#I JUST WANT TO SEE COA AGAIN. I WILL NEVER BE NORMAL ABOUT HIM | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

originalwinnercheesecake · 4 years ago

Text

Chain of Iron theories: Who is the Killer

Its coming up on a week since last made a COI theory post. I said that I was going to try to post all my theories on COI BEFORE it comes out next month, so this posed a problem. So mow I am going to give my input on one of the biggest Mystery’s for COI, Who is the Killer? So in COI Belial will have a new minion who will target the shadowhunters, manages to kill 5 of them (same number Tatiana needed for the ritual) and is difficult for them to apprehend because they are somehow able to disappear. CC has left some hints that the killer is actually another Shadowhunter that Belial has somehow managed taken Possession of, despite protection rituals that should have been placed on this individual at birth ( My theory on that is that since this book is called “Chain of Iron” we will learn that Belial controls all his pawns with “chains of iron”. All hidden on their persons and glamored to look like ordinary accessories.) Our synapse for the book says that James Herondale has been having strange nightmares and fears he may actually be the killer. In COI he will start to tie himself up to sleep at night. We all know its not James right? In mysteries like this you always throw out your first guess/ the obvious guess. I have seen a lot of posts theorizing on who the true identity could be. I have seen some theories do not make much sense to me and some that were really good.

One theory that seems off to me is the idea that the killer is actually multiple killers, more specifically a collection of the survivors of Belial’s illness. If you support this theory I get your reasoning:Belial was able to briefly posses these people before, and the illness may have left biological changes in them. But here’s where I am confused, the killer is implied to be a massive threat wielding enhanced dark magic. At the end of COA there are 30something cured shadowhunters released from Silent City. CC says that the killers body count will be 5. If Belial has 30something new pawns that he can posses, gift his terrible powers to, and send out to prey on shadowhunters, I feel like there should be a lot more than 5 victims. I know Beial is not yet at full strength from battling Cortana, but he should at least be stronger than that. I have also heard theories that it is one of the Blackthorns. This also does not make much sense to me, given that for one thing none of them have training, Tatiana and Grace already have established rolls in Belial’s plans, and while I know Jesse is a part of Belial’s plan I believe his part will be save for COT after he has been resurrected. IF Belial were using Jesse’s empty body to walk the earth, then wouldn’t he also need to stop anyone from trying to resurrect Jesse?

I have heard many theories on Elias Carstairs being the killer. Many of them just want to make Elias out to be CC’s newest and most horrible monster parent, and absolve Alastair of any responsibility or need to apologize for the cruelty he has shown to our mains. If this is your reasoning for believing Elias is the killer than let me stop you right there. CC has written multiple series and her skills have evolved beyond the need to rely on such easy black and white tricks. But I also saw some people posting about how Elias goes home so late and stopped writing to his family. Some are theorizing that the real Elias Carstairs was intercepted and killed on his way back home and that the being that arrives in COI is actually an eidolon demon pretending to be Elias. This theory is AMAZING. It makes a lot of scenes, would give Belial another spy in a key place, and could potentially explain why Cortana starts acting so weird. I love this theory I do. I am just putting it t the side right now because I need the real Elias alive for other Carstairs family theories, and again have been working with the theory that the killer is a real shadowhunter whom Belial is controlling with another “chain of iron”. My theories are below.

1.) Lucie Herondale is the Killer

I am working with he theory that all Belial’s pawns have “chains of Iron” on them, which means all three blackthorns have them. In old art CC released of Grace she is seen wearing a pearl necklace that I was convinced had to be her’s. Tatiana’s (who probably consented to wearing hers) could be anything, maybe that stupid, creepy bird, she wears in her hat. Jesse... is mentioned several times to wear a locket.... that we know is connected to Belial.... and was weakened when he took it off to give to Lucie... who is wearing it now. Do you people see where I am going with this? It can also be noted that one of the parts of Lucie’s arc is that she is frequently overlooked in favor of James and how that is a mistake on peoples parts. Everybody knows that James has powers, he has had 4-5 years of people helping him figure out what they are and how to control them. Nobody but ghosts know that Lucie has powers, she has no training, and is only starting to understand what they mean. James is vulnerable but so is Lucie. I do not want her to be the killer. Lucie is such a fun character, and I was so happy to finally have a female Herondale play a role that was close in size to her male relative’s. I truly feel that Lucie deserves better than to be just a tragic character in the story. I want her to be that plus a hero, but I cannot deny that she is a possibility.

2.) Charles Fairchild is the Killer

I have seen Charles name appear on multiple lists of theory’s on the killer’s identity. People never really give reasons as to why they believe he is the killer. They are just mad at him for choosing to put his career higher on his list of priorities than his relationship with Alastair, or him being the killer would hurt less because he is not written to be a fan favorite. If you are someone who wants the killer to be Charles, but are unsure how likely it is your in luck. Because I can give you a whole list of reasons it is likely

Charles is already acting strange. We know he made some kinda screw up in Paris and had to come home. Apparently Charlotte is sending Tessa and Will to Paris to Start the fix up and Charles will go back afterwards. Well based on what we have gotten on Charles making a mistake like that is unlike him. Casting Long Shadow’s reveals that Charles has been working as a politician since he was 13 and is normally known for being very dependable and reliable. That’s part of the reason he is considered such a shoe-in for Counselor once his mother retires.??? I have theories on Charles mental state (which I will address in a later theory post that will be centered around the Fairchild’s) and do consider the possibility that he was sett off by fear over the outbreak or grief over losing Alastair... But this sudden change could be from other things as well

As of COG2 Charles is engaged to Grace Blackthorn, who controls him like a puppet. Grace herself is the puppet of Tatiana Blackthorn, who is the puppet of Belial. So Charles is now part of a very dangerous carnival. Charles decade of study and knowledge of clave politics at the top could be very useful to Belial in taking them down. Also previous short stories say that Charles spends most of his time in Idris for work and when in London usually stays at home going through law books and records. So I could easily believe he does not completely know his way around London and (like the killer is hinted to) would need to use a map to get around.

Now on to my biggest reason for theorizing Charles for the killer. Charles and Matthew’s relationship with each other. Charles and Matthew do not get along, like at all. They did once, but that was a real long time ago. A lot of the reasons they don’t get along is dumb sibling stuff: Charles calling Matthew an immature child, kicking him and his friends out of rooms in their house, and lording his increased age over Matthew. Matthew making more noise to annoy Charles, telling everyone Charles embarrassing middle name, and regularly sneaking into Charles room to steal his cologne instead of just buying his own. We are not hear to discuss any of that. All of that has me laughing because it is peak sibling rivalry. Rivalry aside Charles and Matthew model the old dynasty trope for Ssons with Charles being “the Heir” and Matthew being “the Spare”. The Heir’s life is decided for them as soon as they are born, they will succeed their parent and continue their legacy. The Spare is just that, a back up plan kept around should the heir die, become disabled, never marry, or turn out to be infertile (happens way more than people like to think about). Charles struggles with the weight of his parents expectations. Matthew is more or less the Black sheep of his family, living his life day by day with no grand plan. Because of this he is cut off from them in a way, and goes through a lot of loneliness and isolation in his own house. Neither brother see’s the others hard time; the other has what they themselves want: Charles has attention, Matthew freedom, so they wrongly assume the other must be doing fine. This is a lot like Matthew and James relationship in Dust and Shadows. Matthew and James talked things over with each other and were good after. Matthew and Charles stay apart and ignore each other when they cannot. They will not just talk and be good after. So maybe if put on different sides they will fight out their issues with each other? On the subject of Matthew having to fight Charles, lets say hypothetically Charles is the killer and is possessed. We know from previous books that clave protocol is to place a kill order on possessed members. If that becomes the case do you think Matthew would be able to follow through with those orders? Be able to hunt, fight, and kill his older brother? No. No matter how rough their relationship I doubt Matthew would ever be able to do that. It would be to much for him, to similar to his “sin”. He would want to catch Charles, then try to find a way to free him from possession. Maybe if Mathew could successfully accomplish this then maybe he could forgive himself for his “sin”. If Matthew tries to save him and fails than at least this time other people would know and could potentially get him some help.

3.) Filomena DI Angelo is the Killer.

Ahh our upcoming new arrival from Italy. Why are you coming to London girl? Haven’t you heard about all the crazy things that happens there last fall? What possible role could you play in the story that couldn’t be filled by one of our many already existing characters from COG2? (Do you even know your way around?) How suspicious that Filomena should show up around the same time as this killer? Wouldn’t it be great for the story if the killer came from a different country? Wouldn’t that do wonders for showing how powerful a threat Belial is? His dark influence stretching across country lines, maybe even across oceans! We have already been told that TLH characters will need to travel to other countries. How the villain is less one person and more a force. Filomena could start that. She could provide reason to search countries besides London for Belial’s influence. Proof of it being so wide spread would definitely make Belial feel more like a force. Oh but wait, cheesecake wait. Filomena cannot be the killer! That would make her evil, and CC said she was a nice girl! Oh I am sure Filomena is a nice girl, but people tend to change when under demon control. But she is a girl and the killer is hinted to be a male shadow hunter! Are we sure the killer isn’t presented as male because Belial is presented as male? Is it impossible that while on the hunt as the killer Filomena DI Angelo dress in men’s cloths in order to more safely move through the streets? I feel like we have saw that trick once before in TID.

All we really know about Filomena is that she came to London, will interact with some of our established characters, and she will get a crush on someone we know, thus presenting herself as a possible love interest. Matthew was my first guess, hey he was every bodies first guess. CC shut that down, Filomena is not being brought in to fix the love triangle between James, Cordeila, and Matthew. Matthew is one of the only ones to not have at a least semi-confirmed endgame ship. So this means that Filomena will probably not be endgame with her crush. Why? My next guess was her crush was on Anna. Ariadne is shown to be relentless in her attempts to “win Anna back” and Anna is not having it. Tweets time and time again depict her basically telling Ariadne “Its not going to happen. Give up and leave me alone”, but falling on deaf ears. So maybe Anna will try to get a new girlfriends and keep her around until she is ready to forgive/ go back to Ariadne. Well Anna is more a secondary character, a loving big sister figure to our mains. She gets less page time because of this. We already know she will spend time with Cordelia, Lucie, Ariadne, Eugenia, Thomas... not much page time left for Filomena. After further analyses I have theorized that Filomena must have a crush on Thomas.

A quick google search on the name Filomena shows that it is an Italian name that means “loving friend” “strong friend” and “lover of music” all these sound kinda like Thomas. (Filomena is also the name of a character in the 14th century Italian collection of short stories called the Decameron, who liked to make stories up about plagues... or so some digging around google told me ). This could fit quite nicely into Thomas’s story. First of all to everybody who has been calling Thomas “gay” please wait a moment to be sure. Thomas does not yet publicly or self identify as gay. He clearly has an attraction to one man, but CC says that he has not yet realized his sexuality and will spend TLH figuring out. He might be gay, but he could just as easily turn out to be bi or pan. For the sake of this theory lets assume Thomas is Bi. Thomstair is definitely endgame. We know Alastair is gay, and CC usually likes to pair gay characters up with bi characters in queer ships, see Malec and Heline. Should Thomas be bi, should he start to become close and develop feelings for Filomena, it will have to go wrong. More wrong than he considers his feelings for Alastair at the end of COG2 (Filomena do not hurt this boy, he has been through enough). We got a tweet that suggests Thomas is interested in the killer, and a hint that he is planing something big. We got a kinda frightening picture that suggests the Killer may be very interested in Thomas.

If Lucie is the killer she will somehow be freed from Belial’s control,. I can 100% guarantee it, Charles I feel will have a 50/50 chance, Filomena will die from it. It would be a herculean task to free her, and she is not important enough to the mains for them to actively try and do anything more than give her a merciful death. Should she and Thomas become close than it will break his heart. But if Alastair is there for him afterwards, able to emphasizes and offer him comfort that will go along way to redeeming Alastair to Thomas. The whole experience could be love is hard, both men and women have the ability to hurt you. but the right person will make it up to you and it is good to forgive them when they do. I personally think that would be a pretty cool direction for Thomas’s arc to take.

40 notes · View notes

aestheticaxolotl · 4 years ago

Text

Lets Talk About Mimebomb

I used two images here because both are priceless and I didn’t know which I wanted to use more. Let me start with Mimebomb, using the Carmen Sandiego Wiki to break them (mimebomb is non binary fight me) down as a whole, starting with appearance and personality (Excluding the comments around his action in the show, please bear with me once more as I do this).

Mime Bomb is a thin, red-haired young man (*Cough*) who looks like a stereotypical mime. He (*They*) wears a grey and black striped shirt, black beret, white gloves, black spandex and black shoes. His (*Their*) makeup consists of white face paint, black face paint around the eyes and on the brows, and a light red shade of lipstick.

So I wanna talk about Mimebomb without their makeup first. We see that they are not meant to be an attractive character, and I appreciate that Carmen Sandiego created characters like that. But I digress, red headed males are stereotypically either super hot or super not. And they really tried to go with super not. But failed because I love them anyway and so does most of the fandom. Now, the mime get up is a very strange choice to me, seeing as people are more scared of clowns than global warming, and mimes are very similar to clown, but I don’t think it’s a fear tactic. But more of a ‘hey even Mimes can be cool yall’.

For personality we do not have a lot to go on as some of the other but we still have SOMETHING, I was forced to reference the books for this so please, if you have no read “Clue by Clue”, check it out.

Mime Bomb has been described as quiet by El Topo and weird by Tigress. Mime Bomb is seen as an opportunist, immediately tattling to V.I.L.E Faculty when witnessing Carmen stowing away on the graduate mission during her holdover year, and secretly hiding a rare stamp in Detective Chase Devineaux's coat when he was on to him. In the Clue by Clue novel, Mime Bomb is said to be skilled in symbiology and cryptanalysis according to Professor Maelstrom. He is also prone to avoiding fights or physical contact when possible. When fighting Sheena in the Who in the World is Carmen Sandiego novel, she easily beats him while he is distracted. When offered a helping hand to his feet by Black Sheep, he declines with a shrug and silent nod. In Clue by Clue, when Le Chèvre and Tigress are fighting Carmen, he stands off in the sidelines and shadowboxes rather than assisting.

Now, let us begin on what I have brought to the table.

Mime Bomb is seen as an opportunist

I have to begin by defining the term ‘Opportunistic’ using the Webster's Dictionary, Opportunistic meaning “exploiting chances offered by immediate circumstances without reference to a general plan or moral principle”. And dumbing it down for myself “They take what is best for theirself rather than the people around them.” Right, so. Mimebomb being opportunistic is CANON and shown MANY times. I will draw your attention to every time Mimebomb has turned Carmen or who ever into the Faculty for not following the rules. I would have loved to stated that this is a ‘teacher pet’ thing but I was surprised when I realized it wasn’t. The Faculty really doesn’t like Mimebomb and are very sarcastic towards them, constantly underestimating them and using them as the butt of the joke! And yet we see them completing missions successfully and with finesse, other messing up the mission they set up so carefully and thoughtfully.

Mime Bomb is said to be skilled in symbology and cryptanalysis

Cryptanalysis is the art or process of deciphering coded messages without being told the key. While Symbology is the study or use of symbols. This is very telling. Mimebomb studying codes and symbols can allude to selective mutism or even mutism. Personally, I prefer the former, Selective mutism is a childhood disorder in which a child does not speak in some social situations although he or she is able to talk normally at other times. And this can form in adults too. But the implications that they let if form how they preformed in school/college? Amazing, they made a choice and stuck to it for SUCH a LONG time. That commitment is amazing. This is also useful to more historical based mission or where it may lead into hieroglyph or other symbols. I’m willing to wager that these talents are why DOCTOR BELLUM brought Mimebomb on the hunt for an artifact. Because they would know some of the writing and symbols.

He is also prone to avoiding fights or physical contact when possible

Mimebomb being physically weak is not an accidental detail. Far from it! I think addressing that a male character who is more brains than brawn is a detail that needs to be pushed, and as off as Mimebomb is, they are the perfect example of this. They are not masculine and are easily taken down by Young Blacksheep, Chase, and other characters. Mind you it’s halariauous but PLEASE- You are KILLING their JOINTS. I have a feeling the avoiding physical contact is a very... Self protecting action that I feel would have to be more touched on in a headcanon post rather than an analysis post. The best I can come up with is the speculation that Mimebomb refuses to let people become close to them.

When offered a helping hand to his feet by Black Sheep, he declines with a shrug and silent nod

This, this the most telling thing EVER. Mimebomb refuses a helping hand. They do not work well with others and when they are offered help, the refuse it. They have a self serving bias. A self-serving bias is any cognitive or perceptual process that is distorted by the need to maintain and enhance self-esteem, or the tendency to perceive oneself in an overly favorable manner. It is the belief that individuals tend to ascribe success to their own abilities and efforts, but ascribe failure to external factors. When individuals reject the validity of negative feedback, focus on their strengths and achievements but overlook their faults and failures, or take more credit for their group's work than they give to other members, they are protecting their ego from threat and injury. Mimebomb protects themself at all cost, and that makes me wonder, why? Because they know that they can’t accept others help or their comforts. And they are fine with it. They are okay with being alone.

he stands off in the sidelines and shadowboxes rather than assisting.

I feel like this was originally supposed to be a one off joke rather than an actual trait or habit. But... If you know me by now, I can twist this on it’s head so fast, it’s not even funny. But I can’t here, I can’t except maybe they do this to encourage others? I think when they do work in a team, they do try their best to support who they are working with unless its an annoying slime ball like Neal the Eel (Not hating on Slimebomb, I just noticed they work better as comical enemies rather than a relationship, and i love that)

Now, there was no abilities category in the wiki, and I found this interesting, so i drew from the Trivia section of the page and found out... A lot really, that is interesting. But only one of them made and impression on me and it’s the one I want to focus on for a paragraph or two.

Mime Bomb is actually classified by A.C.M.E. as insane; given he is locked up with Maelstrom in a loony bin. considering he NEVER speaks (by choice), makes sense.

I’m going to take a second to define the term “Insane” using “Wikipedia” rather than a dictionary. “ Insanity, madness, and craziness are terms that describe a spectrum of individual and group behaviors that are characterized by certain abnormal mental or behavioral patterns.” Hmm....What abnormal pattern are we looking at here. Selective Mutism. The mime outfit doesn’t help. I’ll make note that the official wiki says it’s choice that Mimebomb doesn’t speak, but doesn’t give us a reason why, speculation and theories are in store here and I will reference my V.I.L.E Operative headcanons.

In the end, Mimebomb was and still is one of my favorite characters in the whole freaking show. I enjoyed ever second of them on screen, every caper and ever wacky highjinx. I’d watch the whole show again just to see them being the awesome character they are. As usual, requests are open and please! I love when requests come in! Stay tuned for the next one y’all!!

27 notes · View notes

the-darklings · 5 years ago

Text

—𝒃𝒖𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅;

pairing: john wick x f!reader x santino d’antonio

word count: 13.7k+

summary: There’s only so much you can push a person before something cracks and breaks permanently.

warnings: swearing, angst, strong violence (the usual lol)

notes: ahhhh it’s good to be back! I’ve missed you guys SO MUCH!! And I hope you all missed COA too. As always, thank you for your incredible support. ENJOY!!!

children of ares series: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | . . | 10 |

You move down the staircase quickly, your feet nimble against the concrete as you approach the large, blinding white car.

Across from you, Ares greets you with a subdued grin and hands clasped in front of her. She can no doubt read your expression, read the way your jaw and fingers keep flexing and your eyes shimmer with emotion. Beside Ares, Roberto shifts, clearly wary of how this will go, but moves to open the car door for you.

No other car you recognise is around, and if it had been anyone other than Winston himself telling you about Santino surrounding the place, you won’t have believed them.

It’s peaceful.

Or at least as peaceful as New York City can be at rush hour.

Why would you let him do this? you sign and know that your movements are sharp with anger.

Ares frowns slightly, nonplussed by your display of irritation and gives you a pointed look.

Did you really think we would just stand by and watch?

You have nothing to say in reply to that. Because if the situation had been reversed and it had been Santino, or even Ares herself, you wouldn’t have let it go either. You would have fought for them. But the mere thought of how close it all came to ending very badly cramps your stomach with an anxious, crippling sort of fear.

You don’t want to lose anyone else.

Sharing a long look, you both stand in silence for a moment before you incline your head and slide inside the large vehicle.

Green eyes watch you from behind his folded fingers that rest in front of his face. He looks solemn in a way you rarely see from him. He’s always been on the showy side. Santino likes making spectacles of his power. You imagine it appeals to his egoistical nature—his natural thirst for more, always more.

The world and everything in it is not enough.

In the seconds that take for Roberto to close the door, neither of you speak, silently observing the other with a grave sort of seriousness.

The door slams shut and the stillness between you stretches.

“Of all the stupid things to do, Santino,” you begin eventually, emotionless, direct. “What were you thinking?”

He doesn’t answer you. It takes another prolonged moment to realise what exactly he is doing. He’s drinking in the sight of you. Perhaps because he—even more so than you—realises how much of a close call this has been. Certainly the closest since Chicago.

“Why would you do this?” you demand after another lull of quiet between you, desperate for some sort of clarification.

His silence is starting to make you uncomfortable. Because it drags on and on and on. Because he is here and—

“I gave you my word, (Name). I swore to you,” he says, at last, finally lowering his hands into his lap. He shifts in his seat and the intensity of his regard makes you uneasy. Danger crowds all around you because deep down you know that right now Santino may say something that will crumble that wall between you. “Do you know how many times I have done so, and not gotten rid of the other party immediately after?”

You swallow and shake your head.

“Once,” he reveals to you, his features drawn and voice flat. “Only you. Does that adequately answer your question, carissima?”

“And if it had ended in blood?”

Something flickers across his expression; something cold and vicious and cruel. “Then so be it,” he intones softly; a cutting caress, a purr of his accent that sinks into you. “I would have torn that building apart brick by brick to get to you.”

“Stop.”

His expression creases with confusion.

“Stop,” you repeat, tighter, pained. “You don’t—I know you, Santino. All you care about is power. You will always choose Camorra first, despite what you might think. We both know that.”

His features harden at that, his eyes narrowing. There is nothing he can say because you’re right. It doesn’t make you angry or sad anymore. You have gone through this before. And you know he cares—that there is that small shred of him that’s still capable of good, and he shows it to you.

But John cared too, and he still left.

“It’s okay. They’re your family,” you soothe with a small, forlorn smile. “You’re the blood of Camorra. What was it that you said to me once? Blood for blood? Those are your family’s words. I’m grateful for what you did, I am. More than you know but don’t ever do that again. You don’t risk your position for me.”

He sits up abruptly, his composure cracking around the edges and you instinctively tense before relaxing. His eyes rage as he stares at you, his elbows resting on his thighs and the charged silence between you hangs. His head dips slightly and his lips twist into a slight, biting smile.

“I gave you the word of old Camorra,” he reminds softly, and leans so close you smell him—can feel the heat of him in your space. “I don’t think you quite grasp the severity of such a promise, cara. In the eyes of the High Table, I made an unbreakable vow to protect you. They could never—”

“You would have broken one of their two sacred rules to protect me,” you argue immediately, and that pang of worry you felt earlier sharpens your words. “The table would have outvoted Camorra and consequences of that—”

“I don’t care about the consequences.”

You gaze at him silently. The stubborn tilt of his chin, at that unyielding, wilful look in his eyes, the inherent pride with which he holds himself. Santino usually doesn’t care for consequences, you know that, but this is not like other times.

“Don’t you?” you whisper gently, sadly, and unleash a question that’s been plaguing you for years, knowing full well the damage it will do. “So if it came down to a choice between myself and Camorra?”

He jerks back, his previously parted lips pressing shut tightly at your question. With a flicker, the enraged worry fades and something distant takes its place. You see it happen, watch how he puts up his own wall up brick-by-brick. It empties his expression of that achingly familiar fondness and openness he shows seemingly only to you. The Camorra heir is the only thing left. A shell of a man you know. A shell that he shows others but not you, never you. Not anymore.

Chaos rages in his eyes but he doesn’t speak a word, clearly caught off guard by your purposeful backing into a corner.

There is no correct way to answer this. He cares for you. But he loves Camorra—it’s everything to him. His past, present, and future too. Regardless of how he might feel about his ties and position in it. If he means his words about protecting you, then he would have to sacrifice everything.

So maybe he cares, and maybe he wants to protect you, but you are not worth everything.

At least this time, you are not blindsided by the care of another to see that truth.

“That’s what I thought,” you note quietly and he swallows, unblinking. You try for a smile and reach out, lightly placing your fingers on his still hand, squeezing once. “It’s okay, grumpy. I would never ask you to make that choice anyway.”

You release your hold on him and move to open the door but he intercepts you, his burning fingers latching onto your wrist. Your eyes meet and his stare is frenzied as he peers at you, clearly looking for something to say.

“You. I—”

You can count on one hand the number of times you have seen Santino of all people struggling for words. But they seem to have escaped him, and you wait another moment before freeing your wrist from his hold, giving him a terse smile.

“Please, don’t lie to me,” you request seriously, and open the car door. “Not you.”

He doesn’t try to stop you again.

Unlike the last time you were here, there’s no rain. This time, the sun shines high and bright, its rays warming the skin of your cheek as you stare blankly ahead.

The ceremony is modest but Marcus has never had many friends. Such is the life of an assassin for hire. You are loyal to no one but yourself. Some have friends, others even create families but that rarely ends well unless you have the power to keep them hidden and safe. And even then, accidents happen and misfortune befalls people at most unexpected times and you know that well.

The casket sits surrounded by a sea of flowers, beautiful and lustrous, and your eyes move away, making you shift in your black dress uncomfortably. You never did sort out your problems before he—

The sun shining directly in your eyes makes your head hurt even more, and you blink the blinding rays away. The last three days have been dedicated to your work. To crushing ingredients and extracting necessary compounds for your solutions and poisons. It’s been long hours of boiling, drying and distilling different ingredients. Poison making takes time and precision. Your stock has been running dangerously low due to your busy schedule over these last few months, and this has been as good a time as any. An escape. Besides, you didn’t want to appear suspicious. It’s a known fact that you often disappear for close to a week, completely submerging yourself in work. If the High Table is watching, they will see you simply carrying on with your normal routine.

You’ve also left a message with Charon before disappearing. No one but Winston or the High Table itself is to disturb you.

Not like it has stopped Santino from trying. You haven’t answered any of his calls or texts. Or John’s for that matter. You have left them both with a simple ‘Busy working. Will speak to you soon.’ before going silent. Truthfully, you weren’t in the headspace to deal with either of them, and the many, many complications that come with them.

The last few days have been too destructive on you. Your relapse has struck hard, and you’ve been avoiding sleep unless absolutely necessary which, while hardly a solution, at least allows you time to work. To focus on something other than the abyss inside you, dark and foul. It’s easier to work yourself to the bone till you pass out from exhaustion and only vaguely recall hazy, fervent dreams than to experience them for yourself. Easier to pretend that you are happy and free and fixed now that Tarasov is dead.

Footsteps draw closer towards you from behind, and your fingers snake around a concealed blade in your jacket sleeve.

Your eyes flicker briefly to the side and you pause, the knot between your shoulder blades loosening.

“John. I didn’t expect you to show up,” you greet, a touch wary when he comes to stand beside you clad in one of his customary black suits. “I figured you leaving the Continental meant that you’ve gone back.”

Back to his old life. Gone, possibly, for good.

Sunlight bathes him in a warm glow, giving him an appearance of an ordinary man dragged out from his life in the shadows and into the light. The curve of his shoulders is heavy though as is the subdued glimmer of pain in his eyes as he peers at the casket in front of him. The priest keeps reciting verses and for a second you think he’s not going to answer you at all. That perhaps he didn’t hear you over the loudness of his own mind.

“Marcus was my oldest friend,” he finally says after a period of stillness between you. “It’s the least I can do.”

Indeed he was.

And now he’s gone.

All because of Tarasov. All because you assumed your gamble will pay off without any problems and that Tarasov’s fury will be directed only at you.

“He never should have—it’s not fair,” you breathe thickly, pained, and your tiredness only makes the stinging pain more intense. “In some twisted way it still...it still feels like Tarasov won. He fucking won.”

Because Marcus is dead and you will never get a chance to make things right between you. Will never get a chance to apologise for all the hurtful words you have spoken to him. Or vice versa. It will stay like this forever. Unfinished. He will never know that you’re sorry and that despite you not being the best of friends, he was still someone you respected. Admired, even. At least back in the early days. Back when his and John’s abilities have seemed inhuman to you.

“He didn’t,” John’s quiet voice interrupts your troubled thoughts and you glance at him. But the man is not looking at you. His sad, dark eyes linger on the coffin. “Viggo might have taken lives, our friends, but we’re still here. We have to honour that. Not let it be in vain.”

You can’t help but scoff. Have all those years on the outside really made him this soft? Naive? Both.

“In vain...all deaths are in vain,” you remind him, your words overflowing with resentment. “Tarasov is dead too, and that should make me happy but it doesn’t.”

Because now there’s just nothing. Tarasov, for his many evil deeds and misgivings, has been like an anchor to you for years. He has been a purpose and a drive. A need to become better, deadlier, more feared. If John had been Tarasov’s boogeyman, then you would be the most vicious beast on his chain. So much so that he would go to bed every night with a fear that one day that monster might turn around and bite him instead. You’ve achieved that. The unease, the fear, his death.

Now what?

He’s robbed you of so many years. Has caused so much pain and misery. It feels like killing him thousand times over still won’t be enough. It won’t bring back your parents, won’t erase Tokyo, won’t magically fix what was broken. You thought that it might. Figured that his death would be the key to finally knowing peace.

The last few days have proven that you couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Now, Tarasov is just another ghost haunting you at every corner.

Now, you feel adrift, purposeless.

Beside you, John shifts and you feel his focus on you.

“I know. Me neither.”

His words are a mere whisper; nothing more than a frayed murmur of still too fresh, strangled grief that’s only made worse by the fact that he’s had to bury his wife, puppy, and oldest friend all in a span of few weeks. Your heart clenches when you look at him. His expression falters only for a second before he rearranges it back into that hard, unfeeling mask you’re used to seeing but that second of raw agony breaks your own composure.

“John, I—”

“I’m sorry—” he halts, his voice cracking with sorrow. He blinks up at you before his gaze goes to the ground. “I miss her. It’s still...”

Still painful, still fresh, still a crushing weight that won’t ease no matter what you do.

You know it takes a lot for him to admit that out loud. John has always been withdrawn, mostly living with his emotions in private. It comes from years of living in a cruel world that uses any sign of weakness against you. For a moment, in the shining sun, you don’t see John from now. You see the John you knew. The younger version who would look at you with that look in his eyes. A look you could never decipher but made you feel more cared for than you could ever put into words.

“Don’t apologise,” you force out, your own words coming out a bit strangled. You hesitate before reaching out and taking his hand in your own. You let the resentment, the pain, the bitterness fade for a moment. In that instance, it’s simply about empathy for another human being. Your old friend. It’s about recognising the pain he carries and clearly struggles with processing. You wanted to punish him. Or you thought you did. But now that you’re faced with it…it doesn’t taste as sweet as you had hoped. Seeing his pain just feels as hollow as Tarasov’s death did. “You love her and it never quite leaves you. Death of a loved one. You don’t have to be strong.”

When your parents were killed, it had punctured a wound inside you so deep that it wasn’t until you met him that you realised how lost you’ve been. How you hadn’t been living at all. Tarasov had chained you to his side, and you had considered your life to be over. John reminded you that there’s more.

Once upon a time, he saved you without even realising it.

You stand, hand-in-hand, for a long time before he speaks again. This time, his voice is more placid, his control regained once again.

“You don’t deserve this.”

You can’t quite help your ironic grin, as empty as it is.

“We don’t deserve a great many things,” you remind him, your words mild, melancholic. “They still happen though.”

His fingers twitch and turn to wrap around yours more securely. Together, you watch as the casket gets lowered into the ground bit by bit.

You both know what it means to bury those you love.

What it means to lose and lose.

“Maybe—” he starts before stopping himself and you feel yourself frown.

“Maybe?” you prompt.

John visibly hesitates and you turn to look at him in surprise. He doesn’t hesitate often, if ever. “Maybe you could stop by the house sometime?” he wonders, and his words are cautious, his lips parted and expression guarded as if he’s expecting the worst possible response. “For a cup of coffee or tea. The dog was looking for you too. I think he likes you.”

You feel yourself swallow heavily. This might be an instance of tranquillity between you but it doesn’t change anything. Your initial swell of rage at his return has subsided, and you’re indeed far too exhausted both physically and emotionally to muster up much of an angry response right now. But the pain still exists, no matter how deeply buried. You can’t just up wipe the slate clean. But maybe—

Maybe.

Your eyes go back to the hole in the ground. Your thoughts go to Marcus. Marcus who died. Marcus who you will never see again, never talk to again. You missed the chance to make it right with him. And just how close did you and John both come to losing your lives only days prior? Too close.

Maybe it would be easier to let this go. Let this resentment and anger between you fade.

You don’t know if you’re strong enough for it, don’t know if you can or even will.

But how will you know if you don’t at least try?

“I can’t promise you anything,” you murmur, feeling raw from the honesty of those words. You can’t promise him what he no doubt wants. Absolution. Closure. Some semblance of hope to hold onto. But all you can give him is a chance.

“I know,” he says quietly in return and your eyes meet. “I’m not asking for anything else. Just...company, if you are willing to offer it.”

You gaze at him thoughtfully, caught between refusal and acceptance.

Caught between letting go and being in the present, or clinging to the anger that has fuelled you—rightfully so—for years.

You think about it for a while.

“Okay,” you speak, at last, your voice thin. You give him a tiny nod before letting go of his hand. “Okay, yeah. I can do that.”

John doesn’t smile. He doesn’t show much of an outward reaction. But his eyes lighten, something like relief reflecting back at you. You imagine it means more to him than he lets on even if he doesn’t show it, and that’s fine. You don’t exactly expect him to dance around you in circles from happiness.

Your eyes sweep over the graveyard as the people around start to scatter. “And your car?”

He hesitates again. “I have a lead. Soon,” he reassures. “I don’t want more bloodshed. Just my car and then...”

Your eyebrows arch. John looks exhausted, and you suspect it’s not his healing wounds that are the cause of that exhaustion.

“And then?”

“And then, peace.”

Birds chirp overhead as you stare at him in disbelief.

“Peace?” you echo, your scepticism clear. “You’re going to broker for peace with Abram?”

John dips his head in a nod but doesn’t look surprised by your reaction. Perhaps he knows how it sounds. After the slaughter he has unleashed, it seems tragically funny that John wants peace now. But perhaps you are alike in that sense. The blood-thirst that had originally clouded your judgement has passed, losing its previous intensity. Now, only bone-deep weariness is left.

“Yeah. There’s been enough death in the last few days,” he notes, only confirming your thoughts. “I’ve had enough of it.”

Enough.

You’ve seen so much death that by now you consider it a constant companion. But how much has John lost? He needs time to grieve. Properly. Iosef took that from him and he paid the ultimate price for that. His life.

“And if he declares war on you?” you wonder carefully, knowing that in your world, that’s the more likely scenario. “You killed his only brother and nephew.”

Winston told you bits and pieces of what happened when the news came to the High Table. The Russians, predictably, were making noise. Calling for a hunt. Retribution. The only thing stopping them was the knowledge of who had committed this massacre.

John Wick is known better to the Russians than anyone else. Healthy fear and a show of strength from John’s part are the only things keeping them back. They know better than to make an enemy of the boogeyman.

But the High Table is…wary. Winston didn’t have to say it explicitly for you to read into his deeper implication. John’s return has been an unexpected turn of events. It feels like someone has taken a large rock and thrown it into a too still pond. The ripples of what happened less than a week ago are being felt across the globe. It still concerns you that what may come back in reply will only cause more trouble.

But your conversation with John has eased your mind. He truly has no intention of coming back. He hit like a hurricane, leaving nothing but death and devastation in his wake, and will now retreat back to the other side he has made his home.

Hopefully, with time, everything will settle once again.

“If he is as smart as you said,” he says and there is something frigid about his low words. “He will take the offer of peace and live on another day.”

Or die. It goes unsaid but the implication is clear.

The last of the funeral party disperses, and the diggers get to work as you both watch in silence. The first shovel of dirt hits with a resounding, hollow sound and it pierces right through you. It grinds into your bones, crushing whatever little joy you might have felt about Tarasov and Perkins being dead.

It’s too high of a price to pay.

“He was a good man,” you remark, thoughtful and sad. Memories of his snarky, biting comments come flashing through your mind like a used film reel and you can’t help but snort. “A bastard. But a good man. Let’s not waste it.”

John is already looking at you when you glance his way and he nods his head in agreement. But before he can say anything else, his eyes snag onto something over your shoulder, and you see the previous ease of his expression drain and harden into something else. He switches from man to hunter in a blink of an eye.

The sudden change in the air between you makes you straighten subtly. You don’t have many weapons on you—you came to a funeral, not a battlefield, after all—but you also have your hands.

Battle instincts wash over you, and you push back your exhaustion, your current instability.

Inhaling deeply, you slowly incline your head, sneaking a look over your shoulder discreetly.

For the second time that day, your muscles relax.

Standing in front of a too familiar white Land Rover is Ares who is openly glaring at John. She catches your stare across the graveyard, and her glare drops as she nods her head in a greeting with a slight smirk. On the other side of the car, and facing away from you, stands Roberto. He seems to be scanning the nearby area and the retreating people with the usual scowl he thinks makes him look more ferocious.

It does. To everyone but people who know him. Those that do are perfectly aware that his personality is closer to that of a golden retriever than a wild wolf. A protective golden retriever but hardly a dangerous one unless provoked. He’s one of the very few you’ve never doubted when it comes to loyalty towards Santino. And you know—better than most—how hard it can be to work under the man. How demanding he can be. Perhaps that is why unlike most heirs, Santino doesn’t have an inner circle.

He doesn’t trust people enough to rely on their judgement and council. Nor does he need it, according to him.

“She’s a friend,” you reassure John whose expression, unlike your own, has not relaxed. “And I need to talk with her.”

Santino must have sent her to speak with you.

You have to hold back a sigh at that thought. Sending Ares as a bridge between you is a cheap move, but at least he knows better than to push and come in person.

The thought of Santino seeing John again almost makes you bristle.

You have no idea how a reunion between the two would go. But you doubt it would be anything good.

Ares is Santino’s tested and tried method because you never refuse her. Predictable but clever bastard.

Sighing, you turn towards your old partner and give him a quick, vacant smile. “I’ll see you around, Baba Yaga.”

He hesitates as if he wants to say something else but stops himself. He nods his head once, solemn as always, and you turn to go with one last look in his direction.

Cutting a straight line through the graveyard, you get to the car in a few minutes and your hands are forming signs before you even come to a stop.

Why are you here?

Ares only stares at you as if she’s questioning your intelligence.

He wishes to speak with you.

“I have to work, Ares,” you bite out, coming to a stop before her. “I just buried an old associate of mine. I have other priorities other than Santino as well.”

She sighs, clearly frustrated and even Roberto looks surprised but masks it quickly when you look his way. You’re glad that she only brought him and not the rest of her little pack.

At least talk with him. He does not like it when you are angry at him.

“Then maybe he should have thought of that before putting you, himself, and everyone else in danger because he felt like proving a goddamn point.”

Because that’s what it was.

The only thing it could have been.

Santino may have given you the word of old Camorra but he must have known that if it had come down to it—

It wouldn’t have made a difference. In fact, it likely would have made an already bad situation worse. It was a show of power, of his pride, and perhaps it was ultimately about protecting you but it doesn’t change the fact that him risking everything didn’t make sense.

It makes you feel cold to the very marrow of your damaged soul, thinking about it.

I will never abandon you.

But he almost did. Even if by some miracle both of you had lived, you likely would have been forbidden from ever seeing him again. And that’s the best-case scenario. It would have been as good as losing him forever.

They’ve become important to you. So important. The idea of not seeing him, or Ares, or even Roberto ever again chills you.

Ares seems to have arrived at a similar conclusion judging by her narrowed-eyed almost angry expression.

It terrifies you, she signs with a deep-set frown, the fact that he came through for you. Why?

“Because I swore to myself that I will never be the second choice again,” you choke out because you would like to think that she’s one of the few who can truly understand. Because she knows how badly you suffered. She knows Santino—is one of the few who considers him a genuine friend—and knows all about the depth of his ambition. “Because I—I’m not strong enough to...”

To love. To trust him wholeheartedly. Only to be dropped when it longer feels thrilling for him. When something better comes along. When someone offers him something he can’t refuse in exchange for you, your services, just you.

You’ve been picked apart and used over and over again.

Your life hasn’t felt like your own for so long now.

With Santino, you have always stood as an equal. That’s the one fact that no one seems to fully grasp. Because they don’t know about you and him and things you have gone through together. The blood you’ve shed and the bodies you’ve buried—the hard-won trust and reliance on one another that’s taken years to build. They’ve only heard stories about you, rarely exaggerated but often twisted to fit a different narrative.

If that balance were to ever change he would simply become another individual in a long line of people who’ve tried to abuse you.

You can’t have that.

“We both know what he is,” you tell her softly, and her expression falters, the heat in her gaze cooling a touch. “And I will not ask him to change on my behalf because I know he never will. Santino is Santino, and that’s fine. I like him just how he is.”

Even the selfishness, even the cunning, even the greed.

You’re hardly a saint yourself. In many ways, you’re worse.

Ares stands still for a prolonged stretch of quiet between you. The sun warms her, bathing her face in a soft light that in return softens her features, and you don’t quite understand her expression. She looks caught between understanding and exasperation. Her crisp suit makes no noise and neither does she but what she signs next slices through you like a hot knife, burying itself deep.

He is not like him.

You go still. In the body, in mind, in standing rooted to the ground.

From the corner of your eye, you think you see Roberto wince. He’s been learning ASL for almost two years now so you don’t doubt that he understood exactly what was just conveyed to you.

Ares, as always, holds your gaze, unashamed. She’s too direct to not mean her words or feel sorry for expressing her thoughts on the matter.

Your own expression must be caught between empty and furious.

To compare John and Santino is—

Pressing your mouth into a rigid line, you look away from her, an angry pulse pounding your head with a strength that almost makes you dizzy.

“I will see Santino when I want to see him,” you inform her stiffly. “Not whenever he feels bored and needs entertainment.”

With that said, you turn away from her but Roberto stops you this time, raising his hands in a pacifying motion. “He’s just worried, V,” the man phrases carefully, his brows furrowed. “We all are—”

Your eyes cut to him sharply and he retreats at the look on your face.

Your shoes crunch against the gravel but you don’t look back at either of them as you walk away.

If there is one thing you truly do despise about New York City it’s the traffic.

Most days it’s horrendous, and today it seems to be even more awful than usual.

Your cheek has gone partially numb from leaning against your palm for almost twenty minutes. You stare outside the taxi window, counting your breaths inside your head. The taxi driver—a man in his 50ties with silver hair and a short, stocky build—seems to instinctively pick up on the fact that you’re not in the mood to talk. Or maybe he’s just an asshole. One way or another, you’re grateful for the quiet even if it leaves you to navigate the scary landscape that is your mind.

Your previous minor headache has now transformed into a full-blown pounding monstrosity and your eyes water from exhaustion. You haven’t slept in…too long. Maybe two days. You fully expect yourself to collapse on the hotel bed the moment you get back to the Continental. There are only two blocks left till you get there but you’ve been stuck in this traffic for ten minutes now, unmoving.

He is not him.

The memory comes unbidden and makes your fingers curl into fists.

Of course, they’re not.

They’re so different it’s staggering.

But it’s easier to turn away, to run away from any possibility of happiness because it may lead to pain again. The darkness of your past still clings to you. So many wrong moves, so much shame and failure.

You still feel a phantom of that helplessness when Tarasov told you your parents were dead. Weak. Always too weak and too helpless. A little girl playing at being strong. Something has been taken from deep inside you and that gap, that hole, still makes you feel stuck in that suffocating flat. Kishi’s blood still coats your tongue when you wake up from your nightmares. Sometimes—too often—it feels like no time has passed at all, and you’re simply stuck in that loop of despair.

Helpless. Always helpless. Unable to feel, to move on like other people would be able to.

Santino is not John, and John is not Santino.

But you’ve given one of them power over you once. Trusted and believed.

Where exactly did that lead to?

The taxi crawls towards the intersection and you jolt from your deep thought, wincing at the stab of pain that drums through your head.

You would prefer not to throw up in the taxi.

A sound of screeching tires rips through the air and your head jerks to the side—

The impact slams the taxi to one side, tires screaming across the asphalt as windows shatter on the driver side. Your head slams against the passenger door, your vision going black for a moment. Your ears ring, everything blurring in front of you. The driver slumps towards you, his head covered in blood and you moan low in your throat as you try to reach for him. Your seatbelt holds you back and you reach for it—

The passenger door flies open and someone grabs your arm roughly, jerking you back. The belt cuts harshly into your chest and neck, stopping you, and instinct takes over. The figure trying to drag you out screams when a blade clumsily sinks into their arm.

You twist, every bit of malicious intent happily on display and rip the blade out, letting the blood flow freely. The radial artery bleeds heavily if nicked and the male figure staggers back, trying to ebb the flow while levelling his gun on you. You can’t see his face over the black blur of his mask but that doesn’t matter. He’s pissed and in pain—not the best combo. Using the gap of time to your advantage, you hack the bloody blade against your seatbelt.

“Shit.”

Finally, the material snaps, and you jerk to the side clumsily, a shot missing you by inches. Your blade sinks into the man’s chest but the gear he’s wearing stops it from reaching anything fatal like arteries, heart or lungs. The man staggers back from impact though, grasping at the blade, and you pull out your pistol—a sleek and easy to hide Glock 42—and fire only once. This close up, it would have been embarrassing to miss but it’s still a messy shot.

The man falls to the floor but your victory is short-lived.

Bullets rain against the side of the taxi and you throw yourself out of the car through the open door. Your knees hit the asphalt with a creak and you roll to the side, curling to make yourself a smaller target. If the driver inside wasn’t dead from the impact, then he sure as hell is now. Your ears echo with the loud bangs made only more deafening by the surrounding screams of fleeing people.

Shaking your head vigorously, you try to focus, snap back into now because this isn’t random.

This is an ambush.

And you’re outgunned and exhausted.

Your fingers go to your coat, pulling out the only gas canister you’ve taken with you due to low stock and hurry your fingers when the gunshots suddenly cut out. They either hope they got you, or they know they didn’t.

The vial slots inside and you shake the canister; a few sharp, graceless swings back and forth. You only have five rounds left in your pistol. Too few.

Footsteps crunch on the shattered glass on the other side of the taxi, heading towards you and you curl downwards, waiting.

A foot appears first, hesitant, and you slam another blade into the shoe, cutting right through it and feel the blade sink into flesh, muscle and bone. Another black-clad figure jerks in agony, their aim veering to the side and you jump to your feet, ripping the blade from the attacker’s foot and sinking it into their neck instead.

The body falls towards you.

You grunt under the additional weight but use the body as a meat shield, immediately aiming your pistol at another two approaching figures and shooting them right in the face with a savage sort of speed.

Three rounds left.

When ambushed only two things matter: speed and efficiency.

John has taught you that one person can withstand a tempest and still come out victorious on the other side if they’re smart.

And you have done so again and again. This will be no different.

Someone grabs you from behind, and you careen back, your dead meat shield dropping to the ground when you’re harshly dragged back. Arms lock around your neck and you roll the slippery blade between your fingers before sinking it into the arms holding you. With a loud snarl, you rip the blade out and repeat the motion and again. Blood pours across your chest—hot and slippery—and their grip falters, giving you just enough leeway to twist your arm behind you and fire blindly.

Two left. Shit.

You turn sharply and sink the blade into your attacker’s neck to finish him off.

The body slumps to the side and—

An explosion rips through the air next to you, and you feel the shockwave of heat and smoke throw you back, your head slamming against the dirty pavement.

Everything goes white.

Your stomach coils and your exhausted body slants weakly to one side.

Don’t lose focus. Get up. Get up.

It sounds like a mix of voices, all of them anxious.

Your tongue feels thick and dry in your mouth, and the coldness of pavement sinks into your forehead as you try to roll over. Dizzy and drained and unable to make your muscles obey.

You haven’t slept in two days, hardly eaten or exercised, and your body strains under its natural limits when faced with your ironlike tenacity.

People scream in the far distance.

Move. You’re making yourself into a target. Move.

You brace yourself on your palms, trembling, and gnash your teeth together till your jaw aches. Swaying, you hoist yourself onto your knees.

Not again. Get up. Please, amore—

You straighten, determined.

And feel a cold, hard barrel of a gun push into the back of your skull.

Your body freezes, tense, and you blink, clearing your vision desperately. Ice rushes through your veins when you realise that the explosion has made you lose your pistol. Your hands are terribly empty. You can’t reach for another blade before that trigger is pulled.

“Well, well, who do we have here?” a filtered female voice wonders mockingly, clear French accent lacing her lovely voice. “Seems like we caught ourselves a snake.”

Something crystallises inside you; a shadow, an echo of Tokyo. Of that stillness that made you tear Kishi’s throat out without hesitation, that made you hunt and kill dozens when they made a sport out of hunting you.

That survival instinct that makes you brutal, that makes you terrible.

Mock a snake and you might just get struck down.

“You’re about to make a very big mistake.”

You sound deceptively calm despite your injuries and mounting fury.

“Mistake? No. I think you will—”

Your eyes lift to the car in front of you and the blurry reflection of a figure behind you. On your knees, you appear small. Weak. A downwards angle is a major disadvantage when you have a gun pressed to your head as well.

But it’s either do or die.

You drop to the floor and drive your leg behind you. To put a gun to someone like that one has to stand close and the viciousness of your kick connects just as you suspected. You roll over immediately and reach forward to grab the hand holding the gun.

It fires.

You flinch at the loudness but it misses your head and you push yourself forward, adrenaline surging through your veins.

There is no hesitation to be found in you as you kick the woman in front of you again. This time in her leg and her stance falters, her gun firing twice more, both off-target. You use her moment of unsteadiness to drive your knee up and straight into the pointy end of her elbow.

Your knee explodes with numbing sort of pain but the satisfaction of hearing her olecranon fracture into little pieces is more than worth it. An open break. She will need surgery and weeks of healing, and that’s assuming the joint will ever heal well enough for her to use her arm again.

They wanted the Vipress.

They got her.

The woman howls; a loud, screeching sound and you drive your fist into her delicate face, silencing her. You grapple for her gun, ready to finish her off like you did her buddies earlier, but before you can grab it someone slams into you, their knee connecting with your ribs.

The strength behind the kick jerks you to the side, and you hit the pavement with a shout of pain. You suck in desperate inhales of oxygen, terrified and numb with pain. Air rushes into your lungs, and with it dizzying relief.

Not broken.

“You bitch!”

A male voice drills into your eardrums this time, and your head drags to the side. A tall, lean man hovers around the woman, his blonde hair a halo around his head. His features are sharp, almost aristocratic in their beauty. If the woman is beautiful with her large eyes and full lips, he’s a completely different breed of terrible sort of beauty. But his expression is twisted with such terrifying fury and madness that it knocks the wind out of you even harder than his kick did.

You know them.

Or rather, know of them.

The woman with her equally blonde hair snarls at you like a wild animal, and it’s by the tattoos on their faces that you recognise them.

They both have a heart etched deep into the skin of their left cheek in startling scarlet.

The Lovers.

French hitmen renown for their brutality and utter, toxic dependency on each other. Most considered them too unhinged to hire but those desperate and in need of bloody, dirty work to be done came to them first.

You’ve only heard stories about their blood rituals and the revolting way they handled the bodies they disposed of. The torture they delighted in, and the mayhem they unleashed on anyone who so much as scratched the other.

The man—what is his name; does it even matter—makes a sound at the back of his throat when he sees the severity of the female’s injury, and throws something directly at you. You roll out of the way, your ribs throbbing and you wince, your eyes trying to locate the object that you heard hit the ground not far from you.

Beep. Beep.

Stumbling twice, you scramble onto your feet and dash towards the nearby car, clumsily sliding across the bonnet just as the explosion rips through the air with another deafening bang. The car windows shake from the blow, a few cracking and you crumple onto the pathway, covering your head to avoid any falling glass.

Pyromaniacs. Right. Forgot about that.

“Get back here, you little rat!” the man shouts loudly, his voice cracking with viciousness.

Shots fly above your head, and you reach between your legs, pulling out your last blade from the security of your inner thigh. Your fingers tremble around the familiar cool weight, and you lick your lips shakily, tasting salt and blood. Your weakened muscles twinge and twitch from the overload, and you roll your shoulders, relaxing them as much as you can.

No pain. Pain can come later. Feel nothing right now.

Flipping the blade in your hand, you go to your dress and slide the blade across your thigh, cutting the dark material clinging to your body. If it comes down to hand on hand you need the space and ability to use your legs freely. They’re far stronger than your arms—a rather annoying disadvantage Ares often uses against you in your sparring matches.

Distantly, you hear the female moan in pain and the sound of too many feet rushing closer towards you. The shots cut out and an eerie silence falls over the usually bustling New York street.

“Bring the snake to me!”

How many?

You lean down, peering through the gap between the pavement and the car, and count at least ten.

Shit, shit, shit.

Right.

Desperate measures, then.

Hurriedly, you shrug off your singed coat, pulling out your gas canister. You weren’t going to use it one or two guys. No, the more the merrier.

“You can’t hide from us, snake,” the man shouts, his voice wicked with a promise of delightful violence. “We’ll bleed you dry. Remove that pretty skin of yours piece by piece.”

His accent is not as noticeable as his girlfriend’s, you can’t help but think absentmindedly.

Usually, you would assume something like that to be an empty threat, but hearing the choked, furious bloodlust in the man’s voice makes you think otherwise.

You count your breaths, count in your head. Numb your mind to the pain raging through your side.

Uno. Due—

Sucking in a sharp breath, you throw the canister over the car with all your might. It sails through the air—not as far as you would have liked, and you recognise your mistake the moment you see the figures approaching fully.

The fumes explode from the canister. Perfect as always.

Except the soldiers are wearing goddamn gasmasks. They had known exactly what to expect, what to prepare for, and how to counter. At most, the fumes will cause confusion due to poor visibility and mild air passage irritation. Still usable since it will slow down their reactions but nowhere near good enough. Your paralyser momentarily locks down the airway enzyme functionality, usually without any irreversible damage.

But not if the victim only inhales a filtered version of it.

Panic is fleeting but stinging, and then you hurdle your mind to Plan B.

Simple.

You gamble.

The blade leaves your fingers, finding its target in the closest attacker to your position and you follow behind instantly. The heavy vapour drowns the area and you hear the confused shouts that are followed by a couple of misguided, terrified shots into empty air.

Rules of survival say that you should never part with your weapon.

A weaponless fighter is a dead fighter.

But your blade is only a distraction; another smokescreen for the real target.

You’re fast. That’s always been your greatest asset besides your poison.

You will survive this. You will make it.

Your body crashes into the figure, and you rip the blade stuck in his armour and drive it in his neck instead, grabbing his gun. It happens in a span of seconds and you roll when the body hits the ground. In the confusion, more barrels start seeking you out.

But you know your work. You know the density, the deadliness of it. It is your shroud. It may not paralyse them but it will cloak you like silent death.

You can’t shoot their chests. Ineffective.

But their heads are targets begging to be shot.

You straighten from your crouch and shoot upwards, the bullet knocking the nearest man in front of you straight in the jaw. Blood sprays and you shift out of the way. You grab his gun and others scatter, too worried to shoot in case they hit one another, but realising that you have no intention of coming quietly.

The city is on your side though. No wind reaches the deep concrete jungle street and your vapour holds strong and thick.

With two guns in hand, you turn and run.

Confusion, chaos, and two dead. It will buy you precious seconds of a head start.

You’re proud but not stupid, and not about to risk your life when you’re at such a disadvantage and running on fumes.

The Continental is a holy ground of your world. Your one and only safe haven. No one can touch you there or risk the wrath of the High Table. Your only hope right now.

There’s only a matter of getting there.

You tear through the street, ducking every once in a while and zigzagging just in case any more explosions are aimed your way.

As if that thought conjures a response, a custom made explosion sails over you and hits the ground ahead. You throw yourself to the side and the bang that follows is ear-splitting. Ducking behind a minibus, you answer with your own gunfire but only fire three shots—two hitting and one missing. You know the explosion was about slowing you down, cutting you off. You can’t afford them catching up to you.

And then, even worse, you see the blonde male coming at you with startling speed, his teeth bared as he decreases the distance between you.

You fire but he’s too far away and ducks to the side too.

Your lungs are on fire, your side feels like it’s splitting at the seams, and the knee you used to break the female’s arm quakes.

Despite that, you swallow your inability, your weakness, and leave your momentary shelter, dashing in the direction of the Continental.

You’re close. So close. Just around the corner and then it’s a straight line across the street.

A shot whistles past your ear and you stumble, crashing against a car heavily before unloading an entire clip of continuous fire. Three more masked figures collapse dead, and you throw the empty gun to the side, aiming with another.

Most of the attackers disperse under the threat of bullets and you dash forward again, occasionally firing over your shoulder to keep them at bay.

The Continental walls appear before you, looming and imposing as always, and for a second you choke on sheer relief.

It adds a new spark of life into you and you sprint across the street, the stitch in your side making it hard to breathe evenly. The piercing red uniforms of the doormen greet you, and you take it two steps at a time as you run up the stairs. You crash against the glass door and jerk to the side when a bullet smashes a window right next to your head. Turning around, you fire at the blonde following you, only to be greeted by the horrific click of an empty chamber.

You throw yourself forward, lowering your head as another shot misses you and hear one of the doormen collapse behind you, groaning in agony.

He’s not going to stop.

It’s a horrifying conclusion to arrive at, but you know in your gut that it’s the right one.

For injuring his lover, this man is willing to fire at you even while you stand on Continental grounds.

Slamming your shoulder against the door, you practically fall inside the hotel. The people in the foyer are all rod still, gaping openly at the commotion. But you pay them no heed, sprinting towards the nearest table where a flower vase stands and smashing it against the ground. You grip the largest, sharpest piece of ceramic, and aim the empty gun at the door where the blonde man forces himself inside with strength that makes the glass rattle.

His face splits into a beaming, pleased grin when he spots you and his gun rises immediately, aiming at you.

“Shoot me now, and you’re dead,” you gasp out, your words dripping with agony.

The blonde’s expression only appears more eager at your words, his dark eyes burning.

“I’m going to—”

“Can I help you, sir? A drink perhaps?”

You have never felt more relieved in your life to hear Winston’s smooth voice behind you. His crisp steps come closer and he passes you, coming to stand partially in front of you. He’s in a suit as always and appears completely calm despite the situation, his arms resting at his sides. Charon steps to your side as well and you almost collapse from relief right there and then.

“Move out of my way, pensioner,” the Lover snarls, his excited expression morphing into something dangerous, wild. “The snake is mine.”

You take a hobbling step towards Winston, your invisible hackles rising when the blonde doesn’t lower his gun.

Winston tuts, the sound irritated and displeased.

“Why I am sure that your grievance with dear Vipress is more than founded, I encourage you to remember that no business shall be conducted on Continental grounds,” he states, his words clear and direct; a polite warning. “So I will have to ask you to leave.”

“I said get the fuck out of my way!”

The man’s voice pierces through the deadly silent foyer and you go rigid, rising the sharp shard in your palm slightly. If he so much as tries to hurt Winston—

“Mhm, very well,” the older man remarks, sounding bored. “Let me reiterate that in a way you can understand, then. Either you get out of my hotel right now or I will have you removed. In a body bag.”

A hush falls over the foyer and then a shift.

You don’t need to turn around to hear numerous weapons being drawn. This entire foyer would gladly shoot the blonde for breaking the rules. In fact, the High Table might even reward them for it.

And more importantly than that, the Lovers are outsiders. You are New York. And every single person in this hotel would kill for you as you would for them. It’s a deep running respect and protectiveness for your own lot. New York governs itself. It’s a beast different from any other city and crime family out there.

It’s one of the most cutthroat cities there is.

But an attack on one is an attack on all.

The New York Continental is your home.

And right now you feel its protective embrace once again.

That realisation reflects back on the man’s face, his expression twitching. He looks enraged in an unstable, worrying way but his gun lowers slowly.

“This isn’t over,” he whispers but the foyer is so quiet he might as well have shouted it. His face slackens, his skin glistening with sweat as his dark eyes drill into you. A brief, off-kilter smile twitches his thin lips and you control a shiver. “No. For what you did to my love...I will have your head on a spike, Vipress. I will wear your skin as a trophy. It was personal before but now—now, you made it so much worse. The Black Dragon is coming for you. You and Santino D’Antonio are marked.”

His fingers go to a pocket on his vest cautiously and he pulls out a slim, dark card. He doesn’t drop his stare as he licks it leisurely and drops it to the ground.

Then he turns and wanders out of the hotel without so much as a backwards glance.

A breath rattles out of your lungs, hushed and strangled, and you hate the severity of exhaustion that wants to fold your knees right away. Charon reaches out as if to steady you but you jerk back, unable to hold back your instinctive response. He does not look offended by it but you still spare him an apologetic look.

Winston doesn’t turn around till the male Lover is gone from sight. He gestures for his staff to rush and check the injured doormen before he looks at you. His eyes sweep over your figure, taking in your terrible state and he sighs wearily, his gaze sharp and knowing.

“Making new friends, are we?”

You don’t have enough energy left in your body to answer him—not even a joke or a jibe.

That seems to be all Winston needs to determine where you’re at emotionally, if not physically.

“Come with me.”

The gauze tightens around your waist and you flinch, your jaw clicking.

“Do not move,” Doc chides for the third time in less than ten minutes, shuffling around you as he pulls on the material again. “It needs to be secure, you know that. Goodness me, you were lucky your ribs weren’t broken.”

“Yeah, lucky,” you mutter shortly, wincing again, and stare over Doc’s shoulder, trying to breathe. “Do you think—”

A commotion reaches your ears and you go taut, your mouth snapping shut at once. Your head snaps towards the closed door of Winston’s office as you try to determine what’s going on. Doc lowers your new shirt down and takes a cautious step back too.

Have the Lovers come back for more? What now?

“I apologise Mr D’Antonio but—”

“Get out of my way,” a too-familiar accented voice hisses, furious. “Where is she?”

“Miss Vipress is being seen to—”

“I asked you where is she,” Santino snarls and you hear steps coming closer. “Does Winston only employ incompetent idiots, hm? Fine. Get out of my way. Now.”

The office door slams open with a bang and Santino marches into the room, his body coiled with rage. His charcoal grey suit flows like a dark cloud around his body, and he halts once he notices you seated on the sofa. His expression drops and he takes a second to observe you before he cuts the distance between you. From the corner of your eye, you see Ares step into the room after him, shooting an irritated look at Charon who hovers in the doorway.

But you can’t look away from Santino. Because he wears an expression of that terrible calm and that’s always worrying. He doesn’t seem to notice Doc when he comes to stand in front of you, and the older man politely steps aside.

“Must you be this theatric?” you wonder calmly, but your voice sounds worn, lacking the usual teasing note. Santino says nothing. You breathe audibly through your parted lips before swallowing. You know what you look like: torn, bruised, bloody. It’s not too different from a state you were in seemingly a lifetime ago now. “You should see the other guys. They’re a mess.”

Still nothing.

“Say something,” you breathe, desperate but faint.

Santino’s expression twitches and you see the effort it takes him to keep his face unreadable. He reaches forward cautiously, his Rolex on display, and his fingertips brush against your chin gingerly, tilting your head slightly. His fingers are searing hot against your cooler skin and you hold back a shiver. His thumb traces a little patch of your skin gently, taking in the bruises and the scratches as well as your pinched expression with a rapt sort of grimness.

He asks only one thing, his voice terrible in its coldness. “Who?”

“The Lovers.”

It isn’t you who answers him. Your eyes swing towards the door where Winston now stands, his eyebrows arched as he observes the scene before him.

Santino doesn’t drop his hand right away.

His fingers linger as he continues gazing at you for another few moments. Then his hand drops and he straightens with that arrogant twitch of his mouth, his hands sliding into his pockets as he turns to face the older man. His open worry only moments ago is locked away and now only displeasure remains.

“The Lovers,” Santino repeats softly and tilts his head in consideration. Winston enters the room and goes for his bottle of brandy, pouring himself a generous amount. “Those French maniacs?”

“That,” you begin dryly, recalling their unhinged behaviour. “Is a very apt way of putting it.”

For once, Santino does not find whatever you said amusing. He only looks at Winston and his mouth twists; displeased, irritated.

“You allowed this to happen.”

Your lips part in shock. “Santino.”

“Allowed it?” Winston echoes flatly, looking towards the Italian. “Why Mr D’Antonio I was unaware that besides being a Camorra Spare you’re also a part-time comedian.”

Santino takes a step closer and one of his hands flies out of his pocket. He points at Winston, enraged, and you exhale tiredly with a roll of your eyes.

“Then how do you explain her being attacked at your hotel not once,” he spits out, barely controlled, and it only thickens his accent. “No, not once but twice, hm?”

The older man observes Santino with an emotionless expression before taking a slow swing of his drink. “Mr D’Antonio,” he begins as if talking to a child. “Need I remind you that if it weren’t for the very rules that govern this fine establishment, then we would be looking at far more severe consequences. Besides the attack itself happened outside the Continental grounds.”

“I want their heads.”

Winston gestures vaguely with his hand. “Be my guest,” he deadpans. “Though it seems to me like it’s you two that will be sought out by them. Care to explain this?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slim black card and shows it to you both.

An image of a curling dragon is imprinted deep into the card, its eyes slashed twice and snarling face smeared with two smudges of dried blood.

A calling card. A marking.

You and Santino D’Antonio are marked.

For death.

Santino’s head snaps in your direction, his arm finally lowering, and you meet his stare evenly. In his wild gaze, you see a thousand things and your lips press into an even firmer line. You feel Winston’s eyes burn holes into you and fight to keep your own expression straight.

“I assume you know what the Black Dragon is.”

His expression is stony and you don’t miss the scathing undercurrent in his words.

“Yes,” you say before Santino can no doubt offer something snarkier or provoking in reply. Your eyes connect again, an understanding—realisation—peering back at you. He knows what this is. What it means. “They’re janitors of the High Table. We know.”

Chicago.

Everything, always, inevitably, circles back to Chicago.

“My, my, so it’s not ignorance but stupidity that’s responsible for this,” Winston shoots back at once, his tone and stare cutting, and you see Santino scowl visibly, fighting to control his temper. “My next question then, if I may, is to ask what exactly you have done?”

You should tell him.

But Santino’s words from the warehouse attack halt your tongue.

We broke his precious rules. He will inform those who have the power to punish you.

If you tell Winston, he will be duty-bound to inform the High Table about a breach of rules. This way, at least, you can keep him in the dark and if worse comes to worst, he cannot be held accountable because he doesn’t know anything. You abhor the very idea, but you have no other choice. Not with how recent the Tarasov incident is.

You look back towards Winston again and give him a one-shoulder shrug, trying to appear casual, unbothered. “A situation gone wrong. We’ll sort it out.”

You don’t miss a flash of surprise that contorts Santino’s face briefly before he relaxes.

For a good reason too.

When it comes to these matters, you always take Winston’s side. Keeping things a secret puts a bad taste in your mouth.

A memory of a hotel room, a phone, a message, and a closing door pierces you suddenly, and you fiddle with your fingers.

“Honesty or nothing.”

You exhale sharply, your eyes flying to the older man’s serious face.

It’s an old agreement between you—one you swore to a long time ago. Either you tell each other the honest, unfiltered truth or nothing at all. No lies. It’s the one rule that you’ve always abided by. It’s likely the only reason why he also trusts you with any information at all. Over the years, you have proven yourself to be worthy of his trust. What he tells you stays between you.

Trust, in your world, is the rarest form of currency. You both know that.

For a tense moment you simply peer at each other, and then you offer him a lifeless, “Nothing.”

His expression hardens and he places the card on the table, more forceful than you’re used to seeing, and laces his hands in front of him.

“The Lovers are rabid,” he tells you and his head tilts as he glances from you to Santino and then back to you again. “They barely abide by the rule of the High Table. Being marked by the Black Dragon is even worse. Whatever it is you two did, I suggest you sort it out quickly.”

“Ah, rest assured, Winston, I will have Camorra hunt them down like dogs,” Santino states coldly, his hand sliding back inside his pocket as he peers at the manager with a faint sneer. “There is no place left for them where I won’t find them. È il mio cavallo di battaglia.”

Winston pulls a mock surprised expression. “Do you even have that power anymore, Mr D’Antonio? To command Camorra on a hunt like that?”

Haughtiness melts away from Santino’s expression at that and he notably hesitates.

He doesn’t.

As an heir apparent he would have had that power.

But as a Spare…

His influence now is minimal by comparison.

He may make a plea to Gianna if he believes his life is being threatened but there’s no guarantee she will offer help. Or care for that matter.

“It doesn’t matter,” you cut in when you see the way his expression crumbles, how those words hit exactly where it hurts. “They caught me off guard today. There will be no second time. They’ll be rotting corpses by the end of the week.”

Winston shakes his head, sighing, “You’re not dealing with your average street thugs, dear. You’re dealing with something that’s far above you.”

“And it doesn’t matter,” you say again, harsher, and he takes in the fierce twist of your mouth thoughtfully, considering. “I don’t give a shit who the Lovers are or what the Black Dragon wants. They come for any of us again and they die choking on their own blood.”

A brief glimmer of a smirk appears across the seams of Santino’s mouth but you ignore it.

Winston continues to watch you pensively but doesn’t look surprised by your venomous declaration.

“And your plan?” he prompts curiously, one eyebrow lifting in an open challenge.

Your eyes drift towards the man next to you whose green eyes are guarded when they meet your own, and you force yourself to smile. “The oldest in the book. Bait.”

The penthouse is eerily quiet as you stare at the New York skyline.

The dizzying display of lights twinkle in front of you, and you focus on them. Focus on counting in your head too. With every mental number, you inhale; small, controlled breaths that don’t strain the gauze wrapped firmly around your waist. Doc has been clear. Either you rest your overworked body or he will refuse to order you any new materials.

You didn’t think the old man was capable of blackmail, but then again, you both work with some of the most powerful people on the planet. To survive that, you need to be just as—if not more—cunning.

Santino has been on the phone for almost twenty minutes now, making phonecall after phonecall in the kitchen. The wild mix of different languages has blurred in your ears by this point and you let your mind drift as you stare outside.

You don’t know how you’re still standing.

Adrenaline is only temporarily useful and tends to leave you more exhausted than before.

It seems like you have hit a stage where your body simply refuses to shut down. Perhaps it’s a survival instinct, or perhaps it’s the knowledge that you’re being hunted.

Why they attacked you first and not Santino seems obvious at first glance.

You’re the easier target.

But maybe you’re underestimating the Lovers and whoever else is behind this. They were so organised, prepared—they’ve studied you. Perhaps the reason for such a focused effort to catch you off guard is because the exact opposite is true.

They consider you to be the deadlier of the two.

Your tongue runs unhurriedly over your teeth, and you frown at your blurry reflection. Copper burns your tongue, and you squeeze your eyes shut tightly, reminding yourself that it’s not real.

You’ve brushed your teeth and tongue three times but the taste of blood still won’t fade.

The skin on your neck tingles suddenly and you rub your hand against it, wincing at the sensitivity of it. You had scrubbed your shoulder and neck raw in the shower, wild with desperation to get the blood off your skin.

You could have stayed holed up at the Continental.

But hiding is not how you overcome your enemies.

No, you plan on finding them. Wherever they are.

Neither Santino nor Winston appeared too enthusiastic about your plan but they couldn’t argue your logic.

If the Lovers or the Black Dragon want you and Santino, they will have to come to you and collect.

No rules apply out in the open. For either party.

Forcing your mind to focus on that line of thought, you consider your options.

“Chicago, then.”

You blink out of your stupor, looking over your shoulder at Santino who approaches you leisurely. His suit jacket is off, leaving him in only a shirt and a vest but something about his gait worries you.

He reminds you too much of a caged animal.

For a man like him, being hunted—challenged—like this is insulting. You can feel the restless energy rushing through his veins from across the room.

“Chicago,” you agree lightly, and you stare at each other for a tense minute. “But why now? Why wait so long?”

That’s the one thing that’s been tripping you up. Every time you think about it, that’s the one fact that doesn’t seem to make any sense.

After Chicago, you both waited for months to see if anything would come of it. When nothing did, you both assumed that luck had been on your side. But what was it that Winston said? Luck always runs out?

Still, waiting almost four years seems a little extreme when on a quest for revenge.

“Oh, I have theories, cara,” he says but appears too distracted. His lips part and he comes to stand in front of you. “Are you in pain?”

You shake your head, smiling faintly. “Doc gave me stuff strong enough to numb a horse. I’ll be fine. You know I had worse while sparring. And theories?”

But Santino doesn’t look reassured by your words. He focuses on your neck and your hand drops away.

He clears his throat and glances out towards the city.

“Whoever is behind this likely waited to see if I would become the next head.”

Oh. It would make sense.

Camorra is power. Camorra is the second seat at the table—one of the oldest, founding families of the High Table. Their power is immense. Very few measure up. As a head, Santino would have been a near-impossible target. He could have unleashed hell with a snap of his fingers.

“And I believe that the reason they did not attack you sooner, amore,” he begins shrewdly, his eyebrows furrowing, and you read the fury there. “Is because of Tarasov.”

You let his words sink in and look away, nodding your head slightly. “Of course,” you mumble, and it feels ridiculously obvious now that he’s mentioned it. “I was Tarasov’s most prized possession. He might have sought out retribution if I mysteriously died. Not to mention the fact that the Russians have two seats at the table. They might have demanded that the Dragon is held accountable. But if I’m not attached to anyone…then my death is a clean sweep. No consequences.”

He nods and you exhale deeply, your head dipping tiredly, and he steps even closer.

“They will not touch you,” he states firmly, quietly, and his fingertips hover over your neck. His expression is strained and you reach out, pressing your thumb against the deep, harsh line between his brows. His frown eases immediately and a slight grin twists your mouth, faint but teasing. Your fingers drop away but his own hand catches yours and he presses your fingers to his cheek instead. “Are you still angry at me?”

His question is nothing more than a faint whisper, his gaze as heated as it is guarded, and you shake your head.

“No,” you tell him frankly. “But I do want to know why you did what you did.”

He presses into your palm, even while a sardonic smile twists his mouth. “You would have me weak before you, amore? Hmm? Is that it?”

“I would have you honest.”

The fingers holding your own to his face trail upwards, and he takes your forearm, pressing a lingering kiss against your inner wrist. Something inside your chest sparks to life at the heat of his lips on your skin. He holds your gaze the entire time and for a split second, you see his eyes flicker down. Down towards your lips. It only lasts a second before he blinks, and then his attention drifts back to you. He lowers your wrist from his face but doesn’t let go of your hand.

He regards you seriously, his hesitance clear before his lips finally part.

“All my life,” he begins, his voice thick with…something. Something that you can’t put into words but his tone, the look on his face, all wrap around your heart like a fist. “I’ve been told that I was born to rule Camorra. That it's my only goal and purpose in life. That like my father and his father before him, I will rule an empire. That I had to prove myself worthy of it. Oh, amore, you know very well how I obeyed. I killed, cheated, stole, slept and lied my way through every problem. There were no rules and no price too high to pay for power.”

He pauses and you stare at him as he swallows, working his jaw. His lips twist again but it’s not a smile, not quite. There is something raw about him like this, all vicious whispers and raging eyes.

“Ah, yes. I would have bled this world if it had meant getting that seat because without it—”

He breaks off and your lips thin with silent understanding.

Because without the seat, he feels like a failure. Like everything he’s done in his life has been for nothing. It’s a matter of adjusting to life after the goal—the dream—he’s been chasing for over thirty years is taken away.

Santino clicks his tongue and looks back at you. His green eyes roam over your features slowly and the look on his face—

“Then you came along,” he remarks mildly, and there is something arresting—downright intimate—about the way he gazes at you. This man—this wonderful, terrible man—who you’ve cursed, and laughed, and cried and bled with looks at you like you’re an answer to a lifelong prayer. Like it hurts to look at you but he still does it anyway. “Crashed right into my life, didn’t you, (Name)? And I wanted you from the moment I saw you, and every moment since then.”

His words are like hands around your throat.

They are divine, and they are terrible.

“Santino—”

“Hear me,” he insists, and his free hand comes to rest against the curve of your cheek; an anchor, a rope. “This is the truth you wanted from me, bella. And the truth is this: I lost the title, but I have no intention of losing you too. So, to answer your question from the other day…neither. I have no intention of choosing between you and Camorra.”

Because he wants everything.

Years ago, back when you first started working together on odd jobs now and again, you asked him what he wanted. Back when you felt nothing but mild disdain for him, his answer had come as no surprise.

“I want everything,” he had divulged to you through heavy cigar smoke and a devilish, self-assured smirk. “And I plan to take it. One way or another.”

Selfish, cruel man.

“Men like my brother are not capable of love. But if they find it, you will never be loved like that again.”

Gianna had warned you.

You pull away from him, half-turning as his hands drop away from you, and glance back at him.

He doesn’t look surprised.

He never does anymore.

What, if anything, can you offer in response to that?

“We—” you choke on your words—on the excuses, the insecurities, the lies that would be easier to tell—and clear your throat weakly, trying and failing to get rid of the lump there. “We should prepare…for…if it comes to war…”

“Call in your life debt.”

Something cold settles in the pit of your stomach. It washes away the simmering heat, numbs the quiver in your heart.

Your head snaps to him so quickly, you feel the awful sting of pain slice through your nerves.

“What?”

But Santino only stares at you with that uncompromising, stubborn expression. The heir of Camorra stands before you; all business and sharp edges, unreasonable.

“Go to him and demand payment,” he voices coolly and tugs casually on one of his shirt sleeves with a tilt of his head, all arrogance. “Get the infamous Boogeyman to do something useful for once. Hm? Get him to repay for all you have done for him.”

“No.”

It comes out quicker and harsher than you intended. But the image of John’s grief twisted expression burns behind your eyelids, and you shake your head again. He’s out. It’s over. Let him live a peaceful life with his dog, away from all of this. You’re not about to drag him back into this life over your mistakes while he’s trying to grieve his dead wife and oldest friend.

Enough.

He’s had enough. There’s only so much you can push a person before something cracks and breaks permanently.

You would know.

Santino’s lips curve and he chuckles, breathless, but the look in his eyes is downright vicious.

“And why not, cara mia?” he demands, his voice almost melodic with its bitterness. “Why not?”

“He’s retired,” you force out but you can tell right away that for Santino it won’t be enough. He has resented John for too long for that to be valid reasoning. “He’s out.”

“Not good enough.”

Something flickers across his features then. A slow, halting thing that stills his usually animated body. His expression chips away till only terrible, focused intent remains. He closes the distance between you and reaches for you, for your neck, for the chain that rests against your throat.

“Don’t,” you plead weakly, and hurriedly wrap your fingers around his, halting him. He looks up at you, and you feel like you’re going to be sick. “Please—”

He jerks the chain upwards, freeing it from under your shirt and the weight at the end of the chain slides down till it bumps against his fingers.

It’s so still that you can hear your heartbeat hammering in your ears.

You can’t breathe. It has nothing to do with the pain or the bandages, and everything to do with the calm emptiness with which Santino observes John’s ring resting on the chain.

He doesn’t look surprised to see it.

Almost like he knew. Perhaps he always has.

But how do you begin to explain it?

How do you explain to him that the only two precious things you’ve ever owned are always with you this way? Close to your heart.

The silver viper rests against his folded fingers and you grip his hand. “I—”

“Do you still love him? Is that it?”

His soft question seizes your heart.

“No.”

He’s silent for a beat.

“I wish…” he murmurs gently, and looks up at you, his gaze empty. “I wish I believed that.”

He lets go, allowing the ring to fall back against your chest and turns to go.

Wanting to believe in someone should be enough.

Wanting to love someone should be enough.

But it isn’t.

It isn’t.

. . .

an: and now you know what happened to John’s ring :D

A few of you have asked questions about it but I’ve very purposely avoided answering anything for the sake of this reveal. I mean she wears it for multiple reasons but you can only imagine how it looks from Santino’s POV.

So we’re beginning a major story arc so strap yourselves in, the fun is just starting :D And, as always, your support.....I’ve missed you guys skdjfhsd thank you so much for being so understanding! <33 all your comments, theories, fanart...wowowow. you’re all incredible.

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

769 notes · View notes

migleefulmoments · 5 years ago

Note

So... Abby responds to her family's intervention by obediently telling them she'll stop (ie. lying to them). She then immediately tries to find ways to keep the blog in secret, hiding behind various usernames, lurking on her coven's blogs, more time deleting posts from both blogs we know about. Meaning, instead of getting help, she spends even MORE time online engaging in more batshit crazy crap to cover her ass. Yeah, sure, that doesn't signal dire need for mental health intervention AT ALL.

It looks like that is what is happening. We will have to see what the future holds. What does Abby do?

So far the fandom is flailing. Cassie got a couple of anons- one that reads like those anons Abby used to send herself as it covers all the issues they are most upset about so perfectly well (My comments in parenthesis and italicized::

Anonymous asked: Even if I am unsure about CC itself, I don't buy M*arr*n. I just don't. And the other side is using doxing and the fact that you and others say things they don't like about M as an excuse to do so and as a way to detract from the fact that their couple goals have some pretty big, glaring plot holes in their love story. I've not seen anyone on this side of the fandom out or dox anyone publicly as a way of humiliation. M gave up her privacy by dating D, but Abby didn't and they were wrong. Period.

cassie1022 answered: Nonnie, I swear every time they diagnose us as mentally ill or say we’re bitter hags, an LGBTQ angel gets his or her wings. We all know my beliefs, but there are MANY people that are like you and don’t know for sure about CC but sure as hell know Miarren isn’t a normal, healthy relationship. (Funny thing, I don’t remember anyone diagnosing Cassie as mentally ill. Cassie is alwasy the wallflower that nobody wants to dance with and she tries so hard to be part of the fun people. Last week she was sad because I hadn’t sent her a “hate” message (See comment in last post below)

Even if I remove D from the situation, I would still think M is a lazy, spoiled toddler with no discernable work ethic coupled with a superiority complex that rivals the Cheeto in Command of the US.

You are absolutely correct. Our fandom just wants to be left alone. We don’t send hateful asks to the other side. We don’t have to. They feel they have the right to dox CCers because they don’t like what we say about M, a woman that would light a cigarette from the flames engulfing them and not call 911 to help them. I mean, honestly, it doesn’t get much lower than mocking someone’s death. Plus, as you correctly said, M put herself in the spotlight “dating” D. If she didn’t want that attention, she would have stayed in the background. There are plenty of celebrities married to non famous people and we don’t see them at every event like we do M. (It is BAFFLING to me that they can’t comprhend something as simple and obvious as the reasaon they “see Mia everywhere” is because they fucking stalk her and they hyperanalzye every photo Darren is in looking for her. If they started stalking Ben Feldman they would see his wife just as much as they see Mia).

Bottom line is what they did to Abby was deplorable, but, just like their kween, they feel justified in doing whatever they want. This isn’t the first time they’ve crossed a line with regards to my friend, but it was the worst.

notes-from-nowhere Anon, they love to throw the guilt of their actions on our shoulders, it’s how they justify what they do to themselves. They need us to be the bad guys otherwise what is the only option left? (I never know what the hell Notes is trying to say- throw the guilt of our actions on their shoulders? I’d love an example of that. I can’t imagine what guilty action I put on their shoulder. As for needing them to be the bad guys or what do we have left? OMFG are you kidding me? We critcize the cc fandom for being misogynistic, homophobic, bullies who attack Mia, Darren, Ricky and their own Nonnies. They have viscioulsy attacked people in their own fandom who dared to question them. But the biggest reason we push back is because THEY LIE. All the damn time. So what do we have left? Being on the right side, being correct, not lying, not needing to lie, and the joy of watching Darren live his best life)

Leka got a couple of asks but her answers were weak, confusing and pointless. It’s clear she isn’t ready to take over as their leader. She repeated Abby’s main talking points, tried to use big words to sound smarter and basically ended up not making a lot of sense:

Anonymous asked: I could be wrong, and I hope I am, but I think the character on the HW poster holding the girl is D's character, it would fit if you look at the other guys on the poster, maybe this is already the first hint to show D's character is not gay and so technically not breaking the no more queer roles rule his team set for him. It won't make it any better because it's still a career on the bag of LGBTQ+ people with it's teams but it's technically not a broken rule. I just really need for things to change, I want them to so bad, it kills me seeing someone so kind in a situation like that, and I truly believe D is one of the kindest people in that horrible town. He deserves better than M, I wouldn’t even mind if he goes onto another beard but she and RR just need to go. I really think it’s crazy people still think everything HW is real and PR relationships don’t exist, I wished that place was just better and had a moral compass, people deserve more it kind of shows just how jaded this situation has made me, I can’t even enjoy amazing promo material without directly twisting it into something negative, I don’t want to be this way and if I feel like this I can’t even imagine how D must feel. He is stronger than I’ll ever be living through hell every day, even if he’s not ok he’s still here and holding on, I don’t know if I could in his position. Sorry for the long message and the unneeded negativity, I guess I just had to vent a little

*********************************

Leka answered: So let’s look at the way HW is described:

“Each character offers a unique glimpse behind the gilded curtain of Hollywood’s Golden Age, spotlighting the unfair systems and biases across race, gender and sexuality that continue to this day. Provocative and incisive, HOLLYWOOD exposes and examines decades-old power dynamics, and what the entertainment landscape might look like if they had been dismantled.”

I do consider this the very intriguing thing about the news. (And it just goes to show that believing everything you’re sold is being utterly and completely ignorant.) Let’s say you’re right because ofc it’s possible. How does R/aymond fit in here? Given the excessive way team shit has pushed that article, a technicality won’t be good enough. There has to be a better plan. This doesn’t match what’s been said in his name.

What I think is this doesn’t necessarily have to mean much. You know very well what you see doesn’t have to be the (full) truth. That doesn’t just apply to the real HW. Especially considering the time period of this show. And let’s not forget the pap pics we got at a gas station. This doesn’t rule out SB as an inspiration. I would advise anyone to read up on him. We don’t know at this point. As we keep saying, the best thing to do is to wait and see. I’m certainly interested in finding out more.

As time goes on, the danger of this situation keeps becoming even clearer to me. D deserves much, much better. He’s incredibly strong, but the most toxic person in his life needs to go and she’s more than welcome to take the jumping jackass with her. That’s definitely the most important thing right now. (I’m curious what the danger of Hollywood is?)

awesome-fanfictionada: @leka-1998I’m just wondering - it must have been D who got himself this job on HW, right? Couldn’t this have been done on purpose to counter that ridiculous statement - which wasn’t even accurate, if the source was that interview where he stated that he wouldn’t want to be a casting director? Could in this case RM be a friend?

leka-1998: @awesome-fanfictionada Yes, he did that himself. Again. And he said the show’s been sold late in 2018. According to an article that came out later, it happened in February 2019. Not true.

HW has been a thing before that statement was made, which is indeed very different from the answer D himself gave during the interview. That’s what makes the article seem like sabotage by team shit. And standing in RM’s way is never a good idea. So while I will obviously never like him, I’m reserving judgment on his current role until we know more.

Anonymous asked: The underlying issue in general is really that social media has made it so people think they get an accurate glimpse into the lives of celebrities, when in reality social media, like everything else that is publicly released about them, is used as a marketing tool. People are actually more inauthentic than they've ever been because they feel pressure to maintain a certain image for social media at all times. So anyone who decides D is living honestly, it's because they want to believe he is.

Leka: True, nonnie. Just look at the text lines that are becoming more popular again. Not nearly as genuine as people want to believe. In D’s case, what has to be brought up? M. Oh Halloween and her amazing shopping skills praised on SM. The work fam honeymoon pic promoting the place they stayed at. Coa/chella for the H&M ad. Mardi Gras posted shortly after the mockery to promote the designer. I could obviously go on. Most of what we see on SM shows the person the 10 year crew wants him to be. And what looks like a split personality if you compare certain posts. Which brings me back to ‘they want to believe’, as what you’re saying clearly isn’t a secret. Anyone can choose to ignore it but at this point, if that’s the case even though you’re more or less paying attention, it’s really a conscious decision.

Oh btw, there’s a HW IG account now and it already has a D follow. Imagine that. R/oyalties co-stars, anyone?

Flowers didn’t get any asks. Amazing since she has more followers than I do and she bragged about getting more “notes” than me. She did answer azscc who posted an odd rant that baffles me. Who the fuck is azscc and who is posting anything about her? I realize I am not the only person in this fandom posting about ccers But I just checked all the blogs that I know of and nobody is talking about her;

azsc its so weird how chillarrens call me a bully while i only say something rude towards them if they write bullshit towards me. and its just ironic how chillarrens go around calling people bullies while they are the reason why tons of cc accounts use their accounts private or don’t post their opinions and etc. the real threat to the fandom are people like you. so instead of going around throwing shit on people and calling them “mental, delusional...” get a life. no cc believer goes around hunting for chillarren pics and insult the account owner so why don’t you all grow up and realize no one has to agree with your opinions. every crisscolfer blog/twitter page/insta acc basically stan accs never asked for your opinions on their pages so why don’t you just let it go? no one cares about what you all say or do so why are you forcing it this much?

call me a bully i am pretty much okay with that. its obvious that people are unable to understand basic sarcasm and irony and i am not judging because to actually understand what people say you have to at least have an average IQ level. and if you don’t have it, it’s okay but that doesn’t mean you can twist people’s words and post them all over the internet. but its lowkey really funny that i only had my instagram acc for something like 4/5 months and i received over 300 hate/insult/blackmail/death wish messages and etc. and who are you people to call us bullies? (Nobody is a Chillarren. Darren and Mia are married and Chris and Will are in a long-term relationsihp, Nobody has to “ship” them in order to believe they are together. In America, we accept that when someone introduces their wife or their boyfriend they are telling the truth. It is customary to address that person as their wife or boyfriend respectively. The crisscolfers on the other hand, must use a fandom ship name because they are shipping two people who are not in a relationship and never were. All evidence indicates Chris and Darren are no long friends; they are nothing more than former co-workers-friendly and polite when they see one another but no longer involved in one another’s lives. Chris and Darren both have denied (more than once) that the were ever in a relationship). .

flowersintheattic254 I have never in my whole time here posted an anon to a Miarren account. I have no desire to. I’m confident in my beliefs.

The interesting thing for me is that I’ve been here for about four years now and in that time I’ve seen the head of the fandom disappear, other people disappear because their families have been doxed, established long-term cc blogs with a wealth of history deleted without warning. I myself have had my daughters threatened. This sort of stuff doesn’t happen anywhere in the fandom but here here. If we are a bunch of delusional crazy middle-aged women then this shouldn’t happen. (Who was doxed? Who dissappered? It’s all “liar liar” with everything ccers say. In the last 4 years Abby has been the only leader of the cc fandom. Michelle left between 4 and 5 years ago because her outrageious cc comments threatened her ability to raise money for her little Klaine-fanfic rip-off movie. I vaguely remember someone asking flowers how her daugther’s would feel if they read what she writes- hardly a threat. If there was something more she never posted any proof. As for blogs being deleted- so was D-Criss News. It happens. The only cc blog that I know of that disappeared was DisneyPrincessModelWorld’s original blog which had was a hot mess of lies and catfishing. She visciously bullied Mia. Hardly someone to mourn their blog being deleted).

It’s shocking that an actor may lgbt causes such drama. (HUH?)

Flower’s comment is so disingenuous. While it is technically true -she hasn’t sent me anons, she HAS instead publically ridiculed me and frankly, I can’t see how that is any different? I’d say it’s worse because they wanted their followers to see what they wrote and the only way to ensure that is to post it on their blogs. Flowers and Abby posted many public “Michy” posts. Here is her most recent:

flowersintheattic254Oh and I guess Michy sent us all some hate today.

I guess I have way more followers than you and only about 4 that send hate. You haven’t for ages.

I think I have over 70,000 hits currently to my blog. I must be saying something interesting.

He’s been married allegedly for a year and people still doubt. That’s gotta hurt you. Anyway......

✌️

ajw720 Michy told me today today that the outing couldn’t possibly be promo, because JS was only cast in September! What a moron who clearly doesn’t know how HW works. Sweetheart, it was ANNOUNCED in September;)

I was waiting for a few more months, but in 4 years, since i have been tracking, i have almost a million! (976,695 to be precise).

It is amazing that so many people care about what us bat shit crazy, irrelevant, psychologically unstable, threatening, hateful tin hats have to say! And that does not include people reading on their dash or that hit you on the app! So yep, Michy, clearly what we are saying is being monitored by someone. And clearing making people think!! But you keep wasting your time writing for your audience of 4:)

cassie102 I feel left out, Michy didn't come at me today. Must hurt like hell knowing you're a joke that perpetuates a bigger joke.

leka-1998 Birds of a fake feather flock together. When the right person says tomorrow’s Christmas, tomorrow’s Christmas. Get ready, everyone.

If I narrow it down to the last six months, about 10,000 btw. Hm strange.

flowersintheattic254 @ajw720 the number of hits you have give me oxygen. If Michy thinks they are haters then she is delusional. People know when they are being sold something fake and they look for answers.

9 notes · View notes

the-foxes-fangs · 6 years ago

Text

When the Fox Takes a Bride

Requested by @isasa-li <3

Warnings: none

“Mitsuhide I’m trying to tell you that I love you!” She said, peering into his shocked face. She knew that he was he was aware, he could read her like a neon sign, but she had lost the patience to wait him out. He could be as aloof as he chose, but she wanted him to know that she wasn’t afraid to speak the truth.

“I’m trying to tell you that you’re making a mistake, firstly” He answered, softly, finally.

She slumped dejectedly, her hands folded tightly in her lap, trying to blink away the tears.

“But as for the second, it takes bravery to tell someone you love them.” He said, and she felt his arms drawing her close. “I’m yours, until you change your mind.” He added, at almost a whisper.

And that was the way it was, for weeks. She would say “I love you,” and he would say “I’m yours.”

She tried to be patient, to demonstrate her devotion through action. She tried to see his love in his actions, in the patient gentleness with which he taught her to use a rifle, in the way he had a knack for appearing out of nowhere whenever she was in even the most minor inconvenience.

He had had to leave for a few days that stretched into a week and half, and she was feeling desolate at his absence, at the way he seemed to be waiting for her to walk away, at how it was clear that he wouldn’t protest if she did.

She was fitting Ieyasu for a new Kimono when he snorted moodily at her and shook his head.

“You look like you’ve been sucking on pickled plums. I hate to say it, but I prefer your normal goofy expression.” He said, and poked her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She couldn’t imagine crying on Ieyasu’s shoulder.

“Is he that bad? Pretty sure Hideyoshi and Masamune have a running bet on how long before you get it through your fluffy head that you should drop him.” He replied, hands on his hips.

“What? No! I’m going to have some choice words for those two!” She answered indignantly.

“They’ll just point out how miserable you look. You could wilt the cherry blossoms with that face.” He shot back.

“I don’t want to hear about looking dour from you of all people!” She snapped at him with more vitriol than she meant to.

He took it in stride, arms folded over his chest. “Oh sit down and have some tea, before you bite someone’s head off who might take it personally.”

“Fine.” She said and sat down, still irritated despite telling herself that Ieyasu hadn’t done anything to warrant her ire.

He passed her a cup and settled across the table, frowning into her face.

“You’re going to give yourself wrinkles if you keep frowning like that.”

“Pot, meet kettle.” She replied, smiling a little despite herself.

“Yeah, but then you’ll come to me about it and that would be a pain.” He answered with a sniff. “So if you don’t have the good sense to leave him, what’s the trouble?” He asked, in gentler tone.

“I know it’s silly-” She began, only to be cut off with a short barking laugh.

“Of course it’s silly, it’s you.” He said with a gesture that she knew from experience was affectionate. “Tell me anyway. It will make you feel better and then I won’t have to waste time making you medicine when you worry yourself sick.”

“He won’t say ‘I love you.’’ She said, expecting him to laugh. It sounded childish even to her.

“Well you rolled the wrong dice if you expected to be showered in love poetry by that fox.” He responded, sipping his tea.

“Gee, thanks.” She said, and sighed.

“But he does, you know. I’ve known him as long as anyone here, and I’ve never seen him let alone get under his skin the way you do. He’s always watching you, and between you and me, I don’t think there’s anyone he would hesitate to kill to keep you safe.” He answered, his normally harsh voice a little softer.

“I suppose you’re right. It seems like he’s always waiting for me to change my mind.”

“He knows better than anyone how cheap words are. You’re going to have to show him that you mean it by accepting him as the difficult man that he is.”

“That’s actually shockingly good advice, Ieyasu.” She answered, with a genuine smile for the first time in days.

He frowned and snorted again, gulping down the last of his tea to cover his embarrassment. “Yeah, well, don’t make a habit of bothering me with your petty problems.”

“Of course not.” She answered, now with a full grin.

“There’s that empty-headed expression back where it belongs. Now get out, I have too much work to do to sit around and listen to you babble all day.” He said gruffly.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m going. Thank you.” She said as she rose and gathered her kit.

She went to Mitsuhide’s manor and waited in his room, as she had every night while he gone, working on embroidering the haori she had made for him.

She had opened the doors to the veranda to catch the fragrance of the spring night as it drifted in. It reminded her of his scent, moss and gunpowder, raw silk and ink, and petrichore from rain always about to fall. She feel asleep working seated at his desk.

A soft hand on her head woke her, and she started when she opened her eyes and saw him leaning over her with his Cheshire cat smile.

“Welcome home.” She said, sleepily.

“Why thank you, I hadn’t realized you were planning to move in while I was away. A shockingly underhanded tactic, but I like it.” He answered and placed the ghost of a kiss on her forehead.

“I was just waiting for you.” She replied, and felt the heat rising to her face.

He tweaked her nose, which made her blush even harder. “Wait no more, here I am. What, I wonder, were you waiting for me to do?”

His voice had dropped low and she felt a jolt of electricity from the top of her head to her fingertips. It wasn’t fair, what he could do to her with just that purring voice. She narrowed her eyes and cleared her throat.

“As a matter of fact, I wanted to give you this.” She said and held up the haori, pleased to counter him, even for a fraction of a second.

“I’m not sure I believe you.” He said, but she saw the flash of a genuine smile as he took it and ran his fingers over the soft blue and gold bellflowers embroidered on a field of white.

“Interrogate me.” She said and stretched her cramped arms overhead.

He caught one of her wrists and placed a kiss there that had just enough of a nip in it to make her shudder.

“Tempting but I have other plans for you today.” He said, and leaned forward.

She waited for a kiss but got her hair ruffled instead.

“Get dressed, there’s somewhere I want to take you.” He said, and began to remove his armor.

She went behind the screen and put on the set of spare clothes she had brought with her. “I’m sure you must be exhausted, Mitsuhide. Whatever it is, it can wait.” She called out.

“It can’t, and besides, reliable sources tell me you’ve been moping around here like a storm cloud and working yourself to the bone. I’m afraid you’ll just have to spend the day doing what I say to atone.” He answered smoothly.

“When I find out who snitched, I’m going to get revenge.” She muttered, as she stepped out.

“Not that I don’t like this side of you, but you’ll never flush out my spies.” He answered, and flashed her an infuriatingly smug smile. “Come on.” he added and gestured her along. He looked as handsome as expected in the coat she had made him.

He fairly dragged her through the streets of the town under a cloudless sunny sky, giving her no time to ask where they were going as they climbed a path up a slight hill. They were well out of Azuchi now, and the noise gave way to birdsong and the noise of the breeze on the fresh grass. She gasped as the rounded a curve and a grove of cherry trees in spectacular bloom came into view.

He laid out a mat and some food and pulled her down beside him. The cherry blossoms drifted down on them in the brilliant sun as they ate, and finally he poured out some sweet sake for them, and cradled her close in peaceful silence.

“Isn’t it a bit early in the day to be drinking?” She asked, smiling up at him.

“Aren’t you forgetting that you agreed to spend the day doing what I say?” He said, and brushed a fallen petal off of her face with a feather light touch.

“I don’t recall agreeing to that.” She answered and kissed his fingertip.

“Don’t you? You didn’t disagree, therefore you agreed.” He said, and bent to kiss her, softly and then with deeper passion.

He kissed her neck, biting her with just the right amount of intensity to draw out a breathless moan.

“Just what is it you want me to do, then?” She asked, her voice heavy with desire.

He stopped kissing her long enough to look into her face with that foxes smile, heat in his eyes. “I wonder.” He said, and kissed her again, before pushing her backward onto the blossom covered cloth. He braced himself over her and looked down at her intently, with a whisper of sadness in his eyes.

“I want you to be happy.” He said, and fanned her out behind her head, stroking her face.

“I’m always happy when I’m with you. I missed you so much.” She answered as he cradled her cheek. He showed her a genuine, half sad smile.

“Honestly I should mope around more often if it gets me your undivided attention this way.” She said, teasingly, hoping to change his train of thought.

“You always have my undivided attention.” He said, and kissed her once her, hard enough to take her breath away. His hair fell softly in her face and she reached up to tuck it behind his ear, and felt a rush of love for him, for his well disguised care, for his unique way of showing his feelings, for all the ways he was an unfathomable mystery, and every way he could still surprise her.

She held his gaze, and hoped he could see it in her eyes. “I love you, Mitsuhide.” She said.

He lowered himself to kiss her forehead, her eyelids, and her mouth softly. He kissed alone her jaw to her ear, and she could feel his heart pounding against hers.

“I love you too.” He whispered, arms tight around her.

He eyes flew open as a shower of warm rain fell on them, bringing even more blossoms down on them. She reached under his coat and patted his well formed backside.

“Whatever are you doing?” He said with a raised eyebrow, as he brushed the droplets out of his hair.

“Checking for a tail.” She murmured and smiled contentedly at him.

#ikemen sengoku mc #ikemen sengoku #cybird otome #requested fic #ikesen mitsuhide #ikesen ieyasu #prompt: when would mistuhide say 'I love you'#mitsuhidexmc #my fic

150 notes · View notes

aiupenn · 6 years ago

Text

Piece By Piece

Five times Jouno realized Tachihara loved him, and the one time Jouno realized he loved him, too.

[a/n: written for @bsd-rarepairweek day 4. the theme was slipping through my fingers.] tw: fire, burns, vomiting, and a kiss without consent.

First: Discovery

Saigiku relied on heartbeats to count the number of people in a room. This was handy for a lot of reasons, not least of which that he could immediately gage people's reactions to his entrance. It was easy to pick out a villain from a group if they were the only one who's heart turned frantic at his arrival.

But here's the thing: that shouldn't be true at the Hunting Dog's offices.

When he entered, there were four heartbeats, exactly as it should be. What was strange, however, was that one of them started to race like a freight train when he walked through the door.

"Welcome back," Teruko said cheerfully.

"I'm back," Saigiku said, his voice a little quiet as he pinpointed the owner of the nervous heart.

It couldn't be Teruko or Fukuzawa based on size, so that meant it was either Suehiro or Tachihara. He could hear Suehiro doing push-ups by the window, so that left him with Tachihara. The realization put him a bit on edge. Tachihara had betrayed one group already. Mission or no, Saigiku wasn't the sort to trust so easily. Figuring out why Tachihara was nervous became priority #1 on his list.

He approached Tachihara's desk silently. The man didn't suspect a thing or turn around until Saigiku spoke up behind him. "What can you tell me about Michael Ende?"

Even though he'd startled him on purpose, Tachihara's reaction was still a bit extreme. "Jouno! I-I didn’t know you were here." He clutched at his chest, rubbing at it as his heart-rate attempted to go back to normal. Saigiku merely lifted an eyebrow, waiting for Tachihara to answer his question.

The change of subject to something like Micheal Ende—a low-level ability user they'd been keeping tabs on since his entry into Japan—should've put a traitor's mind at ease. There was no way Tachihara could betray them on that front, and if Saigiku didn't immediately move onto a subject Tachihara were guilty of, he would've relaxed.

So what the Hell was wrong with him, then? "Tachihara," Saigiku paused the man took a sharp breath at the use of his name. Another strange response to add to the list. "Are you sick?"

It was a stupid question. Saigiku knew he wasn't. He could smell a cold from a mile away and feel a fever from farther than that. But, it would be another move away from any suspicious situation Tachihara might be in. If he was planning a betrayal of the Hunting Dogs, he should've calmed.

Instead, Tachihara's heart beat faster. That was dangerous, considering his heart already sounded like it might burst. "I'm fine," Tachihara said, obviously struggling to keep his tone even, "Didn't get much sleep last night."

As if to mock his obvious lie, Tachihara knocked a stack of papers from his desk. He cursed.

Saigiku rolled his eyes and was about to walk away—it was Tachihara's mess to clean up after all—but at the last second he came up with another hypothesis for Tachihara's nerves. A mischievous smile crept onto Saigiku's face as he bent down to help, kneeling uncomfortably close to Tachihara.

As expected, the moment their thighs brushed, Tachihara blushed hot enough for Saigiku to feel it. Without any sort of grace, Tachihara shifted away. A Hunting Dog should be better at disguising their emotions, but Saigiku set that aside for now. Instead, he set his sights on Tachihara's hand, slowly but surely inching their fingers closer and closer together until there was only a single page left on the ground. The moment Tachihara reached for it, Saigiku reached for it too. For just a second, their fingers brushed and that's all it took to get Tachihara to freeze up entirely. If Saigiku wasn't mistaken, his heart even literally skipped a beat.

Saigiku smiled to himself as he handed the paper over to Tachihara. He'd just gotten a fantastic piece of blackmail the next time Suehiro and Teruko needed babysitting.

Second: Gift

After Saigiku had noticed Tachihara's little crush, it was so blindingly obvious that he couldn't believe he hadn't noticed sooner.

Tachihara would find all sorts of excuses to go on partnered missions with Saigiku or bring him coffee in the morning even though Saigiku rarely touched it. Hell, once he'd even found an excuse to bring paperwork straight to Saigiku's dorm. It was ridiculous. Somehow, the rest of the office had remained blissfully unaware of the crush and of course, Saigiku didn't let on to his knowledge. He kept that little trump card in his pocket for when he really needed to play it. For now, he was more than happy to make Tachihara's life miserable.

Saigiku used every trick in the book to touch Tachihara. Without fail, it brought the man's heart rate up to a frankly concerning amount. If Saigiku was feeling particularly evil, he'd hit Tachihara with a real one-two punch: taking a hold of his shoulder then leaning in close enough to whisper in his ear with a seductively low voice. That was sure to turn Tachihara to a distracted mess in meetings, crime scenes, and anywhere else Saigiku had tried it.

It was hilarious.

However, when Tachihara turned down a group mission for the first time in months, Saigiku had to wonder if he'd taken it too far. A part of him didn't care. If Tachihara got over his emotions, then it'd make Saigiku's life easier. Another part of him was a little upset to have lost a valuable source of entertainment. It was an annoyance more than anything, but... Well, Saigiku had to admit he was a little slower on that mission than he should've been.

"What have you been doing‽" Teruko demanded when they returned to the office. She kicked Tachihara's chair hard enough that it skittered along the carpet just a bit. "Did you just skip work to lay around, you big lout‽"

It did seem Tachihara had spent his time at his desk eating snacks and folding paper airplanes. Saigiku had to wrinkle up his nose to the overwhelming smell of sugary candies. It was a miracle Tachihara didn't seem to have a stomach ache.

Saigiku listened to Teruko scold Tachihara with no small amount of amusement. She was only pacified when he gave her a bag of his candy. With the loss of their argument, there was nothing for Saigiku to do other than work on paperwork.

Like usual, it weighed on him. After a lifetime of blindness, filling out forms wasn't half as difficult as it could've been. However, he was always slower than his colleagues. Times like this put that in sharp focus. Fukuchi, Teruko, and Suehiro all trickled out at their own pace, calling out 'good-byes' over their shoulders. Then it was only him and Tachihara.

Tachihara remained just as obvious as usual. It was easy to tell he was staring at Saigiku as he worked.

"Haven't you got some bar to patronize?" Saigiku asked, a smile on his face but an edge to his voice.

Tachihara stiffened for only a second, then he sighed and stood. "No." He closed the distance between their two desks.

Inwardly, Saigiku groaned. He wasn't in the mood for his usual teasing. It was too much effort.

Tachihara's heart gave a nervous tick as he set something down on the desk. Saigiku turned his head towards the object, brow furrowing. "What's this?" he asked.

Tachihara shrugged. "Nothing."

"A bomb, then."

Tachihara let out a beleaguered sigh. "It's a birthday gift."

Birthday, huh? Saigiku raised an eyebrow. He supposed he must have one of those, although he didn't know why on Earth Tachihara knew the day. Maybe it was in his file. Saigiku reached out to touch the object, a small box of soft wood. He delicately traced the edges of the box with his fingers before finally picking it up and finding the seam. Tachihara held his breath.

Saigiku cracked open the box, then reached inside to pull out whatever object it was. A perfectly spherical object reached him, small but cold. He pinched it up in his fingers and rolled it around. "A marble?" he asked.

"A bullet," Tachihara corrected, "An old one. Found it once."

Saigiku wasn't sure how to react, which was a terribly disconcerting feeling. He should be able to come up with at least a fake response to such a situation. Instead, he let the bullet roll in the palm of his hand.

"Don't think of it as anything special. I only picked it up this morning on my way out of the house."

Saigiku heard the lie in Tachihara's voice, but for once he didn't correct it. If he did, Tachihara might realize Saigiku wasn't so clueless to his crush. "I don't have much of a need for presents," he said instead, "You should've kept it."

Tachihara shrugged again, but his disappointment was palpable. "Wasn't anything of worth to me. Toss it if you want."

To Saigiku's own shock, he felt a little guilty to have insulted him for a gift. In truth, it was the first birthday gift he remembered receiving. Before he could stop himself, he rushed to remedy the situation. "I'll accept it this once. It is quite nice."

Tachihara perked up again, although he clearly tried to hide it. "Yeah, whatever," he said and he turned toward the office door, "See you tomorrow, Jouno."

Saigiku rolled the bullet between his fingers, then between his hands. He relished in the weight of it in his hands, although he'd never admit it. An antique bullet never would've been on his mind as a gift and Hell if he knew what he was going to do with it, but he could admit he liked it. There was comfort in the object somehow... Which was stupid, he reminded himself. There was nothing comforting about a bullet and nothing important in a gift.

But Saigiku's mind was a traitor. It kept whispering over and over again how nice it was to receive a gift, how nice it was for Tachihara to look up his birthday, how nice it was to have someone remember his birthday for the first time in his life...

Tachihara clearly had more than a crush.

Third: Injury

Saigiku practically threw his coat on the coatrack as soon as he entered. He'd have rather thrown it in the face of Teruko, but she didn't deserve his wrath. No, it was Fukuchi he was pissed at. He'd returned from a mission not even hours ago, but he was already being called back in. If he had another assignment, Saigiku was more than prepared to use a bit of manipulation to get himself out of it.

Saigiku took a quick tally of everyone in the room, as he often did. Fukuchi was in his office, of course, Teruko was at her desk, and Suehiro had somehow found himself on top of the refrigerator. Tachihara stood not far off, smelling of rubble and sweat, so he'd only just got done with a mission as well.

"Jouno," Tachihara said in greeting.

Saigiku scowled in response.

"Fukuchi's gotta be joking."

"All in a dog's work," Saigiku said.

Tachihara gave a small hum of agreement. Saigiku took a step towards Fukuchi's office.

Tachihara suddenly made a grab for Saigiku's hand. Saigiku twisted out of range just in time, but he still sent Tachihara an unambiguous look of disgust. Despite this, he made another move to grab it. Saigiku snatched up his wrist and squeezed it harshly.

"I just want to see your hand," Tachihara said in a slightly strained tone.

"My hand is my hand. It's none of your business." Saigiku would've let go of Tachihara, but he was still attempting to touch him.

"You're bleeding."

Saigiku frowned and, in a very rare instance, focused on his own body. His heart was beating a little fast, he smelled of sweat and wine, and... his hand did hurt now that he thought about it. He let go of Tachihara's wrist to gently touch the back of his hand. He let out a hiss as the pain hit him. The wound was a bit deep. How had he done that? How had he only just noticed it? Perhaps it would pay off to put a little attention on himself from time to time...

"If you're not going to bandage it up, let me," Tachihara said.

Saigiku shook his head, pulling down his sleeve to cover up the injury. The fabric brushing against the cut almost made him wince. "After Fukuchi."

"You'll bleed all over the carpet," Tachihara said and he finally succeeded in taking hold of Saigiku's wrist.

It'd clearly been too long since he'd had non-professional interactions because Saigiku's heart leaped at the contact. Tachihara's fingers were soft and careful as he peeled off the ruined glove. Even he applied a burning disinfectant, he still seemed to be doing it with care, trying his best not to hurt Saigiku. It was almost embarrassing to be doted on. His ears were uncomfortably warm as he let Tachihara bandage him up. Saigiku had to admit, though, that Tachihara had probably done a better and quicker job than he would've done alone, all while being gentle.

Just how bad of a crush did Tachihara have?

Fourth: Truth

Missions like this had a tendency to make Saigiku's skin crawl. Being among so many rich, entitled assholes who only gave him the time of day because he wore the right things and spoke the right words was awful. Even one slip-up would cause all that hard work to go to waste. What an annoying, stupid, self-absorbed bunch. As important as information-gathering was, he wished there were better ways. It was a crying shame he was good at it.

Tachihara, on the other hand, was not good at parties. While Teruko, Fukuchi, and Suehiro all held their own at this to some degree, Tachihara was a fifth limb that kept Saigiku from truly getting his job done. He tripped, he spilled drinks, he stumbled over his words... Truly a walking disaster. It'd always been Saigiku's assumption that this was part of the act, an act that would trap the altruistic types who would pity such a man. Unfortunately, Saigiku had become hyper-aware of Tachihara's emotions since his discovery of the crush and now he knew better. For the first time, he noticed that Tachihara was nervous. Scratch that; Tachihara was panicking.

Despite the risk, Saigiku found himself making his way through the crowd to stand in front of Tachihara. He was against a wall, smiling politely at anyone who looked, but he seemed incapable of approaching anyone at this point. His breathing was shallow and fast, and his pulse was nothing to sneeze at. Instead of the thudding that it made when he was nervous around Saigiku, Tachihara's pulse was a screeching animal, begging to be free.

"You look a little lost," Saigiku said, flattery dripping from every inch of his voice.

Tachihara's breath hitched as his head snapped to face Saigiku. "I'm—I'm overwhelmed is all, sir," Tachihara said, doing his due diligence to appear unacquainted.

Saigiku smiled softly and hummed, placing a soft hand on Tachihara's arm, an open invitation for anyone watching to interpret his intentions incorrectly. "Unprepared for so many people?"

Saigiku heard Tachihara swallow. He could feel the other man's arm stiffen at his touch. Surely he understood this was an act for the mission? He couldn't be stupid enough to think he was actually showing some affection. Well, if he did think that... why did that bother Saigiku? "There's a lot more than I expected," Tachihara said after a long pause.

Saigiku smiled sinfully and leaned in close, letting his lips brush Tachihara's ear. "Let's get out of here then, shall we?"

Tachihara nodded and Saigiku gently lead him to one of the many private rooms afforded to guests. The moment the door clicked closed, Saigiku dropped Tachihara's hand unceremoniously. Tachihara collapsed into a chair and then began rubbing at his chest. "What's going on?" Tachihara asked, his voice a little hesitant. Hopeful actually, Saigiku noticed with a pang that shouldn't have felt.

"You should tell the Commander what missions you're going to be next to useless for," Saigiku said.

"Watch what you're saying."

"Because it hurts your feelings? Or because someone might be listening? There's no bugs, I would be able to hear them."

Tachihara seemed to have no answer to that. He focused on steadying his breathing, breath by breath, while Saigiku stood there. Now that he had completed his goal of separating Tachihara before he could do more damage, Saigiku really should leave. If he did that however, then it would be obvious that they're tryst had just been a ruse. Never know who might be watching at parties like these. With a sigh, Saigiku fell into the chair across from Tachihara and started to tug off his tie. When he reached for the top button fo his shirt, Tachihara sucked in a panicked breath.

"Wha—what are you doing?" he asked. His heart went started beating uncontrollably fast.

For once, Saigiku was not amused. "I'm hot. And I hate these things anywas." He draped the tie over the chair.

"O—oh." Although Tachihara said it a if he understood, Saigiku could still hear his heart racing.

He leaned over in his seat to ruffle up Tachihara's hair. He popped up his collar a bit, his fingers brushing against the exposed skin of Tachihara's neck for just a moment. They both took in a breath at once, a fact that Saigiku was determined to pretend didn't happen. Tachihara tried to shy away, but Saigiku took a firm grip of his hair. "It'll be more convincing if it at least look like we properly fucked."

Tachihara stopped breathing entirely, something that concerned Saigiku more than he cared to admit. Tachihara was already losing too much oxygen. Saigiku carefully withdrew, moving to muss his own hair instead.

"Why—" Tachihara started, and then he had to clear his throat before continuing, "Why'd you get me out of the ballroom anyway?"

"You clearly don't do well with crowds." Saigiku sat back before realizing that that wasn't a good reason. It was a personal one, having no logic behind it. "And you were jeopardizing the mission. I don't know why Fukuchi keeps letting you come with us."

Tachihara paused before answering. "Sorry..."

"Don't be 'sorry'. Just tell him so that I don't have to fight against you every step of the way."

"I'm more than capable—"

"I never said you weren't," Saigiku pointed out, "Everyone has a weak spot, Tachihara, which is why you leave the job for others."

Tachihara stood from his chair and walked in a small, angry circle. "I can handle it!"

Saigiku raised an eyebrow at Tachihara's tone. He'd felt him getting angry, but it was quite possibly the first time Tachihara had actually raised his voice at him. Saigiku was at a loss on how to react. "Don't take kindly to having weaknesses, Michizou?"

Tachihara definitely hesitated at the use of his given name, but he didn't calm like Saigiku had hoped he would. He still pushed on in his anger. "I fought my way here of my own merit. I get to decide what I'm capable of."

"So why'd you come in here for a break if you were so in control?"

"Because I wanted to!"

A smile turned up the corner of Saigiku's lip. Tachihara had just slipped up and Saigiku felt the very moment when he realized as much. All the anger went rushing out of Tachihara and his heart pounded loudly in his chest.

Some sick part of Saigiku couldn't help but push his luck. He wanted Tachihara to admit it out loud now. Hoarding the information all for himself suddenly didn't seem all the enticing. He stood with as much grace as he could manage, then took long, smooth strides towards Tachihara. In seconds, he had him pinned against the wall, their faces inches away. Tachihara's nervous breathing echoed in the now silent room. "Why? Something in here you like?"

Tachihara didn't even hesitate. Their teeth clicked as he roughly forced their mouths together, a sensation that caused Saigiku's head to ring. There was no ceremony or sentimentality behind the kiss. It was raw need swarming out of Tachihara as he fought with the emotions in his ribcage. Saigiku's eyes opened for the first time in years. His eyes stared blankly ahead, trying to process the strange feeling of another pair of lips against his own.

What was stranger, was that he didn't think he hated it. For one terrible second, Saigiku’s eyes closed and he pushed back, wanting to pull Tachihara closer.

Saigiku scowled and pushed their bodies apart hard enough that Tachihara's head hit the wall. He stumbled back, the two of them struggling to catch their breath. Saigiku rubbed the spit off the corner of his mouth. "What possessed you to fall for a man like me?" Saigiku asked, his voice full of disgust and amusement.

Tachihara didn't speak or move for a moment longer. Then, he strode across the room to put on his tie in one, flurried movement. "I don't know," he growls, "Hell, half the time I think I hate you."

"A much more reasonable response."

“I happen to know you're not as reasonable as you think," Tachihara said, hand on the doorknob, "and I also happen to know you didn't bring me in here because I was 'jeopardizing the mission'."

He was gone before Saigiku could even give a smart retort.

Fifth: Warning

"It's the single stupidest idea you've ever had," Saigiku said hurriedly.

"She clearly likes me," Tachihara snapped back, "I don't see how I can't use that to our advantage."

"She wants to kidnap you. There's a world of difference between that and 'liking' you."

"You would know."

Saigiku bristled. For no good reason, his heart stuttered in her chest. "No. I don't."

"You'll save me if I need saving," Tachihara said.

"You're being needlessly reckless."

Tachihara turned around in one fluid movement and shoved his finger accusingly towards Saigiku's chest. "And what do you care?"

There was a level of hurt to Tachihara's voice that made Saigiku swallow. His body stiffened involuntarily and he hated himself for it. His head was very certain he hated Tachihara, but unfortunately, his body didn't seem so sure. In defense, his tongue lashed out. "You sure take rejection poorly, don't you?"

"'Rejection'‽" Tachihara scoffs.

Saigiku acted like he hadn't spoken. "Think you're handsome enough to woo anyone you please? That's not going to work on me."

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't get kidnapped and I'll believe you. For now, I'm still convinced you think more highly of me than you'll admit."

"A dead Hunting Dog's member is a hassle to replace." A sarcastic answer was all Saigiku could give. He was trapped in a corner. If he said anything more, it'd show his uncertainties. Anything less would be an agreement.

"I won't die and you know it," Tachihara picked up his suit jacket, heading for the door, "Not if you and the others do your job."

"There's other ways to get this info—"

"But it's the best way. I thought you of all people were all about efficiency, Saigiku."

The use of his name threw Saigiku so off balance that he couldn't even respond before Tachihara spoke again.

"I'll come back because I've got an offer for you after this mission's over. And I think you want to hear it."

He left the hotel room and all Saigiku could do was stand there and wonder. Why was he so against this? Tachihara was more than capable of taking care of himself and this woman didn't pose hardly any threat. It was the most efficient route to info, and that was the whole point of the mission. People who thought they had a pliable victim in their hands tended to be more loose-lipped.

And he also had to wonder... what kind of 'offer' did Tachihara mean? Saigiku had an idea—an idea that should've made his skin crawl. Instead, he got goosebumps as his heartbeat quickened.

It was complete idiocy. There was no universe in which Saigiku had any feelings for anyone—Tachihara least of all. It hadn't started until Saigiku had noticed his crush, so it must just be some sort of confirmation bias. His brain merely thought he had feelings for Tachihara. It was the only reasonable explanation. It was all fake.

It had to be.

Final: Fire

"Jouno, don't go in there!"

It was the first time in his life Saigiku had ignored an order. Against every instinct in his body, Saigiku raced deeper into the hotel, fighting against a panicked crowd. The acrid smell of smoke stuck in his nostrils stubbornly, but he knew the fire was a few floors off yet. He had time.

He took the stairs two at a time, cursing himself the whole way up. This had been their plan all along: burn down the hotel building, kill a Hunting Dog, escape in the ensuing chaos. And a part of Saigiku had known that. If only he'd gotten over his pride for a few seconds and admitted to himself and to Tachihara the truth, this all could've been avoided.

Don't go. I'm worried for you.

The fire had started on the floor Tachihara had gone to and as Saigiku burst onto the third floor, his senses were overwhelmed. There was too many noises, too many smells, and he struggled to find Tachihara's heartbeat among it all. Every so often, he thought he heard it only for it to be his own thundering pulse. Finally, there was a groan from a room and Saigiku took the chance. He kicked down the door that was already half coal. His hands went up defensively as a wave of heat hit his face.

"Tachihara!" he yelled.

There was no response. He stepped into the room gingerly, keeping his steps near silent as he tried to pick up signs of life separate from the crackling flames. Finally, he caught it—soft pounding in the far corner of the room. He rushed toward it, barreling through flames despite the blisters rising on his forearms.

He knelt next to Tachihara, feeling his neck for a pulse. It was there, but weak and growing weaker by the second. Saigiku missed the sound of the crack of a beam above him until it was too late. It slammed into his back. Stars erupted behind his eyes as he struggled to stay conscious. Breath hissed through his teeth at the ache in his spine. He moved to shove the beam off, his arms straining. Even after he had succeeded, it quickly became clear that the two of them had become trapped. If he had sight, he'd probably be able to find his way out quickly, but as it was he was going to lose valuable time trying to find his way out.

Despite the burns on his back, Saigiku hoisted Tachihara up before starting to feel with his hands for an opening in the wood. Flames licked his fingers and it took a lot of effort for him not to flinch away every time.

His hands felt numb by the time he found a place for him to squeeze out with Tachihara on his back and by then Tachihara's pulse was so faint he worried he might be dead already. Saigiku was struggling to breathe himself. He could practically feel the ash building up in his lungs. All his caution was thrown to the wind as he made a beeline for the door. It was lucky that there weren't any beams to trip over.

Unfortunately, the hall didn't provide relief. The entire floor was engulfed in smoke by now and flames kept getting uncomfortably close. The stairwell was largely clear, however, and Saigiku would've liked to have caught his breath for a moment, but Tachihara needed medical attention. Now.

The stairwell door wouldn't open at the bottom. He could only hope it was because of another fallen beam and not because the metal doorframe had melted, because if it had... He cut off the train of thought, propping Tachihara's limp body against the wall before bracing himself to ram his shoulder against the door. Hit after hit made his shoulder scream in agony, but after what felt like an eternity, it paid off. The door popped open and he only had to ram it twice more to make the opening wide enough to get him and Tachihara through. Saigiku scooped him up with far less ceremony than before and hurried through the door.

And there was another obstacle. Saigiku wasn't entirely certain what had happened, but there was clearly a wall of flames in front of them. His mind raced as he tried to remember the floor plan. There had to be a window nearby.

In the end, his panicked brain couldn't remember, but the sound of breaking glass saved their lives. His head snapped around at the sound and he ran toward it immediately. He cleared the remaining shards with his elbow as best as he could then shoved Tachihara through first. If there was only one of them who could survive this...

He jumped out after him and finally there was cool, fresh air to fill his lungs. Despite his better judgment, he lay in the grass, heaving in breath after breath before coughing uncontrollably. He flipped onto his stomach and retched, the foul smell making him vomit again.

The sound of more breaking glass urged him back into motion. He got to his unsteady feet and grabbed a hold of Tachihara's shoulders dragging him farther and farther away until his legs couldn't hold him up anymore.

He collapsed on his knees, placing Tachihara's head on his lap. Saigiku listened desperately for a pulse, holding his breath as he waited for the reassuring thrum.

It wasn't there.

Frustrated tears formed in Saigiku's eyes. Despite all of his effort, Tachihara had slipped through his fingers. It was so unfair. He hadn’t even heard his offer!

Tachihara suddenly burst to life, his breath raking through his lungs noisily as he turned to his side to cough it out. Saigiku was so relieved that he couldn't move. His hands hovered uselessly as Tachihara coughed and coughed. Eventually, he put his hand down to brush out the layers of ash in Tachihara’s hair.

"Saigiku...?" Tachihara croaked.

All Saigiku could do was nod numbly. A jolt of awareness went through him and he moved to shift Tachihara's head from his lap. "Cough more. I need to get a paramedic."

Tachihara's hand held tight to Saigiku's pant leg. "You could've died..."

"This isn't the time. You're hurt."

"You look worse."

"Your heart wasn't beating only seconds ago."

"Stay," Tachihara whispered, his hand holding tighter, "I can see the paramedics from here. They see us. There's just more major injuries to tend to."

Saigiku held his breath as he listened. He'd been so preoccupied with Tachihara he hadn't stopped to pay attention to the world around them. Tachihara was right of course. He could hear the paramedics busy at work, one yelling to another 'the men in the grass'.

Saigiku relaxed almost against his will. He was tired, very tired. Every inch of his arms felt burned and his back ached. There was a lot of healing that was going to need to be done and Fukuchi wasn't going to be happy about it. Saigiku's hand came to a rest on Tachihara's chest, where he could feel his heart beating steady and strong beneath his palm.

"Did Fukuchi send you in?" Tachihara asked.

Saigiku would've lied if he hadn't known that Teruko would rat him out. The silence lingered a little too long before he admitted the truth. "No."

There was only dead silence for a moment, and then Tachihara slowly reached for Saigiku's cheek. The touch agitated a burn, but that wasn't why Saigiku shivered.

"What do you think of me, Saigiku?"

Saigiku tried to think. His mind was a muddled mess of emotions and feelings he was so unused to that he was struggling to pin them down. Tachihara was silent, letting Saigiku take his time. Had Tachihara struggled like this too?

Saigiku could never say that he didn't care for Tachihara at all anymore. He wouldn't have run into a burning building and risked his life for any other Hunting Dogs member. He held his breath, bracing himself for his response. "I think highly of you, Michizou," he said. It wasn't the whole truth, probably, but it was what he could say for now.

Tachihara took in a sharp breath at the sound of his first name. "Do you?" he asked, his voice cynical.

Saigiku moved his head to look down at Tachihara in his lap. He could hear his heart beating from here, fast and uncertain. After a moment, Saigiku realized it wasn't Tachihara's heart he was hearing, but his own.

Saigiku found Tachihara's lips easily, as if they were always meant to slot together like this.

#bungou stray dogs #michigiku #bsd rarepairweek #day4 #bsd #wrting #fan-fiction #kiss without consent #burns #fire #5+1 Things

9 notes · View notes