bodies of its cyborg citizens, from the mercenary “hunter killers” to the fast-living players of Motorball (a kind of supercharged mixture of Rollerball and Death Race), one day discovering the wrecked remains of a female ‘borg in the junkyard of scrap accumulated beneath Zalem.  Finding her human brain is still alive, he gives her a new chassis and christens her Alita, raising her as best he can as she attempts to piece together her mysterious, missing past, only for them both to discover that the truth of her origins has the potential to tear their fragile little world apart forever. The Maze Runner trilogy’s Rosa Salazar is the heart and soul of the film as Alita (originally Gally in the comics), perfectly bringing her (literal) wide-eyed innocence and irrepressible spirit to life, as well as proving every inch the diminutive badass fans have been expecting – while her overly anime-styled look might have seemed a potentially jarring distraction in the trailers, Salazar’s mocap performance is SO strong you’ve forgotten all about it within the first five minutes, convinced she’s a real, flesh-and-metal character – and she’s well supported by an exceptional ensemble cast both new and well-established.  Waltz is the most kind and sympathetic he’s been since Django Unchained, instilling Ido with a worldly warmth and gentility that makes him a perfect mentor/father-figure, while Spooksville star Keean Johnson makes a VERY impressive big screen breakthrough as Hugo, the streetwise young dreamer with a dark secret that Alita falls for in a big way, Jennifer Connelly is icily classy as Ido’s ex-wife Chiren, Mahershala Ali is enjoyably suave and mysterious as the film’s nominal villain, Vector, an influential but seriously shady local entrepreneur with a major hidden agenda, and a selection of actors shine through the CGI in various strong mocap performances, such as Deadpool’s Ed Skrein, Derek Mears, From Dusk Til Dawn’s Eiza Gonzalez and a thoroughly unrecognisable but typically awesome Jackie Earle Haley.  As you’d expect from Rodriguez, the film delivers BIG TIME on the action front, unleashing a series of spectacular set-pieces that peak with Alita’s pulse-pounding Motorball debut, but there’s a pleasingly robust story under all the thrills and wow-factor, riffing on BIG THEMES and providing plenty of emotional power, especially in the heartbreaking character-driven climax – Cameron, meanwhile, has clearly maintained strict control over the project throughout, his eye and voice writ large across every scene as we’re thrust headfirst into a fully-immersive post-apocalyptic, rusty cyberpunk world as thoroughly fleshed-out as Avatar’s Pandora, but most importantly he’s still done exactly what he set out to do, paying the utmost respect to a cracking character as he brings her to vital, vivid life on the big screen.  Don’t believe the detractors – this is a MAGNIFICENT piece of work that deserves all the recognition it can muster, perfectly set up for a sequel that I fear we may never get to see.  Oh well, at least it’s renewed my flagging hopes for a return to Pandora …

4.  HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON: THE HIDDEN WORLD – while I love Disney and Pixar as much as the next movie nut, since the Millennium my loyalty has been slowly but effectively usurped by the consistently impressive (but sometimes frustratingly underappreciated) output of Dreamworks Animation Studios, and in recent years in particular they really have come to rival the House of Mouse in both the astounding quality of their work and their increasing box office reliability.  But none of their own franchises (not even Shrek or Kung Fu Panda) have come CLOSE to equalling the sheer, unbridled AWESOMENESS of How to Train Your Dragon, which started off as a fairly loose adaptation of Cressida Cowell’s popular series of children’s stories but quickly developed a very sharp mind of its own – the first two films were undisputable MASTERPIECES, and this third and definitively FINAL chapter in the trilogy matches them to perfection, as well as capping the story off with all the style, flair and raw emotional power we’ve come to expect.  The time has come to say goodbye to diminutive Viking Hiccup (Jay Baruchel, as effortlessly endearing as ever) and his adorable Night Fury mount/best friend Toothless, fiancée Astrid (America Ferrera, still tough, sassy and WAY too good for him), mother Valka (Cate Blanchett, classy, wise and still sporting a pretty flawless Scottish accent) and all the other Dragon Riders of the tiny, inhospitable island kingdom of Berk – their home has become overpopulated with scaly, fire-breathing denizens, while a trapper fleet led by the fiendish Grimmel the Grisly (F. Murray Abraham delivering a wonderfully soft-spoken, subtly chilling master villain) is beginning to draw close, prompting Hiccup to take up his late father Stoick (Gerard Butler returning with a gentle turn that EASILY prompts tears and throat-lumps) the Vast’s dream of finding the fabled “Hidden World”, a mysterious safe haven for dragon-kind where they can be safe from those who seek to do them harm.  But there’s a wrinkle – Grimmel has a new piece of bait, a female Night Fury (or rather, a “Light Fury”), a major distraction that gets Toothless all hot and bothered … returning witer-director Dean DeBlois has rounded things off beautifully with this closer, giving loyal fans everything they could ever want while also introducing fresh elements such as intriguing new environments, characters and species of dragons to further enrich what is already a powerful, intoxicating world for viewers young and old (I particularly love Craig Ferguson’s ever-reliable comic relief veteran Viking Gobber’s brilliant overreactions to a certain adorably grotesque little new arrival), and like its predecessors this film is just as full of wry, broad and sometimes slightly (or not so slightly) absurd humour and deep down gut-twisting FEELS as it is of stirring, pulse-quickening action sequences and sheer, jaw-dropping WONDER, so it’s as nourishing to our soul as it is to our senses. From the perfectly-pitched, cheekily irreverent opening to the truly devastating, heartbreaking close, this is EXACTLY the final chapter we’ve always dreamed of, even if it does hurt to see this most beloved of screen franchises go.  It’s been a wild ride, and one that I think really does CEMENT Dreamworks’ status as one of the true giants of the genre …

3.  US – back in 2017, Jordan Peele made the transition from racially-charged TV and stand-up comedy to astounding cinemagoers with stunning ease through his writer-director feature debut Get Out, a sharply observed jet black comedy horror with SERIOUS themes that was INSANELY well-received by audiences and horror fans alike.  Peele instantly became ONE TO WATCH in the genre, so his follow-up feature had A LOT riding on it, but this equally biting, deeply satirical existential mind-bender is EASILY the equal of its predecessor, possibly even its better … giving away too much plot detail would do great disservice to the many intriguing, shocking twists on offer as middle class parents Adelaide and Gabe Wilson (Black Panther alumni Lupita Nyong’o and Winston Duke) take their children, Zora (Shahadi Wright Joseph) and Jason (Evan Alex), to Santa Cruz on vacation, only to step into a nightmare as a night-time visitation by a family of murderous doppelgangers signals the start of a terrifying supernatural revolution with potential nationwide consequences.  The idea at the heart of this film is ASTOUNDINGLY original, quite an achievement in a genre where just about everything has been tried at least once, but it’s also DEEPLY subversive, as challenging and thought-provoking as the themes visited in Get Out, but also potentially even more wide-reaching. It’s also THOROUGHLY fascinating and absolutely TERRIFYING, a peerless exercise in slow-burn tension and acid-drip discomfort, liberally soaked in an oppressive atmosphere so thick you could choke on it if you’re not careful, such a perfect horror master-class it’s amazing that this is only Peele’s second FEATURE, never mind his sophomore offering IN THE GENRE.  The incredibly game cast really help, too – the four leads are all EXCEPTIONAL, each delivering fascinatingly nuanced performances in startlingly oppositional dual roles as both the besieged family AND their monstrous doubles, a feat brilliantly mimicked by Mad Men and The Handmaid’s Tale star Elisabeth Moss, Tim Heidecker and teen twins Cali and Noelle Sheldon as the Wilsons’ friends, the Tylers, and their similarly psychotic mimics.  The film is DOMINATED, however, by Oscar-troubler Nyong’o, effortlessly holding our attention throughout the film with yet another raw, intense, masterful turn that keeps up glued to the screen from start to finish, even as the twists get weirder and more full-on brain-mashy.  Of course, while this really is scary as hell, it’s also often HILARIOUSLY funny, Peele again poking HUGE fun at both his target audience AND his allegorical targets, proving that scares often work best when twinned with humour.  BY FAR the best thing in horror so far this year, Us shows just what a master of the genre Jordan Peele is – let’s hope he’s here to stay …

2.  CAPTAIN MARVEL – before the first real main event of not only the year’s blockbusters but also, more importantly, 2019’s big screen MCU roster, Marvel Studios president Kevin Feige and co dropped a powerful opening salvo with what, it turns out, was the TRUE inception point of the Avengers Initiative and all its accompanying baggage (not Captain America: the First Avenger, as we were originally led to believe).  For me, this is simply the MCU movie I have MOST been looking forward to essentially since the beginning – the onscreen introduction of my favourite Avenger, former US Air Force Captain Carol Danvers, the TRUE Captain Marvel (no matter what the DC purists might say), who was hinted at in the post credits sting of Avengers: Endgame but never actually seen.  Not only is she the most powerful Avenger (sorry Thor, but it’s true), but for me she’s also the most badass – she’s an unstoppable force of (cosmically enhanced) nature, with near GODLIKE powers (she can even fly through space without needing a suit!), but the thing that REALLY makes her so full-on EPIC is her sheer, unbreakable WILL, the fact that no matter what’s thrown at her, no matter how often or how hard she gets knocked down, she KEEPS GETTING BACK UP.  She is, without a doubt, the MOST AWESOME woman in the entire Marvel Universe, both on the comic page AND up on the big screen.  Needless to say, such a special character needs an equally special actor to portray her, and we’re thoroughly blessed in the inspired casting choice of Brie Larson (Room, Kong: Skull Island), who might as well have been purpose-engineered exclusively for this very role – she’s Carol Danvers stepped right out of the primary-coloured panels, as steely cool, unswervingly determined and strikingly statuesque as she’s always been drawn and scripted, with just the right amount of twinkle-eyed, knowing smirk and sassy humour to complete the package.  Needless to say she’s the heart and soul of the film, a pure joy to watch throughout, but there’s so much more to enjoy here that this is VERY NEARLY the most enjoyable cinematic experience I’ve had so far this year … writer-director double-act Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck may only be known for smart, humble indies like Half Nelson and Mississippi Grind, but they’ve taken to the big budget, all-action blockbuster game like ducks to water, co-scripting with Geneva Robertson-Dworet (writer of the Tomb Raider reboot movie and the incoming third Guy Ritchie Sherlock Holmes movie) to craft yet another pitch-perfect MCU origin story, playing a sneakily multilayered, misleading game of perception-versus-truth as we’re told how Carol got her powers and became the unstoppable badass supposedly destined to turn the tide in a certain Endgame … slyly rolling the clock back to the mid-90s, we’re presented with a skilfully realised “period” culture clash adventure as Carol, an super-powered warrior fighting for the Kree Empire against the encroaching threat of the shape-shifting Skrulls, crash-lands in California and winds up uncovering the hidden truth behind her origins, with the help of a particular SHIELD agent, before he wound up with an eye-patch and a more cynical point-of-view – yup, it’s a younger, fresher Nick Fury (the incomparable Samuel L. Jackson, digitally de-aged with such skill it’s really just a pure, flesh-and-blood performance). There’s action, thrills, spectacle and (as always with the MCU) pure, skilfully observed, wry humour by the bucket-load, but one of the biggest strengths of the film is the perfectly natural chemistry between the two leads, Larson and Jackson playing off each other BEAUTIFULLY, no hint of romantic tension, just a playfully prickly, banter-rich odd couple vibe that belies a deep, honest respect building between both the characters and, clearly, the actors themselves.  There’s also sterling support from Jude Law as Kree warrior Yon-Rogg, Carol’s commander and mentor, Ben Mendelsohn, slick, sly and surprisingly seductive (despite a whole lot of make-up) as Skrull leader Talos, returning MCU-faces Clark Gregg and Lee Pace as rookie SHIELD agent Phil Coulson (another wildly successful de-aging job) and Kree Accuser Ronan, Annette Bening as a mysterious face from Carol’s past and, in particular, Lashana Lynch (Still Star-Crossed, soon to be seen in the next Bond) as Carol’s one-time best friend and fellow Air Force pilot Maria Rambeau, along with the impossible adorable Akira Akbar as her precocious daughter Monica … that said, the film is frequently stolen by a quartet of ginger tabbies who perfectly capture fan-favourite Goose the “cat” (better known to comics fans as Chewie).  This is about as great as the MCU standalone films get – for me it’s up there with the Russo’s Captain America films and Black Panther, perfectly pitched and SO MUCH FUN, but with a multilayered, monofilament-sharp intelligence that makes it a more cerebrally satisfying ride than most blockbusters, throwing us a slew of skilfully choreographed twists and narrative curveballs we almost never see coming, and finishing it off with a bucket-load of swaggering style and pure, raw emotional power (the film kicks right off with an incredibly touching, heartfelt tear-jerking tribute to Marvel master Stan Lee).  Forget Steve Rogers – THIS is the Captain us MCU fans need AND deserve, and I am SO CHUFFED they got my favourite Avenger so totally, perfectly RIGHT.  I can die happy now, I guess …

1.  AVENGERS: ENDGAME – the stars have aligned and everything is right with the world – the second half of the ridiculously vast, epic, nerve-shredding and gut-punching MCU saga that began with last year’s Avengers: Infinity War has FINALLY arrived and it’s JUST AS GOOD as its predecessor … maybe even a little bit better, simply by virtue of the fact that (just about) all the soul-crushing loss and upheaval of the first film is resolved here.  Opening shortly after the universally cataclysmic repercussions of “the Snap”, the world at large and the surviving Avengers in particular are VERY MUCH on the back foot as they desperately search for a means to reverse the damage wrought by brutally single-minded cosmic megalomaniac Thanos and his Infinity Stone-powered gauntlet – revealing much more dumps so many spoilers it’s criminal to continue, so I’ll simply say that their immediate plan really DOESN’T work out, leaving them worse off than ever.  Fast-forward five years and the universe is a very different place, mourning what it’s lost and torn apart by grief-fuelled outbursts, while our heroes in particular are in various, sometimes better, but often much worse places – Bruce Banner/the Hulk (Mark Ruffallo) has found a kind of peace that’s always eluded him before, but Thor (Chris Hemsworth) really is a MESS, while Clint Barton/Hawkeye (Jeremy Renner) has gone to a VERY dark place indeed. Then Ant-Man Scott Lang (Paul Rudd) finds a way back from his forced sojourn in the Quantum Realm, and brings with him a potential solution of a very temporal nature … star directors the Russo Brothers, along with returning screenwriters Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely, have once again crafted a stunning cinematic masterpiece, taking what could have been a bloated, overloaded and simply RIDICULOUS narrative mess and weaving it into a compelling, rich and thoroughly rewarding ride that, despite its THREE HOURS PLUS RUNNING TIME, stays fresh and interesting from start to finish, building on the solid foundations of Infinity War while also forging new ground (narratively speaking, at least) incorporating a wonderfully fresh take on time-travel that pokes gleeful fun at the decidedly clichéd tropes inherent in this particular little sub-genre.  In fact this is frequently a simply HILARIOUS film in its own right, largely pulling away from the darker tone of its predecessor by injecting a very strong vein of chaotic humour into proceedings, perfectly tempering the more dramatic turns and epic feels that inevitably crop up, particularly as the stakes continue to rise.  Needless to say the entire cast get to shine throughout, particularly those veterans whose own tours of duty in the franchise are coming to a close, and as with Infinity War even the minor characters get at least a few choice moments in the spotlight, especially in the vast, operatic climax where pretty much the ENTIRE MCU cast return for the inevitable final showdown.  It’s a masterful affair, handled with skill and deep, earnest respect but also enough irreverence to keep it fun, although in the end it really comes down to those big, fat, heart-crushing emotional FEELS, as we say goodbye to some favourites and see others reach crossroads in their own arcs that send them off in new, interesting directions.  Seriously guys, take a lot of tissues, you really will need them.  If this were the very last MCU film ever, I’d say it’s a PERFECT piece to go out on – thankfully it’s not, and while it is the end of an era the franchise looks set to go on as strong as ever, safe in the knowledge that there’s plenty more cracking movies on the way so long as Kevin Feige and co continue to employ top-notch talent like this to make their films.  Ten years and twenty-two films down, then – here’s to ten and twenty-two more, I say …

#movies 2019 #glass #glass movie #pet sematary #prospect #prospect movie #dragged across concrete #shazam! #alita battle angel #how to train your dragon the hidden world #us #us movie #Captain Marvel #avengers endgame #awesome sauce

[hypeathon]

RWBY & Meaning in Cinematic Techniques, Part 2 - Volume 5′s Merits

If there was anything to take away from part one of this blog article series, it would hopefully be that RWBY has more going on with its visuals than just being prettier through an upgrade in animation software. Since volume 3, various scenes centered on various characters have used a combination of stage direction, camera framing, and even interesting use of transitioning shots to better depict the subtext behind one’s thoughts and intentions or at the very least be left open to interpretation. But so far, only examples through volume 4 of the long-running web series have been referred to. This then brings into question what about the cinematography of volume 5?

To say that the fifth volume of RWBY’s story had faced a large number of criticisms within its fanbase would be an understatement. Since even before it ended and the hiatus started, more people have poured out their frustrations and disappointments on a regular basis through Youtube videos and threads on forums and the RWBY sub-reddit. It’s gotten to the point that after lots of back-and-forth flinging of arguments regarding whether the director and writer, Kerry Shawcross and Miles Luna respectively, should be criticized harshly or not, has just utterly exhausted some fans. To be vividly clear, the goal of this blog article is not to be the end-all-be-all counter-argument that shuts down what has been uttered by critics. Nor is it meant to even imply that volume 5 is void of flaws. Rather, the intent is simply to help shift and refresh the discussion about volume 5 by centering on how its application of cinematography is one of its merits.

With that said, in what ways did volume 5 apply cinematic techniques? The answer to that actually depends on the character. To start, let’s refer to the chameleon-based faunus character, Ilia Amitola and her scenes with Blake. Ilia has a strong, yet misguided sense of justice where she believes in needing to be as aggressive as possible. In shots with her and Blake in volume 5, she positions herself at a greater height which makes sense considering she’s actually shorter than Blake. Even the volume 5 opening theme featuring their bout illustrates this. While opening themes in anime are generally known to excite viewers into a title they’re about to watch, they can also tease a story and its layers through snappy camera shots and imagery. To see how true this usually is, I highly suggest watching Geoff Thew, a.k.a, Mother’s Basement’s “What’s in an OP” video series on Youtube, who has provided thorough analysis on openings to anime like Death Note, both Fullmetal Alchemist series, Re:Zero, Spice & Wolf, Your Name, and the seasons of My Hero Academia to name a few.

Switching gears back to Blake and Ilia’s scenes in RWBY, the latter believed that fear is the only way to gain results and by standing taller than the former, Ilia’s ideals are seemingly stronger. But when Blake manages to finally pin Ilia down in their fight in chapter 10, Blake hammers as much sense into Ilia as she could and gets her to admit that she doesn’t know any other alternative. 

With all that said, there’s another trait at play between Blake and Ilia’s scenes that needs to be mentioned. To do that, we need to first talk about a department in RWBY’s production that, like camera & layout, was also established since volume 3: the lighting team. In volumes 1 & 2, every scene with some attempt at lighting and shadow was actually faked, as there were no lighting artists yet. Even the scene between Roman Torchiwck and James Ironwood in chapter 12 of volume 2 had animator, Austin Hardwicke, use a trick in Poser to fake the shadow in Torchwick’s prison cell. But by volume 3, a lighting artist named Erica Burroughs was recruited to provide the rays of sunlight the lighting of green flames from the torches in the Beacon Academy vault, among other moments of lighting effects. By volume 4, a single lighting artist evolved to a whole team with Mark Osborne credited as the lead lighting artist. This helped contribute to making scenes more enticing to look at with each passing volume. Even volume 5 introduced a rim shot lighting on characters, which depending on the setting, such an accent can add to giving RWBY a more enticing aesthetic.

Lighting doesn’t just help make the show prettier-looking though. Depending on the context, it can also help better communicate the story visually-speaking. And Blake and Ilia’s scenes are the biggest examples of this. It goes without saying that the color black is Blake’s motif. But it can also extend to how the color represents her story arc when associated with lighting or rather lack thereof. Every scene where Blake confronts against the White Fang in previous volumes have been in settings with lack of light, be it in the middle of the night or underground at Mountain Glenn. In volume 4 though, lighting as a visual story element provides an interesting twist to scenes with her parents, being either in broad daylight or in a bright, warmly-lit room. With Blake, there’s this awkwardness when communicating with her parents, as welcoming and forgiving as Ghira and Kali are. In chapter 8, she hesitantly stays stares the outside of her father’s office in the dark, only to hesitantly step in and eventually pour out her deep guilt towards her father. She wants to be more open in the light, but is far too scared to.

The motif of light and darkness can also apply in relation to Sun Wukong. In chapter 3 of volume 4, Blake refused to explain why she kept distance from everyone including her teammates at a scene at night. But in chapter 11, not only is she forced to admit her reason after Sun got injured in the daytime, but the latter in response criticizes her way of going about her problems. This is complimented by some framing between the two and the large Menagerie painting in the background. What all of this has to do with Blake and Ilia is that the former in volume 5 is framed to be associated with bright and natural lights while the latter is associated with darkness and shadows. One of the major exceptions to this is in both character’s speeches in chapters 3 & 10, providing an interesting contrast. Ilia in chapter 3 is vocally fighting in Blake’s domain in broad daylight whereas Blake in chapter 10 argues back with her own speech in Ilia’s domain at night.

Though Blake and Ilia’s scenes were greatly emphasized by certain cinematic techniques, their characters weren’t the only ones with scenes affected in that sense. Other characters throughout the volume had techniques applied to their scenes to varying degrees and Ruby Rose was one of them. It’s not a secret that the inconsistent focus of the main protagonist of this web series has fueled the fandom’s frustrations this volume. And while the following can’t alleviate it, her scene with Oscar in chapter 5 is worth mentioning. It’s minor, but when Ruby is given the time to explain her optimistic demeanor to Oscar, there’s an interesting framing with her and the interior. In certain shots, she’s seen surrounded by the entrance to the training room where the outside is nothing but forests at night. The forest setting, especially at night, is a recurring setting with Ruby’s character as made evident in both her character short and in the volume 5 opening. But it’s also a setting with meaning regarding the story of the character she’s inspired by. One interpretation of a few variations of the Little Red Riding Hood story is that the forest serves as part of the character of the same name’s transition from childhood to adulthood, partly due to the forest being unknown and potentially dangerous territory.

What Ruby expresses to Oscar about what she’s afraid of can also be a callback to Oscar expressing to Ozpin how scary it is venturing out on his own in the forest for a cause beyond his comprehension. But where he has struggled to overcome his anxiety, Ruby has a firm-enough grip of it to stay motivated on her objective. The framing between her and the open entrance with the forest in the background, while just one simple cinematic technique, is also arguably effective at helping present Ruby’s mindset. The training room scene is also a good opportunity to talk about cinematography applied to Oscar’s scenes. In volume 4, chapter 7, his scene made him treat Ozpin as an invader of his mind and livelihood. The shades of brown and red and dim lighting makes Oscar feel utterly disturbed, overwhelmed, and unwilling to accept Ozpin’s words. But their scene in chapter 5 changes that. The interior in comparison is much brighter, bigger, and even with more shades of green, which is representative of Ozpin’s color motif. As a result, he no longer feels mentally tense by Ozpin’s presence and even trusts him for a little insight.

There’s also another small scene with Oscar in chapter 11 of volume 5, where he faces Leonardo Lionheart. Although brief, there’s an instance where as he steps up, the camera is framing him at a low angle, indicating that he’s more resolute. The motivation itself could be due to either slowly accepting his role in the story or to follow Ruby’s example. Speaking of Oscar and Lionheart’s face-off, now is where the latter’s scenes can be visually deciphered. The Haven academy headmaster has certain scenes that support the Cowardly Lion theme that he alludes to. In earlier-mentioned scene, Lionheart expresses his intentions after realizing that Ozpin had already been reincarnated. Note the long, overhead shot followed by a closer overhead shot of Lionheart looking up. The camera is utilized the same, exact way as with Tyrian’s Callows’s shots in volume 4 of chapter 7 . This is not necessarily coincidental when you consider who both of them refer to: Salem. Despite not much yet being known about her, the camera communicates how both Tyrian and Lionheart see Salem, albeit for nuanced reasons. To them, Salem is omnipotent and even omnipresent, and her will and desires are absolute, which leads to them expressing how they share the need to please her.

Next is the matter of Yang and Weiss’s scene in chapter 8. What makes this scene fascinating is how it combines two other scenes in past volumes. The first is Blake and Yang’s scene in chapter 6 of volume 2 and the other is Team RWBY’s dorm room scene in chapter 8 of volume 3. One applies a similar daylight lighting while the other frames the beds and initially, the two characters the same way. This helps indicate the shifting of roles with Yang and Weiss’s characters. Yang goes from being the one needing to get through to Blake by explaining a piece of her backstory to being the one who needs to be emotionally connected through by Weiss about Blake through her own backstory. Meanwhile, Weiss went from being negatively knee-jerk reactive to Blake’s hesitantly believing Yang in the dorm room scene to be more comforting and concerning in response to Yang’s prior overreaction. 

The last character to highlight who has been associated with her own set of cinematic techniques in volume 5 is Raven Branwen, specifically in scenes she shares with Yang. In their scenes, a few techniques come to mind. The first is of shots where Raven faces the camera when she talks about Qrow, Ozpin, and Salem in chapters four, six, & fourteen. She puts on a very serious expression to the viewer, but doesn’t face her own daughter in these instances. By itself, these shots may not mean much. But if they were to be complimented by another technique, the medium shots of Raven and Yang facing each other in two of the same chapters, then there’s more depth behind her character.

In chapter 6, Raven faces Yang eye-to-eye and then stoically turns her back towards her. But in chapter 14, Raven submissively let’s Yang walk past her while being shoved aside. Between these shots and the previous sets mentioned, this suggests that Raven has been too unwilling to admit her fears to herself and to her daughter. In turn, Yang expresses the willingness to confront her mother’s arguments and be strong the way she could not. But there’s also a layer of frustration underneath with Yang. While the phrase, “mother of the year” is appropriate to sarcastically describe Raven, bear in mind that she’s a character whose mystery has lingered in Yang’s mind since she was a child. She had very vague ideas of why her blood mother would leave her family. As much as she hardly respects someone like that, she can’t help but want to better comprehend such a character. When Raven does finally accept that she’s too scared to face the Salem’s overwhelming presence, she let’s Yang shove past her and weeps a tear, apologizing over how flawed she has been before continuing to do so as she flees.

Viewers may respond with, “good riddance”, but the above shot depicts a different response. When Yang turns around after hearing her Mom flee, all she sees is a feather drifting down. With the opened door to Spring Maiden vault framed to be behind her the way it is, it shows that Yang is immediately feeling isolated. The anger and frustration she harbored has been converted to depression. Yang by this point now knows everything she needs to know about her mom. Raven admits she’s a coward, but she’s also too much of one to properly stay by her daughter’s side, which makes Yang feel isolated and thus saddened that this is the reality.

All in all, volume 5 has managed to carry on the matter of using cinematic techniques in various ways as volume 4 did. As said before, none of these examples are expected to sway an entire fandom’s response to RWBY’s most current volume as of the time this blog article is posted. But hopefully after reading all of this, some credit can be given where it’s due of how one aspect of the show’s production and presentation has been given more thought and attention over time. Here is also hoping that said-aspect will be maintained in future volumes.

#rwby #rwby6 #rwby5 #rwby analysis #crwby #cinematography #storyboards #kerry shawcross #kerry #shawcross #rachel doda #rachel #doda #joe macdonald #joe #macdonald

[pinknerdpanda]

The Wedding Singer - Track 1

“You Spin Me Round (Like A Record)”

Characters: Dean, Chuck, Cas, Reader, Jo, Ellen (mentioned), Bobby (mentioned) 

Word Count: 1,466 (including lyrics - italicized below)

Series Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Language, Mentions of Infidelity, Alcohol

A/N: This is the first chapter of an AU SPN Series co-written by myself and @hannahindie​ entitled The Wedding Singer and is inspired by the movie. We have been working on this for the last few months and are very excited to share it with you. The series tag list is open. If you would like to be added, please send one of us an ask. Hannah made our beautiful aesthetic and the series was Masterbeta’d by @wheresthekillswitch. 

Track List 

Track 1: “You Spin Me Round (Like A Record)”

All I know is that to me You look like you're lots of fun Open up your lovin' arms Watch out, here I come

Beams of colored lights flickered across the joyful faces of wedding guests as they danced and shimmied to the music blaring from the amplifiers flanking the sides of the small stage. The community center was packed; understandable, considering that half the town’s related to the bride and groom. Most of the guests were happy to have the opportunity to celebrate the union of the happy couple, but there were a few here who only came to hear the band play.

The town of Chapel Hill, TN is not exactly what one would call a tourist destination. As small towns go, it lived up to the stereotype; a close-knit farming community made up largely of families whose family trees predate The Civil War. There’s one thing that the town has come to be known for in the past five years and that would be the green-eyed man wearing acid washed jeans and a bandanna, pouring his heart and his soul into the Sennheiser microphone in the middle of the stage; Dean Winchester.

Dean’s band, The Lost Boys, was not only the only 80’s cover band in a two hour radius, they were the only band at all for at least 50 miles. Every wedding, birthday, holiday and social event; Dean’s band did it all. And while many hours could be spent arguing about religion and property lines, the one thing that all the residents of Chapel Hill agreed on is that The Lost Boys were a phenomenal band.

“Thank you very much!” Sweat dripped from Dean’s brow as the song ended and the crowd roared with applause. Dean smiled. “It looks like we have a toast from the cousin of the groom, Mr. Marty Calhoun.” He stepped back from the microphone, motioning for the man to step forward. Only, Marty was about three whiskey sours past being able to “step forward” and mostly just stumbled instead.

“Brenda. I’m glad you were finally able to tie down this walking STD of a man,” Marty slurred into the mic. The entire room audibly gasped, but Marty remained unaffected. “It’s just so nice seeing you end up with a schmuck like my asshole cousin after dumping me back in high school. You both deserve each other.” Marty grabbed the mic from its stand for the sole purpose of dropping it on the floor and walked away, dodging projectile trash hurtled at him from the disgruntled crowd.

The bride and groom stared uncomfortably at each other, as Dean retrieved the mic from the floor, placed it carefully back on it’s stand and smiled warmly at the couple.

“Hey, listen. Family, am I right? You can’t live with them...you can’t stab them…” A giggle floated through the crowd as Dean continued. “I think what is important here is that, you have each other. No matter what happens; whatever crazy stuff life might throw at you, intoxicated family members included, you will both have each other there - ready to fight with you and for you. That’s what love is. It is valuing someone else’s well being more than your own. See, I’m getting married to my fiance next weekend and I can’t wait until I get to look into her eyes and commit to forever with each other.” As Dean’s impromptu speech settled over the crowd, the bride and groom’s looks at each other softened. That’s what it was all about for Dean. He raised his glass. “To the happy couple. May you live a long and happy life together!” The crowd cheered, before taking a collective sip.

Dean nodded to Chuck, his rhythm guitarist and backup singer, silently passing over the reins temporarily for a much needed break. The music started back up again as Dean stepped off the back of the stage and wiped the sweat from his brow, weaving his way to the back of the room.

“You see the new girl, yet?” Dean’s best friend, Cas, was waiting for him. He nodded subtly in the direction of a stunning woman that Dean had never seen before.

“And hello to you, too, Cas.” Dean glanced at his friend and grinned at the entranced look on his face. “You know, maybe you should go talk to her.” Cas’ face fell.

“She has a ring on, I would, ya know...go talk to her..in a heartbeat.” Cas rolled his eyes and shrugged nonchalantly. “I would hate to make her fiance jealous or something.”

Dean clapped his hand on Cas’ shoulder, sighed and smiled. “Don’t ever change, Cas.”

While the crowd was mesmerized by Chuck’s rendition of “Karma Chameleon,” Dean took the opportunity to sneak out the back door of the community center. He hoped for a few minutes alone in the fresh air and took a seat on the concrete steps.

Admittedly, when he heard the heavy steel door creak open, he sighed, groaning internally. But when he turned around, and was met with a pair of beautiful eyes and an infectious smile, his irritation was magically erased.

“Oh my goodness! I am so sorry!” Her cheeks turned a deep red color before she turned to leave.

“No no, you’re just fine,” Dean winked at her and patted the step next to him. “There’s plenty of room for both of us.”

She smiled warmly before accepting the invitation, sure to tuck her skirt under her legs to keep from flashing anyone as she sat.

“I needed a bit of fresh air.” Her voice was warm and sweet and Dean was enchanted by the sound of it.

“Well, that makes two of us.” Dean flashed her one of his trademark smiles before reaching a hand out to her. “I’m Dean.”

“I’m y/n.” She said shyly. “You sound fantastic up there.”

“Thank you. I really enjoy my job.” Now it was Dean’s turn to blush. He’d gotten used to hearing compliments like that from townsfolk, but part of him had always assumed they were just being nice or only saying it because they knew him. But to have a stranger, especially a beautiful and obviously intelligent stranger, give such great feedback; that was a different story entirely.

“It shows. How long have you been playing?”

“All my life, really. But the band’s been together for about seven years now? How are you liking life here in Chapel Hill? How long have you been in town?”

“Oh it’s great. I have been here a few weeks now. My cousin Jo got me the job here at the community center last week. This is my first event.” She smiled warmly.

“Oh Jo Harvelle? Of course! Ellen had mentioned her niece was coming to stay for a while. I don’t know how I didn’t put it together before now.”

“How do you know my Aunt Ellen?”

“Well, it’s a small town, sweetheart. Everyone knows everyone around these parts.” Dean lowered his voice and leaned in conspiratorially. “But do you want to know a secret?” Y/n nodded slightly. “I’ve been giving Ellen voice lessons so she can surprise Bobby at their 20th wedding anniversary here in a few weeks.”

Y/n’s smile was brighter than the sun itself as it bore down on them in the late afternoon sky. Dean was startled at how badly he already wanted to do anything to make that happen again.

“That’s wonderful! Uncle Bobby will be so happy!” She clapped her hands in excitement before her face fell, a serious look replaced the joy he’d just seen there. “But I promise. Your secret’s safe with me.” She winked and held up her left hand to seal her oath.

“Good. I appreciate that. What a pretty ring. You’re engaged?”  Dean regretted the words as he watched the light fade from her eyes a bit and she dropped her gaze to the large glittering stone on her ring finger.

“Yeah, I guess so.” She shrugged and tried for unaffected but missed the target. “Just waiting on him to set a date.”

“Weddings, man. I’m actually getting married next weekend. I’m ready for the planning phase to be over and just get to the forever part.”

The large metal door swung open and halted y/n's reply. Dean turned to find Jo standing just inside.

“Hey Dean.”

He smiled and nodded slightly.

“Hey, y/n,” Jo said, motioning towards the ballroom, “we need you back inside. And Dean, I think Chuck is about done with his Karma Kameleon.”

Y/n stood carefully, smoothed her hands down the sides of her skirt and smiled. “It’s been nice talking to you, Dean. I’ll see you next weekend. I’m working your wedding. Good luck with your last week of bachelorhood.”

Track 2 “White Wedding” by @hannahindie 

Like what you see? Want more? My Masterlist is here  and the lovely @hannahindie‘s can be found here. Thanks for reading! :)

The Wedding Singer - Series Tags: @nanie5 @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @tiffanycaruso @faegal04 @bethbabybaby @aesthsuggestion @escabell @lavieenlex @letmusicguideu @charliebradbury1104 @ericaprice2008 @kathaswings @feelmyroarrrr @karlee-fay-my-wayward-son

My Forever Tags - I love ya’ll, stay weird! @wheresthekillswitch @pretty-fortune @arryn-nyxx @emilywritesaboutdean @fandommaniacx @cookie-dough-lova @spnfanficpond @impandagrl @maddieburcham1 @trexrambling @27bmm @beachballsizeladyballs @hannahindie @rosie-winchester @winchesterprincessbride @that-writer-one @amionthetumbler @abbessolute @deansdirtyduchess @fandomismyspiritanimal @angelsandwinchesters @cfordwrites @zenia3 @charliebradbury1104 @9769997118 @mogaruke @luulaachops @supernaturaldean67  @barbedwireandbubblegum @karlee-fay-my-wayward-son  @muliermalefici @galaxy-jellyfish-queen @canadianjelly @kathaswings @almusanzug @feelmyroarrrr @captainradicalpassion @bethbabybaby @thinkwritexpress-official @akshi8278 @hexparker @emoryhemsworth @boxywrites @justanotherdeangirl @atc74 @anticipate1003 @super100012 @lovesj2m  @easelweasel @masksandtruths @ellen-reincarnated1967 @growningupgeek @there-must-be-a-lock @sylverminx @mrswhozeewhatsis @thing-you-do-with-that-thing

#the wedding singer series #dean winchester au #supernatural au #Dean Winchester x Reader #dean x reader #dean winchester #spn reader insert #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural #SPN Fanfiction #supernatural reader insert #HanPan strikes again #i lost my queue

[ichabodcranemills]

End Of Year Fic-Writer meme

It’s that ask meme, but because I never get asks, I decided to just answer everything on my own :)

1. What’s your personal favourite thing you wrote this year?

there’s always time, on my mind (so pass me by, I’ll be fine) , specially chapter 5

It’s a Thirteen-centric story where she has to face some demons after having the TARDIS attacked by a very peculiar weapon, and ends up becoming something of a monster herself. It was based on a prompt list and, at first, was meant to have short chapters but it grew into something much bigger and more complex. Chapter 5 is almost a story on its own and it has 5k words, which is the most I’ve ever written for a single chapter. Yeah, I just love this story a lot.

2. What’s your least favourite thing you wrote this year?

Doctor Oswald. It was a Yaz & Clara roadtrip adventure. It’s not that I disliked it, but it was really out of my comfort zone and I’m not sure if I managed to write Yaz and Clara well. I had a really hard time tapping into their voices. I deleted that story for a series of reasons, but I plan to post it again next year, after giving it some more treatment. But I think it will still be my least favourite thing, even though I think it’s a good story.

3. Which of your fics was most different from what you usually write?

I mean, this year I really expanded on my writing, so it was a big exercise on writing different styles, but It’s just blood under the bridge was the most unique one. It’s a collection of Doctor Who ficlets following whumptober prompts. It has a little bit of graphic violence, and it’s the first time I wrote something like that. Also it’s my first collection

4. Which of your fics this year was most successful?

rare is this love; keep it covered  it’s chameleon arch Spydoc story, of the fluff, domestic bliss variety, not angst and deceit one. It was my first Doctor Who fanfiction ever, I love it so much and I’m so proud of it.

5. Which of your fics do you wish was more successful?

Despite being my second most successful fanfic, I wish ‘there’s always time’ had been more successful, because it is my favourite. Find me where the skies are blue is another Spydoc story that didn’t get as much attention and I think it’s a really good one.

6. What’s your favourite piece of dialogue you wrote this year?

“Come on, Doctor” his voice is velvety and amused “You locked me here, the least you can do is face the truth, for once in your life. Admit that you’re doing this because you have to feel in control of something after you lost control of your entire life. Of your entire history. It does bother you not knowing who you are, or what you have done, and your silly speech at the Matrix chamber didn’t change this. Admit that it hurts you that you don’t even have me. I’m not your oldest enemy, just another casualty that doesn’t even cause a blip in your life. You have no one and there’s nothing you can do to fix this. Admit that you wish you-”

“What,” she snaps, getting face to face with him “Wish I had killed you?”

Before he can answer, the Doctor grabs him by his shirt and pushes him against the wall, her forearm in his throat, squeezing enough to make him gasp.

"That's what you want, isn't it? To die? I can arrange that."

"Do it then” he shivers under her touch “Snap my neck until I run out of regenerations, see all of them wither in front of you, wreck this vault with the energy of it. End me for good."

She pushes him harder, a snarl twisting her face, but it only makes him laugh and lean into her touch.

“Or, even better, do it properly this time. Find another death particle, throw this ship into a neutron star. End us both, once and for all. Rid the universe of its monsters.”

From chapter 5 of “there’s always time” (I said it was my favourite :D)

7. What’s your favourite piece of description or narration?

He doesn’t deserve any honor because he doesn’t even deserve to be alive.

Sometimes, when the pain is too much, he walks to Mount Agaat, the edge of his world. If he would jump from there, there would be no way back. Nothing would be fast enough to catch him. Not even-

He always walks away, though, because what would be the point of that? Kill himself when Mipha and the other champions had given their lives so that Link and Zelda could live. Defeat Ganon. Rebuild the world. That would be a waste of their sacrifices, pettiness too great for Link to bear. So he walks away and gets into stupid fights with armored Lizalfos, and if he’s lucky, he gets himself hurt enough he might see-

From “What remains once the war is won”, a post-game Breath of the Wild, Miphlink fanfic. It’s all angst, all the time, and I still have to write the final chapter :D.

8. Which fic this year was most fun to write?

the landscape after cruelty , another Spydoc, based on Spyvember prompts. Most of it was really fluffy and soft and I wrote it with a smile on my face all the time. 

9. If you could go back and change something about one of the fics you wrote this year, what would it be?

I wouldn’t title a story “rare is this love; keep it covered”. A semicolon on a fanfic title? What kind of pretentious shit? I don’t know what I was thinking.

10. What, if anything, are you going to try to do differently in your writing in the new year?

I will try to give some love to my non Doctor Who stories, specially “in her smile was kept my whole world” (Sleepy Hollow, Ichabbie), which should’ve been finished already. I’ll also try to be less self conscious. English is not my first language but I work really hard on it and I shouldn’t be ashamed when I make mistakes, that’s only natural.

#fanfic #my writings #suicidal thoughts tw #suicide ideation tw