#still continuing to be pleasantly surprised by this series' politics

[bobcatmoran]

Love Kingohger for saying, "Hey, if the person in charge says, 'I alone can fix it,' trust them as far as you can throw them."

#super sentai #kingohger #still continuing to be pleasantly surprised by this series' politics

[kolbisneat]

MONTHLY MEDIA: November 2022

 I was travelling a bit for work and leisure this month so a lean Monthly Media post. With that said, here’s everything I watched, read, heard, and played this month.

……….FILM……….

Nick Kroll: Little Big Boy (2022) Does this count as a movie? I dunno. Either way, it was fun! I don’t think I’ve seen any of Kroll’s other specials but I always enjoy him on the Comedy Bang Bang podcast. I wasn’t expecting quite as many poop jokes in this one, but overall it was worth the watch. 

……….TELEVISION……….

Sandman (Episode 1.01 to 1.11) A really interesting adaptation that I...generally liked! There’s something about these stories (both in the series and the comics, particularly the portion in the diner) that I find deeply unsettling but perhaps that’s the point. I only wish they made Morpheus look a little more otherworldly. Platform boots so he’s 7 feet tall, slightly paler skin, I dunno. Anyway I still recommend it.

Guillermo Del Toro’s Cabinet of Curiosities (Episode 1.01) After ages of thinking I was too much of a scaredy cat to watch this, I dove in and watched the first episode. And you know what? Not into it. Not that it was too scary, but it just felt weirdly paced and poorly plotted. Checking Letterboxd reviews, it looks like this one was one of the middle-to-better ones of the season so I don’t think I’ll be continuing, which is a shame.

……….READING……….

The End of Policing by Alex S. Vitale (Page 100 of 288) Only just started and honestly, it’s been a tough read. I don’t imagine it getting any easier so I’m taking my time with it.

Feet of Clay by Terry Pratchett (Complete) The last few in the series have seemed to follow a particular formula (abstract concept/object gains sentience and causes trouble) so this was a nice change of pace. The characters continue to be top-tier and the city of Ankh-Morpork is such a rich city I just want to spend all my time there.

Alice in Sunderland by Bryan Talbot (Abandoned) I really should’ve researched this one a bit more. I didn’t realize it was mostly a historical graphic novel blending the history of Sunderland with the history of Lewis Carroll and the creation of Wonderland. If this sounds interesting to you then awesome! But for me, dreadfully boring.

……….AUDIO……….

Los Ángeles by Rosalía (2017) So I was working in Spain and met a lot of really cool people. This is to preface the fact that I got a crash course in Rosalía’s career and current presence in the wider culture. I wish I understood more of the songs but for now I’ll settle for the beautiful musicality of her work.

……….GAMING……….

Neverland: A Fantasy Role-Playing Setting (Andrews McMeel Publishing) Both of my regular groups are in Neverland this month. My Tuesday crew is navigating some political trouble with a Fairy Queen, and the  Mof1 group just discovered a very intriguing dead body. We have fun. Oh and if you want to read the recaps of my weekly group, they’re over here on Reddit.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Shredder’s Revenge (DotEmu, Gamera Game, Tribute Games) I’m late to the pizza party here cause I ordered the physical copy. Worth the wait. The art, the gameplay, the music, it’s all so much fun. Despite seeing lots of reviews and such I was still pleasantly surprised by a lot of character appearances and I hope this leads to more TMNT (or arcade-style) games in the future.

And that’s it! See you in December.

#Monthly Media #Kolbisneat #Andrew Kolb

[wiseabsol]

Hello~

I've been a reader of yours since 2012 and I've been following you ever since. I greatly enjoy reading your stories on fanfiction and can't wait to read the future of Angelic Shadows. I've always need a bit to shy to actually reach out and comment on your works and how much I've enjoyed reading them.

I'd like to ask you a question. I've taken up actually reading books other than just fanfiction, but nothing I've read has me as entertained like storys such as yours and ChesireCat24. I was wondering if you could recommend some books for me to read? I gues I kinda enjoy the fantasy of interspecies relationships (not a sick creep or anything, but like the intelligent relationship you've made between Cassandra) and the struggles surrounding the characters you've created.

Thankyou 😊

First, thank you for your kind words about my writing and your continued interest in Angelic Shadows. I swear I will get to writing those last few chapters someday (there are only five! But those five will probably clock in at 200 pages, so it will be an undertaking XD), once I've managed to make it past the depression/burnout I'm currently stuck in.

Since you're particularly interested in interspecies romances, here are some I've very much enjoyed over the years:

Megan Kearney's Beauty and the Beast (webcomic, probably my favorite on this list due to the gorgeous art and complex characters)

Dragonsitter (a manga, couldn't find the author for it, but I remember being pleasantly surprised by the quality of this one, since most of the other manga on the app I read it on was...not great)

Yū Tomofuji's Sacrificial Princess and the King of Beasts (manga, strong character designs and a fun plot. I need to catch up on this one)

Chobits by CLAMP (I read this manga as a kid and enjoyed it--no idea how it holds up now, but it was some pretty good scifi at the time)

Princess Tutu (the best children's anime ever made! The protagonist is actually a duck and her love interests are human)

Spice and Wolf (the best anime about economics you've ever seen. Also the relationship between the leads feels very mature and develops slowly over time)

Wolf's Rain (a tragic anime following a pack of intelligent wolves on their journey to find paradise, with the protagonist having a romantic relationship with a girl made from flowers)

Kiesha'ra by Amelia Atwaters-Rhodes (a book series about shapeshifters having arranged marriages and going through political turmoil. Very good for scratching that teen angst itch)

Animorphs by K. A. Applegate (the best children's book series about the horrors of war ever. Also there are a few notable cross-species romances in this one, with The Hork-Bajir Chronicles being my personal favorite)

The Firekeeper Series by Jane Lindskold (a door-stopper high fantasy book series following the adventure of Firekeeper, a girl raised by intelligent wolves, and her best friend and love interest, Blind Seer, one of those wolves. Apparently this is still ongoing?! I need to pick up the newest books from the library)

The Negotiator Trilogy by C. E. Murphy (urban fantasy book series that features a few different mythological races trying to figure out how they fit in to the modern world? I think? It's been a while. I mostly remember the leading lady and her gargoyle lover)

Gargoyles (I can't believe I almost forget this Western cartoon from my childhood. Eliza and Goliath are wonderful! Also I seem to remember this one being surprisingly dark and Shakespearean)

I'm sure there are more out there, but here's hoping you dig one or more of these!

#Interspecies Romance #Story Recs #Ask response

[miyu-writings]

I've been harping on and on about the IC AU but that thing's so AU that maybe it'll be difficult to get into.

It's just a royal AU with some lore and political intrigue sprinkled into the background. I mean, I have my idea about that but might need to start developing the plot for the other parts instead?

These last 4 plotted chapters are meant to be relationship development (and porn) and then there'll be a separation of some charas. Only for things to turn on its head and there being a new separation on the first sequel story. I'm guessing this is spoilers of some sort but no-one reads this anyway.

I want to finish the IC AU this month. Part 1, lol

But now I'm wondering. What if I get letdown by people (which I'm 100% sure I will. My writing doesn't move people, isn't interesting) and don't have it in my to continue? I guess that's why the IC AU is a series instead of just one story. And writing it is already like taking blood from a stone.

Oh well, need to reread and pick it back up. Still am pleasantly surprised at how the relationship between Natsu and Rogue is going.

Or maybe I should just write the other sad story that has been on the brink of being written the past 3 weeks. Who knows...

#writing rambles

[disasterofastory]

Disaster of the season Part 2 (Colin B. x Reader)

Disaster of the season Part 2 /Final Colin Birdgerton x Reader Warnings: none

Four times when you embarrass yourself in front of the ton and one time when Colin decides you are the one for him.

III.

Despite your promise to not show yourself again in this season, you find yourself at a Ball in a new, pastel-colored dress. After your last disaster, your mother had to console your sorrow for days to make you leave the bed, and in the end, they had to call over Eloise to chase you out of your room.

The only reason you come is Prince Friedrich.  Of course, not because you want something from the young Prince, but because if he is here, no one will talk about you.

People look at your way as you walk in beside your parents, but they don’t give you more attention.

“You see?” Your mother asks you with a victorious smile. “I told you.”

“Great, mother,” you sigh at her childish behavior but can’t help and smile at her.

“Go and have fun.”

You gulp at the thought. Oh, yeah. Fun. Because you've had so much fun in this season already.

You grab a glass of juice to busy yourself with something while you walk around the ballroom.

“Miss Y/L/N,” Colin says your name to grab your attention from your thoughts.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” you smile at the young man stopping in front of you.

“How are you?” He asks. “When I didn’t see you, I was worried you got sick.”

“I’m fine,” you reassure him. “I just needed a push to leave the house.”

“And the push was my sister, I assume?”

“Who else?”

“I’m glad she was successful. She is here somewhere with Penelope.”

“I will find them eventually,” you answer with a nod. You are sure you will hear the brown-haired girl's dissatisfaction soon enough. 

“Would you like to join me for a walk until then?” Colin asks you, offering his arm.

“Thank you,” you smile at him gratefully, accepting his gesture.

The night goes uneventfully. You don’t fall out of the window or bleed out in front of everyone. It’s a success.

Until now.

You can see Cressida’s swoon from the front row. Everybody gasps worriedly around you as the young woman falls into the Prince’s arms. Soon you can hear Daphne’s voice behind you, then it happens. She giggles at the girl’s obviousness, and you can’t help but laugh too.

Loudly. Clearly.

You gasp at your own reaction, trying to hide your uncontrollable giggles, which burst out of you in waves. People start to glance at you, confused.

“Go out,” Daphne whispers to you, seeing your problem. She tries to suppress her own giggles with better success than you.

Colin grabs your arm gently, pulling you out of the crowd. Tears burn your eyes as you start to cry from laughter. You can feel Cressida’s burning glare at the nape of your neck when your eyes meet with the Prince’s before you get lost among the people with Colin on your heels.

The smaller room with huge paintings is empty and calm. The tons' chatting gets quiet as Colin shuts the door, and you let out the laugh you tried to hide from everybody.

He smiles at your uncontrollable cheerfulness, watching you laughing to your heart content.

“I can’t go anywhere with you,” he says jokingly when you start to calm down.

“I’m sorry,” you chuckle, pulling down your gloves to wipe off your tears and the ruined mascara.

“Wait, let me…” He steps in front of you without a second thought. His touch is warm on your heated skin as he makes sure you are presentable again.

He still has some boyish features despite his age. 

“Thank you,” you smile at him, stepping back before somebody catches you.

“We should go back,” he says. “Go first, I’m sure Eloise has things to say.”

He looks after you as you smooth down your dress and adjust your hair. You still try to suppress your grin as you wave at him as a goodbye, disappearing behind the door. A small smile is constant on his face, looking around the empty room, watching but not really seeing the paintings on the dark painted walls.

A life with you would be adventurous and fun.

IV.

The weeks go by, and the ton slowly forgets your mistakes. Visitors come to your house with flowers and small presents to woo you with poetry and promises.

And you hate it.

Neither of them is the one you want. A few of them seem worthy and kind, while the others are just boring and too pompous. At the end of the day, your face hurts from the forced smiles, but your younger siblings enjoy immensely the chocolates and other sweets you get. Your father seems dissatisfied with your suitors, and he doesn’t waste time to let them know behind his usual polite demeanor.

“You will find the one, I’m sure of it,” he says to you comfortingly.

But that is the problem. You found him years ago.

With a sigh, you nod to reassure him, patting his hand on your knee.

Your jealousy for Daphne seems ridiculous now. Of course, for the ton, it's good that you have so many suitors, but for you, it just gets boring and tiring. The Bridgerton girl refused the Prince of Prussia to marry with the Duke while you sit in the drawing-room for days with men who don’t interest you in the slightest.

You get out of the carriage with your mother behind you in front of the Bridgertons’ imposing house. The wisterias bloom above the freshly cleaned windows, and bees buzz around from flowers to flowers as you walk to the entrance. The butler greets you with a polite smile and escorts you to the drawing-room where the Bridgerton women are already occupied with Lady Danbury.

They welcome you with joy as your mother joins them for a cup of tea while Eloise pulls you over to the loveseat to tell you everything about Lady Whistledown. The young girl seems enthusiastic and too obsessed with the mysterious woman. You smile and listen to her words with nods and hums as you steal a small piece of chocolate from the box on her lap.

"I still can't believe that you accused Mrs. Wilson,” you laugh, and Eloise hits your arm as an answer, but before she can continue with her theories, Colin and Anthony appear in the room with a respectful bow to their mother’s company and cheeky smiles to your way.

“Lady Whistledown?” Anthony asks with a tired sigh, sitting down on the sofa next to his sister.

“Who else?” Colin answers before you, sitting down next to you with a cookie in his mouth. His eyes shine as your gazes meet for a moment while Eloise begins her monologue about women and their derogatory role in society.

“But you will debut in the next season, won't you?” You ask her.

“If it’s up to me, then no,” she answers stubbornly.

“If it comforts you, I will be there too,” you sigh tiredly, leaning back on the backrest. You grab the pillow behind you to hug it on your lap.

“You don’t have suitors?” Colin asks, surprised, turning to you more in his seat.

“I have,” you reply. “They are just…” you grimace with a shrug instead of ending the sentence.

“They are not worthy enough?” Anthony asks, knowing the feeling. After Daphne, he knows the feeling well enough.

“You can say that,” you nod.

“I’m sure you will find somebody,” he reassures you with a gentle smile.

What you don’t see is the cheeky smile he sends to his little brother’s way. The boy’s face gets hot from his brother’s unwanted attention.

“Come on, my daughter,” your mother says out of the blue. “We still have to see the modiste.”

“Have fun,” Eloise says, and you hit her arm softly for her mockery.

What you don't notice is the little teacup between her fingers that falls out of her hand because of your playful slap. Eloise gasps, trying to grab the porcelain, but it's too late. The pleasantly warm tea pours onto your thigh, soaking your dress.

Colin looks at the ruined dress, then up to your mortified expression. His chest starts to hurt seeing your series of bad luck. You really need somebody who can protect you before a piano falls on you from nowhere.

“Poor girl,” Lady Danbury sighs, seeing the tea-stained dress. “It’s definitely not your season.”

V.

The dress you choose for the ball is light-colored with darker lace decorations. The white gloves on your arms are long enough to reach your elbows, and your hair tied up in curly locks with a silky ribbon.

You suppress the disappointment because of the season and your misfortune with love so you can enjoy the last ball of the season. You didn’t see Daphne since the Cressida swooning fiasco, and you hope you can have a few words with her before they go back to Clyvedon.

The garden they decorated for the ball is elegant and flowery.  Large chandeliers hang over the dancefloor, and the painting about the married couple attracts the eyes of the guests.

You stand at the edge of the black and white floor, watching the dancing couples. The music is loud but pleasant, and the chats around you mix with the songs. Your gaze wanders to Daphne, and despite that, she is beautiful as always something seems off with her. The young girl’s face is almost sad as she looks over at her husband.

“Miss Y/L/N,” Colin greets you with a small smile and a bow. “Can I have this dance?” He asks, offering his hand to you.

“It would be my pleasure,” you answer, accepting his proposal.

He leads you to the dancefloor when the orchestra starts to play a new song. His touch is warm on your waist, and his grip is gentle on your hand as you begin to move with him.

“How are you?” He asks you quietly.

“Well, I didn’t do anything horrible yet,” you reply and smile at him when he starts to laugh.

“Then I guess I have to look out for you,” he hums.

“I think I’m too helpless for that,” you sigh, playing with him.

The few minutes you spend in Colin’s arms are amazing. You even forget every disastrous thing that happened to you during the season. Of course, you didn’t find the love you wanted, but you still have time.

“Oh, god,” Colin says suddenly, looking up at the gloomy sky.

Raindrops fall on your shoulder, soaking your hair and dress. You follow the Bridgerton boy’s eyes up to the clouds until you feel him pull you out of the rain. You let him lead you, trying to step over a fresh puddle on the polished floor.

Without success.

The floor slips out under your legs, but your hands are still in Colin’s grip. A small shriek leaves your mouth as you fall on your knees, yanking the boy with you to the floor. He falls on his bottom with a grunt, and you can’t help yourself but laugh at his surprised face. He looks over at you, standing up in his wet clothes to help you up.

Your dress is darker than before, and your wet locks are stuck to your temple and neck.

“I can’t believe this,” he says when you are protected from the rain.

From the corner of your eyes, you can see Daphne laughing on the dance floor with Simon not far from her, but your focus is on the man in front of you.

“I’m so sorry,” you say to him. Your voice is joyful and remorseful at the same time.

Colin stares at you for what feels like long minutes. His face seems content and happy, and you can’t look away despite everyone else watches Daphne and Simon.

“Marry me,” he says after a while. He is so quiet you barely hear his words, and when you do, you can’t believe your ears.

“What?” You gasp.

“I want you to be my wife,” he says more loudly. “I can make you happy and… safe,” His last word is cheeky, but he is still serious as he searches your face for an answer. “I know you for years, and I know our life would be everything but boring and unhappy.”

He watches your soaked form, your smeared mascara, and your messy hair, and his chest tightens. Or just his feelings get bigger. He can’t decide. The only thing he knows is the desire in him to be with you all the time.

“So what do you say? Will you marry me?” He urges you for an answer breathlessly.

“Yes. A million times, yes.”

#colin bridgerton x reader #colin bridgerton imagine #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader

[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

[sinner-as-saint]

Power Over Me - 2.

Bucky Barnes x Reader AU

Part 1

Run-through: CEO James Buchanan Barnes is a dominant. And he’s spent the last 5 years searching for his perfect submissive. Then one night, he finds you. He thinks everything will fall perfectly into place now; but he thought wrong. Turns out your unfortunate past which still haunts you to this day, and some of his enemies are, well, connected. Things go wrong. And your bond with your dom is tested in many ways…

Themes throughout the series: dom/sub dynamic, smut, dirty talk, angst, fluff, soft dom!bucky

Please be him. Please be him. Please be him. 

You pleaded to the universe, or God, or anything really, as the club manager dragged you back towards the lounge area.

You passed by the large, wooden flight of stairs which led to the playrooms, and it immediately reminded you of Mr. Barnes. How gently he had held your hand while ushering you upstairs earlier that night… how perfectly your hand fit in his and his around yours… how delicately he had intertwined your fingers together. And just how amazing he was.

You soon came to a stop at the more quiet part of the lounge, your head was still down. You were nervous. The manager let go of your hand and walked away, her heels clicking against the marble flooring. You heard another pair of shoes approaching you.

“Look up, doll.” It was him. Mr. Barnes.

You very shyly looked up and found yourself staring into piercing eyes. His piercing eyes. He smiled down at you. You broke into a faint smile as well, but it didn’t last very long, you soon looked down in panic. What if he found your staring rude?

He didn’t. His hand reached out to touch your face again. He grabbed your chin gently and titled your head up so you look at him properly. His thumb softly caressed your skin. “Don’t look away from me.” He spoke softly, just like he always did.

You nodded, and maintained his stare. He scanned your face, his eyes lingered around your lips then he quickly looked back up into your eyes. “I need to ask you something, sweetheart. Know that if that’s not what you want, you can say no. Okay, baby?” he asked, in that caring tone of his.

You nodded again. Bucky held on to the hope he had. And he asked you, “Would you want to come home with me?” he stepped a little closer. “Because I like you quite a lot.” He whispered under his breath and leaned in closer. So close that his mouth touched the shell of your ear. “And something tells me you like me too.” He breathed into your ear.

His voice, his words reverberated within you; sending pleasant chills down your spine which ended at your core; slightly wetting your already damp underwear a little more.

Home with him… that sounded perfect. But what if… what if he turns out to be like- no! Don’t think about him. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about him. This isn’t him. This is Mr. Barnes. Sweet, soft-spoken, kind and caring Mr. Barnes.

You had seen him at the club often, and how he mostly kept to himself. How he always stayed at the bar away from the crowds when most of his friends attended a scene. How he had always behaved like a gentleman. And just how he was leaving the decision on you, which had never happened in your case before.

Yes. Home with him sounded perfect.

“I would like that, sir.” You answered.

No other questions were asked. He smiled at your answer and dropped his hand from your face and reached out to grab your hand in his again. He could still find remnants of nervousness and panic and fear on your face. “Don’t worry, baby. You’re safe with me.”

He meant it. He meant what he said with all his heart.

 Not even minutes later, you two were making your way out of the club. And for the first time in a long while, neither of you were walking out of the doors feeling lonely or incomplete.

Bucky had his hand carefully placed in the small of your back, he opened the doors for you once you sat in the passenger seat, he bent down to caress your cheek one more time before he shut the door and walked to the other side.

You let out a nervous breath as he opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat. It was a good kind of nervous. You took a deep breath and only then noticed how amazing the interior of his car smelt; new, and expensive and hints of his cologne were present as well.

You waited for him to say something, but he just held your hand in his as he drove out of the venue. His touch was warm and calming. You leaned back into the cool seat and exhaled slowly. For the first time in a long time, the silence between you and someone else wasn’t heavy, or awkward. It was peaceful.

Ten minutes into driving, he turned to look at you briefly. Smiled, then looked back at the road. You were staring out of the window so you didn’t notice him looking over at you frequently. Bucky couldn’t believe you were actually here with him, in his car; on your way to his house. Where you’d be staying, with him.

You and him, there was definitely something there between you. Something felt like it fit when you were together, and it had only been hours since you met, but still. Bucky could feel it. And it only made him want to never let you go even more.

“Are you alright, doll? What’s bothering you?” he asked, he could tell you were overthinking.

You didn’t reply. Instead you looked down at your lap, where his hand held yours. You hadn’t realized that you had wrapped your other hand around his as well, so now his large, warm hand was secure between your grasp.

You may speak when asked a question, doll. You remembered his words from earlier.

“Nothing, sir. I’m fine.” You kept your answer polite and short, so Bucky didn’t push you. You and him had a long way to go, and he intended on making all your troubles, even the insignificantly tiny ones, all go away.

You just wait, my little pearl, happiness is on the way. Bucky thought to himself.

“Alright then. I need you to know that I’m here, whatever it is. You can talk to me about anything, doll. Okay?” his voice sounded so soothing. So calm.

You nodded, then responded. “Yes, sir.”

-

Half an hour later, when Bucky pulled into his front yard, past the gate, you looked around in pleasant surprise. Then again, he was well-off so of course he lived in a house which looked like a modern rendition of a castle. You could see part of the illuminated sunroom, and a part of you was immediately curious. You were always a plant lover, so this was a very good start already.

Bucky stopped on the dark brick path, right in front of the stairs which led to his front door. He turned the engine off and the two of you just sat there in the comfortable silence, relishing the warmth inside the car.

He squeezed your hand gently. You squeezed his hand back. He chuckled. “I want you to know, that you can leave at any given moment you want. Just say the word ‘winter’ and everything ends right away. I will have someone drop you off to where you wanna go. Okay, doll?” he asked, his thumb caressing the back of your hand.

As usual, you nodded. He could see the silhouette of your face moving up and down. “Speak.” He said again.

“Yes, sir.”

 Bucky held your hand as you two walked in. He had a wonderful house, you were truly amazed. It was just the right blend of a modern home with vintage décor. The perfect balance between contemporary styles and accents of antique pieces here and there.

It was warm, and welcoming.

“Come on, I’ll show you something.” he gently gave your hand a soft tug, to get you to follow him. He reminded you a lot of the kids who drag people to show them their new room. You broke into a smile when Bucky had his back to you.

He took you up the stairs and down a large hallway. Then stopped at a pair of wooden doors. He looked back at you as he opened it with a faint smile. He walked in first, you stepped in right after and you were again, pleasantly surprised.

It was a bedroom, and it was absolutely stunning. Clean lines and shapes, dark wooden floor, accents of red and black and shades of grey on the bedding, multiple pillows, rugs, artworks and furniture. You immediately liked the soft, large, dark grey pouf in the middle of the room. You also really liked the large windows which would give you incredible views of the lush backyard and the sunset.

“It’s your new bedroom. Like it?” he asked, after giving you a few moments to check out the room. You frowned, then immediately remembered that he preferred audible answers.

“My bedroom, sir?” you were puzzled. Your previous master, he… he never offered you your own bedroom.

Bucky didn’t like the look you had on your face once the memories of the past came flooding back in. He could easily read your face. “What is it, baby? You don’t like it?”

You shook your head immediately. The room wasn’t the problem here. “I do, sir. It’s lovely. I just…” you trailed off again. Bucky waited. “I never had my own room with… with my previous master.” You told him. He frowned.

“Then where did you sleep? In his bed?” he asked. There was a part of him who disliked, for some reasons, the image of you beside another man in bed. Not disliked, he actually hated it completely.

You shook your head again, slower this time. “No, never in his bed. I slept on a pallet beside his bed. Always.” you answered so casually. Bucky was horrified. Always? It wasn’t an unusual thing in this lifestyle, but even as a dominant himself, he still believed that that was a bit much. How dare any dom treat a sub any less than like an absolute treasure?

Bucky stepped closer to you, and reached out to cup your face. He could easily tell that talking about that man made you upset. “Hey baby, don’t think about him. You’re here now, you’re with me. This is your room now, your space, you’re free to do what you want with it and in it. My bedroom is at the other end of the hallway, in case you need anything.” He spoke, taking his time and making sure you understood.

You nodded, and he continued. “Now, settle in. You’ll find everything you need in the closets.” He spoke, leaning in and giving you a kiss on the cheek. “Shower, and then get some sleep, okay? We’ll have plenty of time to talk and discuss things tomorrow.”

Shower and sleep, huh? But what about… you opened your mouth to ask but then you stopped before uttering a word. He noticed, and didn’t like how you hesitated.

“What is it, baby? We’re in your room, remember? You’re free to talk in here.” He explained.

You asked him. “What about… your playroom?” He hadn’t shown you that yet. You were curious, after all that was the main reason why you were here, you were sure.

He smiled warmly. “Like I said, tomorrow. You’re tired, you need to get some rest. Now go on, take a nice warm shower, and sleep. Breakfast will be at eight tomorrow morning.” He spoke and leaned down to briefly kiss the side of your mouth. “Don’t be late.” He said before leaving the room. He closed the door on his way out and you stood there, thinking again.

This treatment was very new to you. You smiled faintly and reached up to touch your face, where he had kissed you just seconds ago. This was definitely something you could get used to.

You followed what he had said. You walked into the equally as luxurious bathroom and scanned the shelves and cabinets and found everything one could possibly need. As he said, you took a nice warm shower. You thought of him as you washed and conditioned and rinsed your hair. Mr. Barnes… how lucky you were that he chose you.

Then, you heard the sound of the bedroom door opening. You panicked, but then you remembered his words; Don’t worry, baby. You’re safe with me.

Not even a minute later, you heard the sound of the door closing; signaling that whoever walked in, walked out. Must be Mr. Barnes.

Indeed it was, because when you walked out of the bathroom, wrapped in fluffy grey towels and making your way to the closet to see if you could find clothes to sleep in; something on the bed caught your attention. It was a white t-shirt, nicely folded. With a folded piece of paper placed on top of it.

You picked up the paper first, it read;

-There are PJs in the closet if you want, but I would rather you wear this to bed. Good night, babygirl.

You caught yourself smiling at the note. You ignored the warmth spreading through your body as you picked the shirt up. Mindlessly, you brought it closer to your face and you gave it a sniff. It smelt clean; of soft laundry detergent and remnants of Bucky’s cologne.

You put it on then went on to search for underwear. You found new ones – still in their packaging – in the drawers, slipped them on and climbed into bed. The comforters felt like a giant marshmallow; warm and comfy. You remembered to set an alarm so you could wake up and be ready for breakfast at 8 the next morning. You nearly shivered as you thought of what used to happen back with your previous master, whenever you would accidentally wake up late.

No, stop it! This isn’t him. This is Mr. Barnes. This is different, this will be different.

You forced yourself to think of Bucky as you drifted off to a much needed sleep. The blue in his eyes… the softness of his lips… the way his voice was enough to bring you to your knees and how the sound of his moans was pure heaven. And his perfect face and perfect body…

---

You woke up to an unfamiliar but warm feeling. Warm puffs of air hitting your neck, and strong, muscular arms wrapped around you.

Muscular arms…? Oh, Mr. Barnes!

Your eyes shot open, and you panicked.

Bucky, who had snuck into your bed this morning, felt your body tense in his embrace. “Hey, hey baby it’s me. Don’t worry, it’s just me.” He whispered in your ear, his face pushed into the crook of your neck.

God damn his morning voice!

You freaked out anyways, thinking you had slept in and that you were late. “I’m so sorry Sir, I didn’t mean to sleep in. I did set an alarm, I-“

He cut you off immediately. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s still early. I just came by because… I was missing you.” as soon as he said so, you relaxed, he could feel it. “It’s okay baby, just focus on my voice. Everything’s fine.” He whispered into your ear, softly kissing down your neck.

You closed your eyes and you almost moaned at his soft touch. Just like that, you didn’t have to worry about a thing, and you let him take control. His arm circled your waist, but it soon slipped under the shirt you wore to sleep. His shirt. He chuckled as he slowly cupped your breasts with his warm hand. “I see you chose to sleep in my shirt.” He murmured in your ear as the cold tips of his fingers grazed over your erected nipple. “I like it.” he chuckled lightly.

Bucky pinched your nipple between his fingers just a little, and you gasped as a tingle danced down your spine and ended right in between your legs. You could feel Bucky behind you, his large, muscular body spooning you from behind; his body heat wrapping around you.

Slowly, he pushed his knee in between your legs, separating them and making room for his hand as he trailed it down from your breasts and dipped his hand into the satin underwear. He was so close to your damp core, and his mouth kept muttering sweet nothings in your ear. You involuntarily smiled, with your eyes closed as you relished his touch.

His fingers slowly circled your clit, smearing your wetness around and he smirked at the noises you made. “I’ve been thinking about you all night.” He whispered in your ear as he lazily toyed with your throbbing clit. You almost smiled again at his words. You whimpered at his touch.

He gave you a light kiss on your jaw, his stubble pressing into your skin. “I thought about how good your pretty mouth felt around me.” He dragged his fingers down your folds and slowly slipped a finger inside you, followed by another and he curled both instantly, stroking your walls lazily. “And how pretty you look on your knees.” He breathed into your ear. You moaned, pressing your butt further against his pelvic bone.

“Your pretty, warm and wet mouth and the wild look in your eyes as you looked up at me, your mouth full of my cock.” He whispered, his voice sweet and calm. His fingers sped up, slipping in and out of you, brushing against all your sensitive spots. “You enjoyed it, didn’t you? You enjoyed pleasuring me, knowing that no one else could make me moan and cum like you could. Didn’t you, baby?”

You couldn’t respond. Your mind was foggy, messy. His actions paired with his words were a deadly combo, he was making you tremble in the best way possible. Bucky was exploring you, and he intended on learning more about your body in the coming days. He wanted to know it like the back of his hand.

He pulled his fingers out of you abruptly, completely still. “Answer me.” He growled, but not too loudly, in your ear. And his voice broke the reverie you were in.

“I did,” you answered, still in that haze. “I did enjoy pleasuring you, sir.” You repeated.

He chuckled and kissed you beneath your ear, you shivered. His lips were soft, and you could feel his smirk pressing against your skin. “Good girl.” He pushed his fingers in you again, stroking your walls again. “That���s what I thought.” He whispered again, placing his thumb on your clit and rubbing it in sync with how his fingers stroked your walls. It drove you insane. You moaned wantonly, moving your hips slowly trying to match the trust of his fingers.

“So I decided that you needed a little reward for serving me so perfectly yesterday. You did so good, baby.” he whispered, meaning it, as his fingers brought you to the edge. You whined, pushing back further into him. You felt tingly, and warm. And safe in his embrace – something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

“You’re my good girl, aren’t you?” he asked, fingering you and rubbing your clit faster, and faster. You nodded, then remembered he preferred audible answers.

“I am, sir.” You whined, moaning at the end, unable to hold back. You felt your lower body tensing, the pressure built nicely as he sped up.

He hummed in appreciation, right in your ear, before he kissed down your face and nibbled on your neck. “Tell me.” He mumbled against your skin. “Who do you belong to, my little pearl?”

Oh that nickname did things to you. You clenched around him at the sound of it and he noticed. He chuckled and spoke again. “Tell me.” he sounded growly again. You almost came right there.

“I’m yours.” You whined, unsure of how much longer you could hold it. “I’m all yours, sir.” Your desperation could be heard in your voice. He liked it.

He chuckled again, the sound of his voice made you whimper and squirm against him. “Remember that, sweetheart.” He kissed your neck, and you clenched around him, feeling your release approaching. “You’re mine.”

You came, hard. With a loud moan, clenching around him, drenching his fingers with your wetness. Your hips involuntarily bucked against his hand as your orgasm washed over you. Intense, pleasurable and sweet – much like Mr. Barnes himself.

He kissed the side of your face as you calmed down. “All mine.” he mumbled against your skin as he kissed down your neck again. “Now come on, breakfast downstairs in 15 minutes.” He pulled away from you and got out of the bed. You sat up and watched him. Messy hair, shirtless with just his black sweatpants on, he looked delicious. “Don’t be late.” He winked and left.

You still felt tingly in all the places where he touched you. You felt just a little sore and stickiness in between your legs, but you caught yourself smiling again.

You only had 15 minutes so you rushed into the bathroom, showered as quickly as you could and brushed. Then walked out and finally walked into the closet to find clothes. You were, yet again, pleasantly surprised – both at the size of the closet and at the amount of clothes as well. There was a lot of them, and they all seemed like they would fit you perfectly. You made a mental note to ask him about it later.

You settled on leggings and a large hoodie and made your way downstairs.

 You found Mr. Barnes in the kitchen, with his back to you as he seemed to be chopping something. And the aroma coming from all the food made you sigh in delight. He heard it and turned around with a smile. He still wasn’t wearing a shirt so you took in his appearance shamelessly.

“Hi doll, come here.” he spoke with a smile, then got back to chopping. You walked over to him and found him chopping fruits and separating them into two bowls. “Hungry?” he asked.

“A little.” You answered. He had satiated half of your hunger earlier already. He smiled to himself, he didn’t have to tell you to speak up this time. You did it on your own, instead of just nodding. You were learning already, it seemed. He liked it.

“Here,” he picked up half of a strawberry and held it up to your mouth. You parted your lips and inched forward, taking it into your mouth. You didn’t realize how close you were standing to him until you looked up and found him only inches away from your face. He slid the fruit into your mouth and watched you intently.

He bit his own lip and pulled away. “Let’s eat.” He carried both bowls to the table where pancakes and muesli were waiting. You chose to have a portion of the latter and sat across Bucky at the kitchen island.

You and him had a small talk over breakfast.

“Now tell me sweetheart, where did you used to live? And where do you work?” he sounded calm as usual, just a little more curious.

You swallowed and responded. “In an apartment that I shared with two other girls. And I used to work for the club.” You answered.

He frowned at the second part of your answer. But you had your head down so you didn’t see it. Work for the club? What does that mean? He, again, didn’t push you because it seemed like it wasn’t your most favorite topic.

“Well, you’re not going back to that club again.” he spoke and you immediately lifted your head up to look at him. His heart fluttered. “I’m plenty able to provide for the both of us. But I wouldn’t want you to just be bored at home, so you may look for a job that you like.” He finished with another wink. You smiled.

Of course he was perfectly able to provide for the two of you, he had more money than half the city combined. But you made a mental note to indeed look for another job. Speaking of mental notes…

“Can I, um, please ask you something, sir?” you spoke softly.

“Of course, doll. Go ahead.”

“The clothes in the closets, I mean I’m very grateful sir, but how did you…” you trailed off, not knowing how to word it well without thinking that you might sound rude.

But again, he knew exactly what you meant. “I messaged my assistants, right before we left the club. And gave them the necessary details and asked them to prep the room for your comfort. Including, the clothes.” He answered.

You smiled faintly. “Thank you, sir.” You said.

“No problem. I wanted things to be perfect for you, given you’ll be living here now. For quite a while.” He spoke again, and you looked up from your cereal bowl.

Quite a while sounded… good. At least he wasn’t threatening to kick you out if you messed up. You shivered at the memory. Bucky noticed.

“Are you okay, doll?” he asked, suddenly very much worried. He hated seeing you like this, tensed and upset and borderline scared.

You nodded. And he didn’t push you to speak up this time. And the rest of breakfast went by in comfortable silence. After breakfast, you were about to pick up your bowls and place them in the sink and do the dishes, but he beat you to it.

He walked over and as he bent down slightly to pick up your bowl, he kissed your temple and whispered, “Go wait for me in the living room.”

You whispered a ‘yes, sir’ and got down from the stool and walked out of the kitchen and down the hallway which led to the living room. You stood by the coffee table and waited. You noticed a notepad and a pen in the middle of the table. You didn’t think much of it.

You looked around, taking in the wonderful room. You could see the huge glass door which would lead to the sunroom and you longed to go there. You were admiring it from afar when you felt a pair of hands on either side of your waist.

“Hi.” Bucky murmured, pushing his face into your hair and inhaling the sweet smell.

“Hi.” You mumbled back, unsure of where this was going. Shouldn’t he be showing you the playroom by now? Shouldn’t he be telling you of his endless list of rules which you had to abide by every single day? Should he be this affectionate and touchy? Not that you minded this, no. This was all so amazing. You liked being close to him.

“Bend over.” He said, taking you by surprise as he pointed to the large velvet couch in the middle of the room, by the coffee table.

Bend over? Would you be punished already? You tensed at the sound of those words. You weren’t unfamiliar with spanks, you just wished to find out what you did wrong. Was it rude to ask about the clothes? You should have shut up and been grateful that he was giving you all this luxury, instead you questioned him. Was he mad about that?

You replayed the whole of breakfast time in your head, look for where you slipped up and made a mistake. Not realizing that you weren’t listening to him, until he spoke up again. “Babygirl,” he sounded just a little stern, “I said go over there, and bend over.” He repeated himself, softly still.

He noticed your nervousness and wanted more than anything to make it go away. You walked over to the velvet sofa he pointed at and bent over the large, cushioned armrest. You waited, nervous because you couldn’t see him anymore. But then he got closer, and you felt his hands on either side of your butt.

“There’s no need to be afraid of me, baby. You’re always on the edge, and I don’t like that at all.” He spoke, softly. You liked the sound of his voice, it had the power to calm your nerves and excite you at the same time.

You shivered when you felt him pulling your leggings down, followed by your underwear. He did so quickly, impatiently. The cold air hit your legs and you shivered again. But then you felt his warm hands massaging your butt cheeks. You knew instantly what was coming. “I want you to count till ten for me, okay baby?” he said. You nodded, and braced for the painful impact.

He lifted his hand up in the air and brought it down to spank your ass. You yelped, “One.” you muttered. You were surprised. It hurt, a little. But it also left behind pleasant tingles. You were confused.

He did it again, allowing his hand to linger on your skin a little longer this time, caressing where his hand landed. “Two.”

Was this punishment or no?

“Three.” You said, almost moaning at how good it felt, and heard him chuckle.

“Good job baby.” he muttered and slide his hand further down, stroking your folds. “You’re so wet already, angel.” He cooed and lifted his hand and spanked you again. “Four.” You sighed, in pleasure.

“Five.” On your left cheek. “Six.” On your left cheek again. It stung a little, but the kind that you wanted more of. “Seven.” On the right one. You whimpered in pleasure and pain. “Eight.” Left again. “Nine.” He smacked your dripping core instead of your butt. Your whole body tingled. You were breathless, but you cracked a little smile. He couldn’t see it.

“Ten.” You said finally. He grunted as he spanked you one last time. You moaned shamelessly this time, you were perfectly fine with being this exposed. He had you all worked up, hot and bothered with just ten spanks. You wondered, what playtime with him in his playroom would be like. Must be Heaven…

You waited again, since you couldn’t see him. You relied on your sense of hearing to determine where he was. But you didn’t hear anything for a few moments. Maybe he didn’t want you to get up just yet.

Then you felt him. His warm, soft lips and his stubble – his face pressed up against your dripping core. Your face felt hot as you realized what he was doing. He left loud, open mouth kisses from your butt down till your throbbing clit.

“Such,” he kissed your butt, then moved down, “a pretty and delicious,” he kissed your wet entrance and teased it with his tongue, moaning loudly at your taste, “little cunt.” He kissed your clit and sucked on it loudly, making you whimper and wiggle your butt just a little. He chuckled and pulled away. He pulled your ass cheeks apart and latched his mouth onto your core. His fingers lightly rubbed your clit as his tongue poked your tight entrance. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as his mouth pleasured you.

A quiet moan escaped your lips as you heard the wet sounds which erupted from him eating you out. He was shamelessly moaning as well. His plump, pink lips worked on your wet heat; your arousal dripping down his chin and coating his lips as he devoured you. He took you higher…and higher until you shattered against his mouth and came undone all over his tongue.

He pulled away after he had his fill. “Such a good girl. Come here, baby.” he pulled up your underwear and leggings and lifted you from the armrest by the shoulder, noticing you were still trembling, recovering from your second orgasm.

He sat down on the couch nearby and pulled you onto his lap. You ended up straddling him, and you scooted closer to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He ran a soothing hand down your back while the other hand caressed your butt through the leggings. He was spoiling you.

Oh, so that wasn’t punishment?

He frowned and you realized that you had accidentally voiced out your inner thoughts. “Of course not. You did nothing wrong, angel. Spanks can be used as rewards, and for pleasure.” He explained. Oh.

“What was I rewarded for, sir?” you asked. He smiled.

“Just for keeping me company during breakfast. For trusting me, and for being so good earlier today.” He explained, making your heart flutter. Oh. He continued, “Besides, I don’t need a solid reason to touch you, do I baby? You’re mine, aren’t you?”

You cracked a little smile and nodded quickly. All yours. I’m all yours. “I am, sir.”

Bucky leaned in to kiss your forehead. You wondered why he hadn’t kissed you on the mouth yet. Did you want that? Hell yes you did!

“I’m ready, sir.” You said, after a while of admiring his mouth and wondering how it would feel against your own. He tilted his head in confusion.

“What for, baby?” he asked, pulling you closer and making you ‘accidentally’ grind on his crotch.

“For you to tell me about all your rules. I will be good, sir. I promise.” You sounded so… nervous. Bucky did wonder, about the possibilities of what kind of rules you might have had to abide by in the past. He hated everything that came to his mind, just thinking about another man having control over you.

“Oh I know you will.” he cooed. “You’re my precious little pearl, and I know you will always be good to me.” He reassured you that he had complete faith that you would be good.

You were a little surprised. Because a certain someone did tell you that if you don’t abide by all of his rules, he’d return you back. You shivered, again, at the thought of him.

This isn’t him. This isn’t him. This isn’t him.

“As for my rules, well,” Bucky leaned forward and grabbed the notepad and the pen. He opened the notepad and clicked the pen and began writing. “There’s not much baby. Just,” he told you each one as he wrote them down, “Listen when I talk. Obey when I tell you to do something. Don’t let another man touch you,” he looked up from the paper and leaned in to kiss your cheek, “Because you belong to me and only me.” He winked.

He continued, “Answer me when I ask a question. Don’t be rude. Don’t be too much of a brat. Don’t talk back.” he paused, then wrote something down, “Go to the playroom when I ask you to. And remember your safe words during playtime.” He looked up at you, stopped writing and made you recite them and what they’re used for.

Green, means you’re okay and you want this. Yellow, means you’re unsure but you do want him to push your limits a little more. Red, playtime stops right away because you’re in pain or totally uncomfortable. And lastly. Winter, and this is all over and you go your way and he goes his.

Winter… you never wanted to utter the word. And he didn’t want you to. He needed you as much as you needed him.

He added a couple more rules to the list. “Bedtime at 11, each night unless we’re in the playroom. And breakfast at 8 each morning.” He stopped writing and you frowned. “And that’s it.” he tore the paper and handed it over to you.

You looked down at it in surprise. What? That’s all?

He could tell you had a million questions. “What is it, baby? We can discuss anything.” He spoke and you stared at his lips again.

“Sir… what about my chores?” you asked, your voice sounding just a little unsure.

Chores? Bucky had heard about his friends, other doms, talking about the lengthy lists they give their subs.

“What chores, baby?” he asked, reaching up to caress your cheek. His eyes flickered down to your lips. Oh the things he would do to bite that mouth… No! Not yet.

You shifted a little on his lap, and he had to ignore the bulge slowly forming in his pants. Because right now, all he could care about was you and your comfort.

“I’ll need to cook, so what time is dinner? And when do you get home from work? I’ll need to clean before that, and wash and-,”

He cut you off by grabbing you chin and making sure he has your full attention. “Baby, hey.” He looked you deep in the eyes. “I have housekeepers, and butlers and chefs for all that. You don’t have to do any of those things.” He explained.

You were confused. “Then why did you bring me home, sir?”

He smiled softly at you. “Because I need you. And you need me. You’re here so I can take care of you, meet all your needs, be everything you need me to be. To keep you safe and protect you. I’m your dom, baby, it’s what I do. I’m here to take control when you need me to.”

He paused and pulled you closer. “And you’re here to keep me company, and fulfil my needs and be what I need you to be. Follow my little set of rules, which when broken will carry consequences.” He ended on a lighter tone. “And of course, lots of playtime.” He smiled and leaned in to kiss your neck. You giggled, feeling his soft lips against yours.

It was the first time he had heard you giggle. And it truly made him feel nice and warm. He liked the lack of nervousness and fear in your eyes. You were, dare he say, happy. And he managed to make you giggle, and he was freaking proud of that.

“I like that sound. I like it a lot.” He couldn’t help but point it out. You smiled bigger than he had ever seen. He wanted nothing more than to just lean in and kiss you deeply. But he knew he had to wait. Just a little longer, my angel. And I will give you countless kisses.

“We’ll discuss the dos and don’ts, and your limits later today when we-,”

He was talking, and you didn’t mean to interrupt but you couldn’t help it. You were taken by surprise by his words. “My limits, sir?”

He didn’t mind the interruption. “Yes, doll. We’ll need to discuss what I can and cannot to do you during playtime.”

You frowned. “I get to tell you that?” you were confused.

“Yes baby. Otherwise it’s not fair. This has to be a healthy, consensual relationship, does it not?” he was beginning to think of the worst things. Of someone exploiting you, someone taking your submission for granted, and using you. He felt angry.

You didn’t reply. You couldn’t help but think of him. And although you didn’t want to, you couldn’t help but compare Mr. Barnes to your previous master. They were poles apart. With Mr. Barnes, you were comfortable. With him, you had been…

You shivered, not wanting to think about how he had treated you. Bucky noticed you were deep in thought. And he couldn’t bear it anymore, he had to know. He absolutely had to.

“Baby, who trained you?” he asked, softly. You kept your head down as his name echoed in your head.

“My previous master did.” you answered. Bucky sighed and leaned closer to you, running a hand down your back again.

“Look at me, angel,” he said. You did. “You’re here with me now. No one’s gonna hurt you. I’m gonna keep you safe.” He paused and looked deep into your eyes. “Now tell me, who was your previous master?”

You shifted in his lap. “I must never call master by his name.” you repeated what he had told you; one of his many rules.

Bucky was getting more and more impatient and angry. He’s not your master. He’s not your dom. I am! “He is not your master anymore. His rules don’t apply, baby.” he grabbed your chin. “Who was he?” he persisted.

But you shook your head. You were confused and overwhelmed by your emotions and memories. Then Bucky thought of something. “Here,” he handed you the notepad and pen. “Write his name down.”

This, you obeyed immediately. You took the pen from him and wrote down the name of the one who had claimed to be your dom, your master. The first dom who ever collared you, but didn’t treat you well.

You wrote it down and handed it over to Bucky. He braced himself, but nothing could prepare him for the name he saw on the notepad. Bucky was surprised and angry. Bastard, his thoughts raced. He couldn’t believe it. Bucky was quiet, for a whole minute. You were beginning to worry.

Then he spoke up, “Let’s go upstairs, in my study. We need to talk.” He sounded, serious. So serious, almost betrayed? Jealous?  

Before him, on the paper, in your handwriting was the name of the man who had treated you poorly under the excuse of being your dom. But it also happened to be the name of his biggest business rival;

Thor Odinson.

#bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes imagine #dom!bucky #marvel #bucky barnes series

[theyreonlynoodlesmike]

Melting Wax, Crawling Vines (Vincent Sinclair x Fem!Reader)

Next Chapter ->

Warnings: knife mention, implied running away

Word Count: 2093

I'm warning y'all now that this is gonna be one of the darkest, if not the darkest, series I've ever written. There will be major trigger warnings later, and if you check out my ao3 you can get a feel for how bad they will be. Otherwise, enjoy!

You stared at the underneath of the hood of your car. Something was wrong, you just didn't know what . Sure, you knew how to change a tire and how to check your oil. You could probably put in a new battery if you really needed to. But when it came to just about everything else, well - You didn't know your ass from your elbows. It didn't help that you didn't necessarily have a tool box in your car. You used to, but you'd taken it out to make space for your move. Yeah, you had just about everything you owned that would fit into your little station wagon packed into it. Except a toolbox. The rest of your belongings was in a truck, which was definitely gonna make it to your new apartment before you did at this rate. 

You sighed, running a hand through your hair as the Louisiana sun beat down on your neck. It was early July. You thought making the move before the fall started would've been a good decision, and it was one you'd stand by, but you just wished it wasn't so hot . It was early afternoon and the sun was at its highest. You swiped at the sweat on your brow, shut the hood of your car, and went to get the map out of your glove box. You tried to pinpoint where you were, but it was nearly impossible without any nearby towns to use as a landmark. Finally, you realized what you needed to do. Just as the first car you'd seen pass by started coming down the road.

You waved your hand, trying to flag down the blue chevrolet truck that was speeding down the back road. You almost expected it to pass you, but it slowed down to a stop. When it did, the first thing that hit you was the smell. You tried not to make a face of disgust as a man with a dirty face lowered his window to greet you. His driver side door was red, and he grinned out from under a green cap.

"Hi, there. Need a hand?" He asked, and you gave him a grateful smile. He'd stepped out to assess the damage, rubbing his hands together as he came towards your vehicle. You guessed the roadkill in the back was the cause of the smell, and you were too polite to comment. Instead, you told him your name and said,

"I'm having car trouble, but I- Well, I don't really know what's wrong with it." And the man responded with,

"The names Lester," And he paused to give you a friendly grin. "I'll take a look and see if I can figure it out." He said, and you quickly thanked him. You watched as his eyes landed on the things stuffed into your car. "You heading somewhere?" He asked, and you rubbed your neck before you helped him pop open the hood.

"I'm moving, or, at least, trying to." You supplied the name of the town you were moving to, and he gave you a grin as he looked up from where he'd been studying the interior of your vehicle to say,

"Oh, I know that town. About an hour- hour and a half from here?" And you nodded. That'd been your original estimate for your arrival. Now, you were lucky if you made it there today. The two of you chatted politely, but he ended up closing the hood with a click and shaking his head. "I'm sorry, miss, but this is beyond me." He admitted, and you still said,

"Well, thank you for trying. Do you happen to know if there's a tow-truck company nearby- Or a mechanic?" You asked. He stared at you for a moment, and he almost looked hesitant to tell you. He was thumbing his chin, before he finally said,

"There's one about fifteen minutes from here." And you tilted your head. You hadn't seen any towns on your map, let alone one that close. But you weren't one to argue with a local. He continued, saying, "Bo runs the car shop in Ambrose. I can take you if you want." And gratitude filled you. While you knew he was a strange man, you weren't exactly in the position to deny the kindness of strangers. Plus, Lester seemed harmless, even if you knew from experience that you weren't always the best judge of characters. Still, you reminded yourself that it was either hitch a ride with him or wait for the next car to come along. If any did come along . So, you pushed away any potential paranoia and asked,

"Are you sure? Only if it won't be too much trouble." You said, and you watched the way his grin grew wider and wider.

"No trouble at all, miss." And that was all it took for you to pile into Lesters truck. You brought a backpack of yours, and filled it with your wallet, a water, and a change of clothes with all your toiletries. You figured, worse case scenario, you ended up renting a night at whatever motel Ambrose held while Bo, the man Lester had mentioned, tried to fix whatever was wrong with your car. You’d made sure to lock it, hoping that no one would strip or break into your car.

The smell was stronger in his truck, but you did your best to ignore it. You figured it would be impolite to mention it, and even moreso to ask him to roll down the windows. Lester wasn't one for silences, and he asked,

"So, why you moving out here anyways?" He asked, and you thought that was a fair question to ask. You were from a more populated city, and your new town was nowhere near as crowded. You pushed your hair behind your ear, and supplied,

"Oh, new job." And Lester was quick to ask before you could elaborate.

"Oh, congratulations. What do ya do?" And you gave him a smile. He was friendly and sweet, albeit a little rough around the edges. He was one of the friendlier people you'd met, and you figured your new town would be just swell if it had more people like him.

"I'm a teacher. I teach ASL." You told him, answering what you guessed his next question was going to be before he had the chance to ask. When he turned to look at you, a small bit of confusion on his face, you were quick to say, "American sign language." And clarity washed through his face.

"Oh, why they need a- an ASL teacher over there?" He asked, and you played with the edge of your jeans. You knew about the job description, but you didn't want to tell him that you'd jumped at the first opportunity you saw to fill a position. Hoped for something as far from your hometown as possible. As far away from- You stopped that train of thought. You didn't want to think about him . This was supposed to be a new start, and instead you told him,

"I'm teaching some older students as a night class," By older students, you meant adults. "And then some kindergarten students." And you watched as a laugh escaped his lips. He slapped his hand against the steering wheel, before he said,

"What do kindergartners need to know about sign language?" And you bit your lip. You felt as thought you'd given this talk about a thousand times before, but it didn't stop you before you said,

"Well, some of the kids are deaf, but some of them may just be nonverbal. This is a way for them to communicate when speaking feels like too much. And the night classes are for their parents, I'm assuming, so they can understand their kids. It's important, y'know, for them to have a way to express themselves, even if it's different from how most people do it. Some kids are just special cases." You explained it kindly with a shrug. Surely, it seemed obvious to you, but you were well aware that not everyone knew how useful the skill could be. He made a face, one where he nodded and jut out his lip. He rubbed his chin again, before he asked,

"Nonverbal, huh? Like mute?" He asked, and you gave him a nod. He nodded back, before looking out the windshield. "Sign language for mute kids. Express themselves. Huh." The truck was only silent for a beat. “You get lots of special cases?” He asked, and you couldn’t stop the smile that graced your lips.

"I specialize in special cases." You joked, and Lester was quick to laugh. He made a little hoot, seeming pleasantly surprised by your willingness to joke or perhaps by how comfortable you seemed with him. You smiled to yourself, enjoying the company of your new friend. Even if he wasn't from the town you were headed, it would be nice to know at least one person nearby. You'd started looking all around the truck, before your eyes fell on the man besides you. it'd been a quick glance over, getting a good look at him. You hadn't noticed it before, but you saw a knife on his hip when he lifted his shirt to mop at the sweat on the back of his neck. You'd barely glanced at it for a second before your eyes were being ripped away by his voice.

"You like knives?" He said, a tone of excitement in his voice. "Tools of the trade. You wanna see it?" And you agreed. He pulled it out, flashing the blade to you and said, "That's a bowie. Cut through anything." He said, and you agreed with a nod. To make conversation, you reached into your boot and pulled out a small pocket knife. It was much smaller compared to his, and you said,

"All I got is this, but it does the trick." And Lester let out a low whistle. He sheathed his knife back its holder, and you offered it out to him for him to examine. He pressed the button, letting the blade switch out. He looked it over. It was small and thin, but, as you said, it did the trick with most things.

"Didn't peg you as the type. What does a teacher need with a knife?" He asked as he passed it back to you, and you pushed the blade away as you answered.

"Oh, y'know, cutting up all the apples my students give me." You said, joking lightly. Lester grinned again, and you tucked your knife back into your boot. Again, you didn't want to actually get into why you had the knife with him. It was a layer of protection, something to make you feel safe. And, after the past couple of years, you weren't going to deny yourself anything extra to do that. He stopped the car, and you looked up to look around where you were. He had stopped seemingly in the middle of nowhere, right in front of a small creek. "Why- why'd we stop?" You asked him, and, for a moment, a flash of alarm rang through your head. You'd never been the best judge of character, and, for a moment, you were worried that you'd gotten yourself into another sticky situation. The same type of situation as to why you slept with that very knife under your pillow, why you'd decided to leave town- But Lester was as nonchalant as could be as he opened the door and stepped out. He said,

"Oh, I gotta flip my hubs into four wheel. You just sit tight, y'hear?" And the alarm inside your head faded. You slumped a bit, a wave of relief washing through you. He was looking at you, his hand on the door. You looked at him, the creek, and then back to him before you offered,

"You need any help?" And that same grin came over his face at your offer. He braced his arm against the open doorway as he asked,

"You know how to change a hub?" And you supposed that his skepticism was warranted. He did find you on the side of the road with a car that wasn't working. Still, you gave him a smile and sassed him just the tiniest bit as you said,

"I'm sure I can figure it out." Earning a smirk and swipe of his cheek from the man. He motioned for you to get out, and said,

"Alright then. Lemme get that door for you."

#house of wax #house of wax 2005 #vincent sinclair #vincent sinclair x reader #lester sinclair #bo sinclair #mwcv #slashers

[anoray]

Thoughts on Boba...

I’m not sure if the Book of Boba Fett will only be a limited series of 7 episodes or if there will be additional seasons...and I’m also up in the air about how I feel about it after 3 episodes in. It’s still a rather mixed bag for now.

To be fair, I should state up front that Boba throughout his long history in the SW universe has just never been my cup of tea. I understand why others are devoted to him, but I guess I just never caught the Boba fever. 

I’ve been pleasantly surprised to find that there are many aspects of TBOBF I enjoy a lot, but very little of that (so far) has been about his efforts to replace Jabba and Bib Fortuna as the kingpin of Mos Espa. What has been far more interesting to me is the backstory of how he survived and then carved out a home and family with the Tuskens, which clearly changed him quite a bit as a person. All the tidbits we’ve gotten about  the people of Tatooine and the planet itself, like it once being covered with oceans, along with the daily grind of life for the melting pot of inhabitants have been food for thought. When the water broker in the last episode offered to tell the story about how Tatooine became a desert planet, I was like, yeah, I want to hear that! XD

I’ve found how others react to Boba’s efforts to rule with respect (including Fennec’s own doubts on that front) to be engaging and often amusing. The Hutt twins were an unexpected  twist on Jabba’s sordid ways, and I feel pretty darn sorry for rancors now that we know they are sort of like giant pit bulls forced to fight. Speaking of big, dangerous brutes, I hope we get to see more of the Wookiee bodyguard/bounty hunter.

Like many others have expressed, I found several aspects of Episode 3 jarring in tone and an emotional disappointment after what was built up in the first two episodes. I knew 100% that somehow Boba’s Tusken community would wind up dead or mostly destroyed at some point in the series, but doing it so soon and offscreen to boot left me feeling hollow. How could they be wiped out so easily? They were survivors long before Boba showed up. Besides that, Boba had just told the Pykes that he and his tribe would be able to get rid of the sand rider competition. Maybe we’ll get more emotional closure on what happened with flashbacks about Boba’s attempts to track down those responsible for his family’s extermination.

As for the biker gang Boba hired, that whole part of the show really threw me for a loop because these characters did not seem to belong to the world of Tatooine, like, at all. They reminded me way too much of that awful episode of “Iron Squadron” from SWR (shudder). Or that they had stepped off a Mad Max set or some other cyberpunk movie. The bright and shiny speeder bikes were actually awesome--but how did these out of work street urchins keep them so clean and non sand-blasted on Tatooine? They couldn’t even afford water to drink. Maybe if the man who came to Boba had been a speeder bike dealer and the punks had stolen these from his newly arrived shipment from Coruscant, it would have made more sense? All I know is that the chase scene was fun special effects-wise, but I just didn’t really care all that much about the outcome at the same time. I was way more invested in the big fight scene with the Wookiee as I thought they were going to kill off the Gamorrean bodyguards, who I’ve somehow become rather fond of, ha ha. 

Anyway, I hope episode 4 will be an improvement in matters concerning the whole bruhaha Boba is in about the underground politics of Mos Espa. Right now, his flashbacks are vastly more interesting than his present goings on so I’m hoping for a significant intersection between the storylines to happen sooner rather than later.

In the meantime, I continue to ponder these questions (some of which predate TBOBF):

1. What in the heck do banthas eat? Sand?

2. Same question for rontos and all these massive lizard like creatures.

3. Why is Boba in the bacta tank every night? And where did he get it because Jabba sure didn’t fit in that thing. Was it Bib Fortuna’s?

4. How does Fennec digest all that food? Weren’t a lot of her insides replaced with cybernetics after she got almost killed back during The Mandalorian days?

5. Do only warrior Twi’lek males like Cham Syndulla sharpen their teeth? The males we see here have flat teeth and wear headdresses. 

6. We haven’t seen any Twi’leks with lekku tattoos, have we? Is that only for wealthy, highborn clan members like Hera’s family or ?

7. How do those little water gourds grow in the sand? Is there some sort of underground aquifer left from the times of oceansa and water?

8. That was a rather large lizard that slithered up Bobo’s nose. I guess it found room in his sinuses and the chemicals on its skin are what caused the visions during the quest? I just don’t see how it could have gotten anywhere near the brain.

To quote C-3PO, shutting up now...

#the book of boba fett #the book of boba fett spoilers #spoilers #i like a lot of this series #other parts not so much #i definitely liked the mandalorian better at this stage of the game #but it's hard to beat baby yoda and force related stories #to me

[rhaenyratargeryn]

So I wrote an entire Gojo x Reader multichap fic in the space of like a month?? And it’s the first multichap fic I have ever completed.

Title: Convergence Theory

Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x Reader (oc)

Tropes: Fake Engagement, Idiots in Love, Canon Divergence, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Porn with Feelings (after ch. 13)

Summary: An on-going and haphazardly updated series of works where you, the reader, are a sorcerer and Limitless user in a not all-together fake engagement/relationship with one Gojo Satoru.

Status: chapters 22/22 ✅

Ao3 Link

Excerpt:

August, 2005.

That summer had been oppressively warm, a layer of heat trapped beneath a layer of moisture that made even the light fabric of your kimono stick to your sides. It was the kind of weather that made your body beg for relief, to lay shivering and sweltering under the barest breath of cool air.

Your mother had opened the outside screens in the room, letting you sit on the porch overlooking the small garden at the center of the expansive, traditional home. The view was lovely, overlooking a manicured garden, a small koi pond bubbling pleasantly even as the night air chirped with the sounds of insects.

The main house was equipped with air conditioners in some of the rooms— just like your parent’s own home, only a short distance away, but somehow so far removed from the atmosphere of this place it felt miles away. Centuries. The clock on the wall seemed suspended in time, halted too by the weight that fell over this place.

There was nothing to be done. When the head of the Gojo family called, even the smallest vine, hanging from the tiniest branch, curled in. Your great grandmother had bore the Gojo name before she married, a detail of minor significance that had not effected your own family until your birth. You had often heard your parents discussing the main family in hushed voices when they thought you were not listening. First with excitement and eagerness and then with worry.

There had been a phone call, an order disguised as invitation.

Gojo Satoru, heir to the name, barer of the Six Eyes, was turning sixteen in December, a scant four months away.

Six Eyes.

Two words that managed to leave the bitterest taste of bile in your throat.

It had been thought the next Six Eyes would be born in your generation, your parents hopeful at one point that you were the one so blessed. A hundred years of waiting ended by the birth of another child, honored above all other sorcerers. You had been born with the Limitless technique, that much was certain and an extra unnaturally keen ability of foresight… the signs were there. The possibility that the the massive potential of the Limitless was within your grasp if you could only prove to possess the fabled Six Eyes…

You were hailed for a short time as possibly a true child of the Gojo blood, a blessing. A boon. And then not even a short year later that boy was tested. No two Six Eyes could exist and it was him, not you, who was truly blessed.

You ran your hands up the back of your neck, dislodging the hair stuck your heated skin.

And worse yet, now you would suffer the indignity of being paraded around with every other eligible girl with a single drop of Gojo blood diluted enough to be proper for marriage.

Gojo Satoru needed a betrothed and only the best would do, naturally.

You were to be polite, courteous and docile. Laugh at his jokes, bat your eyes. Play the role of the pursued for the pursuer.

Did you even want to be selected? Once hailed as the promised child, now degraded to probable broodmare ?

You sucked your teeth, holding back a feral shriek somewhere deep in your throat. There was a knock on the wooden frame of the room, lazy and slow. The door slid open before your mother could get you to return inside to the low tables and too hot tea laid out.

You were all but deaf to the sounds of stilted, forced polite conversation, but could not ignore the sudden presence of a young man who came to sit down hard at your side.

Gojo Satoru was not an unattractive young man. He had the signature Gojo coloring, his eyelashes even as pale as driven snow. You yourself had even inherited two streaks of white in your hair, framed near your face and standing in contrast against the rest.

But that handsomeness was hard to enjoy when his expression was one of such utter indifference. He did not even bother to remove the dark glasses that shaded over his eyes, but you hardly were offended. It would have been all the worse to have to look at the very thing you coveted most in this world. Taunting you. Dismissing you.

How many girls had he been forced to sit with today? Judging by his bored expression, too many.

“This is the part where you tell me your name.” He said, voice amused, yet slightly condescending. Behind you both, his parents spoke with your own, but that too was part of the charade. All eyes were on you. All ears tuned to your words.

“You know my name.” You said with a thinly veiled sigh. His attention shifted just a fraction and you noticed with an indignant flush he was wearing his school uniform. Shirt untucked, jacket unbuttoned. You had been forced to spend hours getting ready for this meet-up. Forced to wear a kimono in this hot weather.

He tilted down his glasses to give you a halfway appraising look and you turned away.

“Goin’ for the aloof angle then? Some other girls tried it too. As if you pretend hard enough that you aren’t interested somehow I will be.”

How fucking arrogant.

Your fists clenched in your lap.

“It won’t work.”

“I’m not working any ���angle’.” You grumbled, “I was told to be here so I’m here. That’s all.”

“You expect me to believe that, huh?”

“I don’t care what you believe.” You spat back, turning to shoot him a piercing glare.

There was silence then, even the voices behind you seeming to falter and lower as if worried they were missing out on some secret hushed conversation.

“Ohhh, wait. I remember now! I do know your name.” Gojo continued, taking off his sunglasses and wiping off some smudge or dust from the lens, “Aren’t you that girl they thought was gonna have the Six Eyes in her?”

Your fist clenched tighter.

“I get it now. Sour grapes and all. Tell ya what…” he spoke softer and leaned in until you felt his breath against your ear, “If you ask me really nicely, for one night, you still could."

The only sound that came after that was the harsh strike of skin against skin. The contact of your palm connecting to his cheek stunned not just the adults inside, but you.

No self respecting sorcerer with the Limitless ability would have been taken by surprise and yet here you sat, having successfully struck the heir to the Gojo name right across his smug face.

You drew your hand back. His cheek had turned a throbbing red so quickly, his smirk raised as his glasses slid down the bridge of his nose and revealed how his blue eyes danced with open amusement.

#jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru fanfic #gojo satoru x oc #gojo satoru x reader #ao3 #jjk fanfic #jjk fanfiction #gojo satoru #THE BRAIN ROT WAS HOW BAD??? #80k+ WORDS BAD #reader insert

[scxrlettwxtches]

urgent romance intervention | kim seungmin

genre: slight angst, fluff, humor

warnings: none!

prompt: everyone thinks we’re already dating, but we’re just best friends--oh wait--

word count: ~3.2k

a/n: first of all, im so sorry for literally dropping off the face of the earth after opening requests. i’ve been in a deep writing slump and i just managed to somewhat pull myself out of it with this fic. >.< to the lovely anon who sent this, im so so sorry if this isnt as good as you wanted it! i’ve just been having a very hard time writing. i hope this isn’t too far off from what you expected! as always, im so so grateful to everyone who has supported this blog, it means so much to me! love you all! <3

“We are not dating!”

This was absolutely ridiculous. Of all the crazy things you had imagined yourself doing once you got to college, you never thought you'd be having to deny dating allegations (from some pretty close friends, no less). What made this situation even more bizarre, was the fact that the topic of these allegations, your supposed “boyfriend,” was none other than your best friend, Kim Seungmin.

“There's no need to be so private, Y/N. We aren't prudes here,” Jisung looked far too smug sitting across from you as you worked on your project together at a random campus cafe with your other group member, Minho.

You couldn't help but scoff at his words, writing in your notebook with a little more ferocity than usual. A little was an understatement, actually; your pencil was practically cutting into three pages at this point, “I'm not being private, I'm being honest. I'm not dating Seungmin.”

“Are you sure?” Jisung continued to press for details, leaning forward with wide eyes. 

“I think I'd be aware if I was dating my best friend,” you rolled your eyes, taking another big bite of your croissant, holding it with your left hand as you continued to take notes with your right. 

Minho coughed and muttered the words similar to, “You'd be surprised,” under his breath, but you were too sick of this conversation to care.

You had a total of five minutes of pleasant peace and quiet when Jisung spoke up once more, “I think you two are cute, for what it’s worth,” he said, nibbling at his cheesecake.

“I very much appreciate it, but I’d appreciate it much more if you actually worked on our project,” you smiled pleasantly, gripping your mechanical pencil so hard you were sure it would snap. Jisung huffed, blowing the hair out of his face when your phone buzzed on the table.

“Oh, it’s your boyfriend,” Minho interjected with a smug smile. 

You scowled. You definitely didn’t get enough sleep to be in the mood to deal with this, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you rolled your eyes, grabbing your phone.

“Are you sure? I bet you it’s him.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s in class right now, and you know Seungmin hates to text--” your voice died right in your throat as you stared at the notification. What the hell was going on? Since when did Seungmin ever text anyone during his classes? But phones don’t lie, and the alert was definitely about the two unread messages from your best friend.

seungmo

wanna get dinner tonight?

i got a reservation at the hotel restaurant you like 

me

how in the world did you get that?! i try to get it for special occasions and i always have to book like three months in advance

seungmo

just some connections

wanna go?

me

hell yeah. see ya soon :)

“So, who’s the lucky texter?” Jisung put his elbows on the table, smiling at you with a devious smirk.

You gave both him and Minho a wary glare as you slipped your phone back into your bag, flipping around your textbook again and continuing to work on the project as you muttered, “Seungmin.”

“Ah, see? I knew he cared about you more than school,” Minho sighed dreamily, which honestly made you want to hurl, “That’s true love, isn’t it, Sungie?”

Jisung nodded fervently and you finally snapped, throwing your pen down, “Why the fuck does everyone think we’re dating?! We’re not!”

“Oh yeah? So what did he text you about?” Jisung asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

You pursed your lips, snapping once more, “Just about--” you faltered slightly, processing Seungmin’s messages as your expression morphed from indignant to almost confused.

“About what, Y/N?” Jisung tried again, a smile already quirking his lips upward as he studied your expression. Damn him. Damn Minho. Damn this whole fucking thing.

“About going out for dinner,” you answered under your breath, resting your chin on your arms as you muttered defensively, “It’s not even that big of a deal. We eat dinner together all the time.” 

Minho snorted, “Of course. I bet he even said he made reservations at some fancy ass restaurant,” When the only answer to his accusation was silence, he couldn’t help but scoff, “For someone as bright as you, you’re pretty oblivious about flirting, aren’t you?”

“Watch it,” There was an undertone of a growl as you bared your teeth at him, “I’m the only reason you’re all getting A’s on this project. Don’t test me.”

Jisung shrugged, “If it means finally getting you laid, I’m willing to take an L,” he said simply, twirling his pen as your cheeks grew flush, and with an angry huff, taking your notebook and smacking his arm with it. 

“My sexual life is none of your business,” you snapped, steam practically shooting out of your head as you glared at the two boys. How you three ended up being friends was always going to be something you’d never understand.

“It was none of our business because there was nothing to talk about. Things are different now, sweetie,” Minho snickered, giggling with Jisung like a pair of gossipy school girls as he whispered to you , “Trust me, I got this information first hand. Did you know Seungmin actually has a monster--”

“That’s it. You’re doing this project on your own.”

“W-wait--Y/N!”

.

“Of course you can skip overtime today! It’s not like you’re ever obligated to stay,” your boss at the local bookstore said happily as you hesitantly asked her if it would be alright if you didn’t close up for the day.

Still, despite her reassurances, you bit your lip, “A-are you sure? I could tell my friend to just go with someone else,” you trailed off just as the woman took your hands in hers, shaking her head fervently.

“No, no, no, don’t do that. Of course, you can leave at six. Hell, I wouldn’t even mind if you left at five since you already do so much for me,” she chuckled, smiling at you, “Where are you going? Party? Club?”

“No,” you said with a sheepish smile to compliment her wolfish grin. You both knew that alcohol was definitely not your thing “Just a fancy dinner at a fancy place, apparently.” 

"Oh! With a boyfriend?" She asked as the two of you walk around sorting the newly arrived books into different categories. 

Your face burned with embarrassment, "No, it's just Seungmin," you muttered in response, carrying a stack of books over to a large pile of nonfiction novels. 

"So, a boyfriend," she said simply, not even bothering to look at you. 

Unlike with Minho and Jisung, you couldn't blow up at her or snap. Not just because she was your boss, but because Mrs. Kim was probably the sweetest woman alive, and you could never bear saying anything remotely rude towards her. 

"Seungmin isn't my boyfriend, Mrs. Kim," you replied politely as you checked a book for rips or printing errors before putting it into the newly growing pile. 

"He's not? But he's always looking after you, dear!" Mrs. Kim looked almost offended by your denial, which was exactly what you were trying to avoid. 

You shuffled uncomfortably,  "Well, we've been best friends for years, and his mom would kill him if he didn't take care of me,” you quickly fumbled for an excuse and smiled like you were being forced to take a yearbook photo or pose with the sun hitting your eyes. 

"I've never seen a best friend spend his whole paycheck getting their friend a limited edition of a book series they were dying to get," Mrs. Kim pointed out rather dryly. Where was this sass coming from? Was this really the same woman that fed you homemade pastries on your first day of work? It certainly didn't feel like it. 

"He only bought it because I was practically nagging him for months,” your excuses became more relaxed as you let them spill off your lips more. After all, they've lived in your head for the last seven years. It was just like dusting off an old notebook. 

"Oh, this is ridiculous," Mrs. Kim threw her hands up in utter exasperation as she barked, "Hyunjin!" 

The poor boy almost dropped the pile of books he was carrying as his head whipped up to look at Mrs. Kim with a panicked expression. He never really got over the trauma of spilling tea all over Mrs. Kim's favorite book even though she forgave him after a day of sulking. 

"Yes?" he squeaked, his eyes wide as he was probably preparing himself to die at the hands of your boss. It would be almost funny how afraid Hyunjin was of a sixty year old woman if you weren't just as terrified of her when she barked your name. 

"Who's Y/N dating?" she asked. 

Hyunjin's panicked expression all but vanished as he realized that he wasn't the one in trouble, and he answered matter-of-factly as he glanced over at you, "Seungmin. Why?" 

You sputtered in indignation. First Jisung, then Minho, and now Hyunjin, too? 

"We're not dating!" You exclaimed for what was probably the twentieth time in the last two hours alone. 

Hyunjin rolled his eyes, "Please, you're not fooling anybody here." 

You gawked at Hyunjin, unsure whether you wanted to sock him in the face or rat him out to Changbin for replacing the rapper's shampoo with pink dye, "What in the world gave you the idea that we're together?" 

"Y/N, you two literally hold hands unironically," Hyunjin pointed out. 

"Friends do that all the time!" 

"He ditches us in an instant whenever you call him to hang out." 

"That's because you guys see each other every day, and I only get to see him on the weekends." 

"He was literally draped around you during movie night last weekend." 

"Maybe he's just touchy." 

Hyunjin glanced at you with a skeptical eyebrow, immediately calling out your bullshit, "You didn't seriously call Kim Seungmin a touchy person, did you?" 

You looked away scowling, because Hyunjin always had an uncanny knack for seeing through people's masks. Especially with you;  you knew he always suspected your hidden feelings for your best friend, even when the rest of his friends were happily oblivious. 

Mrs. Kim raised a disbelieving eyebrow, "Are you so against the idea of dating him? Because let me tell you, as a girl that hooked up with boys left and right during my prime time-" 

"Oh my god, Mrs. Kim, I really didn't need to hear that," you groaned in mortification, covering your flushed face with a book. 

"He's one of the good ones," Mrs. Kim finished before glancing at you with a bemused smile, "If it's not because you don't want him, then what's the problem, dear?" 

You felt cornered. It wasn't fair. Hyunjin and Mrs. Kim were looking at you like they knew everything when they didn't. They didn’t know how much you’ve pined over this man, how much carefully crafted effort and time you’ve spent trying desperately to get over him. 

"I don't want to think that I'm special and then have to wake up to the cruel realization that I'm not," you said flatly,  although from the shift in Hyunjin's expression, he could hear the pained inflection hidden in your voice. 

He opened his mouth to say something probably reassuring when Mrs. Kim interrupted, “So it's fear. What are you afraid is going to happen?”

This was definitely the wrong time to be having a conversation like this, during working hours when you were supposed to probably be helping customers. But there was no one in the store and no one outside about to come in either, so you couldn't help but be a little revealing.

“We don't go to the same school anymore,” you explained uncomfortably, “If he hasn't already, he'll probably meet someone kinder, gentler, softer than I could ever be. I don't even have the advantage of time on my side now.” 

“Okay, first off,” Hyunjin interrupted, glancing at Mrs. Kim and then back at you, “Seungmin has never looked at anyone the way he looks at you. He's totally hung up on you, just like he was back in high school." 

"You don't know that," you muttered, fumbling with your fingers. 

Hyunjin rolled his eyes, "Don't tell me what I know and don't know. I literally see him checking his messages for your replies at least twice every ten minutes." 

“Stop it,” you snapped, looking at him, eyes blazing, “Stop making this sound obvious. You don’t have any right to act like a fucking love expert when all everyone does is fawn over you--”

“Okay, both of you need to cool off. We’re still in a bookstore here,” Mrs. Kim glared at Hyunjin who immediately lost his high horse attitude and ducked away to keep working.

"Darling," Mrs. Kim took your hands in hers, the anger on her face softening into an expression akin to sympathy, "I don't know what you've gone through to think that you're not worthy, but take it from the words of an old woman. If a boy is waiting for you to get off of work with a bouquet of flowers in his hand, chances are that he thinks of you as more than a friend." 

You blinked at her in confusion before following her line of sight, and your heart did a weird backflip as you saw none other than Kim Seungmin, standing outside of the bookstore with a sheepish smile and bouquet of roses in his hands. 

.

This was definitely the strangest day of your life, you thought as you sat directly across from Seungmin, absently admiring the rose petals. It was one thing for Seungmin to take you out for dinner (he always liked spending his big fat paycheck from interning at that fancy tech company), but the flowers threw you off. 

Weren’t roses meant for dates? Was this a date? You looked around at the lavish restaurant, the candlelit atmosphere and the plethora of couples eating around you.

No, definitely not a date.

"Are you alright?" Seungmin asked with the gentle smile he only showed you. Funny, was it Hyunjin corrupting your mind, or did Seungmin's eyes sparkle when you looked at him? 

You nodded, carefully putting down the flowers on the ground underneath your chair to make sure no one accidentally steps on them, "Yeah, I just had a weird day." 

"Weird how?" Seungmin reached for your hand that was resting on the table, causing your stomach to do a somersault. Damn those stupid boys who just don't know when to keep their mouths shut! You just can't stop overthinking things anymore! 

Wait. Now that you think about it, no thanks to those little shits, Seungmin has been abnormally affectionate the last few times you've hung out, holding your hand, letting you rest your head on his shoulder when you got tired, even full on cuddling with you when Jisung hosted a group movie night at his apartment. You'd reasoned it all in your head that he was probably just going through his more clingy phases, but now thinking back, Seungmin never liked to cuddle, even in his most clingy moments. And yet, he'd wordlessly pulled you to his chest that movie night as if he'd wanted you to cuddle with him all his life, even when his friends were around.

“Y/N?” He prompted gently, his eyes now filled with a hint of concern as he rubbed the back of your hand with his thumb.

The rational part of you wanted to just forget this whole thing. The boys say dumb shit all the time; how can this be any different? It would be so simple, so easy for you to just do as you’ve always done when it came to your feelings and run away. 

But your heart, your lonely heart that has known nothing but secret glances and unrequited love was aching to take a chance. Minho, Jisung, and Hyunjin were idiots, but they weren’t cruel. They wouldn’t give you this false hope for nothing.

And for the first time, your heart won over, and you decided to be honest.

“Well, the boys keep saying that we’re dating,” you chuckled sheepishly, trying not to focus on Seungmin’s hand wrapped around yours.

To your surprise, Seungmin’s eyes grow wide as saucers as he all but squeaked, “They what now?” 

You blinked, trying to be too taken aback by his reactions, “Minho and Jisung just yabbering on about us, and Hyunjin didn’t bat an eye when my boss asked him who I was dating,” you glanced at him, throwing caution to the wind as you asked hesitantly, “You don’t happen to know about this, right?”

Seungmin might as well have held up a giant flashing sign that said he absolutely knew about it. His ears grew bright red, redder than you’ve ever seen them turn, and he stammered for a moment, trying to find his words, “I-I--um--I told them not to use that plan.”

The carefully crafted excuse to get both of you out of this awkward situation that you held on the tip of your tongue immediately disintegrated, “W-what plan?” you stuttered out in disbelief. 

Seungmin looked almost crushed as he pulled his hand out of yours, putting his head in his hands as he rested his arms on the table, “This stupid plan they made for me to ask you out,” he muttered, and if your hearing was ever so slightly worse, you would’ve missed those words completely.

“Why would you need a plan to ask me out?” you asked, and your heart could almost leap out of your chest at this point. It felt horrid waiting, waiting for the confession or the rejection. You’d almost regretted opening this can of worms when Seungmin suddenly looked up at you, his expression distraught.

“Why?” he repeated, smiling bitterly, “Was I really so out of your league that you didn’t notice how in love with you I’ve been this entire time?”

Your mind went blank and it felt as if someone had yanked the ground out from under you. This whole image of unrequited affection, this whole idea that you were never good enough for Seungmin to even look your way, it was all a farce, a con that was now being torn apart by his simple question.

“S-seungminnie,” your voice refused to work the way you wanted it to, and you stumbled over your words, “I didn’t know--I’m so sorry--I had no idea…”

“Hey, it’s alright,” Seungmin immediately sounded concerned as he watched you fall apart in front of him, “You didn’t do anything wrong, you have nothing to be sorry for--”

“I thought I wasn’t good enough for you!” You blurted out, looking into his warm, brown eyes as the shame bubbled out of your chest and you lowered your head, “I thought...I thought you would find someone better than me at your new university, at your new job.”

Seungmin sighed, and he reached over, resting to fingers under your chin and tilting your head up to look at him as he smiled, “There’s no one else I want except you,” he whispered, and you could’ve sworn your heart combusted right there.

And when Seungmin took you to the Christmas lights after dinner, the bouquet of roses still in your arms as he pressed his soft lips against yours, you couldn’t wait to go up to your friends the next day and proudly declare that yes, you were absolutely dating Kim Seungmin.

(and maybe give them a Starburst for making it happen.)

.

a/n: im sorry im rereading this and it’s trash plsdontkillme

#inkidz #districtninewriters #stayhavennet #stray kids imagines #stray kids scenarios #stray kids drabbles #stray kids reactions #skz oneshots #skz reactions #skz scenarios #skz imagines #skz blurbs #stray kids blurbs #kim seungmin imagines #kim seungmin scenarios #seungmin drabbles #skz x reader #skz x y/n #stray kids x reader #stray kids #my fics

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

HASO, “Secret Weapon.”

Hello everyone!

Sorry I have not posted anything in like a weak. I have plenty of excuses number one being that the fourth book in my favorite book series (the Stormlight Archive by Brandon Sanderson came out) and I needed to finish reading it for my own sanity

number two being that I am currently working on a new novel and am trying to write 2000 words a day on that

plus I am trying to get into graduate school

also I have a job

And am experiencing a tiny bit f burnout :)

Either way I am sorry that It has been a while, and I hope you like the story today.

“Is he alright?”

“Not this again.”

“Someone should go talk to him.”

“I thought we were past this.”

Dr. Krill, Sunny, Dr Katie, Ramirez, and Maverick huddled outside the door to the observation platform looking inward to where the man stood in front of the window illuminated by a field of stars. His posture was eerily similar to how they had seen him once before, not long before a near breakdown had led him to take leave. Leave they weren’t entirely sure he would come back from.

They hoped this wouldn’t be like that, but this picture seemed all too familiar.

“Someone should go talk to him.” 

Four heads turned to face Sunny who turned the corners of her mouth down in the approximation of a frown, “Why me.”

“Well aren't you like…. His girlfriend.”

“Ex.”

Ramirez raised an eyebrow, “You guys have been pretty cuddly recently for exes.”

Sunny huffed, “The relationship has yet to be defined, but that's beside the point. Ramirez you’re his BFF or whatever you humans call it.”

Ramirez shook his head, “Me, no I think Maverick has this one. She’s all spiritual and what not, so she is like supposed to talk to people about their problems.”

Maverick snorted, “I’m a chaplain not a therapist. Talk to doctor Adric if you need that.” She turned to look to doctor Krill, “If anyone should be talking to him it’s you. You’ve been his friend the second longest and you are the most logical.”

Dr Krill waved a hand, “I am not equipped to handle your human issues.”

“That is such a cop-out answer.”

The squabble continued for a few minutes, until finally Sunny raised her voice, “Fne, fine, I will go talk to him. You all wait here.”

They quieted down clustering around the door as they watched Sunny move forward into the room. She took a deep breath and slowly approached coming up to stand beside him. She turned her head fearing what kind of expression she might find on his face, and was both surprised, relieved, and concerned to find he had an expression of puzzled concentration on his face, brows knit together, mouth turned down in a frown.

She reached up and rested a hand on his shoulder, “Hey, you alright.”

He turned his head to look up at her, “Hmmm, oh yeah…. Fine as I can be I suppose.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

His mouth turned up in a tight smile, “Only if you tell the others to stop loitering in the door and come help me out.” He raised his voice so that the others could hear and, in abashment, they headed into the room. Surprisingly Conn drifted in from the other side of the room where he had been spying from the other door.

They clustered together on one of the tables taking a seat as he turned to face them. He was smiling pleasantly, and the group glanced between each other in concern. It seemed like he was doing fine, but who were they to judge, they had been wrong before.

“Worried about me again I see.”

“I mean, you’ll forgive us. You have been…. Questionably erratic in the past.”

His smile continued,” I know, and I thank you, all for your concern about me. It is nice to know I have friends who I can count on.” He turned to look at Conn, “Go on, tell them.”

Conn floated off to the side ribbons undulating in his simulated zero gravity field, “He is stressed but not overly so.”

They nodded relieved.

He turned, putting his hands behind his back and began to pace. Hisback was straight and the way he walked was like a general examining his troops on the battlefield. “I admit that I have been distant, and I admit that in the past something like this would have overwhelmed me. I still FEEL overwhelmed though not in a drowning sort of way.” He turned the other direction, “I feel like I have been caught in an intergalactic game of chess where I am the king facing down a queen and her rooks.”

Sunny didn’t understand the metaphor but Krill certainly seemed to.

“I don’t have enough experience to play the game and so my movements are limited. But the chairwoman…. She’s a Rundi, and has trained for politics all her life in one way or another.” he turned back in the opposite direction. “And just like a king in chess I find myself the most important piece of a game that I cannot directly influence.”

They watched him pacing back and forth. They had never seen him like this, though it was better than the other options.

“I think you underestimate your position.” 

Admiral vir lifted his head, “And how is that?”

Dr Kate idly played with the ends of her hair as she thought, “Well, you know what she is planning. And she doesn't know that you know, which, I feel, gives you a leg up.”

He nodded, ‘And you are right, for sure, butI find the problem being that I’m not…. Smart enough to know how to use it.” He turned in the other direction, “I had my IQ tested at the academy you know…. Above average but nowhere close to genius, which I would need to be in order to play this sort of game.” He turned to eye krill, “We have a certified genius aboard the ship, but something tells me that politics wouldn’t be your strong suit.”

Krill shrugged rather abashedly. That was true enough.

“If only I had some sort of secret weapon.” 

***

Eris had never been off-world.

Noctopolis had been her home for as long as she could remember though the early days of her life had been spent inside a cage. She was Eunique, the only one of her kind, half human and half starborn, and sometimes, it felt, completely alone.

Despite her maturity, she was less than three years old, and had been grown at an enhanced rate inside a simulated womb using adapted DNA to configure her parts. She was completely unnatural, a freak of nature that had nothing to  do with nature. She was an unnatural abomination. And since they had been rescued, she had spend her days living and working for other people. The hybrids had needed a stable home,somewhere they could learn and grow and feel loved.

She had created that place, and provided that for a time, but she was growing exhausted.

Others had stepped in to help and volunteer. People from all over the galaxy had really shown their compassion in coming to her and either adopting the hybrids or offering to help and work athr foundation. A sweet LFIL couple (Tesraki and Human pair) had offered to take over for her as she was struggling to run what what essentially a business in some ways, though it was more a boarding house for the hybrids.

In the end there were only a few left who needed watching, and her burnout had been obvious to others.

She needed to get away.

To find her own path, but….. What was that?

Eris couldn’t survive in space like a starborn, that was well established, her bones and organ structures were like that of a human. The internal structures of a hybrid always had to be one way or another to avoid horrific malfunctions, so in most ways she was human.

Accept for her skin, and eyes of course which were starborn. She was as pale as alabaster and her eyes were wide and dark. This made her a freak to humans, so she kept her dark hair very long inorder to hide her face, which she grew more and more ashamed of by the day.

It didn’t help that she had the ability to read the thoughts of others, and knew better than anyone what people thought about her.

She wore a gravity belt sometimes since she found it felt better on her joints, but she had stopped when she left the foundation and struck out on her own. Today she wore a hoodie -- with the UNSC logo on it -- and very dark sunglasses. 

Final boarding call for flight 1427 to earth, Final boarding call.

Eris followed behind the tide of other humans pulling her luggage along behind her. She was tired, and her knees ached a little, but she supposed she was ok. Due to the nature of her eyes, she didn’t see very well as humans did, but reading the minds of others as a constant background in her head she was able to navigate better than anyone there as she knew when they were going to move on when they were going to stop. She maneuvered the tide of human bodies like no human could.

Again, Eris was mostly human. She didn’t hear though, and relied on others to do that for her, and she couldn't taste or smell either, but that was also something she could borrow.

Her senses lacked only what the people around her could and could not see.

She follow the boarding call with the other passengers and offered her ticket to the flight attendant.

The woman squinted under her hood rather suspiciously, but didn’t say anything. These space ports were well guarded, and Eris had already had to deal with other people staring at her when she went through security.

She followed the other humans onto the shuttle and took a seat. The floor glowed blue throbbi in time with the engine as she locked herself into her seat. Out the window she could see the surface of mars, Hazy grey in the distance with rough red plateau’s rising up in the distance.

It was strange to be in the human system, the genesis of half her ancestral line. SHe didn't know about her starborn half as she had never met one. She knew who her DNA donor had been in theory, though he had likely had his DNA stolen.

Eris doubted that he knew about her.

And then there was her human donor, Admiral Vir, the most famous human in the galaxy.

Eris Vir

She kind of liked that, though she never really used it, feeling he might see it as a breach of privacy. The man had been nothing but good to her the few times she had met him, and the one time he had saved her. She admired him a lot and wished she had a better relationship with him, though his job took him far away. She wasn’t the only one, most all of her hybrid brothers and sisters, who were part human,had been grown off his stolen DNA.

She was the only one, however, that seemed to care.

Eris Vir.

She sighed and leaned her head against the window.

What was she doing?

Below her the ground sped away as the automated safety system continued to give instructions.

“Preparing for warp.”

She held onto the seat feeling her insides churn as the warp sequence engaged. She jerked once against her seatbelt as te warp stopped, and below her she could see the glittering vista of the human homeworld.

Earth.

She pressed her face up to the window and gasped in awe.

It was beautiful blue and green swirled with delicate white clouds in churning spirals.

Herheart raced inside her chest.

This was it…. This is where it all began.

Preparing to dock on lunar 1 please remain in your seats until the seatbelt sign is off.

She waited patiently and stopped off with the others, walking out into the fifth spaceport of her trip, her suitcase rattling behind her.

She followed the sins to the proper docking station and waited for another shuttle that would take her to earth. It would be at least an hour for the next one to Mid-Mericanda, so she would have to wait.

She slumped in her seat and listened to the music of the girl next to hre. The music was ood, it had a nice beat.

When her boarding was called, she stood and followed onto another shuttle, which took her down through the atmosphere rattling and bouncing in her seat. She did her best to keep her hood covering her face as she stared out the window at the wondrous view below her. It was so bright!.

Noctopolis had no sunlight, but this was beautiful and colorful, and it looked so warm.

She didn’t see why everyone thought earth was so dangerous.

They touched down outside an Airport where she could see planes fuling for in-atmosphere flights, and stepped out onto the tarmac with wide eyes. Wides eyes under the radiation of the sun. Glorious, glorious heat, it warmed her through her sweatshirts and into her body making her drowsy and happy and warm. Her entire body felt energized, and even her knees seemed as if they were aching just a little less. She stood in the sun probably longer than she should have.

“Been a while since you’ve seen the sun huh?”

She jumped a little in surprise, which was unusual for her and turned to look at the human baggage attendant standing on the other side of the gate, “Oh yes…. A very…. Very long time.”

The smiling human tipped his hat at her, “Well enjoy your stay ma’am.”

She couldn’t help but smiling back thinking about how pleasant he was. His memories were warm, filled with sunny days spent with his family. It made her chest ache just to think of it as she turned and headed towards the baggage claim.

She picked up her bags just fine and then walked to stand just outside.

Suddenly very lost.

She looked up at the sky which  was a beautiful blue color she had never seen before and she breathed in the air of earth, Air thousands of years old, breath in by countless humans that had come before.

Eris frowned at herself. She needed to stop thinking of them as being so different from her. She was half human after all, even though her eyes and skin were a little strange. Still, it that moment she had never felt so alien, unsure of where to go or how to proceed.

“Need a lift. Lady.” 

She turned on the spot coming fact to face with a man leaning back against the hood of his strange yellow machine…. A taxi it seemed.

She searched or his intentions and heard nothing but his desire to work.

She walked over nervously and held up a small piece of paper, “I am looking for this address, do you know how I can get there.” He scanned the address with a chip implanted in his hand and then tilted his head to look down at his wrist as a map appeared. 

He chewed slowly on a wad of gum and blew a bubble, “Yeah I can get you there, can you pay.”

“Do you take credits?”

“Take anything as long as you meet the exchange value for dollars.”

She nodded, “I would like to be taken there then, please.”

The man nodded and touched his forehead helping her ut her suitcase in the back before opening the door for her. She climbed in, and h slid into the front seat pulling away and into traffic. Looking around she could see most of the vehicles didn’t touch the ground, though a few rolled on wheels. The high speeds at which they drove made her nervous and she clutched the harness holding her in place.

Below her she could see the city unfolding in a great sprawling vista. She stared, the architecture was so strange with sharp geometric lines mostly of steel and glass rising hundreds of feet into the air. They dropped lower into the city and eventually out to where lines and lines of similarly cut houses stood in sharp rows.

She had seen this in the memories of humans before but never thought shed see it.

They drove for a little longer until the houses gave way to sprawling fields and little tons until they pulled into a small place in comparison to the city, past a school and some other amenities before pulling in to another one of the subdivisions.

She recognized the house even though she had never seen it in person, and the Driver pulled to a stop.

She paid the man and stepped out of the car thanking him as he got her bag for her and then just drove off.

Eris was left standing alone on the quiet suburban  street under an earth sun. Though she was alone her mind was full of strange images, seen through the eyes of unusual creatures. It made her disoriented for a moment, but she quietly walked forward up the sidewalk and to the front door of the house.

She paused.

She could feel people inside, and knew that she was at the right palace, but she was nervous, how would they react to her. Would they even accept her existence?

What was she doing here?

It’s not like she was part of thor family, not by choice anyway.

She almost turned around but stopped and then raised a hand knocking softly on the door.

Eris held her breath and waited, footsteps approached the door, a man approaching thinking nothing more than one of his neighbors come to ask a question.

The door opened and Jim Vir looked down at her.

He was a tall intimidating man, one who had work hard all his life.

He tilted his head in that curious fashion humans had, “Can I help you?”

Nervously, Eris pushed back her hood and pulled off her sunglasses letting her long black hair roll down next to her face. The man’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, but the thought in his head was a little less than what she expected.

Another one

He frowned, “You’re…. Not a starborn ar you?”

Hedidn’t seem to think so recalling that Adam’s friend Conn couldn’t survive without a 0 gravity field.

She shuffled nervously, “No…. well yes…. I’m half starborn and half human.” 

Yep, another one.

To her surprise he smiled and opened the door, “You must be Eris then.”

She blinked, “You know about me/”

Dumb question as she could see Adam had told his parents about her. They even had a picture of the two of them together.

Despite hos scary he looked his thoughts and demeanor were pleasant as he opened the door to invite her in, “Guess this makes you my granddaughter in a way doesn’t it?”

“In the technical sense.” She said quietly smiling 

“Well Family is always welcome here.”

Isn’t that nice she thought.

She hoped it was going to work out

[prinxlyart]

Could I ask for some more of the wonderful fluff that is Wilumity domestic headcannons? Or, possibly if you have any, some Camileda headcannons?

*GASPS*

ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS

Willumity:

Willow is the early-riser. She’s developed a habit of waking up early to check on her plants and do her workouts. Luz and Amity have no idea how she does this every single day (they often complain because she’s also a huge source of warmth and how dare she leave their little warmth cocoon).

Amity has Routines™️ that cannot be disrupted or she will freak out. It’s an autism thing for sure, but it’s also something Luz gets. Because Willow gets up so early they tend to have their own little morning routine together; stay in bed and cuddle for maybe another half hour or so (depending on how early Willow wakes up), then they get up and do their bathroom routines. I think.....Luz is the type to do night time showers due to having such short hair, so Amity showers while Luz brushes her teeth and washes her face. Luz is usually dressed by the time Amity gets out of the shower and she gives her a quick kiss on the cheek to let her know she’s headed to the kitchen to get coffee/breakfast started. There have been a couple times Luz has forgotten to give her her after-shower kiss and Amity was so thrown off that by the time she made it out to the kitchen, her eyes were red from crying because A) Did Luz not love her anymore??????????? (incorrect, but their routine had been broken) and B) Trying to continue with your routine with a step actively missing is hell and she’s been upset ever since. Luz has usually just been too tired to remember and will immediately cover Amity in kisses to make up for it (after they go through whatever process they need to to help Amity calm down). Amity hates that she gets so upset over something so small, but Luz reassures her that her routines are important to Amity and it’s okay to be upset when those routines are disrupted. Whenever Willow catches them like this after her workouts, she requests a kiss from each of her girls on either cheek before she goes into the shower herself (usually to lighten the mood because it always makes Amity happy when Willow mimics Amity’s routine habits [it always works]).

Surprisingly, Luz is the one that does the grocery shopping. Willow knows what fruits and veggies they can grow to add into meals and how to prep food for the plants that actually eat, but she’s not especially well-versed in like. Meals. Amity has like 3 meals she knows how to make properly because they’re her favorites. Luz, with her mom’s recipes in her arsenal along with whatever wild dishes Eda’s made for her over the years while she lived in the Owl House, has the largest repertoire of Human/Witch meals under her belt. Plus, she always ends up getting little treats for her wives while she’s at the market that they adore. (Luz both loves and hates when her girls ask to go with her to help; she loves spending time with them, but she hates that they don’t know Luz’s system. She’s got a pattern that she follows and they’re just all over the place whenever they come with her.)

Every Saturday night is Date Night and one person is assigned with coming up with what they do that night. They take turns every week; Willow enjoys quiet nights in at home with them, romantic dinners with candle light and soft music while they chat about their day // Amity enjoys taking them out for romantic picnics if the weather allows, they have a few Favorite Spots they picnic at, but sometimes they just climb up on the roof. Luz always asks them to tell her about the Demon Realms constellations and their history because she loves hearing them talk. // Luz enjoys taking them to the Human Realm to visit some of her favorite restaurants and walk around a local park and watch the stars afterwards. She’ll tell them about all of the constellations she can remember (Percy Jackson phase anyone? Yeah, we all knew those shits names and constellations when we were in it, huh?). She’ll tell them her favorite stories behind each kind of constellation and tell them which ones remind her of her girls.

I 100% do not know what kind of jobs these girls would have as adults. I mean, Willow more than likely has a public garden she maintains, but I have no idea with Luz and Amity. I’ve seen a lot of headcanons in fics and art about Luz going into politics after defeating Belos but like. Luz? Luz Noceda? In Politics???????? Even in the Demon Realm I highly doubt that would happen. I think she might want to continue researching magic and how she’d be able to find glyphs for specific kinds of magic, creating new magic, etc. She might write books? Both fiction and non-fiction. I think she writes some memoirs about her life before coming to the Boiling Isles and before defeating Belos, but she’s been wanting to be a fiction writer since she was 7 years old. She’s got her own fiction series for sure. Amity might get into politics but I also doubt that. She might just be the editor and publisher for Luz’s books. Or she might work at the Library. I really don’t know. But Luz Noceda, ADHD extraordinaire, going into politics? I’d sooner expect that of Willow. And she’s already got her girls and her gardens.

They’ve got a Wednesday night book club. But it’s just them in their living room reading their own separate books after dinner until they get tired. They’ll all cuddle up together either on the couch or the floor or in bed or wherever and just sit and read in comfortable silence. Often times one of them will start absentmindedly start running their fingers through one of their partner’s hair and cause that partner to fall asleep. It is not uncommon for them to wake up in the same spot they were in for their book club with their books laying about and cramps in their necks. It’s one of their favorite things they do together.

Camileda:

Camila likes to sneak pictures of Eda in the morning cuz she thinks she looks especially cute when she’s not fully conscious yet.

Camila has no idea what the fuck is up with Eda’s hair. She’s tried asking both Luz and even Lilith but neither were able to give her an answer. They both only have theories. Eda always spouts some new ridiculous thing whenever anyone asks (she actually has a small, contained black hole at the back of her head that she uses to just store random shit // she cast an enchantment on her hair years ago to be able to use it like a Bag of Holding so she didn’t actually ever have to carry a bag // she was just born with hair that can hold seemingly anything and has never questioned it // etc.), so one day Camila just asks her. Eda tells her the truth; she doesn’t know either.

Regardless of the fucking enigma that is Eda’s hair, she still enjoys helping her wash and maintain it. Eda refuses to admit in the few first months they start dating, but she adores when Camila plays with her hair. Her hair is an integral part of who she is and it’s shockingly more intimate to her than anyone would guess when the allows others to touch her hair. She loves listening to Camila talk about her day while she braids tiny details into her hair. One day, Camila was so angry about something that had happened at work that she ended up braiding some super intricate flower designs into Eda’s hair and actually used all of it. Lilith and Luz are both in shock and awe that Camila was able to tame Eda’s mane into something so gorgeous and Eda maybe didn’t take out the broads for a few days afterwards because she loved it so much.

They love learning about each other?? Their lives up to this point have been so culturally different that all of their stories have an air of magical mystery to them that the other is always dazzled by. Eda loves learning about how Camila grew up and how she decided to become a healer (a ‘nurse’ she insists but Eda doesn’t really know the difference). Camila loves listening to Eda’s many tales of mischief of her school days and after her school days; although she does get worried when Eda mentions that she’s been to jail (Eda insists that it was only for a little bit before she figured out how to bust out! And she made off with some extra cash to boot, so it was a double victory).

It’s one thing to hear about Luz’s accomplishments from her own daughter and from Eda; it’s another to hear them coming from her teachers. Camila goes with Eda to a Parent-Teacher conference at Hexside ready to hear about how much trouble she gets into and how she needs to sign off on different kinds of detention slips and reports of damage and whatever, but is pleasantly surprised to see all of the teachers actually praising her? Some are ecstatic about her presence in heir class? They’d all been taught that humans had no magical ability at all and Luz had come into their classrooms and proved them all wrong and even helped them understand some of the nuances of their own subjects they’d struggled with on their own. By the time the conference is over, (including an incredible review from Principal Bump that left even Eda feeling moved) Camila was clutching o Eda’s arms as they left the school and crying in happiness. Her daughter was doing so well in school. All of her teachers loved her! They didn’t have any complaints about her inattention or disruptive behavior because they knew she was learning her own way. And Eda had fought for Luz’s ability to attend the first school that made Luz actually feel good about herself. Let’s just say there were a lot of heartfelt kisses that night when they got home.

I personally like to think that Camila likes to dance. Like, profesional-levels of dance. Like she maybe minored in dance in college before buckling down on her medical degree. I like to think that sometimes Eda will find her humming along to some song playing from her phone and dancing an entire routine in tiny movements while she goes about doing whatever else. Sometimes Camila will just drop into a fucking perfect split while she’s trying to reach for something that rolled under a table or whatever that catches Eda so off guard that she has to leave the room to collect herself. (It’s Camila’s love for dance that made Luz want to try cheerleading at her human school. Her school didn’t have a formal dance team, so cheerleading was the next best thing. It’s also how Luz knows how to drop into a perfect split when she first tries on that Hexside uniform despite not ever attempting it before.)

Eda’s never had any formal dance training; she’s a head-banger kinda girl. During some of her earlier escapades into the human realm, she’d sneak into many concerts and blended in perfectly with the other attendees in the mosh pit. She loves when Camila tries to teach her some more formal dances that aren’t just a free-for-all. Eda does her best to learn how Merengue works but she often gets confused as to what point she’s supposed to lean or step or spin and she usually ends up dizzy with Camila giggling at her. Camila always helps her come out of her dizziness with little kisses pressed to Eda’s temples; Camila adores that Eda tries so hard.

They love teasing each other. That’s the whole headcanon. Nah, for real tho, they love trying to get under each other’s skin with little teasing remarks and eyebrow waggles and sticking their tongues out at each other when no one else is looking like they’re little kids. It’s one of the easiest ways to get the other to laugh and they love each other’s laughs. Eda brings out Camila’s deeply-buried immature goofball personality that she’s had to push down for years just due to the nature of her studies and work, as well as being a single mom. You don’t have a lot of space to be an immature goof when you’re responsible for a whole other human being. Eda helps coax that back out of her. (Luz can’t remember ever seeing her mom so happy as she is when she’s goofing off with Eda.)

Camila’s constantly poking at Eda’s elbows and hip bones and shoulders and muttering about how bony she is; Eda replies in kind by digging her elbows into Camila’s gut or directly into her face and hip-checking her.

In a similar vein, Eda adores Camila’s curves, and not even just in a sexy way. She just loves how soft and squishy Camila is because hugging her is so comfortable; Eda swears she could fall asleep standing up if she’s hugging Camila. She also swears by this because she knows that under all that squish is some serious muscle and Camila wouldn’t let her fall.

Not really a Camileda headcanon so much as it’s just a headcanon: Camila and Lilith have the same eyeglasses prescription. It’s bizarre, that doesn’t happen really, but somehow they have the exact same prescription. This is discovered one afternoon when Camila and Lilith both arrive at the Owl house at the same time. Camila removes her glasses and sets them on the coffee table to just relax for a while while she and Lilith make small talk (Long after Camila’s reluctant acceptance of her). Lilith goes picks out a book to read and sits on the other couch to settle in while Camila takes a cat nap and she just picks up Camila’s glasses out of years of habit of picking up her own glasses. She doesn’t even notice they’re not her glasses until Eda and Luz come home and ask why in the hell Lilith is wearing Camila’s glasses. Lilith is confused but takes off the glasses and blushes because for Titan’s sake, those aren’t her glasses, those are her sister’s girlfriend’s glasses!!!!!!! She sputters out her explanation while Eda laughs at her and Camila wakes up. They end up actually properly testing it out by swapping glasses and yup; exact same prescription. They end up accidentally hoarding stockpiling spare glasses all around the Owl House for either of them to grab when they need glasses.

Please always ask for Willumity and Camileda, those are the keys to my heart 💖💕💝✨💘💞✨💖💖💘💕💝💞

#prinxly inquiries #anonymous #the owl house #toh headcanons #willumity #camileda #luz noceda #amity blight #willow park #edalyn clawthorne #camila noceda #I refuse to talk about Lumity anymore it’s Willumity or NOTHING #please always ask me about Camileda though I fucking live for Camileda

[buryme-makeoutcreek]

Best shows I watched in 2020

I wanted to look at some shows I watched that I felt had some of the best writing. Most of these shows did not come out in 2020 but are shows that definitely deserve some attention for their masterful writing. Minor spoilers below. 

1.Succession

This show took me by complete surprise. While I love stories about complicated, and darker characters I went into this show expecting it to be a classic story about power dynamics among the rich. And it is but the show is really about cycles of abuse and trauma and how that relates to a capitalist system. The show follows the children of billionaire Logan Roy as they continuously jostle for power within the family company, it’s very Shakespearian in nature but also one of the most absurd and hilarious shows on.

The writing on this show is very interesting because none of the characters can actually say what they want to say, it is all disguised such as a politician’s word choices would be. And bringing that veiled rhetoric into a family dynamic makes for an exploration of power and manipulation. The writing is also significant for doing something called by the cast, “the language of strength” which is using aggressive and sexually charged language frequently, this is used both in the company and within the family as both intimidation and to show off. There’s really a lot to dissect in word choice and meaning in this show and for that reason it is fascinating.

2. Hannibal

This was another show I didn’t expect to like but was pleasantly surprised by. This show ended its series in 2015 but it has always been a cult favorite and has been receiving renewed attention as of late and all I can say is thank god. This is a brilliant show both visually and story-wise. As I watched the first season I felt like I was stepping into a different world of just complete madness, and the show is really escapism in that way even though it features horrific deaths every episode. While I don’t think this is the best written show out of all the ones listed here, and I do think it expresses itself more through visual prose rather than words it is still reminiscent of a dark epic poem. 

The show follows FBI consultant Will Graham as he investigates a series of grisly murders and comes across the path of notable psychiatrist Hannibal Lecter (also notable cannibal and serial killer). The writing is very interesting due to it’s plentiful of metaphors. In regards to the main relationship between Will and Hannibal the distinctions between wanting to “eat” one’s love and wanting to be with them are really interesting and the word choices made can only be called poetic. 

3. Atlanta

I went on a Donald Glover kick after finishing Community and I’m so happy I did because it led me to this show. Many have called this show “what TV could be” and it really is. This show starts off simply enough with the story of Earn trying to become a music agent for his cousin, the rapper Paper Boi. But the show delves deeply into the surreal in order to illustrate its points about poverty and being black in America. 

The writing on this show bucks traditional story structure completely with each episode being more of a “day-in-the life” rather than a continuous plot driven towards a goal, this allows for much more experimentation but also the feeling that no matter what the characters do they’re going to get weighed down in some way or other. This disregard for classic show structure also bleeds into the genre, it’s hard to solely classify this show as a comedy because there are so many elements of horror, drama, and satire within it. The writing is overall beautiful, heartbreaking, and hilarious. This show is a must watch as it is probably the best thing on TV right now.

4. Ramy

This show is the spiritual successor to shows like Atlanta and Fleabag who have paved the way for this new brand of comedy show, often focused around a single character as they try to better their lives. Ramy is a show about a Muslim- American milennial who is trying to get more in touch with his religion, thinking that it will help him to get his life on track. While the humor can be brass and the story lines can get pretty weird and disgusting the first word I think of with this show is delicate. 

Especially in its second season, which has moved away from Ramy’s perspective to focus on the rest of his family. The writing in this show can swing from a really fragile sense of beauty to super crass and sexual in the blink of the eye, which makes it so hilarious and interesting to watch. The writers have complied a series of character studies under the guise of a TV show, and watching this family deal with issues of assimilation, lost dreams, religion, and loneliness makes the watcher feel deeply connected to them.There’s a lot of stuff happening in this show that is very fragile but very moving and also hilarious.

5. The Great

This show is chaos embodied. From excessive violence, sex, and rampant and ridiculous abuse of power this comedy which is extremely loosely based on Catherine the great’s life is a real ride. It was created by the writer of The Favourite and interacts with absurdity and power in similar ways.

The writing is really interesting because it is so crass. In that way it is meant to be humorous but also terrifying. Many things in this show act in more than one way- Peter (Russia’s emperor) is terrifying, ridiculous, and lovable sometimes all within a single scene. And this ability to be all of these things makes this a very good examination of power.

6. Veep

This is how you do a villain arc. Perhaps the best and most honest show about American politics Veep focuses on Selina Meyer, the first female Vice President who is surrounded by the most competent incompetent people and virtually powerless and unfulfilled in her job. Throughout the seven seasons we follow her through presidential campaigns and personal woes all in classic dark comedy style. While this show is first and foremost a comedy it is not afraid, as it’s ending shows, to dig into dark themes and character exploration of a narcissist with a bottomless thirst for power going after the highest office in the country.

This show predates the Trumpian era America currently finds itself in but much of it’s subject matter and even specific plot points have come to be echoed in our current history. Such as an election depending on the results out of Nevada and a politician’s base protesting to “Count the vote” and “Stop the count”. This just proves that the show is so in-touch with the reality of American politics (even when the show was just a satire rather than the bleak truth). This is a perfect dark comedy with excellent, well-crafted characters, and solid plot points. Definitely a must watch for anyone.  

#best shows 2020 #hannibal #veep #the great #succession #ramy #atlanta #ramy fx #atlanta fx #writing #screenwriting #tv shows #best tv shows #power

[kirstynbot]

Media Focus: Spy x Family (Manga)

I read Spy x Family up until chapter 61 in three days. I wanted to catch up with the manga before the anime officially premiered, and I was pleasantly surprised by the story! It wasn't a task to read. There are many great comedic moments and it made me curious to see how the story would eventually end.

Here is the official summary from Viz:

Not one to depend on others, Twilight has his work cut out for him procuring both a wife and a child for his mission to infiltrate an elite private school. What he doesn’t know is that the wife he’s chosen is an assassin and the child he’s adopted is a telepath!

Note: This post will be talking generally about spoilers of events happening in the manga, up until the later chapters. I would recommend skipping this post if you want to consume this manga / anime without any type of awareness of what's going on.

I hold a personal belief that the way humans interact with each other creates a butterfly effect to change a politically charged scenario at a grand scale (e.g. war). Lots of small changes need to happen in order to cause a change of grand proportions. I like that this story's main goal resonates with this belief, so much to the point that even the person who is supposed to catalyze this change is small. The fate of the mission rests in Anya Forger.

Of course, Anya is not solely responsible for making sure things align perfectly. Loid and Yor might be trained professionals, but their lack of education around parenting is clear in various scenes throughout the manga. They have their slip ups, but over time, both Loid and Yor become more adept at parenting.

There are a bunch of secrets between the Forger family, and it's hilarious to see them all try and hide their true selves from each other. Even the dog, Bond, is hiding something! Anya is probably the worst at keeping her secret, but that's expected since she's a child and has the least amount of experience with lying. It's comical that both Loid and Yor are so preoccupied with keeping up their own lies that Anya's exposures go unnoticed.

I really like the main characters, and their different motivations for staying in the family. I love Anya's mischievous yet careful demeanor. And have you seen Loid and Yor? Talk about an attractive pair. We start to see a potential romance bloom between Loid and Yor, and I will be happy either way if they do or don't fall in love with each other in the end.

Unfortunately, there is a glaring issue I have with the series, and it can be summed up in two words: Yuri Briar. That's it, really. I already had enough of that repulsive plot in other shows, and I don't need that here. There are people who genuinely don't see anything wrong with this relationship, but I am not one of them. I think this series would have been fine without his unwelcome obsession over Yor. I'd be fine seeing less of him.

As for what I would want to see in this manga, I'm interested in Yor's continued growth. As of the latest chapter, she's contemplating whether she should keep being an assassin or not. She seems to be motivated by her advancements as a parent and housekeeper. I can also see this in Loid too, but he still hasn't made that decision yet to leave behind his spy days for good. I am eager to find out what happens next.

Since the anime is releasing soon, I wanted to briefly express my praise for the voice actors chosen for Loid and Yor. I am excited to see the pages come to life! Action scenes are always better witnessed in anime to me because I don't have the spatial understanding to choreograph the action in my head.

This is also the first anime I'll watch where I read the manga first, so I am interested to see how my perspective will change.

#manga #media focus

[heartbreakgrill]

Best Friends; Matthew Gray Gubler

a/n: THE AMOUNT OF SERATONIN THIS GAVE ME WAS INSANE IM CRYING OMG

description: you’re a makeup artist and mgg is just...outgoing.

K BUT IMAGINE BROS

You’re just a regular ol’ makeup artist (and in this fantasy world, makeup artists are TRAINED TO DO MAKEUP ON POC BECAUSE THEY ALREADY SHOULD BE). It’s season 13 of Criminal Minds and this is your first time working on set because the show you’d been spending the majority of your career on just ended.

You had met the cast and crew at the start up party a few weeks ago, but this was the day. The pressure was on. (Not really, it’s just makeup lol). Anyway, so you’d already set up in the makeup trailer alongside the other artist. Today, scenes were going to be filmed just in the Bureau, so no gore. You doubled checked your list just before 5 am, ready to cross off each actor and actress you were assigned.

“You nervous?” You heard the other stylist, Henry, ask you.

You turned to him, setting down your clipboard. You leaned against the counter and crossed your arms over your sweatshirt clad shirt. You were dressed down because it was so early- a Disney sweatshirt, jeans, slip on Vans, and your glasses instead of your contacts.

“Yeah, a little bit,” you chuckled.

Henry grinned at you, “Don’t be, hun. They’re all really great people.”

“I know, it’s just- I just feel awkward at first, grabbing people’s faces. I know I’m trained for it, but it takes a bit to settle into with new people,” you explained yourself, wiping your sweaty palms off on your jeans.

Henry opened his mouth, but a series of knocks resounded off of the door. You both turned towards it before Henry said, “It’s time.”

You giggled at his dramatic spectacular, turning to wash your hands as Henry let in the first cast members. Aisha and Joe stepped into the trailer. They greeted you with open arms, wide smiles, goofy jokes and polite goodbyes. You felt giddy, high, almost, when they walked out the door.

“So?” Henry asked as you both began to disinfect your areas.

“I feel so much better,” you grinned, folding a towel in half.

The rest of the cast flew past, already making great companionship with you. Henry, too, continued to get to know you between eyeshadow brushes and hairspray. Finally, the last person knocked on the door. It was nearing 6:30 AM, and you were somewhat tired. You yawned into your palm, sighing gently as Matthew Gray Gubler walked in.

“Hello, lady and germ!” He bounded to his chair, the biggest grin on his expression, a coffee cup in hand, and the other shoved into his character pants.

You jumped somewhat in surprised and he laughed at you. “You’re new.”

“Yeah, hi, we met at the party, Y/N,” you reached out your non-yawn hand and shook the one he pulled from his pocket.

“Ah, yes, I remember well. You were wearing very pretty eyeshadow. Green, right? It reminded me of Elpheba, but it definitely brought out the flecks in your eyes,” he rambled on, unashamedly and confidently.

Additionally, he barely made eye contact, it was more here and there as he busied himself with sitting down and crossing his legs. When he was settled, he met your eyes firmly and looked you up and down.

“Except now your wearing glasses.”

Henry laughed at your deadpan expression. Matthew chuckled lightly, too. Henry spoke, “She’s new, remember? Very talkative, but new. And tired, I guess.”

You nodded slightly, “Yes to both. Overwhelmed a little. I like the effort, but I’m not used to your energy. Give me ten minutes, and I promise I’ll get distracted from doing your makeup because I’ll be exchanging sarcastic remarks.”

“Only my character is a profiler, but I can see it,” Matthew spoke and took a sip of his coffee. He then reached to set it down on the makeup counter before hesitating. “Do you have a coaster?”

“Wait, yes, I do! I made sure to bring some just in case. At my old job, we constantly had people leaving rings of coffee on the counter.” You rushed over to your tote bag, which was set on the couch. You rummaged through it as Henry spoke to Matthew, messing about with his hair.

You found the coasters your sister had hand-painted, which ranged from pumpkin to dinosaur designs. You held them out in front of Matthew, who pulled his head from Henry’s hands to look at them.

“Oh, my Gosh! Pumpkins! Defintiley pumpkins!” He pointed excitedly at the coaster in your right hand.

You giggled and set the coaster onto the counter. Matthew thanked you as you politely took his cup and placed it on top of the design.

“I take it you’re a fan of Halloween?” You spoke as you set the others down beside your makeup supplies.

You sat down in the seat beside Matthews, awaiting him as he got his hair done.

He hummed in response, “It’s my favorite holiday.”

“My birthday is two days prior,” you bragged lightly.

Matthew gasped, turning his head to you. “No way! Oh, we are so totally throwing the best Halloween slash birthday party bash this year, then.”

You flushed at his excitement. “You barely know me.” You laughed somewhat.

Matthew shrugged as Henry frustratedly pulled his head back forward. “Stop moving!”

“We’ll be best friends by then, I guarantee it,” he stated.

“Really? Well, shouldn’t best friends know each other’s favorite colors. Favorite foods, movies...”

“Purple, everything except for plain bread, Hocus Pocus...or-“

“No! No ‘ors.’ Final answers only,” you adjusted your glasses and leaned forward.

He looked at you from the corner of his eye and smiled like he had been played. “Hm. Okay. Hocus Pocus it is then.”

“Of course it’s a Halloween movie,” you giggled.

Matthew grinned at that. “Let’s year yours, then, bestie.”

“Okay...” you sighed, tapping your chin, “pink is my favorite color. I love sushie and every other food, but specifically Chinese food is my favorite. And...I can watch Edward Scissorhands like it’s nobody business.”

“Ugh! A classic! I love that film!” Matthew exclaimed.

You nodded enthusiastically, “Yes! I’ve loved it since i was literally a child. My mom says it’s creepy, but I disagree. It’s beautiful. The themes and symbolism are beautiful. Ugh, plus that ice sculpture scene? Unbeatable. Winona Ryder does such a wonderful job portraying innocence which turns into wicked obsession... and Johnny Depp is just gorgeous...”

You trailed off as you realized you were rambling and Matthew was staring at you with sparkling eyes, a slack jaw, and the lightest imprint of his dimples.

“Sorry,” you scratched your leg, practically falling in on yourself.

Matthew scrunched his nose as Henry sighed. “All done. Your turn, chica.”

You stood from your chair and brushed your hair behind your ears. Matthew took your spot, wriggling in it. “Thanks for making it so warm.”

You smiled as you washed your hands. “You welcome.”

Henry touched your shoulder to gain your attention. “I’m going to go get coffee. Want some?”

“Uh, tea, please. Green, with two sweet n low packets,” you listed off.

He nodded and turned to leave. “Thanks so much!” You shouted as he left.

Matthew watched you through the mirror as you began plucking through your materials. You got to work, feeling all flustered now that you were up in his business.

When your hands moved to his face, he hummed. You furrowed your brows and pulled back somewhat.

“Sorry. Your hands are pleasantly warm. I knew that they would be because you’re just very bubbly, but it was still surprisingly wonderful,” he folded his hands in his lap.

“I like the way you talk,” you blurred out. You pursed your lips and looked away from his eyes, continuing to work on his foundation.

“I like the way you blush at everything,” Matthew echoed.

You blushed again. “Sorry. I’m just-“

“Not very outgoing. I can tell.”

“I thought you weren’t a profiler?”

“I’m not. But I’m super duper outgoing, so I can tell when others aren’t. You’re bubbly, but it takes someone who shares your personality to get it out of you,” he rattled off as if he were an expert.

“You seem to know me very well now,” you laughed gently.

“Guess were best friends already, then.”

You leaned back, propping your hands on your hips. “I think we’re, like, soulmates.”

Matthew quirked a brow, “I guess so? But why do you think?”

“Look at your sweatshirt,” you tugged on your own.

His eyes flickered from yours to his. His eyes widened and his jaw went wide. “Oh, my gosh! No way! We have to document this moment on camera.”

“Really?” You giggled as he stood, towering over you.

“Yes! Henry, come quicker!”

The door had swung open when Matthew stood, and Henry ran up the steps. “What’s wrong?”

“You have to take our picture,” Matthew exclaimed, swinging his arm around your shoulders and holding you flush against his side.

Henry looked you up and down and finally noticed your sweatshirts. “Oh, my God, you’re, like, totally mean to be. Let me get my phone.”

After a photo session consisting of many different poses (silly faces, Matthew squishing your cheeks, tugging you onto his back, nearly falling over as he swung his leg into your arms) you finally got him sat back down in his chair.

“Let’s tackle these eye bags.”

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