#I live for how tired Santino always looks

[arvellon-skjeebuh]

Some changes :D Late nights in the Continental X.

[honeysidesarchived]

WHERE THERE IS NO TEMPTATION, THERE IS NO GLORY.

⊱ a santino d'antonio / oc short-fic

interlude ii ( read on ao3 ) ( masterlist )

words: 2.4k

warnings: none really! just an impending, pervasive sense of doom.

rating: m/t

notes: so happy to have finally gotten this little interlude edited and pieced together! just more soft moments because they deserve it considering what's going to be coming up. thank you everyone who has been reading/interacting with this little love project of mine; it took a minute to get myself dug out of the trenches and posting bite-sized chapters because this is a short-fic is definitely doing something to me (lmao) but we're here!

as always you can find translations on ao3, where it's easier to store them in a place that doesn't get in the way.

There is very little time between when Santino cooks her dinner and when he moves her into his apartment. It happens without much acknowledgment from her; she finds herself swallowed up in moments of casual intimacy that break her down to nothing except a girl in love.

Santino wakes her up by kissing her neck and pulling her against his chest; she makes him dinner barefoot in the kitchen, all of the recipes that her mother taught her, and he drags his hand along her hip to reach over her into the cupboard; he stands still and obedient while Euphemia slides his tie into place, and when he zips her dress for her, he peppers her shoulder with kisses. He tolerates taking a walk through the park, even in the chilliness of late Fall or Winter, because Euphie can’t stand to not get some fresh air once a day. When one of her friends asks why he lets her bully him into the cold weather, he wraps his arms around Euphie with a sly smile and says, “How could I not, when I am the one who gets to warm her up after?”

He is an exceptionally tactile man. There is always a reason for him to touch her, trace each line of her, put his lips against her skin. Santi isn’t a man who loves; he covets. And Euphemia shouldn’t like it as much as she does, but she does. Her therapist says that it isn’t uncommon for a girl who grows up without touching to crave it, desperately, like an addiction.

So, she finds herself living in his loft to feed that addiction—which becomes their loft—and teaching him words in French, and feeding him olives while sauce simmers (and does not boil), and kissing the red-wine taste from his lips. It’s all very romantic and greatly overshadows the moments where Santino comes home raging mad, or when his bad mood takes over their conversation and stirs a fight between them. They’re both hot-headed—her more so than he—and he knows all of the ways to diffuse her while she knows none about him.

But it doesn’t matter, in the end; because Santino always kisses her, and always says, Mi dispiace, cara mi, ti amo, ti amo, ti amo, lip-locking between each break in words until her lungs ache.

Euphie has never wanted to be loved sensibly, anyway.

Making money stops becoming an issue. Santino might have been fine letting her wrap up her loose ends, so to speak, encourages her, even—“You should never leave business undone, my Euphie,”—but he’d never tolerate her continuing to skim out of the pockets of his associates. Not out of respect for them, of course, but because Santino is more than happy to provide.

“I have to do something,” Euphie insists, often. But Santino clicks his tongue and shakes his head, inspiring indignation in her. “That money goes to my mother, Santi.”

“Princesa, what are you worrying for?” He replies every time. In this instance, he is reading over some documents, his voice casual, simple, effective at bringing her to heel. “If your mama needs money, she’ll get it. Tutto quello che vuoi è tuo.”

Euphemia used to think that he was doing it to be generous, but as time goes on, she knows that isn’t the case. If Santino didn’t think he was benefitting from sending her mother money every month, he wouldn’t do it: but he does. Euphemia stops playing at arm candy for other powerful men; he endears himself to her by taking care of her mother; he endears himself to her mother; he’s afforded a sense of control. There is no facet of it where he isn’t getting something out of it. And she thinks, too, that maybe Santino likes it like this, where she is completely reliant on him for everything.

She doesn’t mind so much.

She would, if Santino didn’t drench her in his longing, if he didn’t make her feel, every day, that he is desperate to treasure her. She has always heard about this kind of love—and it is love—and never thought she would have it for herself.

But she does now, and she doesn’t want to let it go.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Tea or coffee, mama?”

Santino is busying himself in the kitchen. They’ve been together for a little over a year now, and they’re on a tour of Italy—not for fun, necessarily, but for integration. They have just spent the last week with Santino’s father and sister, and now they will spend the next two days in the Tuscan countryside with her mother.

Two days for her mother, instead of the week that they gave Santino’s father and sister, in part because his father deserves more time and in part because Euphemia doesn’t think she can tolerate her mother in much more than two-day increments.

“Coffee, please,” her mother says, very charmed by Santino.

“Tea,” Euphemia interjects. She looks at her mother—her face is tired, and older than she really is. Euphie knows that this is a side effect of heavy, abusive drinking and years spent in emotional terror, not the passage of time. Still, she finds it hard to drum up anything except distant pity in her heart. “You don’t need the caffeine.”

“Oh, you always ruin my fun.”

Santino re-enters the room with a small cup—it’s an espresso cup, but he’s poured it with regular coffee.

“A compromise,” Santi explains, handing the cup to her mother, smiling handsomely. “To make both of my girls happy.”

Her mother preens, glows under the affection. “You are so sweet, Santi. A perfect son-in-law.”

He has always called her and her mother his girls. His own mother had passed since before Euphemia; and while he knows that Euphie’s relationship with her mother is strained at best, he does what he can to ease it. Because it makes her happy, he says, and if she’s happy, he’s happy.

“Not yet a son-in-law,” Euphie corrects, and Santino flashes her a quick, amused little smile.

“You see how cruel she is to me, madonna? I have asked her to marry me, you know.”

“Santi,” Euphemia sighs, but it has had its desired effect; her mother looks scandalized, mortified at her daughter’s resistance to marrying a man as good and handsome and charming as Santino.

“Effie, tell me that you haven’t been bullying Santino like this?”

“Mama, there is no reason—he is just teasing. Ascoltami, you don’t need to look so horrified.”

“I do not know where I went wrong with you, Euphemia Sancia.” Her mother clicks her tongue, muttering something under her breath and taking a drink of the coffee Santi made her, and Euphemia can’t bring herself to say that not everything she has done wrong in her life is a slight against her mother’s parenting skills.

Santino smiles and leans across to Euphie, bringing her hand up to kiss it.

“Don’t worry,” he says to her mother, his voice blooming with practiced warmth. “I will ask her as many times as it takes for her to say yes.”

Euphemia feels her heart stutter painfully in her chest. She knows that he means it; he’s suggested it to her three times, now. It seems to be the only thing he doesn’t mind asking more than once.

“She’s always been fussy, my Euphemia,” her mother says, breaking the magic of Santino’s eyes on her. “Never happy with what she has, just like her father. Except for you, Santi—you are the only thing she holds onto.”

Exasperation and disgust flood over her. Both the mention of the man considered to be her father and any similarities they might share has her mood souring. “Mama—”

But Santino is sweeping in, like he always does when he can tell Euphie is getting tired of her mother, coming to a stand and asking her, “We should get started on dinner, cara mia, don’t you think?”

Just like that, he’s taken control of the conversation again. He sees her flailing and steadies her. Euphemia is certain that he doesn’t love her mother—that he doesn’t even like her—but that he can spend his time tolerating her with charm and grace despite knowing what her mother allowed to go on under their roof is indicative of the man that Santino is.

“Yes,” she replies, standing as well. “You look tired, mama. Take a rest while Santi and I make dinner.”

She wanders into the kitchen with Santino trailing after her. As soon as they’re alone, he winds his arms around her waist and kisses the juncture between her shoulder and neck.

“Is it true?” he asks coyly. “That you don’t hold on to anything except for me?”

She doesn’t want to tell him very much, because he knows already, and because to say it out loud will give it legs. A year together, and she still doesn’t want her feelings for him to have legs. Santino splays his fingers against her sternum and kisses her jaw.

“You know that it is,” she says at last, her voice a little unsteady. She can feel Santi smiling against her skin.

“Euphie,” he purrs, “marry me.”

Yes, she wants to say, as her eyes flutter shut. Yes, I’ll marry you, Santi. Anything that you ask. I’ll do anything for you, if you would just keep saying my name like that.

She wants to say it but the words won't come out. There is nothing quite like the feeling of Santino peeling back each individual layer of her defenses, piece by piece; so close, she knows, he is so close, but not quite. Not yet. She is most comfortable keeping him at arm’s length as much as possible—to kiss and to fuck and to let someone hold you at night is one thing. To let someone in past the barbed-wire of defenses is yet another, impossibly reckless. To be seen feeling anything deranges you, as the poets like to say.

“Sancia, hm?” he continues instead, when she can’t bring herself to answer, as the words stick in her throat. It’s one of those things where Santino seems to exercise a surprising amount of patience, this whole ordeal of to marry or not to marry; later, Euphemia will come to understand that it is because Santino believes their life together to be inevitable, that she will always say yes to him, one way or another.

For now, she turns in his arms, cocking a brow at him. He continues, “It means sacred.”

Euphemia nods sagely and props herself up on the counter. “Buon ascolto, my love. I suppose that means you should work very hard to worship me well.”

Santino laughs. He leans in, trapping her against the counter—though it isn’t much of a trap if she’s a willing participant—and noses the slope of her jaw.

“Yes,” he murmurs, “I suppose that it does.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━

On the last leg of their tour of families, Santino insists that they spend a few days in Rome by themselves.

The days are used mostly for doing a lot of nothing; neither of them are particularly interested in sight-seeing, but rather interested in seeing each other, a thing which they don’t seem to tire of particularly quickly. Instead, they shop, or lay in bed together until the afternoon, or go out to eat when street lights kick on and the city takes on a life of its own.

“You are much happier, Euphie,” Santino says one evening, smoothing out his napkin on the table absently, “when you are not around your mother.”

It’s not a question, per se, though she knows that he expects an answer. But she is still young and a little petulant, and she likes to push his buttons and make him say exactly what it is he means, so she takes a sip of her wine and replies, “Yes.”

He arches a brow at her. He looks particularly handsome like this, she thinks—not around his family, just eating dinner in a streetside restaurant in Rome, illuminated in warm candlelight and the glow of the streetlights outside.

“Are you going to tell me why?” he asks, amusedly.

“If you ask.” Euphemia sets her wine glass down on the table, and when Santino reaches for her hand, she lets him take it, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “But it is so boring, Santi, to talk about my mother. Why don’t you ask me about something else?”

The brunette’s mouth is curving in a little smile. “Like…?”

“Like…” Euphie gestures with her free hand, like she has to really think about it. “Euphie, how did I get so lucky to have a woman like you? That is a good place to start. Or, what will you do with me once you get me back to the hotel? Or, Euphie, will I ever be so fortunate as to call you my wife?”

Santino laughs, leaning into their conversation, bringing her fingers up to kiss them. He has long lashes; soft, and dark, and they brush the tops of his cheekbones when his eyes close. Santino glances from her fingers up to her, that boyish grin on his face.

“I already know the answers to the first and last question,” he says casually, like it’s no big deal, but he’s grinning wickedly at her when he says it. She scoffs.

“Dimme poi,” Euphie insists. “I am dying to know, Santi.”

His expression is very sage, very wise, and he nods his head. “Il destino,” he says, winding their fingers together, “e tra un anno.”

There is something very heart-stopping about the way Santino articulates il destino, as though it is fact, as though there is something undeniable about their coming together.

“How do you know?” she asks. “In a year?”

“Because if you do not want to marry me by then,” Santino replies matter-of-factly, “then I am certainly not suited for marriage at all.”

She rolls her eyes, taking a drink of her wine and savoring the way his eyes trail over her, admiring, drinking her in.

“Well?” he prompts. She looks at him expectantly, and he reiterates, his gaze set on her, “What will you do with me once you get me back to the hotel, belladonna?”

Euphemia feels her heart stutter painfully in her chest when he looks at her like that; like she is the only person in the entire universe, like she has become the sun that snags him in her planetary pull, like he will never, ever grow tired of looking at her. It sweeps the breath out of her.

“Anything, mio amato,” she murmurs. “Anything you want, if you promise to never stop looking at me like that.”

[weclassygirl]

𝐈𝐧 𝐨𝐦𝐧𝐢𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬

Word count: +5k

Pairing: santino d’antonio x f!reader

Summary: “Your life lies in your hands.”

Warnings: torture, besides that none ig

Author’s note: hello! i’m back with yet another part, stuff at uni mostly figured out so that’s good. as always feedback is much appreciated and i truly hope that you’ll enjoy this part. english is not my first language so beware. take care everyone <3

dulce periculum series: ... 03 / 04 / ... / 06

Gif made by me

2 MONTHS LATER

You’ve been training everyday since you got to Camorra, proving yourself worthy of joining their ranks. The training is hard, but you manage, the man that pointed the gun at your head before the Council is training you. You find out that his name is Andre, at first he dislikes you but with time you start to tolerate each other. He sees that you have a potential and that you’re determined. 

Lately you've been practicing with knives, Andre sees that you're good with them and spends more time on your training, thinking that those knives could be your go to weapon. Even if he and the other guards think that guns would be more effective. Santino sees that and one day gifts you an engraved blade. The design on it is stunning, it's simple and the blade is thin. You keep it next to your bed and take with you whenever you are able to go out.

Santino visits you whenever he can, with him now being the Head of Camorra he’s constantly busy. He watches you train from time to time, watching your progress, how you adjust to the new environment you've found yourself in. Both of you talk about everything and nothing - whenever he’s not busy of course. 

Two months into your stay there you were having nightmares nearly every night and wandered around the mansion. Everytime you walked you saw light under Santino’s office. You wondered to go in but decided against it. One night you woke up after a particular bad dream and walked even further into the mansion. You passed by a grand ballroom - surprised to see one there - the gym you frequent often and eventually wander into a garden. 

It’s way past midnight and you can hear crickets in the distance and some birds flying over. You feel the air getting colder and go back to the mansion, walking back to your bedroom, when you stop in your tracks. The light under Santino’s office is on. You hesitate knocking on the door, fearing that you may disturb his work. 

But he did tell you that if you need anything you can tell him. Right now you feel like you need to talk with someone, even if not about your dream, but to just talk. 

You knock lightly on the door. 

You hear a faint Come in before entering the lowly lit room. Santino is sitting behind his desk, papers scattered across it, the laptop screen illuminating his face. He looks up at you with a tired expression that is quickly replaced with surprise. 

"Jade." he acknowledges you as you still stand in the doorway. 

"I saw the light, but I guess you're busy, I'll just go." you say quickly, preparing to leave when you hear him say Wait. You stop in your tracks and turn to him. 

"Come in, you're not bothering me. I am actually finishing up." he says with a stronger hint of Italian accent. You nod your head and close the door behind you. You go and sit on the couch next to the bookshelves. Santino observes your every move.

"Can't sleep?" he wonders. You chuckle slightly, looking down onto your lap, playing with your fingers. 

"That… would be an understatement." you say as you look up at him. His eyes gleam in the low light. "Just bad dreams." 

Santino looks at you, his work forgotten. "You want to talk about them?" he questions, his face filled with worry. 

"I don't think talking about them will help." you say, 'cause it's true. You don't think that it will help, you don't want for others to pity you or consider you weak. The things that live inside your head after that time in the basement will haunt you forever, but it doesn't mean that you can't get stronger because of them. 

"I assume it has to do something with those kidnappers you once mentioned. Will you ever tell me what happened there?" 

"Who knows?" you say, a small smirk adorning your face. You're not sure if you're ready to have that talk with anyone, especially not him. 

You look up at him, his curly hair now more loosened, probably due to him running his hand through them all night. His eyes look tired, his shoulder have slumped slightly. 

You stand up and walk over to him. "What are you working on?" you wonder and stand next to him, looking at the papers scattered on the desk. Some of them blueprints and some a raports. 

Santino looks up at you, leaning back in his chair giving you access to look at the documents. You take one in your hands and read it briefly. Santino sighs.

"A small deal with the Romanians. The problem is that the information they send is all in Romanian." he tells you, the corner of his lips drawing upwards. "At this time it's hard to find a Romanian translator."

You look down on him and draw your eyebrows together. "You have me." you inform him like it's the most obvious thing. 

"You speak Romanian?" there's a certain surprise in his voice. You shrug and lean in closer.

"A bit. I haven't practiced in a while but I think I still remember something." you say, his gaze burning into yours. You quickly look at the papers on the desk and take one that Santino gives you. You translate the document quickly and roughly, not feeling confident in your translation. Santino makes notes as you translate the papers. 

Once you're done you lean back on the couch, in which you sat on when you were translating. Papers scattered on it and a half empty coffee mug beside you. Santino looks up from his notes and puts the pen down. His green eyes narrow at you. 

"You're still full of surprises." he comments as he huffs out a laugh. You release one on your own. The room is engulfed in a comfortable silence, but there's still one thing you can't help but wonder. 

"Is this what Camorra does? Create deals all over the world, call in old debts?" you question the Italian. "What else? Tells horror bedtime stories to children on Tuesday afternoon?" you ask with a sarcastic undertone. 

Santino looks at you, amusement showing on his face. He leans back in his table, the laptop light no longer bouncing back on his face. 

"Most of the time and the Markers are used on rare occasions. As for those bedtime stories," he leans in closer on his desk, elbows resting against the dark wood. "only few hear them and decide to work for Camorra." 

Your head is filled with questions but only one comes to mind. "How early does someone start here?" you look up at him, his gaze holding yours before settling on the papers on the desk. 

"Not that early…  but there were few cases when we had recruits at age 14-17." he says as he stands up from his chair, going over to the small table filled with various alcohol, but he chooses to pour water into the glasses. He comes up to you, his steps measured and gives you the glass. "Most of the people here had already done some training, be it army or military, the teens come mostly from the streets."

He sits down beside you, pushing away the papers and placing them on the small table in front of the couch. 

He goes into explaining how Camorra works in this world. What they do, who they deal with, to what measures they would go to get information. 

You take in as much as you can, absorbing the information with curiosity. You begin to tell him how Camorra looks in your world, or as much as you know about them. With Santino you receive an inside info about the organization, in your world you can only rely on poor written articles and books that could as well be a work of fiction. 

Soon your eyes start to get heavy and you quickly fall asleep on the couch. Santino notices it from his desk and stands up to pick you up. He opens the door to his office and heads to your bedroom. Carefully as to not wake you up, he places you in your bed and covers you with a blanket. He closes the door as quiet as he can and goes back to his office. 

He knows you've been walking around the mansion nearly every night. He made nothing of it but he always knew whenever you stopped in front of his office door, hesitating to enter. 

He knows about your nightmares and sometimes even hears them through the walls. Whenever he tries to go to your room and help you, your whimpers stop, as if his presence near your bedroom helps on its own in calming you down.

The next day you enter the kitchen you're met with the other guards of Camorra and Santino. You make yourself coffee all while avoiding eye contact with the Italian. You think that you falling asleep on his couch may have been in appropriate. 

He knows how hard you've been working over those past two months alongside with your sleepless nights. He thinks it was sweet and didn't mind.

4 MONTHS LATER 

The empty room is dark, only some of the light coming through the small windows. You've been sent with some of the Camorra members on a mission. Simple info gathering, recon and of course interrogation, in form of torture you presumed. 

To say you're nervous would be an understatement. This is your first mission for Camorra, the mission that will determine if you stay alive in this world with them or dead six feet underground. The man tied to a chair laughs and spits some blood on Andre's face. The guard flinches lightly and wipes the blood from his face with an annoyed expression. He collects himself and punches the man in the jaw. 

You watch the interaction between the other guards and the man. It's been now six months since you've joined Camorra and this is your first mission for them. Before it was just constant training and wondering when that day will come. 

You've started talking more with Santino, visiting him late in the night but also throughout the day. The two of you talk about various topics but you've noticed that the both of you don't seem that different. He had his upbringing in wealth, yes, but the things he had to go through... Reaching up a goal that was snuffed away from under his nose. 

You've started to open a bit more to him, still not revealing what happened that night. You're not ready for that talk. It's been half a year and you're still not ready, the scar is too deep. Or rather the scars that still litter your body remind you of that time.

You're brought back from your thoughts when Caterina grasps your arm. Her almost white hair now even more lighter with how the only source of light hits them. "Your turn, newbie." she says to you and winks. You look to her and nod as she hands you the knife. You take it, the cold metal cooling your skin. 

You step closer to the man in the chair, the rest of the guards stepping away. They know that they can't help you now, everything is up to you, everything lies in your hands. 

Your life lies in your hands. 

You see from the corner of your eye Sonya and Spirto as they give you a small thumbs up and a nod. You've grown close to those two over the last few months. Caterina stands on your left while Andre stands behind you, watching your every move. The man in front of you laughs. 

"You think you will get anything out of me, huh? Go to hell you bitch." he says it as he spits some more blood on your shoes. You don't bother acknowledging that action, now only a stone cold expression makes its way onto your face. 

The past months you've learned not to show any weakness around anyone, especially in front of the enemies, as Andre keeps drilling into you. You lean in closer almost eye level with the man. 

"Where's the shipment?" you asks, twirling the knife in your hands. The guards behind you watch your actions with an observant eyes.

The man scoffs. "I'm not telling you shit." he spits blood to the side and grins. "You think that you'll do something here kid, I can see from a mile that you're new to this." 

You look at him, cuts littering his face, courtesy of Sonya who gave them to him just a few minutes ago. His clothes torn by various cuts, his hair mixed with blood. The empty room is filled by the muffled scream of the man as you stab his thigh with the blade. The blood quickly spills out of the wound. 

You give him an expression that could never be considered an honest smile. You twist the knife and the man grunts in pain. His eyes filled with rage. "Still think I'm new to this?" 

You pull out the knife and wipe it on his jacket. The guards behind you say nothing, just watch how you will handle the situation. The man has already been beaten up, breathing is becoming more difficult for him now.

Andre looks at you, arms crossed on his chest. His face showing pride, he told you about that move. The man in the chair starts to chuckle. 

"You think you're so smart? That you will really get out of here with that address?" he looks up at you as you play with the blade in your hands. You tilt your head to the side, amusement showing up on your face. 

"Oh I know I will. I just prefer to get it before getting my hands more dirty." you say as a matter of factly. The man leans forward in his seat as much as he can. 

"Like you're capable of that." he comments with disgust lacing his voice. You straighten up looking behind you at the others. Spirto and Sonya whisper among each other, glancing at you now and then. Sonya gives you a faint smile, so does Spirto. 

Caterina still holds that cold unmovable expression on her face and Andre only nods at you, silently telling you to wrap up the interrogation.

You hum thoughtfully and move closer to the man, standing behind his back. He can't see your face, only momentarily from the side of his vision.

"You know that the human spine, no matter where you injure it can make you paralyzed." you say to him as you lean in closer. "Of course you can get a rehabilitation and all necessary medicine to help with the treatment but there's one point" you lean in even closer, your lips nearly against his earlobe. You feel him tense as you put the blade and the low of his back, lightly pressing it against his skin "that can make you completely paralyzed without any possibility of getting better." 

The guards look at each other, they didn't expect this kind of move or rather method. Most people while interrogating would just beat and cut the person, but this… this is a method they rarely see being used. They have used different ones in the past that are rare, but no one would have thought to use a basic knowledge of human anatomy in this situation. 

The man on the chair tenses even more. He releases a shaky chuckle. "You won't do it, you don't have the guts for it." you only smile and whisper in his ear.

"You underestimate me." you begin to press the knife deeper, piercing the skin even more. The scarlet blood drips onto the ground, your movements slow. The man writhes in the chair and tries to suppress a grunt of pain. 

The knife is near the spine when you hear the man's voice echo through the room as he yells in pain. "Fine!" he exclaims. You pull away the knife and the man releases a breath. He pants as you step around him, once again facing him. You raise an eyebrow at him, waiting for the information. 

The guards look at you, Spirto wears a grin on his face while the others hold a cold expressions on their faces. Deep inside they are proud, somehow. The months of training didn't go to waste… but it's still only one task. 

If you succeed with this one then more will come, there will be no place for mistakes. You look at the man press the knife slightly against his wounded thigh. He hisses through clenched teeth.

"Where is it?" 

"The docks," he says with a defeated voice. "there's a container there with all of it, guns, books, documents, everything." 

"Anything else? Number perhaps?" you question, the knife shining in your hands with red. The man looks up at you, the bruises on his face already forming. 

"Sixteen." he hangs his head down, his chest raises up and down. You step up to him and take his face in your hand. Your fingers gripping his jaw, making him look you in the eyes. 

"See?" you say as you slap his cheek lightly, the man flinches at the touch. You move to stand behind him. "That wasn't that hard." You press the knife against the previously open cut and reach his spine. 

The man gasps and grunts as you press the knife and twist it lightly. You lean over his shoulder, he turns his head weakly to face you. "That's for a reminder." you tell him, a blank expression on your face. The guards ahead of you silently watching."Don't worry you can treat it but your legs, well… I'm sure you weren't that attached to them." you step back and hear the man trashing in his seat until his movements stop. You exit the room, giving one last look to the guards. They give you a somewhat proud expression, Sonya and Spirto smiling at you as you leave the room filled with the man's screams. 

In the other room, Santino and the grey haired woman - which you learned is called Siobhan - watched this scene through the cameras placed in the room. The woman is impressed, she's been watching your progress over these couple of months as did Santino. He was informing the Council about your stay here, how well you adapted, how much you were training and learning. 

The Italian never doubted your abilities and your stay with them only proved it. He was overseeing your training, Andre and the other guards informed him on your improvement. You completed the task at hand, successfully retrieving the information that contained the placement of guns, blackmail valuable to the Camorra and especially to Santino. 

Siobhan looks at the Italian man beside her and nods. Giving her approval of you joining the Camorra ranks, she silently leaves the room. The Camorra Head is left in the room alone, he looks at you as you exit the dark room on the screen. The man in the chair unmoving and the guards follow their sights on your disappearing figure. A smirk makes its way onto his face, he knew you were capable and is proud that you managed to complete the task. 

As you walk to your bedroom to wash off the small droplets of blood that has fallen on your hands you think what just happened. You just completed your first task for Camorra, but that still doesn't mean that you'll live. You have to manage that on your own. 

You hear a knock on your door which interrupts your thoughts. You open them and see Luca and Ben, they ask you to come with them and you comply. The three of you walk into a room, the same room that you've first met the Council in. The grey haired woman is already standing up as well as Santino. He looks at you, his lips slightly drawing upwards. The woman comes to you and looks you up. She does that for a while before she reaches out her hand in your direction. You hesitantly take it and shake it, a shiver goes up your spine but you don't feel fear. You only sport that stoic expression that you see Santino often wearing.

"Welcome to Camorra, saviour." 

1,5 YEAR LATER 

You've been with Camorra for a little over two years now. You haven't found a way back home, you’ve been searching whenever you had a bit of time and found nothing. 

You didn't give up but at this point you can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. Since you’ve joined Camorra, you’ve been sent on more missions to the point that you’ve been going on solo ones. 

Your first solo mission took a toll on you. It was the first mission where you had to kill to finish it. You've completed it but when you came back to the mansion you just went past Santino. He saw the blank look on your face and quickly followed you. He was informed of the missions success but your expression made him uneasy. 

He entered your room and saw the door to your bathroom open, the light faintly coming from it. He found you almost at the edge of tears, looking at your reflection and hands. Santino said nothing just wrapped his arms around you, placing his hand on your head. You stilled for a moment before wrapping your own arms around his torso. 

Both of you stayed like that for a long while as you released soft sniffles. You've killed those man from the basement before, but that was self defense. A need to survive. This was a job where you were ordered to kill, it felt completely different, you felt nothing when you plunged the knife in the man's throat. Santino stayed with you that night and you even managed to sleep peacefully. 

As you stayed permanently with Camorra, he guards helped you with your adjustment. You're almost equal with them and created a weird functional family. You get along with Spirto and Sonya the most, Andre even started taking a liking to you but he still tells you the opposite. They see that you've grown worthy of being a member of Camorra. Your own version of Impossible Task strengthened your bond, not only with the guards but also with Santino.

Santino has gotten closer but you still didn't reveal him your name or that time in the basement. You believe that you will never tell him even though you want to. Both of you talk everyday and never lack a topic to talk about. The two of you confide in each other, you start talking about the nightmares that haunt you whenever he comes to calm you down from a bad dream. You visit him every night in his office when he's working, help him and let him speak his thoughts out loud. 

As of now you're training with Ben, he holds two boxing mats in his hands as you throw punches left and right. You hear Luca and Sonya fighting in the background and Spirto tapping away on his laptop. He sits high on one of the crates hung up under the ceiling. How he got there still amazes you. Ben throws a punch at your head and you duck under it swiftly, knocking him over his feet. He falls on his back with a thud. 

"That was a dick move." he says through a small fit of laughter. You give him one of your hands and he takes it as you help him get up. You release a chuckle on your own. 

"No one fights clean here." you say back and the tanned man nods. He takes off the pads from his hands. "You've gotten better. That limp is gone now, that's good." 

The last mission you were on made you limping for a week when you jumped on the wrong side of the foot. You had to jump from a rooftop to get to the others as you were avoiding getting hit by the bullets. You landing - from a short distance - was nothing pleasant. You could feel your leg already being in pain as all of you entered the getaway car. 

Your thoughts are interrupted as you hear a sharp whistle from the gym entrance. You and Ben look at the intruder and see Caterina, her long white hair now pulled up in a ponytail. She's dressed only in a simple black dress shirt and equally dark jeans. She looks towards you. 

"The boss wants you in his office." you see her lips drawing upwards, but her expression is not taken over by a full grin. 

You put down your boxing gloves and walk towards her. "What for?" you question. 

"I don't know, he didn't say." you look at her, your eyebrows drawn together. You only give her a nod and go straight for the showers. You peel off the now sweaty clothing and jump under the warm stream of water. After 10 minutes you're ready and go to Santino's office, briefly stopping by your bedroom to change clothes. 

You stand in front of the room that you visit so often. You knock lightly and enter without waiting for him to tell you Come in. At this point it has become a habit for you to enter his office without even knocking sometimes. 

You walk into the lowly lit room and are met with a figure of a woman. Santino sits behind the desk, leaning in his chair as you enter. The woman in the dark coat turns and the first thing you notice is a tattoo on her neck that is so familiar to you. 

An Adjudicator stands proud with her hands clasped together in front of her. You look at her and immediately straighten up, your muscles feeling tense. She regards you with that cold expression you used to see on the screen. Her presence sends a shiver up your spine. 

"I believe introductions are not necessary here." she says, her expression blank. You look at her and then at Santino. His frame enveloped in the chair, he has his hands clasped in front of each other, fiddling with the ring on his finger. His gaze meets your, those emerald eyes reflecting the flickering light of the lamp. 

You turn to the Adjudicator and step closer. "The High Table has been informed of the events concerning your involvement in saving Mr. D'Antonio." your eyes go slightly wide. 

It's been over two years and only now they send an Adjudicator? Why wait so long? 

"You are the person that stopped Mr. Wick from killing the newly installed member of the High Table, are you not?" she says in a cold tone. 

"I am." 

"And are you a person that supposedly comes from another world and currently goes by the name of Jade?" 

"Yes." you say hesitantly, still not knowing what the woman would want from you. From both of you. The whole conversation reminds you of the one you had with the Council for the first time. Getting to the point and giving short answers that tell everything. 

"Wait, before you continue I have to to ask." you cut in before she can question you further. Her expression shows an emotion, amusement. She nods and lets you speak. "Why now?" a simple question. 

The High Table had a whole two years to get to Camorra, to ask about you, to question that night. But they didn't. They only come now. 

"Why does the High Table send an Adjudicator after two years of me being here? Why not sooner? Why not after that night?" the questions spill out of your mouth. Santino sits still behind his desk, smiling faintly at your curiousness. You have a habit of questioning everything around you, he has come to realize. He doesn't blame you, it's almost endearing to him for a person to want to know so much. To absorb the knowledge, to adapt. 

The Adjudicator steps closer to you, she leans in, her cold stare holding you in place. She looks at Santino. "The Camorra is undoubtedly one of the most powerful at the High Table. With you joining them right after that night, we weren't able to interfere." 

"And why is that? You're the High Table, you stand above them as a whole, isn't that right?" you wonder out loud. You hear a scrape of a chair and see Santino from the corner of your eye standing up and walking to the front of the desk. 

"That's because the moment you joined Camorra you also became one of us. And we protect our own. No matter where they come from." he says, all while looking at you. There's a feeling deep inside of you that you haven't felt in years.

Belonging.

Your features soften at his statement, the Adjudicator doesn't see them, because the moment she turns back to you, your expression goes back to the stoic one. 

"Another reason is that we wanted to see how the events will carry. You saved him from a fate that could change a lot in this world, I'm sure you've already seen those events." she says walking to bookshelves and inspecting them. "Furthermore Mr. Wick has finally retired, we needed to make sure that he will surely stay that way, without certain interference." she looks at Santino, both of them seeming to fight an invisible battle of stares. The tension in the room rises with every passing minute and word that comes out of the Adjudicator's mouth. 

Santino decides to speak up, his voice carries through the space of the office. "Well then, to what do we owe the visit from the High Table, an Adjudicator no less?" he questions, his head held up high and you faintly mimic his movement. You can't afford a show of weakness in front of her. 

You always thought that she gives off that unsettling sense of authority. That sheer power that comes off of her is filling up the room making all of the eyes focus on her. 

She turns to you and says something you could have never expected. 

"The Elder demands your presence." 

[the-darklings]

—𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒆;

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

word count: 10.9k+

summary: You wait for the relief, for the triumph, to hit you but it doesn’t come.

warnings: swearing, strong violence/blood, angst.

notes: *giggles* ENJOY!!

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

Tarasov laughs, low and deep, his hands coming up to cup your cheeks. Your muscles are so tense they tremble, and it’s an effort to not break his arms but you manage to contain yourself, your expression carefully blank. He grins at you widely, and his clear pride turns your stomach.

“Aye, aye, all these years,” he mutters thoughtfully, turning your head slightly from side to side. “And it is now—pretty last fucking minute too—that you go ahead and make me proud, eh?”

For a moment you both simply gaze at each other, considering, assessing.

“Little viper,” he hums in Russian, rolling the sounds with quiet approval. “My vicious little viper. Seems like my faith has been rewarded after all. Well done, well done. You went ahead and brought me back Baba Yaga himself.”

He pats your cheek once, his touch a gentle mockery of the last time he did it years ago, and his hands drop away.

You then realise why.

John is awake.

He’s coming around slowly—a side effect of the solution you know he inhaled before he went down—but he will be fully awake soon enough. Blood stains his temple and his chin turns slightly from side to side. He’s trying to gather himself, subtly checking for wounds, and testing how tight his binds are.

You know because he was the one to teach you these things.

It’s an interesting reversal of situations.

Avi pulls out a chair for Tarasov and the man shrugs off his coat, sitting himself down in front of his old associate.

“There is,” he begins snippily. “A certain audacity about you. Though I admit, you are still the John Wick of the old.”

Tarasov chuckles under his breath, but John doesn’t seem to be listening to what the man is saying. Instead, his dark eyes rise over his face, then his shoulder, and lock straight onto you.

“Why?”

Tarasov falls quiet. The hanger itself falls under a peculiar sort of hush; as dangerous as it is fragile.

You don’t look away from him. Your eyes remain locked because you are not ashamed, not afraid. But you do see hurt there. Betrayal. Something hidden and pained that he guards carefully.

“Because when you left, I went through hell because of you,” you tell him simply, your voice devoid of emotion. “And now, you will know what that feels like.”

Tarasov laughs deeply, leaning back in his chair. John’s eyes remain locked with yours.

“Goodness, John,” he says, amused, and glances at Avi as if to see if the man finds it just as funny. “Even I know the old saying ‘hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’. You left her for another woman, got married, and now what? Did you expect her to run back into your loving arms again? Let’s not be naive here. People don’t change. Times they do. Some hurts never heal though and hers…”

Tarasov pauses, exhaling, and regards John with a thoughtful frown.

“You got out,” he continues. “Got married. And I had my son. Yours was a far better deal, I reassure you. But the way you did it. By lying to yourself that your past doesn’t hold sway over the future. Lying to yourself that you have moved on, found peace. But, we are often rewarded for our misdeeds. Which is why God took your wife, John. And then unleashed you upon me.”

Tarasov glances over his shoulder and your eyes meet for a second. He shakes his head slightly with a small smile. “But life has also rewarded me by giving me one of the very few capable of making you bleed. The Last Task and the Impossible Task. It ends how it began. Fine irony in that, don’t you think?”

John doesn’t answer him. His expression is guarded, composed, but his eyes keep flickering up to you. You meet his stare every time, unmoved.

Tarasov leans closer, his voice calmer now. “This life, John, it follows you,” he insists tightly. “It clings to you, affecting everyone who comes close. It’s a slow-acting poison that eats away at everything you love till there’s nothing left. We are cursed, the three of us,” he whispers, pointing his finger at each of you when he briefly glances in your direction again.

You feel yourself swallow.

He’s not wrong.

“On that,” John’s soft voice fills the air. “We agree.”

Tarasov makes a small sound of surprise, leaning back sharply as he stares at John in disbelief. “Finally. Common ground.”

John’s attention, for the first time, seems to focus solely on Tarasov and you know that this will not go down well before he even speaks. “Step aside, let me have your son.”

You almost shake your head. Hasn’t he listened to a single thing you said to him? Iosef might be a good-for-nothing waste of space but he’s still Viggo’s son. His blood. Tarasov might not be Giovanni D’Antonio when it comes to the sheer ferocity with which he protects his own family, but you have seen enough of Tarasov to know that unless he has no other choice, he will protect his son.

The man hums, quiet and mocking, “John Wick, hm? Baba Yaga.”

He rises to his feet abruptly, his chair sliding back a few inches, and grabs his coat with enough force to make the material flutter. “It was just a fucking car. It was just a fucking dog.”

“Just a dog,” John echoes, sounding almost dazed. “Viggo.”

To his benefit, the Russian clearly still has enough respect for the assassin that he stops and lets him speak, his hands on his hips as he stares at the man expectantly.

“When Helen died, I lost everything,” John admits, his voice frayed with pain, and you see the potent grief in his eyes. For the first time, it also rings in his voice; a heart-wrenching symphony of loss. “I had nothing till that dog arrived on my doorstep; a final gift from my wife. Her gift of hope. A chance to grieve unalone when I realised that I had no one left.”

For a split second your eyes meet, and you recall that night too. His plea for you to stay, and you walking away from him. And despite everything, you still don’t regret it. Because this just confirms what you already guessed at then.

He wanted you to stay not because he needed you but because he didn’t want to be alone. If you had stayed, it would have destroyed you. You would have been trapped in a space that is not your own—could never be your own—and lived a lie. Pretending that you’re fine with the fact that he’s grieving for a woman he married and loved while you were hunted across the world. A woman he left you for even if it had been for your own protection too.

You would have wasted away, day after day, trying to live up to her ghost.

“But your son,” John continues and your skin crawls when, for the first time in a long time, you see pure fury split his stoic demeanour. “Took that from me, stole that from me, killed that from me.”

Tarasov turns to you with an irritated sigh and shoots you a look.

“People have been asking me if I’m back and I haven’t really had an answer for them,” John snarls, low and furious, and you realise that you have never seen his facade crack like this. Shatter and splinter so completely. “But now, yeah, I’m thinkin’ I’m back. So you can either hand over your son or you can die screaming alongside him!”

Tarasov’s men grab him when he jumps up from his seat and you release a shuddering breath, staring at him in mute shock.

The older man’s hand lands on your shoulder, purposeful, but his expression is serious, unforgiving. “All yours, little viper,” he informs you, and glances at the still struggling John one last time. “Make sure he suffers. Then, consider your debt repaid in full. Perhaps we can still discuss business after. What do you say?”

Your lips curl in disdain as you observe John, and when your eyes lift to Tarasov’s you have just the answer for him. “Sounds good, boss.”

Tarasov smiles, pleased, and pats your shoulder before shrugging on his coat and leaving the hanger with Avi. The latter man gives you a small nod when he passes of what—if you didn’t know any better—you would have considered respect, and follows after his boss.

One of the guards, having grown tired of the still struggling John, drags a plastic bag over his head, cutting off his air supply. You stare at the sight before you for a moment, trying to imagine what he must be feeling right now. You know very well the horrifying swell of panic that locks your muscles when you don’t have enough oxygen.

Kishi made sure you carry that fear with you to this day.

The burning of your lungs, the dizziness, the pressure in your head. The sheer agony of having life being slowly drawn out of you—the feeling of your cells dying, of your blood vessels rupturing.

The most sickening part is the fact that at first you don’t feel it, you simply know it’s happening, and that makes it so much worse.

“Enough,” you tell them. “We don’t want him dead just yet.”

The guard obeys, loosening the bag before he takes it off and John gasps, sucking in sharp breaths of oxygen. Kirill’s expectant stare follows you as you step closer to John.

“(Name),” he gasps, breathing heavily. “I’m…sorry.”

You laugh in disbelief, turning away from him, and spin your face towards the window that allows light to stream inside.

“Oh, John,” you whisper sadly. “You’re always sorry. But it doesn’t change anything.”

You rub your nose once, grinning slightly.

A shot whistles through the room, hitting the second guard right in the head, his blood exploding everywhere. Kirill grabs his gun but one of your blades sinks into his throat before he can fire and he gapes at you, swaying. He takes a step closer and another, but you approach him calmly, and grabbing the blade still inside his neck drag it to one side viciously. Blood rains to the floor in a river of startling crimson and you step back, avoiding the deluge.

His shock is stark even when gravity finally drags him backward and he falls with a heavy thud to the floor. Your blade is still in your hand, now covered in blood, only free of its host.

Your head dips towards the window and you salute with it.

Marcus, as always, never misses his shots.

After all, who else were you going to ask for help? Despite not being on friendly terms, you still have John connecting you both. Despite everything, you’re both still individuals of loyalty above all else.

When you rang him, Marcus divulged how Tarasov came to him personally, asking him to kill John. Almost the same way he came to you, except he did not phrase it like an offer to you. No, Tarasov looked you in the eyes and told you a simple truth.

“John Wick is your last job. Kill him and you’re free.”  

What other choice did you have than to play along till the time was right? What use would you have been to John when you were killed or hunted? Possibly made Excommunicado for this betrayal? If Tarasov caught up to him, you would have been his only shot of getting out alive. So you played along with the Russian, telling him that it will be your pleasure to kill John. That you want him to feel betrayed, hurt, broken as you have been. Tarasov believed you because you didn’t need to fake your anger or hurt. Those have been real.

But the moment Tarasov learns of what you have done here, he will go straight to the High Table. Demand a hunt. And the rules of the old world will swing in the favour of your parents' killer. Because a debt remains unpaid.

One job. One simple, fucking job.

A job that is John Wick.

A job worth failing.

“(Name),” is his gentle exhale of your name. “Why?”

Your head turns in his direction and you approach him slowly, going for his leg binds first. Even though he asked the exact same question no more than fifteen minutes ago, his tone couldn’t be more different. His first had been more of a demand, hidden hurt lacing his tone. His eyes raging with betrayal and confusion. Now, an understanding, disbelief. Sadness. Warmth.

“You were my dream once,” you admit quietly, your voice strangled. “The depth of my devotion to you…it had no bounds. You could have asked me anything and I would have done it because I loved you that much.”

Your head rises, and you look him right in the eye. You’ve long since passed the point of feeling ashamed of your feelings.

“For me, happiness was being with you, John,” you admit and note how his expression creases with subtle, unspoken pain. You’re ripping into an old wound but you can’t find it in yourself to care. Not right now. Not when this might be your only chance to say it. “I always chose you. So choose me now. When Tarasov learns what happened here—he will hunt us. You know he will. The High Table will demand my blood for breaking the contract before the debt was repaid.”

You stand, and lay your hands on his, gripping them tightly. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Go somewhere no one is going to find us. Start a new life together.”

John gazes at you for a tense moment and then rises to his feet awkwardly. He doesn’t drop your hands, cradling them carefully in his own. You stare up at him, your heart galloping in your chest, and you don’t know what it is he sees on your face but you can only imagine the fragile hope.  

“I have to finish this.”

He might as well have screamed it. As loud and as wild as he did earlier with Tarasov.

But it’s a murmur. Because he always talks with you with a softness of a lover as he cuts into you, deeper and deeper each time.

Your expression drops and you swallow thickly, trying for a smile.  

“I know you do.”

Tugging your hands back, you step away from him, half-turning.  

“I promise to you,” he declares firmly. “I will kill Tarasov.”

You smile wider, but it feels brittle on your lips; a broken, forced thing.  

“You won’t,” you breathe knowingly, and continue on before he can argue otherwise. “Because the only way to get to Iosef now is through his father, and you can’t kill Tarasov until you find him.”

John remains quiet and you chuckle though it sounds hollow in your own ears. “By which time it will already be too late,” you note weakly, turning away from him.  

“(Name)—”

“Don’t.”

It’s a snarl; a wild, vicious noise that tears from deep within.

This time there will be no tears. You’ve stopped shedding those a long time ago, especially for him. And by this point, perhaps, you know better than to expect anything. Not from John who is so clearly still in love with his dead wife.

Revenge above all else—even you.

Your feet carry you away from him one steady step at a time.  

“You will be free. I swear to you.”

You pause.

Free?

You don’t even know what that is anymore.  

You walk away without a word.

Winston,

If you’re reading this I’m dead. Don’t roll your eyes either, I’m allowed to be dramatic. I think. I never had to sit on my ass waiting for the final count but here we are. I don’t even know why I’m writing this. Maybe I’ve watched one too many movies. That’s what people do, isn’t it? Leave notes behind? I could run, of course, but how far would I really get? How many people would have to die as a result? I’ve ran for a long time, Winston. It’s all I know and I’m tired. I’m so tired. I think deep down I always knew that my story can only end one way. At least it wasn’t all bad. I’ve met some good people along the way, and isn’t that what life is all about?

God, am I getting philosophical? I guess you’ve rubbed off on me, old man. But I’m grateful. Despite everything, I think I will miss you quite a lot. My father cared but I don’t think he ever truly understood me. Not the way you do. Or did, I suppose. I’m grateful for all you have done for me. For the advice you gave me and the tough love I needed. I’m thankful that despite not liking Santino, you told me to take the Chicago job that day. That you understood how very close I had come to the edge when no one else did. That you were there for me in your own grumpy way, always.

Thank you. Just thank you.

Everything I have, I leave to you. The formulas, the solutions, the poisons—everything that I am, that I have become, is yours now. You will find the vault codes on the other side of this letter. It’s the only way I know how to repay you. A gift of death. But it will keep you safe for a while longer. Keep our city in order, too, if you’re smart about this and I know that you are, you old bastard.

But I suppose, if I could get one last wish from you, then I would ask you this: take my poison, go to the High Table, and feed it to the lot of them. Make them choke on it.

I know it’s unlikely you will ever take this kind of risk. But it sure as hell feels nice writing it.

We had a good run, you and I.

If I see you too soon though, you’ll never hear the end of it.

See you in hell, old man.

— your favourite little hatchling.

P. S. I know you don’t like him. But please, next time you see Santino, give him the second letter. And tell him I’m sorry.

Your fingers loosen around the pen and you sigh, your eyes fluttering shut.

Slowly, gently, you fold the piece of paper, slotting it into the crisp envelope before you. Taking the pen again, you scribble Winnie on the front and place it next to another already sealed letter reading Hey, Santi.

Then, you take a moment to breathe. Simply count the beats of your own heart. Appreciate the seconds in which you are still, miraculously, alive. Maybe not whole. But still alive.

Of course, you could run. Of course, you could hide. Even fight.

But for how long?

Alone against the High Table. The highest power there is. How long would you last?

And you know better than that. You know that you won’t be alone.

Maybe Winston would hide you for as long as he could, get you out of the city, or help you in some other way. Santino sure as hell wouldn’t let this go. He would do something about it—something as drastic and as volatile as his nature. Ares, for once, would not try to argue him out of it, either.

And where would it all lead?

Even with all that help, it would still not be enough.

The High Table would punish them—if not outright kill them—for helping you, for covering for you, and you can’t let that happen.

That’s the one last thing you can still do for them. Keep them safe. Not give them the chance to get involved in this till it’s already too late. A clean break.

They’re yours—your people; as odd and as twisted as you are—and you want to keep them away from this fallout.

Tarasov is a vengeful man. He will come to collect his dues soon enough in some shape or form.

Let him have it. Let him indulge.

His son will be dead soon enough because there’s no stopping John now.

John.

You didn’t write a letter to him.

Most things that could’ve been said between you have already been said.

What’s the point of causing more hurt?

No, you don’t want to think about the bad. Not right now.

Right now there is no Kishi, no Tarasov, no pain or loneliness.

“I think that you are lonely. I think that you are in pain but do not show it.”

Santino.

And Winston. And Ares. And Charon. Cassian and Gianna. Roberto. The Four.

Even John.

Your friends. At some point or another. The only people you’ve ever cared about.

You will miss them—even if some of them may not miss you back.

Standing, you wander towards the loveseat, sitting down heavily, and stare at the phone in your hand.

It’s an odd thing. There is no fear, not really. There is a feeling of sadness though. Like there is not enough time to do everything you want to do; a cold sense of things unfulfilled, and dreams undreamt. A part of you wishes you had enough time to visit the people that keep jumping through your mind. Give them all a proper goodbye. You don’t like the idea of leaving them grasping onto distant memories of you. But what else can you offer them now?

Sighing, you dial the first number in your Recents and hold your breath.

It rings once and the line crackles to life.

It makes you smile. So predictable.

“Ciao, cara mia.”

His voice lacks the familiar sly edge. In fact, he sounds more subdued, guarded. But given your last conversation, perhaps it shouldn’t be that surprising. Santino has never bothered hiding his thoughts in regards to John. None of those thoughts are kind. In any capacity. After everything you’ve gone through, experienced, it’s perhaps no wonder Santino dislikes him as much as he does.

He has seen the worst of the aftermath John’s departure caused.

He knows. He understands.

“Hey,” you breathe quietly, and remind yourself that you can’t give anything away. “Can you talk or—”

“I always have time for you,” he cuts in smoothly but his voice is still flat in comparison to his usual teasing. “I am, however, surprised to hear from you.”

Ouch. You deserve that one though. You never did call him back yesterday. Even if he was the one to end your call, he must have expected…something after. Anything.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him honestly, swallowing. “Things got out of hand yesterday. I—when are you coming back to New York?”

For a moment, the other end of the line is quiet. Then, a slow, chilly, “Are you well, bella? Did something happen?”

You have to nibble on your lips forcefully to stop yourself from breaking your composed demeanour. You know how he would react if you told him what has happened and it’s easier this way. By the time he’s back, you will likely be gone, and even though he will rage, he will be kept away from this. You don’t want to involve him more after the blow he suffered just days ago.

“Always and no,” you mutter with a slight laugh, and press the phone closer to your ear, your next words hushed. “Hey, so I was thinking. You keep nagging me about Paris for years but I just realised that you’ve never even told me anything about it. Besides the fact that I apparently never seen your Paris. Whatever that means.”

“You want to make plans for Paris?”

Surprised, soft.

Your eyes close, pained, and you force loftiness into your voice. “Why won’t I?” you pose playfully, swallowing again. “Any places in particular you plan to take me?”

An exhale; and when Santino speaks next, you hear that hint of achingly familiar deviousness back in his voice again. “Well, amore. The first place we’ll go to is this cafe called Le New York—do not laugh at the name—it is a rather lovely spot overlooking both the Seine and the Eiffel Tower. After enjoying some fine food and above-average wine, we will go—”

You listen to him. Phone pressed tightly against your ear, you let Santino’s low, pleased voice wrap around you like a comforting blanket. Sink into your bones. There is a clear trace of excitement in his voice he’s trying to smother, and he’s as animated and as haughty as you’re used to hearing him be. He paints Paris in a new light, telling you about the many spots you had no idea even existed.

“It sounds nice,” you whisper when he finishes speaking, as if realising that perhaps he has continued on for a while longer than anticipated. “I look forward to it.”

Silence answers, and then a quiet, “One more job, amore,” he reminds you, and you can’t quite place his tone. “Just one more job and then you are free. We can go anywhere you want. Anywhere at all. I am no longer an heir. You will no longer be tied to New York. Let me show it to you. Everything there is. Just us.”

The silence between you stretches, and your fingers rise to brush against the silver chain around your neck, tangling it in-between your fingers. It’s the only present from Santino that you have ever accepted. Perhaps because it, unlike dozens of others before it, was not given to you during a fancy dinner or an event. It had been just you two at his home, enjoying the breeze from the Gulf on the rooftop terrace. He had pulled it out of his pocket—no box, no extravagant delivery—and placed it in your hand, closing your fingers around it. A simple, silver chain which—while uniquely made—did not stand out in any way. He never said where it came from or why he chose to give it to you, but you knew from the moment he passed it to you that it was important to him.

You put it around your neck that evening, and it has never come off in the year since you’ve had it.

Maybe because it had felt more like him and not an attempt to show off or impress you.

“Okay. We can see it all when you get back. Promise.”

I wish we had more time. I wish we could see Paris. I wish I could help you take the power I know you want. I wish—

Silence.

A quiet breath and you can read the conflict there.

“I’ll be back in New York by 1am tonight,” he informs you and you can hear a note of urgency, of yearning, in his low accented voice. “Come to the penthouse, cara mia. I have missed you.”

Your expression crumbles, and you rub your forehead with the heel of your palm to clear your mind. Breathing deeply, you stare at the carpet beneath your feet.

He is important. After all these years, he is.

That’s why you part your lips and lie.

“I’ll be there.”  

A gentle exhale greets you—perhaps of relief, after all, how many times have you rejected these offers in the past—and it only makes you feel sadder.

“Ah, then I suppose I should order some wine.”

“Trying to get me drunk?”

A chuckle, warm and mischievous. “Why, cara, I would never. As if I require alcohol to charm you.”

“You are such a cocky bastard,” you mutter with a subdued groan. ”I have told you, right?”

Santino laughs this time. You try to memorise, immortalise, the sound in your mind. “Often, cara mia. Daily, I believe.”

Hesitating, you filter through everything and anything you could say to him. What words you could give to him that he would remember you by.

“I’ll see you around, Santi,” you whisper gently. “Don’t do anything stupid without me, got it?”

“Oh, I imagine it will be quite the arduous task but I shall endeavour to try, amore,” he tells you, and it hits you even harder right then that you will miss him. More than you ever would have expected. “For you. I will see you soon, yes?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, breathless and soft and devastated. “I’ll speak to you soon.”

The call ends and you lower the phone slowly, your other hand still tangled in the silver chain and you press it lightly against your lips.

A goodbye. The best you could offer him given the circumstances.

Rising to your feet, you try to force back the dull ache in your chest and inhale deeply.

Before you can take another step, your phone starts buzzing between your fingers. Your brows furrowing, you look at the name displayed on the screen and feel your expression slacken.

Marcus

Accepting the call, you speak before he can, “Before you remind me that I’m an idiot,” you bite out, trying to keep your voice cool. “I would like to remind you that you agreed to help me. So we’re both idiots. I always knew the risks. And maybe now you can finally stop insisting that I still owe John.”

“(Name),” a familiar, deep voice rolls your name and you feel your heart jump to your throat. “So good to hear from you again.”

“Tarasov.”

The man clicks his tongue, displeased. “I am…saddened, I must admit. When the news came to me, I insisted that they were wrong. No, I said, my little viper is loyal. She looks at me with rage but she is loyal. And yet, here we are.”

Your hand trembles and you tighten your grip on the phone, suddenly worried you’re going to drop it. “Where is Marcus?”

Tarasov exhales and he sounds almost upset which just makes you more worried. “You know how I do business, (Name). Traitors only meet one fate. But I am so disappointed. After everything I have done for you. I made you. You are who you are today because of me.”

His voice is practically a yell by the end, bristling with that infamous rage you know him for. The Ruthless Russian.  

Marcus. No, no. It was supposed to be you. That’s why you stayed on-site, that’s why you told Tarasov to his face you will finish this. All so that he would never suspect Marcus was involved. So that he would assume that the man in question simply wasn’t quick enough in completing the hit as agreed. That John getting away was your doing and yours alone.

A strangled breath rattles from your lungs, and years of pent-up rage bubbles from deep within you. “You didn’t make me,” you snarl, low and furious, as you stand in the middle of your too empty room. “I made me. And unlike your son, I will live to see another sunrise.”

Tarasov laughs but it’s a terrible sound that sinks into you like a sharpened blade. “Yes, yes, my son…is gone. My blood. Now, I shall demand payment in blood from John,” he speaks, his words icy and hoarse with victory. “Just like your parents, you will die like a dog.”

Something hits you from behind.

The phone sails from your hand and you fall to the floor, rolling, as your knees knock against the coffee table. Dizzy, you fumble for a blade, throwing it blindly to give yourself room, and know it has missed the target by the sound of footsteps hurrying towards you.

Gripping the side of the coffee table, you jerk it with your entire upper body strength and it hits the assailant in the legs, giving you just enough time to stagger back onto your feet.

Perkins launches herself at you with her teeth bared.

You crash to the ground heavily, and she punches you in the jaw, wrapping her hands around your neck. The contact rattles your teeth and she leers down at you. “Surprised to see me?”

Snarling, you jerk your hips upwards, throwing her gravitational point off as you shove her to the side. She holds onto you, dragging your weight with her, and her fingers sink into the sensitive skin of your neck as you strike her in the ribs. Once, twice.

Her fingers scratch against your skin, drawing blood and you abandon your original plan in favour of striking her straight in the throat. She jerks upon contact, gasping, and her fingers finally release your neck. Immediately, she swipes her arms viciously over the side of your face, focusing on the temple to no doubt knock you out, and you fall to the side, groaning. You blink the dancing, vivid spots from your eyes and crawl to your knees, dizzy. Your work table is just across the room. On it, a thousand and five ways to kill Perkins in some of the most painful ways you can think of.

Clearly, she’s aware of this too.

She falls on top of you, her arms wrapping around your neck from behind, her bodyweight holding you in place.

“Breaking into someone’s room,” you wheeze, struggling to throw her off. Not for the first time, you wish you had Ares’ core strength, but speed has always been your greatest ally. “Classy t-till the end, Perkins.”

“The end?” she titters into your ear, scornful, as her arms tighten around you. “Maybe yours. You know, I told Viggo I would do this free of charge. That I will enjoy it. Not so deadly without your poison, are you? Time to die now.”

You press your forehead against the carpet, inhaling as deeply as you can through her grip. “M-Maybe,” you choke out, your words weak and muffled. “But not by your hand.”

The back of your head smashes into her face and her grip on you loosens. The back of your head explodes with burning pain, and you don’t know if the skin split but you don’t have the time to wonder about it. Using Perkins’ momentarily vulnerability, you jerk upwards, throwing her over your body as she collapses heavily in front of you. Misbalanced, you collapse to one side too, hissing from pain, and hurriedly try to locate her. She’s just slightly ahead of you, on her elbows, trying to get back to her feet and you kick at her ankle. She pivots to the side sharply and you pounce.  

Your fingers tangle in her hair from behind and you drive your fist into her neck. Her elbow strikes back, getting you in the stomach, and air whooshes out of you upon impact. She does it again and you raise your leg, driving your knee into her lower back with all the strength still left in you.

Perkins collapses forward, halfway out of the ajar door and you move after her, your knees quivering. Your eyes snag on an object to the side and you hastily stumble towards it. Your blade sits buried deep in the carpet, and not having more on you inside your hotel room has been an ugly oversight on your part.

Clearly, if Perkins is fine with attacking John in his room, on Continental grounds, she would have no trouble attacking you as well. You, even more so than others. It makes you realise that there is only one thing that could have happened to Harry if she’s here to attack you. That she is likely how Tarasov found out about Marcus. Because she would have followed either you or John, or both.

Your knees creaking, you lower your body to grab the blade, ripping it free from the floor, and turn to Perkins.

The dark-haired woman is on her back, moving backwards to create distance between you as quickly as she can. She reaches inside her jacket and you feel your laboured breaths stop when you realise that there is a gun in her hand.

A gun.

This entire time she had a gun.

But she thought that she could—and would—kill you with her bare hands.

That it would be enough. That you were weak enough, and she deserving of taking your life.

Deserving of humiliating you.

You see red.

The blade in your hand slices through the air like a bullet and you know it hits on target even before Perkins lets out a strangled gasp of agony.

Her gun falls to the carpeted floor, and you stalk towards her, your expression making her crawl backward as she cradles her hand. Your blade has gone clean through her palm, sticking out the other end and blood flows across her pale, smooth skin.

You cut the distance between you and she seems to come out of her shock, trying to desperately reach for her fallen gun with her other hand.

Falling on top of her, you punch her in the face. And again. Your knuckles ache and you can already feel the bruised skin starting to swell. You straddle her, not letting her get away as you glare down at her bruised face. Baring your teeth, you grab the blade still stuck inside her hand and yank.

Perkins chokes on a pained groan, blinking rapidly as she tries to wiggle from beneath your unyielding grip. Turning the blade slowly in your hand, you meet her stare, raising your hand over your head.

“(Name)!”

You freeze. A breath rattles out of you and your lips press shut tightly.

“Don’t get involved, Winston,” you state, breathless and dangerously gentle, your words thick with fury. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Perkins makes a small noise of pain and your fingers wrap around her throat, your other hand still raised and ready to strike—ready to end her.

“Stop and think,” Winston’s voice cuts in from ahead of you, his words firm and laced with seriousness you rarely hear. “You know where you are, and you know what the consequences for doing this will be. (Name), look at me.”          

You hesitate.

The urgency in his voice makes you glance up at him. The older man stands with one hand raised in a pacifying manner and Charon lingers just behind him, morose and serious, too.

“Trust me,” Winston urges again, but seems a bit calmer now that he has your attention. “Lower the blade.”

You stare at him for a moment. Then your eyes slide back down towards Perkins.

She’s grinning because she knows what this means. That she gets to live.

You bring the blade down with one merciless stroke.

For a moment, you simply stare blankly at the sight before you before awkwardly rising to your feet, swaying a little. Your eyes lift to Winston and his expression is slack with disbelief. He sighs and levels you with a flat stare, his features drawn.

As if remembering she needs oxygen, Perkins sucks in a startled breath. Her head turns slightly and she winces at the cut against her throat, the blade sticking into the carpet millimeters from her throat.

Winston looks at you knowingly when you come to a stop before him. “They haven’t been informed yet,” he states, and noting your disbelieving expression, gives you a pointed look. “You still have time.”

“Where?”

“The docks,” he divulges dispassionately. ���If you hurry you might still make it.”

You nod, stiff, and glance briefly over your shoulder.

“Do not worry,” he intones with chilling calmness in his voice. “Ms. Perkins is now in the company’s care.”

Your eyes meet for a second and you nod, moving past him without another word.

That’s all you need to know.    

You will never see her again—not alive, anyway—and that’s just fine by you.

It’s started raining.

The downpour began about halfway through your journey and by the time you get to the docks, the deluge is so heavy that you can barely see in front of you. Above-head thunder roars, bright flashes of lightning splitting the sky open, and you wince at the harsh beat of water against your skin. It’s freezing, soaking your clothes in a matter of seconds as you stumble blindly ahead.

The helicopter.

Of course, Tarasov would get out of the city first before sicking the High Table onto you, and possibly John too. He would remove himself from the situation because no matter how powerful he might be, going up against one of you would already be impossible enough, much less two.

You always figured that he would not waste time and inform the High Table of your betrayal first. To put you down quickly and not give you time to plan ahead or get away.

That has been true to an extent, you realise, except Tarasov sent Perkins because he wanted to catch you off guard and most importantly humiliate you.

Bodies.

You pause in your step, recognising Tarasov’s guards if only by their faces. The smashed cars tell an interesting tale of a futile struggle, and you change direction, following the path of death. Tightening your grip on your pistol, you move as quickly as you can, blinking the water from your eyes as you stagger ahead.

And stop abruptly.

Avi.

Dead too.

You know of only one man capable of such a level of effortless carnage. Your head lifts, scanning the area for any sign of Tarasov or John, and in the distance a faint sound of a struggle reaches you. The downpour muffles the sound greatly, but you still hurry in the general direction, your muscles tensing with every step closer.

But the time you find them, the two men who have haunted your life for years lay on opposite sides of the platform, facing each other.

They both turn towards you.

John, bloodied and shivering, stares at you, his expression soft. Accepting.

Tarasov sees you and chuckles.

It’s a weak sound but he still manages to sound magnanimous.

“Little viper,” he drawls in Russian over the sound of pouring rain and you approach them few, intent steps at the time. “My vicious, brilliant viper. Kill him, (Name). Kill him and all will be forgiven. Your debt? Repaid in full. In fact, I will give you the original contract. I will double it. Triple it if you want. 8 million for John Wick’s head. For you to start a new life. He broke you. He left you. You are nothing to him. He chose his revenge over you.”

Tarasov is out of breath by the time he’s done and for a long, unperturbed moment you simply stare at him.

Then you raise your gun in John’s direction.

His expression slackens, rain running down his features and he looks devastated but doesn’t try to fight back. He doesn’t say anything either. You don’t know if it’s because, perhaps, he had a feeling that this is how it will end for him—that he’s accepted it. His hand presses against his stomach where you see him bleeding heavily. It pours like a dark river over his fingers and that degree of blood loss will kill him quickly if he doesn’t do something about it.

Perhaps, it would be kinder just to leave him out here. Let him bleed out and join his wife.

“He’s right,” you breathe, your words almost drowned out by the rumble of thunder. “You left me even though I loved you.”

“I’m sorry, (Name).”

You smile at him. “No, you’re not, John. Because you got the life you always wanted.”

Tarasov laughs under his breath. “Seems like I get the last laugh, after all, John.”

You straighten, turning slowly and line the barrel of your gun with Tarasov’s head, your expression cold.

“But,” you whisper harshly, and revel in the flash of raw fear you see reflecting in his blue eyes. Finally, after all these years, he fears you. You swore to yourself that one day he will, and now it has finally come. “You took everything from me, including my freedom.”

Tarasov’s hand lifts little by little, cautious, as he looks into your eyes. From where you stand he looks small and weak. Not at all like the nightmare of a man you always knew him to be. “(Name),” he begins, his voice catching slightly. “Do not be so hasty. I know you are upset but the High Table will kill you—”

“I don’t care,” you insist softly, and it swells inside you; all those years of abuse, of neglect, of him, robbing you of everything. Of all the times he purposely kept you away from the few people who still brought you any semblance of happiness after John left. When he forced you to kill for him regardless of who the person was or what they’ve done. Because of him, you can no longer take baths. Because of him, you cannot stomach the thought of being underground for longer than mere minutes. Because of him, you shrink away from physical contact out of gut-deep terror of being hurt again. Because of him your hands and nightmares are soaked and gushing with blood. Innocent and guilty alike. Because of him you no longer have parents or a future. “What is that you said? You will die like a dog?”

“(Name)—”

BANG

Tarasov jerks to the side, collapsing to the floor as blood pours from his forehead, and for a long moment, you don’t move a muscle, simply staring at his motionless body. You wait for him to get back up, wait for him to wake up, and let yourself accept that this is all a dream but it doesn’t come. The sky roars; a triumphant symphony of raw energy and nature’s fury, matching your laboured breaths and thundering heart.

Your arm, trembling and bruised, suddenly gives out like someone cut the invisible string holding it up.

Cold rain trickles down your neck and lips, fills your eyes until they sting. You wonder if perhaps it’s tears, but there is nothing inside your chest—certainly no emotion of grief or even happiness.

Tarasov is dead.

After his terrible shadow has loomed over you for close to a decade, you are finally free of him. He’s dead by your hand. The revenge that you have dreamt of for so long is complete.

He died alone and afraid just like you always imagined he would. The vengeance you have chased for so long is in your hands at long last.

You wait for the relief, for the triumph, to hit you but it doesn’t come.

Your head lowers and then you turn away from the body, forcing your legs to obey you.

“(Name).”

You don’t look in his direction.

It would be easier to walk away.

His dark eyes find yours, and you can see the blood loss starting to take its toll. He should have left long ago to seek assistance.

His hands are red with blood. It’s not a new sight to you but it is the first time you’ve seen so much of his blood.

Blood.

There’s been so much of it spilled over the last 24 hours.

Iosef, Viggo, Harry, Marcus, Perkins soon, if not already.

Forcing the gun away from sight, you grab John by the shoulder, shaking him. “Get up.”

His hand rests on top of yours, almost desperate, and he breathes shakily. “Stay with me.”

Your expression twists and you shake him again, harder. “I said get up.”

John’s attention focus on you. He hesitates, his gaze searching, before dipping his head once and struggling to his feet. You let him lean into you, your body sagging under his additional weight but one step at the time, you begin walking.

“I’m not gonna make it,” he states, his voice gruff with acceptance and your teeth grit.

You know the odds are terrible at best.

You don’t answer him but mentally run through all the possible places where he could receive immediate care. First, blood loss. That’s going to kill him first before anything else.

The Continental? It’s on the other side of the city, you will never make it in time.

Doc’s clinic? Too far just like the Continental.

The nearest hospital is a solid ten-minute drive away and with New York traffic and this storm, you doubt there will be enough time to spare.

Desperation forces you to move quicker and John groans slightly under his breath but follows you willingly, trusting you to lead him—not like he has much of a choice in the matter. The pavement is slick with rain which slows you both down but you keep going.

“Keep pressure on the wound,” you order harshly, and although John doesn’t answer, you do notice that he presses his hand harder against his abdomen. “Get in.”

You force him towards the car and he moves his body inside, heavy and clumsy. It’s disturbing to see him as such but you don’t comment, hurriedly slamming the door behind him.

You move on automatic, wiping your trembling hand across your face to clear the water still clinging to your lashes and watch your swollen, bruised fingers wrap around the steering wheel.

You have to at least try and reach the nearest hospital.

Driving blindly, you know you’re being more dangerous than orderly, but you don’t exactly have the time to obey the speed limit. From the corner of your eye, you notice John reach inside his jacket but don’t bother asking what’s so important.

“What are you doing, John?”  

“Looking at you.”

Blinking, you tighten your grip on the steering wheel. He’s—

He thinks that he will not make it.

So he’s spending his last moments listening and remembering Helen instead. The video plays on and it gets harder and harder to listen to it. Harder to hear their gentle exchange of words. John sounds so loving, so adoring when he speaks with her.

It reminds you of Santino—  

You jerk your head to the side, trying to clear your mind, and that’s when you catch a glimpse of a sign on the building you’re passing. Turning the wheel dangerously to the right, you swerve the car into the back alley slamming on the breaks.

John jerks in his seat, almost collapsing against the dashboard but you steady him with your arm and he winces.

“Sorry,” you mumble hurriedly, pushing him back more gently. “But I have an idea.”

Throwing the car door open, you step outside, shivering from the cold that immediately bites into you. The rain has let up and your soaked clothes cling uncomfortably to your skin as you round the car, throwing the passenger door open.

“Come on,” you urge, leaning to inside to help him get out. He clings to the phone in his hand, his blood smeared across the screen and you carefully push it back into his jacket pocket. “We have to stop the bleeding. Come on, John. She won’t want you to die here.”

His eyes lift to you, full of simmering pain, and you give him a stern, almost harsh glare in return.

He blinks.

And just like that, John is gone and only Baba Yaga remains.

He rises and you help him.

Breaking into an animal shelter is easier than it looks.

You never thought you’d be here again.

Here in this house, here helping John.

Scrubbing your hands with soap, you watch the pink water swirl down the drain with a numb sort of detachment.

A whine sounds from beside you, and you blink, glancing down. The dog—you should have checked the chart damnit, surely he has an actual name—wiggles his tail when he realises that he has your full attention.

You have no idea why John insisted on taking him with you.

No—that’s not right. You do know.

It’s symbolic in a way. A bittersweet lament and a way for him to have something else again. Something that hopefully, with time, he can grow to love.

Turning the tap off, you dry your hands and your eyes slide towards the bathroom mirror.

A haunted, gaunt stare greets you and you look away, your grip on the sink counter tightening for a brief moment.

Betraying Tarasov had nothing to do with John.

Asking to run away from everything had nothing to do with love, either.

It’s make-believe. A happy, distant dream you have clung to for years despite your best effort to let go. His wife had passed only a week ago. Whatever John might or might not feel, you would never settle for it—never settle for being a ghost, a bargain-basement stand-in for someone else.

He loves her. Maybe in death, he loves her even more.

Acceptance took years but you understand it now.

You didn’t save John for him. You saved him only because you hated Tarasov more. Forgiveness does not come easy, not after what you’ve been forced to go through. It’s its own form of punishment, you figure, helping him live another day. Making him live on now that he has nothing and his vengeance is complete.    

You straighten but find breathing…difficult.

You keep hearing the deafening sound of rain in your ears, the sound of the gunshot ripping through the air when you pulled the trigger. You keep hearing, and feeling, and tasting the moment in which you saw Tarasov collapse to the ground.

He’s dead.

You’re free.

“I’m free,” you mumble under your breath.

And again. And again.

But you don’t feel free.

You don’t feel much of anything and it terrifies you.

You’ve been doing so well. So damn well.

Since Chicago, it’s been a steady, slow rise to where you are today. Been.

You can feel that hard-fought ease and stability chip and crumble away with every haggard breath. Fear curdles your stomach—fear of the future, of the High Table, of what will happen now—and your palm slams against the marble counter, making you wince immediately. Your hands are heavily bruised but you ignore the dull twinge in favour of taking deep, steadying breaths.

“Count with me,” a memory urges, gentle but firm; insistent. “Uno, due, tre…”

The dog whines again, nudging his nose against your shin as if sensing your distress, and you squeeze your eyes closed before opening them again.

Bending down, you pat him on the head, rubbing his ear. “Good dog,” you tell him, hushed, and give him another few pets that he seems to lap up, wagging his tail happily.

You stand to your full height, and leave the bathroom, entering John’s bedroom.

He lays under the covers, his breaths shallow but steady. Sweat clings to his skin but when you take his wrist to check his pulse his vitals hold steady. Painkillers, liquids, and rest—that’s what he needs right now. Time to heal. It’s a damn miracle you managed to stop the bleeding when you did. You have no idea what you would have done if he had needed a transfusion.

The animal shelter appeared in your path like an oasis, a miracle. Perhaps, if the afterlife is real after all, Helen is watching out for her husband from somewhere out there. A guardian angel.

The dog jumps on the bed, curling against his new owner’s feet and you stare at John’s peaceful face for a few minutes.

Have you forgiven him?

No. No, you have not.

But you saved him because you had to prove to yourself that there’s more to you than what others say—more than what Kishi’s ghost keeps insisting you are. Dead to the world. John’s life would have just been another life needlessly lost and perhaps…

Perhaps you are no longer kind enough to let him have his peace.

As if sensing your scrutiny—or perhaps just your touch when you checked him—his eyes crack open. He looks bleary-eyed and disorientated and you place a glass of water against his lips. He takes a gulp but you force him to take more. He needs it.

You turn to place the glass back on the counter but John’s shaking fingers come to rest lightly around your wrist.

“I owe you a debt—”

“Stop,” you insist quietly, and take his hand in yours, lowering it back on top of the covers. “Just rest.”

He squints and you know he’s finding it hard to stay alert, focused. “A life debt—”

“John,” you cut him off, your voice hard. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Your voice cracks and his expression looks sad.

Your love ended a long time ago, didn’t it? He shouldn’t look this sad about the thought of you dying. At least unlike before, you will be going without regrets.

“I will not let…” his voice fades a little, heavy with exhaustion and you look away from him. “I will repay this debt.”

You don’t have any words for him. Every moment with John is like reaching into the dark and always coming away empty. It didn’t even hurt as much as it should have when he rejected your earlier offer to get the hell out of New York together.

A part of you expected it.

And maybe he still cares for you—maybe even loves you—but his love has never come in a form that you can understand. Never came in a form that doesn’t make you feel more alone.

He left you. It broke something inside you, but you rebuilt. Piece by piece.

Does it make you weak, you wonder distantly, the fact that despite everything he still clings to you. That you still can’t shake him fully. Has he really sunk in so deep that you can’t get him out no matter how much time passes?

“Don’t go.”

It’s such a simple request but you feel something inside you clamp up at his words.

As if it’s that simple. As if his pain is the only pain that matters. As if you haven’t just—

As if there isn’t just one way this can all end now.

As if he wasn’t the first one to leave.

You’re so lost in your own mind, you don’t even notice his eyes flutter shut again, and can’t help but feel grateful when you notice they have.

What good is a life debt when you have no future to begin with?

The High Table is no doubt already launching an investigation into what happened with Tarasov.

They will come for you. Sooner or later.

“But you will never fail me again, isn’t that right?”

You shiver as Tarasov’s ghost whispers those familiar words in your ear, making your fingers tremble.

“Do you hope this John will save you? He won’t. You’re dead to the world.”

Dead.

Dead.

Dead.

You stumble from the seat blindly, gasping for breath while pressing your palm against your chest as if you could still your galloping heart by touch alone.

Your chest feels like it’s being crushed, a rapid numbness spreading through your limbs, and you feel like crying but can’t force any emotion forward.

The phantom feeling of blood coating you clings to your hands and you tremble, tangling your fingers together as you stumble towards the bathroom.

You just want to be free. Free of your past, free of the pain and the uncertainty—

Just free.

Your stomach cramps painfully but nothing happens. You dry heave a few times, your skin clammy but freezing too.

A cold, wet nose suddenly nudges your cheek and you jerk up. Glancing over your folded arms, you can’t help but chuckle weakly.

“You’re a good dog, aren’t you?” you croak hoarsely and your shaking hand settles on his head. “Protect him, will you? Keep him safe.”

Because you can’t stay here.

This house is just another prison. Another searing knife burying deep between your ribs. You don’t want to stand here and pretend that you’re fine when you’re not. Because this space is smothering you one minute at a time.

Because it represents everything you could have had.

If things had gone just a little bit different.

Clumsily, you check your watch and swallow. What are the chances that the High Table already knows? What are the chances of you making it to the city without someone coming for your head?

All you have on you is two vials of paralyser and your pistol with a clip that’s now missing a single bullet.

Ignoring the splitting headache that’s starting to drum against your temples, you stagger to your feet, dizzy and nauseous.

John is still asleep but looks better than he did before. Some colour is finally starting to come back to his face and his breaths have evened out.

“Keep him safe,” you repeat in a whisper and give the dog another pat on the head. He wags his tail in reply, licking your palm as if in agreement and you crack a smile.  

Your eyes settle on one of many pictures of John and Helen—this one of them with their arms wrapped around each other and caught mid-laugh—and it’s just another stinging reminder that you don’t belong here. Or anywhere.

You’re dead to the world.

Your eyes sting unexpectedly and you blink rapidly, trying to clear your blurry sight.

You turn away from the picture and don’t look back when you walk out of the door.

Flavio greets you with a guarded glare.

He’s lucky to be alive. He was the only guard to survive the warehouse attack from those that got injured. The attackers wanted the element of surprise so simply shot him and left him to bleed out.

Appears like he’s still holding a grudge about his little scratch though. Oh well.

Roberto, who is busy explaining something to him, turns when he notices Flavio’s attention focus on you. His expression relaxes when he realises that it’s you, but then you watch how his face goes slack with shock as he takes you in properly.

“V? What happened?” he demands and walks hurriedly towards you, looking around as if expecting someone to magically appear in the lobby and attack you. “Who did—”

“Santino…is he back?”

Roberto’s expression creases and even beneath the strong beard you can see his lips press together tightly. He looks worried. Numbly, you wonder just how bad you must look to move a serious man like Roberto to fret. Your hands wrecked, and the scratches on your neck no doubt angry and raw, you must hardly make a pretty picture. Clothes soggy and appearance more dishevelled than he’s used to seeing. The look in your eyes is no doubt distant and glazed too.

“Boss is back,” he states slowly, hesitant. “He’s been waiting for you. But he’s not in the best mood today. Who hurt you? V, if Boss sees you like this he will—”

“I need to see him,” you breathe weakly, and move around Roberto, your knees weak. As if sensing it, he moves to your side but wisely doesn’t touch you, simply hovering near in case you need to reach out for support. You can’t remember ever being more grateful for his position as one of Santino’s regular guards. “I need—”

You promised.

Seems like you get to keep your promise of seeing him again after all.  

And…

And you didn’t know who else you could go to.

If it comes down to this being your last few hours left alive—

You at least want to spend them with your friend.

Your hand snaps out, gripping onto Roberto’s elbow and you hear the man release a startled breath. Ignoring his anxious stare, you both walk past Flavio who has now lost his glare, looking at you in confusion. The elevator ride is quick and silent, tense. Roberto is practically fidgeting in his crisp suit and you feel a stab of guilt for involving him without giving him any answers.

The penthouse button lights up and the elevator halts, the metal door opening silently to a familiar hallway.

You give Roberto’s arm a squeeze and release your grip on him.

“Go back downstairs.”

He frowns. “Boss will have my head if—”

“I will handle it. Go.”

You step outside and hear the elevator door close with a small creak.

Your eyes focus on the white door ahead but you don’t get a chance to knock. The door opens on its own accord, and it’s then that you realise Flavio must have informed Santino you have arrived.  

His expression is serious when you first catch the first glimpse of it.

Then it’s a rapid spiral downwards.

It’s late—or early—and it explains the fact that he’s only clad in a white dress shirt and tie, oppose to his signature three-piece. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, his Rolex gleaming, and you see his grip on the door constricts suddenly, the lean muscle coiling under his sun-kissed skin.

His eyes roam over your features dangerously slow, then your neck—lingering, lingering, lingering—and finally your hands.

Then, his green eyes slowly come back to your face and it’s like being burned by a green flame so hot it almost hitches your breath. His grip on the door tightens till you can see his knuckles straining under his skin.

“(Name).”

It’s not a greeting. It’s a warning, a demand, a worry, and rage all wrapped in one quiet exhale of your name.

Your voice is choked and weak when you confess the truth.

“I k-killed Tarasov. They’re coming for me, Santino, and they’re going to kill me.”

. . .

an: I actually like Tarasov but by god was that cathartic to write. But hooo, so much happened this chapter. Thoughts? Theories? I have a feeling like you’ll have some things to say about John/V after this heh. As always, you guys are the best, most encouraging people ever and I adore you all. Thank you for reading <33 

[vostara]

Hypnophobia - 05

fünf — and there’s no escape

pairing: ares x original female character (beatrix)

blurb: “Loyalty can be rather expensive.”

word count: 2.1k+

title inspiration: game of survival - ruelle

apologies for the incredibly long wait. in mid-july, i moved across the country and immediately got sick due to 3-4 weeks of nearly continuous heatwaves (uncommon for the area i’m living in). my apartment does not have a/c, so all i had was one fan and an unbearable amount of humidity. my apartment was in the high 90s nearly every day, with the low end being.... the low 90s.....

just to note: i am starting graduate studies this monday. i am working on getting an mfa in creative writing, so all of my school-related writing projects will take priority over fanfics.

This work is cross-posted on Ao3.

… | 04 | 05 | [discontinued notice] … series masterlist

In theory, Santino’s new task is easy.

“You want me to meet with your seller?” Beatrix asks, a request for confirmation that she had not misheard the man.

“You will be accompanying Ares,” Santino clarifies. “She is the one meeting the buyer.”

“You’re not going to meet him yourself?”

The Camorra boss frowns, leaning back into his armchair. “I’ve been asked to return to Naples and I can’t push it back any longer than I already have. I’m entrusting Ares with closing the deal and I want you there for support.”

“Why send me?” The woman says. “Why not send one of your men?”

Santino shrugs. “You know sign language,” he replies.

A simple assignment, really: be the translator.

As the driver eases the car into a stop, Beatrix glances out of the window. Her eyes scan their surroundings, noting the clusters of people showing off their overpriced designer jewelry and the borderline scandalous hemlines of their clothing. The New Yorkers loiter the space outside of a ritzy expensive nightclub, Das Schwein, a club that is embedded into the bottom three levels of the high-rise building.

To get the woman’s attention, Ares reaches out towards Beatrix, brushing her fingertips against the top of her hand. And when Beatrix turns to look at her, Ares pulls her hand away, signing, We are here.

The assassin nods, before opening the door and stepping out of the vehicle. She smooths the sides of her burgundy dress and takes a moment to straighten the plunging neckline. Though the winter chill encourages a splattering of goosebumps to form along her bare arms, it, for the moment, lacks the biting cold that had permeated the Chicago air.

Ares, dressed in a matching suit, takes the lead and approaches the building. Do not speak unprompted, she commands. Do not leave my side.

Falling into step behind the woman, Beatrix nods. “I understand,” she says.

When the bouncer sees the pair approach, he steps aside before waving them through the entrance. Without even acknowledging the man, Ares steps between the doors. She scrutinizes the first floor of the club, scanning over the patrons boozed up with fine liquor, the grinding bodies on the dance floor, and the sloppy touches exchanged between indiscrete temporary lovers in the booths. Her eyes land on a private elevator tucked away in the corner of the room, protected by a couple of guards.

Ares and Beatrix approach them and the guard on the left greets them with a nod of his head. “Mr. Brecher is on the top floor,” he says, pressing a button to open the doors.

Beatrix tenses at his words.

Brecher?

No, it couldn’t be.

He wouldn’t be here, not in New York. Not right now.

Ares enters the elevator and Beatrix steps in beside her. She clicks on the button for the top floor and takes a small step back when the doors slide shut. They ride in silence, undisturbed by the subtle hum of the ascending machine.

But for Beatrix uneasiness fills the silence, floods her senses with a flight response that’s impossible to act upon in this enclosed space. Threads are tugged in the pit of her stomach, snapping as they attempt to suppress the building worry, anxiety, dread.

It could be a coincidence; a different man with a shared surname.

A button dings, signaling their arrival.

When the doors open, Beatrix realizes that this easy job, this simple task of being the translator, is a far more complicated situation. Her eyes land on the silhouette of a person she had hoped to avoid for as long as she could. And her gaze drifts to the left side of his face, confirming his identity with a familiar scar etched into the skin. One that begins just beneath his eye, before curving to slice into the side of his lips.

Matthias Brecher.

Her last thread breaks, drowning Beatrix with a renewed realization that she has spent too much time dancing next to the growing flames. That frequently tempting fate would encourage it to retaliate with the most severe consequences.

The man notices the Camorra woman first. “Ares,” he greets.

She exits the elevator, stepping into the private room.

Matthias shifts his gaze to Beatrix. His eyes flicker with surprise, before an amused grin weaves itself into his features. “Well,” he says, “I wasn’t prepared for quite the surprise.”

“Matthias,” Beatrix acknowledges.

Ares’ footsteps come to a halt and she turns her head to glance back at the other woman. She watches her, studying the assassin’s face for any subtle twitches that would give away her thoughts, betray her motives.

“I didn’t think we would meet again so soon,” the man says.

Beatrix smiles, but the false joy never reaches her eyes. “Perhaps we meet again too soon,” she forces the joke between her lips.

And the words deepen the frown that’s already forming in the corners of Ares’ mouth.

Matthias slides his hands into the pockets of his dress slacks and takes a step closer to Beatrix. He chuckles, “I thought I was having a meeting with Camorra’s people, not Lilith.”

The woman straights her back, lifting her chin just a tad higher off of the ground. “You are having a meeting with Camorra,” she states. “I am here to translate on Ares’ behalf.”

The man hums, pondering over the woman’s response. “But Lilith would never loan you away for something this trivial.” He nudges his head towards Ares, “especially when it involves one party in particular.”

“I wanted a change of pace.”

“Or,” the man leans down, “perhaps the rumors are true. Perhaps Lilith’s favored rosebud has fluttered away with the wind. I’ve found that loyalty is a tough commodity to find,” he whispers, “nowadays.”

“Loyalty can be rather expensive,” Beatrix says.

Matthias takes a step away from the woman, turning to face Ares. “Would you mind if we postpone our meeting, for a just a few minutes?”

Ares narrows her eyes.

“Miss Amsler and I are old acquittances,” he continues. “Conversations with her are always a treat. And I do enjoy splurging on a bit of pleasure before getting into business.” Matthias chuckles, “You never know which job is going to be your last.”

Ares shifts her gaze to meet Beatrix. When the other woman gives her a slight nod of assurance, her eyes dart back to Matthias. She gives him a nonchalant shrug and then retreats to the small bar on the left. She sits down on one of the stools, before gluing her eyes back onto the pair.

“Come, Süsse,” Matthias places the palm of his hand against the small of the woman’s back, directing Beatrix towards the open balcony on the other side of the room. “We have much to discuss.”

When they are just far enough away that Ares is unable to listen to their conversation, Beatrix pulls herself away from Matthias. “You said there are rumors that I’ve been disloyal,” she says. “Did you know that I was working with Santino?”

“It wasn’t my first guess,” he admits. “But I knew you wouldn’t stay with Lilith forever.”

Beatrix frowns.

“I am surprised,” Matthias continues. “The last person I expected you to align yourself with would be such a prominent figure for the Camorra.”

“People have stooped to less for a few extra dollars in their pocket.”

“I’m almost offended,” the man says. “You would choose his company, before committing yourself to someone like Tarasov, or to someone like me?”

“At the time,” Beatrix leans towards the man, “I found this to be a more favorable business opportunity.”

“Must be quite the pay,” Matthias says. “Perhaps I should consider dropping my lifestyle as the boss, huh? Work as one of D’Antonio’s lackeys. After all, you must be swimming in riches. The pay must be good, good enough to convince you to work for the man who told his people to brutally torture and murder your best friend.”

The woman tenses, nails digging themselves into the palms of her hands.

“Tell me how you sleep at night,” he continues, “knowing that you’ve chosen to snuggle up to the devil himself. Do you still think of Evie? Do you hear her screams? Her pleading cries for help?”

Beatrix takes a small step away, increasing the distance between them.

But Matthias inches closer. “Or do you hear the wails of your baby?”

“Fuck you,” Beatrix shoves the man away from her. “Don’t you dare—”

“—No wonder you look so tired.”

The woman scoffs. “Is there a reason why we’re discussing this?”

“Süsse, we’re just having a conversation,” he says. “But if you want a change of topic, let’s talk about Ares.” Matthias smiles, briefly shifting his gaze to the Camorra woman. “She’s your type, no? Deadly, powerful, commands the room, when she wants to. And stuffed full with information that you could sell for quite the pretty penny.”

The man chuckles. “I know you, more than you’d care to admit. You’d never work for Santino, but you would target him, hurt him, cripple him. So, are you going to seduce his right-hand woman? Manipulate her? Convince her to confess all of those valuable secrets?”

“Targeting her would be pointless,” Beatrix says.

“Why? Because she understands the concept of sworn, unfaltering loyalty?”

“Because it would take too long,” she says. “I have no interest in wasting my time with a pointless task.”

Matthias smirks and pulls a phone out of his pocket. His fingers press against the screen, tapping on the buttons, before angling the item towards the woman. “Is that why poor Luca got chopped up into itty bitty pieces?” He taunts. “Because he wouldn’t spill any of Camorra’s dirty secrets? Was he a waste of time?”

Beatrix glances down at the phone, swallowing the nerves brewing in the bottom of her throat. Filling the screen is the image of a body, blood spilling out of appendages that had been sliced into manageable pieces. The body had been placed inside of bathtub, one that Beatrix recognized.

“Izzy may be your friend, but she is still under my employment,” Matthias explains.

“Does she give you documentation on every job she takes?”

“Just for the handful of people I care to keep tabs on,” the man shrugs. “Is your contract for intel or disposal?”

“I think it’s best that I keep that information to myself,” Beatrix says.

“I disagree.” Matthias puts the phone away, before reaching inside of the pocket concealed beneath the jacket of his suit. He pulls out a small circular object, which he holds up, displaying it for Beatrix.

It’s a Marker.

Her Marker.

Beatrix can feel the intensity of Ares’ stare, can feel her processing and examining the situation as it unfolds. And though she wants to look at her, wants to tell Ares that she wants, no, that she needs this conversation to end, she chooses to ignore the Camorra woman. She maintains eye contact with Matthias, determined to not shudder, to not buckle, beneath his gaze.

“You owe me,” he says. “We’ve made an oath, you and I, a blood contract. I’ve completed my end of the bargain, but I still need to cash in on your side.”

Beatrix remains silent.

“Tell me the truth,” Matthias continues. “Which of your many skills have you been hired to perform?”

“What would you do with that information?” She says, “If you sell it to the right buyer, I’ll end up killed, regardless of my answer.”

The man frowns. He raises a hand towards Beatrix and weaves her loose curls between his fingers. “You think so little of me,” he says. His fingers tighten around the hair, and he pulls Beatrix towards him, before shoving her towards the railing at the edge of the balcony.

The assassin gasps when the metal slams against the bottom of her ribcage. Instinct kicks in and her fingers latch onto the rails.

“If I wanted to kill you,” Matthias growls, “there are much more convenient ways for me to do so.” He releases his grip on her hair and takes a step closer. With his chest pressed against her back, he traps her between himself and the metal that is preventing her from tumbling to her death. “I have every intention of using the task you owe me. Ratting you out would be a waste of time and resources. You owe me, Beatrix,” he hisses, “not the other around.”

“Boss,” a man calls.

“What?” Matthias answers, ever so slightly relaxing his stance.

“Do I shoot?”

The man pulls away from the woman, turning towards his henchmen.

When Beatrix turns to see what the man was referring to, her eyes widen at the sight of Ares. All thirteen of Matthias’ men have their weapons trained on the woman, whom has a gun pointed directly at the their leader’s head.

“How fascinating,” Matthias says.

a/n: thank you so much for reading. if you liked what you read, please considering reblogging this chapter. every reblog truly does help a small author like me! but any likes, comments, or other indications that you enjoy this story is also appreciated!

this chapter was meant to be much longer, but i didn’t to split it into two pieces in order to prevent even further delays in getting an update out. the next chapter’s rough draft is over halfway done. if all goes well it will be published before the end of next month.

if you’re interested, you can also follow me for more updates on twitter @ VostaraFics

[fics-not-tragedies]

Under the quarantine [1]

All I can say that @meetmeinthematinee​ is the one being blamed for me creating this... abomination... this... absolute filth. And yes, there will be more parts, because apparently I can’t think straight because of the lock down.

SUMMARY: John is locked with Santino in a hotel room that overlooks the stunning Piazza Navona. The Italian man's being an asshole like he always is and Wick gets really angry. Words:  2305; Warnings: angry smut, some good ol’ m/m smut;

Readers tag list:

@spookier-than-u; @oreofenyloetyloamina; @derangedcupcake; @geostarr; @catsmieow; @wickedlangdon; @bodhi-black; @bugalouie; @onebatch--twobatch​; @fandom-lover-4; @mikaneonox; @drunkonyellow; @spadesandaces2342; @harrisongslimited​; @hhighkey​; @lunilate​; @i-cant-remember-my-old-login​; @sgt-morgan​; @coloursunlimited​; @childrenofthegun​; @weminiaturestrawberry​; @silverlambcaptain​; @scarletmoon83​; @howtoruin-someones-perfect-day​; @krazycags01​; @charlottebonnie​; @moonlit-raven-haven​; @girl-at-the-verge​; @boopdedoop​; @jardani-jovonovich-bitch​; @ladyreapermc​; @wifeofdarklordsworld​; @mysticfluffyness​; @zombiepandajfish​; @kollover24​; @greenmanalishi​; @persephonehemingway​; @lovelycarose​;

“Potrei davvero usare una prostituta in questo momento” Santino gasped looking out of the window at the empty Piazza Navona. The water in the fountain was still running, yet somehow it looked much cleaner than it used to be. The pigeons chasing each other where the only living thing that were visible on the empty streets.

“Scommetto che ora sono in congedo per malattia” John chuckled, playing with the half empty tumbler in his hand.

“Hilarious John, absolutely fucking hilarious” Santino scolded him, his eyes still focused on the empty streets.

“Perhaps it’d be easier if you had a wife…”

“You had one and see how it ended” Italian man blurted out before he even had the chance to think through his words, he quickly turned around to look at Wick, “John I-I’m sorry… I… I didn’t mean that.”

“You’re a D’Antonio, you meant every word you’ve ever said” he leaned over to the small table where the bottle of whisky was located to pour himself another refill.

“Then you know that I mean it when I’m say that I’m sorry…”

“Were you truly sorry just once in your entire lifetime?” John took a slow sip from his glass eyeing the Italian. Santino stood by the windows, with his back pressed to the wall the divided one row of glass panels from the another.

“I am now, bello…” he mumbled slowly moving closer to the armchair.

“Don’t start this shit now.”

“Which shit?” Santino asked trying to sound as innocent as he could right now. John looked up at him, his doe eyes filled with rage and the Italian couldn’t help himself and rolled his lower lip between his teeth winking at Wick.

“This shit” John pointed to him with the glass he still held in his large hand, “And don’t you ever fucking call me bello again or I’ll kill you with my two own hands.”

“Oh, how exciting! It’s a shame you always threaten me with it, but you still haven’t done it… bello.”

John growled placing his glass on the table, before he quickly stood up and moved over to Santino. Grabbing the smaller man by his throat he forcefully pushed him against the wall, making him gasp loudly when his back collided with the wall.

The hand around his throat tightens its grip and he moans, letting his head fall backwards, “You’re thinking about that John, aren’t you?” He asked him, the Italian accent falling heavily on every letter, before his baby blue eyes opened just to meet John’s dark ones. He had no idea if that was plain anger or lust, or perhaps even both. They just stared at each other in silence, before Santino challenged himself to speak again, “I know you want it, John… bello, don’t be shy with me” his hand moved from the wall and onto Wick’s arm, feeling the tensed muscles through the white fabric of his shirt.

“What if I do?” John’s voice is just as coarse as his hand that’s still wounded around Santino’s neck.

“You’re at my grounds John, in my country, with my guards outside the door. If you do it there’s not coming out alive from this one, bello.”

His answer is to press the heel of his palm further into Santino’s throat. The first hit of adrenaline rushes in Santino’s veins, “I have always wondered what it would be like with you, bello” he challenged, “to be at your mercy… bello. Why this slow, John? There are at least three guns in this room-”

“I told you I would use my hands” he was cut off by John’s hoarse voice somehow too close to his ear now.

“But you can’t.”

John’s hand tightened again, “I can and I will.”

Santino feel his fingers press into the side of his neck, his thumb tight up beneath his jaw. His shoulders stiffen, his whole body is tense, trapped between the wall and John’s tall figure.

The Italian’s cheeks are flushed with heat, his hands curl into fists as Wick grips his neck with such force it’d probably leave bruises, “Do you think that this frightens me?” he muttered.

John’s thumb sink into his pulse point, like he wanted to roughly check if he’s still alive, it’s thudding against the soft skin of Santino’s neck, “Yes” he breathed.

“It’s the opposite of frightening, bello. I really like your hands…” Santino gripped John’s forearm, digging his fingers into it, the only way of defense he could possibly own in this situation. But the more he grabbed onto him, the more John crushed his throat.

He’s choked with pathetic, undignified moans. John’s thumb rolled into his pulse point, more determined to make it slower. Santino fought at the edge, but he can’t cheat what John’s hand on his throat does to him. His eyes rolled back, head sunk onto the wall behind him.

“Tell me John… have you ever been with a man before?” Santino asked, the hand that was dug into Wick’s forearm was slowly sliding down onto his side, then onto his hip, before the soft Italian fingers rubbed at the bulge in front of John’s suit pants, “It seems like we’re both equally excited, bello” he chuckled.

John growled through his gritted teeth and spun D’Antonio around so he was facing the wall now, his face forcefully shoved into it.

“Let me touch you bello, let me make you feel good” his weak plea filled John’s ears and he growled again. Santino tired to sneak his hand between their bodies, but Wick was pinning him against the wall with his body, his painfully hard erection pressed against Santino’s peachy ass.

“Don’t.”

“Bello, please…” Santino moaned when he felt John’s hand removing his shirt from where it was neatly tucked in the back of his trouser, before he raked his fingers through the soft flesh.

“Non sono il tuo puttana” John rasped into his ear, tugging his pants down harshly.

“Ho sempre amato te, John…”

“You” Wick said without loosening his grip, “are an absolute nightmare, Santino.”

“I’m your favorite worst nightmare, bello… are you just gonna just stand like that and insult me or are you actually gonna use your hands on me in different ways, John?”

John put the pressure back on Santino’s throat, fingers pressing hard enough to leave bruises. “Like that, baby?” He was being cruel, rubbing himself off against Santino’s thigh, careful not to give Santino’s hardened cock any relief, “You’re all bark and no bite, aren’t you? Just wanna be used. Fuck, I could choke you to death, and you’d take it. You’d fucking love it. Bet you’ve touched yourself thinking about what we’re doing right now, one hand on your cock, three fingers up your ass...”

“I…” Santino’s face was flushed, dark curls sticking to his forehead, tears seeping involuntarily out of the corners of his eyes, “Yes, I-I thought about tying you up. But this is…” he tilted his head slightly so he could look at Wick, his eyes meeting John’s, pupils blown wide, “Cazzo, just touch me, please touch me.”

John ignored him, “You wanna tie me up, hmm? Well, perhaps next time, pretty boy. So, how do you wanna do this?”

Santino’s voice was husky, “Want you to fuck me, bello.”

“Can’t say no to that” John grinned, and much to D’Antonio’s surprise, he tilted his head using the hand still wrapped around his throat and kissed him hungrily, tasting cigarette smoke and the whisky they both were drinking earlier.

“I’m big” he warned, tugging Santino’s boxers down, exposing his bubbly ass.

“You mean your cock or your ego?” Santino asked, with a hint of his usual sarcastic self.

John shoved a rough hand over Santino’s mouth in irritation, “Can you shut the fuck up?”

Santino’s pretty lips parted, drawing John’s index and middle fingers into his mouth. The way his cheeks hollowed as he sucked on those two fingers made John’s throat tighten, instantly regretting not having that soft wet mouth elsewhere on his body. He groaned and pulled his desperately hard cock through his zipper, jerking himself urgently now. After a moment, he yelped as he felt the sharp scrape of teeth against his fingers.

“Hurry up, bello” Santino whined.

“Bite me again and I’ll slit your throat” said John, trailing his right hand down to circle Santino’s entrance with a fingertip and making him squirm against his restraints.

“You wish.”

“I wanna tear you apart” John breathed as he pressed both spit-slick fingers inside at once, drawing a ragged gasp from Santino.

 “Just get on with it, yeah?” Santino urged, pushing back on John’s fingers and moaning deliciously when he got them at just the right angle.

“So impatient” John slid his hand up and down Santino’s throat, “Such a slut for my cock, aren’t you?”

Santino could barely speak because of the pressure that was put by John’s hand on his throat, “Yes, bello, I want…” he kicked off his pants and spread his legs wider, “I want it to hurt. Cazzo… don’t stop choking me John…”

“You’re fucked up” he lined himself up and pushed in roughly, keeping his fingers tight around Santino’s neck, pressing deeper into the bruises already blossoming there. Santino’s eyes fluttered shut, his lips parted wordlessly, and for a flash of a moment John thought he’d blacked out. Trying not to lose himself in the tight heat around his cock, he began to move experimentally, keeping his thrusts shallow, “Is this want you wanted, baby?”

Santino made a low growling sound in his throat, “Maybe if you fuck me about ten times harder.”

“You like it harder, huh? Should’ve known you’d be high maintenance” John’s tongue flicked over Santino’s bottom lip, “Ask me nicely.”

“Please, bello” whatever dignity Santino still had, he was obviously abandoning in favor of getting what he wanted. His voice was soft, hoarse. John thought he’d never seen anyone look so beautifully wrecked, “I’ll be so good for you, let you fuck me up any way you want... Just… cazzo… I need you to… please, fuck me so hard, /sir, squeeze my throat till I can’t breathe...”

John rolled his hips lazily, brushing a spot that made Santino writhe underneath him, “Think I can manage that.”

He bottomed out, giving Santino’s hair a harsh tug as he pulled back and fucked into him again, still choking him with his left hand. Santino let out a stuttering moan, “Cazzo… yes… please… harder…”

That earned him a stinging slap across the cheek, “Please what?”

“Sir, please, I need…”

With no warning besides the wicked grin on his face, John started fucking him in earnest, fast and rough and absolutely perfect pace. Santino took all of it, his mouth slack, eyes streaming almost as much as his untouched cock, “Ohhhh… cazzo, yes, just like that - oh! Unhh, there, oh, there, don’t stop, sir, please don’t stop...”

“So good for me, baby” John purred into Santino’s ear, indulging him at last, sucking a messy hickey on his neck and reaching down to take him into his hand, “So fucking hot.”

“Hit me again” Santino rasped out of nowhere and for all his forced self-control, John thought he was about to come on the spot. He stilled suddenly, his hold on Santino slackening.

“Say that again?”

“Hit my face again.” God, he wants it, he really fucking wants it.

Even as his orgasm threatened to explode, John hesitated. Santino was smaller than he was, and probably wouldn’t come off too lightly even in a fair fight. And actually, looking at Santino standing there all fucked out and vulnerable, the idea of making him hurt – really hurt – felt like a knife in the gut.

“I’m not gonna hit you, you kinky fuck” he swirled his thumb over the head of Santino’s cock, “Here, let me take care of-”

Santino’s eyes snapped open, “John, bello, please… just one slap, j-just one-” he was cut off by John’s hand that abandoned his cock, but only for a moment just to give him the desired slap across his other cheek, before it was back on Santino’s cock, squeezing it harshly, hand slowly sliding up and down his length.

John pinned Santino down by the throat against his body and began to move his hand faster, teasing the tip of his cock with his thumb until Santino’s head fell onto his arm, he made a choked sobbing noise and came all over John’s hand.

“Fuck” John gasped, drinking in that sound, that teary face completely lost in bliss. His own pleasure was tipping over the edge, everything going blurry… if he wasn’t careful he was gonna- fucking hell… 

He blew his load in a couple of quick spurts, coming inside him with a loud groan. When Santino didn’t complain, John checked to make sure he was still conscious; he was, but he looked so fucked out that John wasn’t entirely sure he really knew what was happening.

“Are you alright, Santino?” asked John, trying not to sound too concerned.

“Better than alright” Santino said in the same soft raspy voice.

He’s fucking smiling, the sick piece of shit, thought John, a huge grin appearing on his face as he noticed it.

“I’d give you a cuddle if you didn’t hate me so much” Santino snickered.

“Who said I hate you?” John asked, spinning him around, so he was facing D’Antonio once again. His hand came around his neck again, but much lighter this time, as he closed the space between them.

“Wasn’t that a hate fuck after all, John?” Santino challenged himself and leaned closer to him, brushing his thumb across John’s lips.

“I just used the opportunity” he flicked his tongue around the Italian’s finger and he purred loudly.

“I can make you another one.”

[noythe]

Burial

First of all, HO BOY. I didn’t know I was capable of writing anymore. Mental Health is so damn important if you want to create. Don’t let anyone tell you something different. Second. This is literally a fanfic to a fanfic. Cause I am dumb. Or in love with the setting. And my mind drifted of during work and I just had to write it down. My writing is FAR from as good as the goddess @the-darklings​ , so this entire thing feels more like me. But I had to write it down. In one go. Cause we die like men. Ehem. Yeah. This a little OS to the Children of Ares fanfiction, playing the Universe of John Wick. Check the original out and take your time for that. It’s worth it. Every word of it. Warnings: Angst? Blood, Violence. The bad stuff, you know.

Words: 3428 ( HOLY SHIT. IT’S BEEN SO LONG THAT I WROTE MORE THAN 5!!! Words AT ONCE)

What do you want from me? Why don't you run from me?

Dirty streets and abandoned buildungs, the scent of grilled chicken and some pastry in the air.

It wasn't vacation. And most importantly it wasn't safe.

The place you were heading to was not the Continental. It would take days to reach it. Even if you knew that Santino wouldn't be far. Rather under the protective wing of the Camorra, like he always insists worldess and yet you never gave in.

What are you wondering?

No, your goal was different and much less known. An old abandoned hospital somewhere in the italian lands, far off from anyone who could know your name or face. Besides those who were living inside.

A few you had saved – somehow – and others.. were spies, dealing.. Whatever you requiered at that moment. Loyalty was a rare thing, but it could be found in the darkest places.

What do you know?

You took easy steps, a simple coat and set of clothes, bulletproof anyway. Afterall you still were searched for. And you needed time to breathe. Time to fix this. Time to keep Santino and John out of this. At this rate you were pretty sure both would take a bullet for you – which was the least thing you liked. An old set of headphones was helping to make you look like a harmless stranger, a beanie on top of your head and a belt with more options to kill an army than some could imagine. There was no room for a gun, neither for the full inventory of poison. But it would work in case it was requiered.

With a heavy thud your boots came to an halt in front of the ruin. A few dim lights were burning in the cracked windows and you frowned, dusk was just aproaching with eagerness, some street lights were flaring with a buzz as they tried to lighten up the main street around the corner.

Perhaps you could just stay here for a few days, maybe weeks. Recover, think. Be for yourself without any pressure. Without the presence of anyone who clouded your mind over and over again. It was hard enough. And no one seemed yet to understand what their words meant. Either crushing you down with their weight or lifting to you heights you never thought you could reach.

The steps on the stairs were well taken care off, yet the sound of rotten wood or dust was heavy in the air. The building was huge but not as haunting like your first visit. You had been on the run then and somehow you were on the run once more. But times had changed, You had changed. Now you were known, feared and hunted.

Vipress.

Even with all your training and experience, you were glad to have reached one of the upper floors and give your legs a rest. The room you stopped in was locked, only your key was fitting.

A soft click and the security door opened, giving way for a rather comfortable but simple room. A bed, a safe, chair and table. The most necessary things that sometimes felt like you had no right to own them.

Why aren't you scared of me? Why do you care for me?

Shrugging of your coat you walk over to the window, absently playing with the ring under your short, pulling at the chain now and then.

Somehow those two idiots didn't ever leave your side, did they?

It was dark outside, the street seemed empty for now. Rats you surely would find, looking for food or rotten bodies.. But there was none.

With a frown you decide to let go of the ring and leaned your forehead at the cold glass, the sight in front of you getting dark as your forced your eyes to close.

A even heartbeat was unable to help you calm down.

Perhaps some sleep would do.

The mattress wasn't comfortable. The blanket cold and dusty. But for today it had to do. Tomorrow you might be able to see a few of the Stray's how you remembered to call them. You needed information, tools. A plan. But now.. Now you just wanted to have some good rest. Perhaps with nightmares, perhaps with the pain of the past. You had too much going on. Too much that needed to be solved to save your skin. You couldn't just shed it as some assumed. But you could bite. And you always clawed yourself a way out.

When we all fall asleep...,

It was rather restless sleep. You barely could remember some good old rest, without waking up sweaty and hitching breath. Sometimes it was too much. Unlike today. You were scared, worried. Perhaps overwhelmed with emotion. That was something you simply had no time for. They still tried to kill you.

You stared up to the ceiling of the room, pretending to see a map to follow. Where to go next.

Thoughts came and left, now and then a few steps echoed through the hallway but never someone stepped at your door. A small little haven.. even if just for this while. A saddening thought.. Your aching muscles were asking for attention anyway and you started to think about something else. Wounds. Medical help. Rubbing your shoulder you flinched at the still sore spot and gritted your teeth. With your lifestyle it might take a few centuries to ever fully heal. It had been good for a while..

„Okay brain. What about some sleep, huh?“, talking to yourself wasn't that rare. Keeping a cool head, focus. Count. That much for relaxing.

Pulling one of your throwing knives out of the belt hanging on the bedframe, you start to turn it around in your hand, over and over again, watching the reflection whenever it got hit by ray of light. Ever so restless.. Hours passed but at least you finally fell into a light but recovering slumber. Something you deserved. Like peace. Or that piece of cake you had seen three weeks ago.

...where do we go?

A hissing noise errupted your sleep. Sitting up on the bed in a breath your mind worked slower than you needed right now.

Your skin felt odd, your ears like they were stuffed. What in hell..

It was your instinct that made you roll to face the wall and cover your head, curled up like a child as the first wave of heat hit. You heard the shattering sound of glass, the rubbish from tiles and walls hitting the ground. Something sounded like it was breaking.

Get up. Get up.

You rolled down the bed, going for your belt to strap it back in place, but you were too late.

You didn't even manage to grab your stuff, just went for the door and ran for your life. Jumping out of the window? No option. You would most likely break every bone in your body. Chances of survival far too low.

More stuff was blowing up in the distance. More and more. The time between each explosion always about the same time. This.. this had been planned. Just your hell bit of luck? No. You didn't believe that anymore.

Today, I'm thinkin' about the things that are deadly.

It was impossible to walk in a straight line. Whenever you thought you reached a hallway that lead to the emergency exit – it was either burning or broken. Or both.

People were running, people were screaming.

You couldn't even pinpoit the location of the next explosion. They seemed random but effective. The entire building was shaking. And the flying parts set rooms on fire. This was just a low hideout.. That made no sense.

Run.. Get to lower ground. If you made it down two or three levels.. You could risk to jump out of the next best window if there wasn't another chance.

Run. Run! Too bad you had no use for the layout of this place anymore. Dead-End. Shit. Turning around you looked for cover in the room to your left,  A small window to look outside. The park of the hospital was already painted orange by embers and flames, smoke forcing it's way through windows and creaks, through holes and doors. You could see people run through flames, bodies burning and shrinking down as they gave up. Dying, burned alive. Perhaps suffocated by the smoke before that..

It was only a faint second, then the building was shaking again – the wall to your right bursting into million pieces, the pressure forcing you against the wall.

Aching pain marked your temple, the rubbish buried in your skin and dust forced a cough out of your lungs.

Screams continued as you regained your focus slowly, having a look at the hole that explosion left on the floor. You could see the room beneath. Burning.. But still safer than this one up here.

Someone at the room next door decided to jump through the glass, while you took a deep breath, pulling up your shirt a little to cover up your nose and let yourself fall down to the next room.

Smoke was already heavy. There was little choice but to keep yourself low. Smoke would always find a way up. Everything seemed to be burning, still the building was errupted by explosions. Why didn't it stop? Who would cause this? And why now?

Bury a friend,

It was war. War to get outside. War to remain conscious or able to walk.

You were so tired. Tired of running, tired of surviving.

And yet you had reasons to move on. There was no other choice. Either John or Santino would kill you if you stopped right now.

After all you were the one who left without a word.. For their own safety. Now that you thought of it, it might have been a little foolish. But honestly? Was it the first time you did something you.. rather wouldn't have to do?

Thinking about this kept you sane.

You stepped over broken bodies, some were reaching out for your feet as you passed them. But you just kept moving on. You couldn't save them all. Not this time. You had to save yourself. You had to survive.

Your shoe got stuck on something and you looked back through the darkness, noticing the small shoulder that was buried beneath the missing wall from the room beside you. Someone might say that killing would change people at some point. It did. But it never made it harmless to see children die. Innocent. It could've been you. You so long ago.

That it had been a mistake to stop, would pay of right away. Not even the lump in your throat could be swallowed as something rained down your spine. The floor above you was giving in. And there was little space to dodge. Kicking and rolling and pushing you tried to get out of the way. Burning pieces of something crashed down and all you could do was to hurry. Pray that you were faster than whatever was coming down. This was a nightmare.

You missed death by a hair as you turned around to press yourself flat against the next wall, holding your breath to not cause any disturbance or extra weight to the wall you were leaning on.

What if this was happening because of you? But if was impossible. No one could possibly know about it. Maybe just coincidence.

The police didn't try to blow this place up. This was bullshit.

You needed fresh air. And you needed it badly. Your eyes were burning, your lungs aching already.

If you would pass out..you wouldn't make it. You would die. Just like everybody else here.

Try to wake up.

Groaning you made your way further down. Bulletproof clothing didn't protect against flames. Maybe you should ask for something that was heat resistant next time..

A dry chuckle left your chapped lips and threw yourself against the next door. Trying to open this exit that got you trapped inside for now. It didn't even move.

Well planned explosions.. To weaken the structure of the building. Panic. Fire. People that would kill for survival.. locked emergency exits.

Reaching for your phone you hoped to reach someone. Santi had been your last call that would wo-

Whatever was your phone before, was nothing but rubbish now. Cursing you threw it into the next best flame and moved on once more. Options were running low.

But if you just knew.

If you just knew that familiar eyes were watching the building from afar in blank terror. If you just knew that phone calls were made.

If you just knew that hell was being unleashed.

You couldn't move on. Your legs did no longer carry your and your lungs asked for oxygen. But all they got was smoke. No antidot you had with you could help – if the vials were still intact, that was.

Coughing you sat down in a hallway, lowering your rate of breaths as good as possible to win some time.

Always on the run..

Your head swayed to the side and you tried to focus on something in front of you, the  blood on your face not as dominant as the ashe that coated your skin now. The pain was even getting less.. Or you just were getting numb.

I wanna end me. I wanna, I wanna, I wanna end me.

Everything seemed to happen so slowly. As if it was wrapped in cotton candy, just like you.

More and more from the buildung was collapsing. Pulling more into the hungry flames that licked your boots and skin already.

If there was at least time to look at the damage and figure out how to fix yourself and this situation.

Dying here wasn't a great option either.

You didn't know where that strength came. Or who pulled you up and through the hallway. It just happened and you were allowed to witness it. A woman. About your age, you later noticed.

She was speaking to you, you could see her lips move, her hands searching you for wounds. But you heard no longer. All was..quiet.

Focus on her lips. Read them. Focus. Focus. Foc-

She gently tapped your face a few times and held your in a steady grip, repeating something over and over again.

You didn't even notice that you nodded, but she pulled you up once more. And you walked. Walked through death and flames.

It felt like eternity. But all that happened, passed in so little time that your brain couldn't really catch up with it.

You crashed against the womans back as she stopped and she pulled you into another direction, your legs aching as they were forced to move on.

You weren't the Vipress right now. You were a suvivor as long as you weren't dead.

Black dots were sprinkling your sight, sometimes you saw a flash of white as you turned your head and it all spinned. Deeper..deeper.. Pass flames and death.

Pass it all and leave it behind. Fall into darkness and embrace it.

Honestly, I thought that I would be dead by now.

The last time you remembered something to happen, you were somewhere under the earth. Buried alive.

You had survived for so long by now. Tricked and killed, escaped and lived on. Day after day. It always could have been your last. You always managed to slip through. Always found a way. This time it was someone else who pushed you through. But did you notice?

You just went through something that was hell on earth. The building had collapsed entirely. Flames had eaten everything away. And survivors? Impossible.

So you were most likely in your own underworld, stuck in darkness.

Someone forced water into your mouth and you started to fight, it felt as you were drowning once more No. No. NO! . Fight for your life as you didn't want to be brought back, back to another hell. Your hand connected with skin, your eyes meeting a terrified shade of green that belonged to that woman from before. Her neck was so thin.. So thin. The skin broke so fast. It broke so easy. Your knife never missing a mark. Never would you go back into that hell. Never. Never.. Never.

Maybe you should be sorry.

For the debt I owe, gotta sell my soul.

Time didn't mean a lot in darkness and smoke. The plastic bottle with water was empty beside you, two puddles of blood already dry as you moved your head around a little.

Was she alive? Did you kill her by accident?

You couldn't see her breathe. But it was too dark to see much anyway.

Fuck this..

'Cause I can't say no, no, I can't say no.

Besides a ringing in your ear, there was not much you could hear, but you forced yourself to get up anyway. Deaf. Great. Fantastic. Couldn’t get much worse.

Everything was hurting. Skin was burned and cut. Something probably broken or..just not in place anymore.

But as long as you couldn't get any clear thoughts you couldn't figure that out. Right now everything that mattered was.. to get out. Find a bit of strength. Somewhere.

Then my limbs all froze and my eyes won't close.

It took you an eternity to figure out that you weren't underneath the earth. You really had been buried alive the building. Hard to tell with all that darkness around you. But now and then.. There was light. And light was hope.

Clawing your way outside, only driven by the will to survive, to fix this, you found loose rocks and pulled and pushed. You kicked and you screamed, your body calling once more to give up and rest. You couldn't. You should be dead. There was no way you were alive. It was your imagination. The..after.. Was there such crap? Sure. You didn't expect heavenly choirs and silver gates.. But this did look like shit, even for hell.

And I can't say no, I can't say no.

There was a lot that still needed to be fixed. And you wished that you had more time.

Maybe even a chance for a normal life. As foolish was this thought was. But some could dream, right?

You no longer had to run. Your journey was over.

A last push and you gasped for air, nearly choking on it as it filled your lungs. You didn't have to see a doctor to know that you were suffering from smoke intoxication and most likely would die from that. If not the bleeding or lack of water. Your hands were bleeding, nails chipped. Dirt and blood everywhere. Help. You needed help.

What do you want from me? Why don't you run from me?

Turning on your back you watched the sky.

It looked..lovely. The aftermath of the fire, you assumed. Or the dawn. You couldn't tell. A few faint stars.. At least a nice last view.

Your shaking arm reached up, trying to grab a handful of the little suns.. But as it sank back lifeless your palm was empty, safe for the blood that had collected. Dry and fresh alike.

What an odd price to pay for..freedom. But sooner or later, it would have happened anyway. There was no other way out.

Yes. Perhaps you were sorry for all the things left unsaid. But they surely would forgive you at some point. If they ever..ever would know. Not exactly heroic. The great Vipress.. died because she didn’t manage to escape a collapsing building in time. You were smart. But also just..human.

What are you wondering? What do you know?

Frantic was the search, the signal lost. But hope? Hope did exist. It never truly faded.

Sometimes all that was left was a signal, a chain.

Perhaps a ring. A trail of blood. Tracks that could be followed. Marks so clear and yet hard to read.

There were people that knew you. Knew you better than anyone else. Those who had your trust. Those you trusted. Who would unleash hell if that meant to keep you safe, who wanted to run with you from this life.

If you would have accepted. All those doors, open.

News could spread like fire and unleash something worse than hell.

Why aren't you scared of me?

„That's impossible.“

Why do you care for me?

„Dio mio!“

When we all fall asleep,

„ She’s alive.”

 where do we go?

[layce2015]

John Wick Chapter 2 (John Wick x Reader)

Chapter 7: I'll Kill Them All

Chapter 1 / Chapter 6

"Good evening. Is the manager in?" Santino asked Charon as he enters the Continental, breathless. "The manager is always in." Charon said and Santino walks away and down the stairs.

"Winston." Santino said as he makes his way downstairs in the lounge area, where Winston was sitting in a chair reading a book. "Mr. D'Antonio." Winston greets once he looks up from his book. "Your evening has been colorful, I see. Seeking safe harbor, I presume?" He asks as Santino walks up to him. "I want his membership revoked. Now." Santino demands as he walks up to Winston and places his hands on his hip. "In the eyes of this institution, Mr. Wick has breached no legalities." Winston informs him.

"Then you know that I have the right to demand of you..." Santino said but Winston talks over him. "Nothing. You demand nothing of me, Mr. D'Antonio. This kingdom is mine and mine alone." Winston said, firmly, as he gives the young man a stern look. "All right. Then enjoy your kingdom, Winston, while you still can." Santino spat. "And you its privileges, sir." Winston said and Santino walks away and orders some food.

Charon was typing away on his computer when he hears approaching footsteps. He looks up and his eyes widen when he sees you and John walking in, both of you looked tired and battle damaged as there was blood and sweat dripping down both yours and John's faces. "We're here to see Santino D'Antonio." John said to Charon.

Charon swallows and hesitates a bit but he begins to speak. "He's waiting for you in the lounge, sir." He said and John nods and he walks off, you trailing behind him. The two of you walk over and look down from the little balcony to see Santino sitting at a table, eating. You clenched your fist as he looked up at you two and you could just see in his eyes that he believes that he won.

You and John walked down the stairs and towards him, while Winston looks at John with worry. "Duck fat. Makes all the difference." Santino said, smugly, as he takes another bite of his food.

"Jonathan..." Winston said, warningly. "Have you seen the menu here? Lot of options." Santino said. You wanted to hurt this man so bad but, even though you weren't an assassin, you still wanted to respect the rules of not hurting anyone while they were in the Continental. And by God did Santino know it as he sat there, a smile playing on his lips,like he was taunting you two.

"Jonathan, listen to me..." Winston said as you look over at John and you could tell he was pissed. "A man can stay here a long time and never eat the same meal twice." Santino said and John takes a couple of steps forward as he glares at Santino.

"Jonathan, just walk away." Winston said as you look back at John. "John...please..." you pleaded as you placed a hand on his shoulder. Santino gives John a smug smirk. "Yeah, Jonathan. Walk..." he started to say when in a quick movement, John raises his gun and shoots Santino in the head.

You jumped at this and gasped as Winston's eyes were wide and his jaw slightly slacked. "What have you done?" Winston asked John, in shock. "Finished it." John replied as he sets the gun down on the table. You stood there in shock as you stare at Santino's dead body while John starts to turn away. “W-What's gonna happen now?” you asked, in a worried whisper, as you look at Winston.

Winston doesn’t give you a response as he eyes still linger on the now lifeless Santino, but the silence was enough for you to understand one thing.

You can’t kill inside the Continental. 

That’s what Julius said back in Rome when you guys were fighting Cassian. But now that John has killed Santino, you don’t know how bad the consequences would be as you never gotten the full extent of the rules and what would happen if any were broken. But you will soon learn as John gently grabs your arm and leads you away.

Both of you walk back to the lobby, where you see your dog and Charon standing there waiting for the two of you. "How was he?" John asked Charon. "He was a good dog. I have enjoyed his company." Charon said and you smirked as you kneel down to the dog and pet his head then John scratches the back of his ear. "Let's go home." You said as you look up at John. He nods as you get up and you three start to walk out.

John and (y/n) Wick stood inside there in silence, their dog sitting beside them as they take in the sight of what’s left of their home, recalling the time before the Wicks were brought in with no choice. Everything you two had and shared together in this house was gone. Your wishes of having a family together one day in this house was gone.

Photos.

Memories.

Everything.

It’s all gone, burned to ashes and there is no replacing the damage that has already been done. You placed a hand over your mouth as tears began forming in your eyes as you two walk among the remains of your home. In what would've been yours and John's bedroom, you look down and saw something sparkling in the ashes, you kneel down and wipe away the ashes and gasped.

Under the ashes was a bracelet, that was still intact. You picked it up and sniffled a bit as you realize that this was the bracelet that Helen gave you for your sixteenth birthday. It was silver with about four of your birthstones on it and a charm of a daisy flower, since it was Helen's favorite flower. You clutch the bracelet to your chest and began to cry.

John's heart broke as he sees you crying, he always hated when you were sad or crying. He goes up to you and places his hands on your shoulder as you wipe away the tears. He turns you around and pulls you into an embrace and that's when you started to sob harder as you bury your face into his chest.

He looks behind him and sees a chair that was still mostly intact and he goes over and sits down on it, while pulling you into his lap. You lean your head on his shoulder as your sobs subsides a bit while a few tears run down John's face then he runs his hand up and down your back and kissed your forehead.

"John..." you choked, tearfully, as you pocket the bracelet. "Yeah..." he responded. "Wh-what...what are they gonna do? To you?" You asked him as you place your left hand on his chest. He sits there for a moment trying to figure out what to say, but the more you two sat in silence the worse you started to feel. "Well...they're....I..." John stammers, quietly, then he lets out a heavy sigh before he continues. "I broke the rules, I killed Santino in the Continental. The penalty of breaking that specific rule...is death." He said and you gasped as you raise your head up to look up at him.

"No..." you whispered, devastated, but you could tell that he was being serious. "I don’t want to pull you into this anymore if you stay with me. You need to run. And run as far away as you can. If you stay, they’re going to find you and hurt you or worse to get to me. I don’t want that to happen.” He said as you look at him and shake your head. "I'm not leaving you." You said.

"Yes, you are. I've already got you in this mess, you don't need to be deeper into this. You need to run and hide. Live a better life, find a better man." John said and his heart breaks as he hears himself say this. "Okay now, stop it, John! You know there's no one that's gonna replace you! I love you!" You said, your voice rising and becoming more stern.

"I love you too. And that's why I'm telling you to go. You deserve someone better. I'm just...I'm sorry I couldn't provide that life to you." He said to you as he pushes back a stand of hair behind your ear. "John! I said stop! I won’t leave you. We’re in this together...for better or worse. If they want me, they're gonna have to catch me, John." You said and you cup his face in your hands as you stare at him. "I'd rather die than leave you. I wouldn't be able to live with myself, knowing I left you on your own." You said.

Then John places a hand on your cheek and wipes away some tears with his thumb. "If they kill you, then they'll have to kill me too." You said then you remove your hands off of his face then places one of your hands over his, that's on your cheek, and you turn your head and kisses the palm of his hand. "I love you and only you." You whispered. John was speechless. He loves you with all of his heart and he thought that if he leaves on his own...against the world, it would be best for you to not get you involved in this life, his life, any more than you've already been put through since the night you were kidnapped.

He looks deep into your eyes, to see if you were bluffing, but seeing the spark in your eyes says otherwise. The spark that he loves about you. You were serious and he may have underestimated you. He places his other hand on the other side of your face then, gently, guides you towards him until your lips connected with one another.

You froze for a moment as the kiss turns very slow and intimate. You kiss him back and both of you began to convey all of the love you two had for each other in this one kiss. You place your hands on his neck as he wraps his arms around you and holds you close to him as the kiss turns deeper and sensual.

"Mr and Mrs Wick?" A voice said and both you and John pull away from the kiss then look over and see Charon standing at the doorway. "If you would be so inclined." He said and you look up at John as he stares into your eyes. He closes them then sighs and you get up off of his lap and he gets up, then takes your hand in his and the two of you follow Charon, the dog trotting behind you two.

You and John were in the backseat of a car as the dog was laying between you and John, nuzzled up to your lap, and Charon was driving you two to wherever you two were going. You look over at John and, even though he wasn't showing it, you knew he was nervous. You reached out your right hand to his left hand and take a hold of it, he accepts your hand and, instantly, grips it hard.

You stroked the back of his hand with your thumb then both of you share a look. John could tell you were nervous and terrified, and truth be told he was too. He was trying to be strong for the both of you, but seeing that look of fear on your face was breaking his heart. He wanted nothing more than to pull you in for an embrace and tell you everything was gonna be okay and that he will be fine.

But that would be a lie.

He holds up your hand, that he was holding, and kissed the back of it a couple of times. Before he looks back at you, you give a small sad smile before you bring his hand up to your lips and you kiss it as well. He stares at you as if to say I'm sorry when the Charon stops the car. 

John turns to the door and opens it then he let's go of your hand as he climbs out. "Come on, boy." He tells the dog and the dog jumps out then John holds his hand out to you. You take it and he helps you out of the car then John shuts the door behind you and both of you look over at Charon.

"It has been a pleasure, Mr. Wick." Charon said to John. "And it was a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs Wick." He said and you smiled and nod as John shakes his hand. "Goodbye." Charon said then both of you walk towards the park, the dog following close behind you.

There in the middle was Winston as he sits near the fountain. "Jonathan." Winston greets. "Winston." John said and Winston looks over at you. "Madame." He said and you nod. "What am I lookin' at?" John asked Winston. "The Camorra's doubled Santino's open contract. It's gone international." Winston replied. "High table?" John asked. "Mmm-hmm." Winston said.

"And the continental?" John asked him. "You killed a man on company grounds, Jonathan. You leave me no choice but to declare you excommunicado. The doors to any service or provider in connection with the continental are now closed to you." Winston said and you gasped as John looks down. "I am so sorry. Your life is now forfeit." Winston said as he stands up.

"Then why am I not dead?" John asked and you bite your lips, nervously. "Because I deemed it not to be." Winston said then he nods at a man, who pulls up a phone. "Now." The man said and the people that were walking around you guys, stop and stare at you and John. Both of you look around and you become terrified as see all the eyes staring at you. Winston stares at you two then nods and everyone begins to walk away.

"You have one hour. I can't delay it any longer." Winston said after he checks his watch. "You might need this...Down the road." He said as he pulls out a blood oath marker and hands it to John. Your eyes widen at this as John takes it.

"Winston..." John said and Winston looks up at him. "Tell them. Tell them all. Whoever comes, whoever it is, I'll kill them. I'll kill them all." John threatens and you grab his hand then both you and John exchange a look for a moment, which makes Winston smirk. "'Course you will." Wisnton said, not surprised, he could see how much you meant to John and vice versa. "Jonathan. (Y/n)." Wisnton said to you two. "Winston." You and John said, in unison, then both of you turn around and started to walk away.

As you, John and your dog walk away, Winston pulls out his phone and dials a number. "Accounts payable. One-one-one-one-one. In one hour. John Wick. Excommunicado." He said and the operator was handed John's file then she stamps it. "Order 11111 confirmed." She tells Winston and he hangs up as he felt his heart go heavy. He still couldn't believe that this was happening but...he had no choice.

The operator begins to type on her computer about the order and send it out to everyone that was part of this world. 

You and John were walking along the park when you hear cellphones ringing. Both of you look over and see some people pulling out their phone then they looked right at John. It kept happening the more you two walked and you began to wonder just how many people in this city were assassins. Your heart began beating real fast as you looked at these people in fear.

John started to get worried as well and he starts to walk a bit faster. You meet up with his pace and take his hand in yours and held on. He holds onto it as well and realized that no matter what happens, no matter how bad it gets, he has you by his side.

Then both of you began to run as fast as you could, the dog running along beside you as John starts to figure out how to get both of you out of this....alive.

[chxxpers]

Purple Tainted Lillies : Prologue

Sometimes, when times are rough, people need something to fall back upon. Jacob (Hutt River) dedicated himself to that something, so much so it shaped his entire being. He focused on his virtues, and yet left his flaws open - easy to manipulate, and easy to control. 

Disclaimer: 1950′s AU with Hutt River, Australia, Wy and others. Mentions/allusions of alcoholism, homophobia (internalised and externalised,) Period/Location based racism, and religious thematics included. Nothing graphic is mentioned.  7s7v AU by @facadep. Brief mentions of @ask-deus-romano‘s character. 

Words: 2,230 

Chapter One: Absence

 The incense still lingered on his flesh, the pin pricks in his fingers still bled, and his body still hung heavy from exhaustion. It was unusual for Jacob to be wandering around town this late at night, where the only noise that accompanied his quiet footsteps came from Dave’s old pub and the nature that stalked the Australian Outback. He wouldn’t normally have hung around the church until so late, sister Claire always berated him for overworking himself, but he had confessions to make - and places to avoid. He’d rather be making tapestries than be elsewhere, under the careful guidance and soft spoken false assurances the clergy always offered. He’d rather help the nuns out with their risky maintenance, he wouldn’t forgive himself for any harm that came their way. He’d rather be amongst these women than anywhere else. He refused to go home.

 Going home meant running into his mother and listening to her subtle remarks about how much of a golden child he was - how much she relied on him, and yet how much she hated it. It meant having to quietly tuck Victoria into her small bed each night, set up in the broken down sunroom out the back, where she frequently feared what might get her one evening through the cracks, only protected in her sanctuary by a rusted lock and a single lamp. It meant entering the house, and meeting Jett with an almost drained brown bottle, and whilst he’d smile at Jacob in reassurance - it was nights like those that ruined the brotherly bond they had built between them. Going home meant facing the reality that the church hid away from him.

 Jacob had taken to sitting on the pub’s verandah steps on his way home, the only people still inhabiting the pub this late into the night being bushmen and tired shift workers. He’d remain there, undisturbed by all except for the barmaid when she snuck him a beer or two, maternally rubbing his shoulder in a way Jacob never experienced elsewhere. Going to the pub wasn’t for a night in, it wasn’t for the jesting nor the merriment that radiated throughout the bluestone building. It was for the moments where Jacob could pretend to be normal and welcomed.

 He couldn’t see the differences between him and the workers that always spent their nights in the pub - he couldn’t see the differences the whiter men could. He found peace with them, they couldn’t tell the difference between his tan and theirs, nor did they didn’t question why he could speak some of their language. His natural demeanor wasn’t portrayed as alien like it was amongst his community, but he found it rather common with these European outcasts - he could be comfortable with them. He was a new family member to add to their growing list.

 That was what Santino had claimed of him the prior week, his face still sweaty after running around after cattle all day, hands shaky and filthy, but the grubbiness of his appearance was easily overlooked in preference of the beautiful way he smiled. Santino was a statement piece at Dave’s pub, an attraction that brought more woman to the bar than ever before. His accent was thick, his eyes stunning, and his English barely legible - and Jacob loved listening to him ramble, as he always did every Saturday prior. The outback of Australia was interesting to the foreign teenager, just as much as Jacob was interested in him back.

 Santino carried himself with such positivity that it was increasingly infectious, no matter the gnawing fact that he was a man that stood for everything that Jacob didn’t. He was sin, but it was refreshing - it lightened up Jacob’s world a little bit every time they spoke, no matter that it found Jacob in confessional more often than not. It wasn’t the heavy shadow haunting himself, nor the sin that consumed his blood and created an ill name for the Smith family. It was light-hearted sin, a fictitious element Jacob couldn’t imagine himself ever bearing.

 The other two Vargas siblings weren’t as exciting, Jacob could begrudgingly admit. Feliciano was a soft-spoken young man, who acted more childish than Victoria would, and was almost always found with a little smudge of paint in his hair or on his clothes. A mess with feet, Santino had once referred to him, unable to keep in his bubbling laugh at the thought. Whilst Lovino was a stark contrast to the both of them, with uncannily bleached blonde hair and the scarred body of a veteran that whispered all the stories he himself would never speak of. No one really spoke to Lovino, although.

 “Sometimes I think he was replaced during the war…” Santino would jest openly - but his eyes spoke it all. The bleached hair, and the flamboyance of his bravado wasn’t normal according to him, but Jacob liked that about Lovino. He could appreciate a man who didn’t stick to the social normalities - who loved himself so thoroughly, no matter what his siblings thought of him. Jacob could only imagine what that freedom was like. What it would be like to embrace himself that way - and step outside of what this little town wanted of him.

 But that’d have to wait another day. The pub had a very distinct absence of the Vargas brothers, and the clock was ticking by. He could have used the foreign tales and extravagant exaggerations to fill in his time, but his procrastination had come to an end. Jacob took a sip of his final beer, and stood on his feet firmly - relaxation escaping and tension filling his limbs like poison. He gave his glass back to the barmaid, where she kissed him on the cheek and sent him off on his way, and he found himself plunged into darkness again.

 It wasn’t a long walk home, even shorter from the pub, but Jacob had taken his time. The crickets soothed him a little, and the moon dutifully reflected off the water of the lake nearby,  disguising the thick red sludge and overgrowth with an luminescent glow. An absolute disaster he couldn’t help but notice. Maybe others found it pretty, he knew Jett sure did, but Jacob found it scenically poor. On the outside it was gorgeous, and was romantic to the untrained eye, but the closer anyone got the more it lost its appeal. What was so attractive about a dirty, littered, and unkempt body of water? The moon was happy to love the lake, just as the lake was happy to be a centerpiece, no matter how pathetic it was. The very idea haunted Jacob every step home.

 “Jacob fucking Smith, where have you been?” Jett called, standing at the door - brown bottle in hand, and another fisting at his own tank-top. “It’s a quarter past midnight, and Baptiste was looking for you!”

  Of course . Jacob rolled his eyes, but smiled up to his brother all the same - if he avoided looking at the bottle, he could pretend his heart wasn’t beating rapidly, could pretend that Jett didn’t know exactly where he’d been. The thought that their French neighbour had taken the time out of his day to look for him was warming, and he knew - no matter how much Jett would deny it - that his older brother had been waiting up for him out of concern too and not duty. He had probably sat out in the overbearingly hot night, sweaty and sticky, just waiting for him to return home. It wasn’t safe for boys like him to be outside, no matter how many people claimed the world was different after the war. He was too much of everything he wished he was more of.

 He didn’t have his brothers broader nose, nor tanned skin. He wasn’t strong or sturdy, and he didn’t have his carefree, distinct smile. He was lucky to not have these things, Jett insisted, but Jacob didn’t feel it. He wanted everything Jett had, and more. Even if it meant he wasn’t safe, it meant he had a little piece of home with him everywhere - the home he wanted .

 “I’m sorry- I got side-tracked and-”

 “Just come here” Jett embraced Jacob in close, the strain between them finally easing away with each passing second. “You scared me and Vic, mate. Stop doing that.”

 With a firm pat on the back Jett led Jacob into their home, shutting and locking the door behind blindly, the only light in the room coming from a single lamp on by the couch. It never did feel very alive for a living room, how could it when the couches were second-hand and worn, the tables held up barely and mended with glue or tape, and mold decorating the poorly painted popcorn ceiling. How could it even be considered living when no one ever was home. “Hey Jett… Where’s Ma?”

 “At Nana’s, Baptiste stayed and made dinner though, c’mon…” Further into the small home was the forever cold kitchen - a relief on hot summer days, but an absolute nightmare for Jacob, who felt cold just from his tire and overall dread. The cool tiles seeped into his body as he sat down at the table, Jett meeting him with a creak of his chair, and a sigh deep from the depths of his chest. He couldn’t even touch the left over food, no matter how amazing Baptiste had surely prepared the meal, he was sure he’d bring it back up. It hurt too much to breath, let alone swallow, and it only made everything worse having Jett there, especially when his body displayed so explicitly that he was uncomfortable. With trembling hands he re-tied his hair back into the loose ponytail, the only object of freedom he seemed to have under this roof.  “Can we talk?”

 “Are we not?”

 Jett grunted dismissively, reaching over and placing a hand over Jacob’s wrist, thumb pressed against the webbing of his hand with a gentle, familiar stroke. “You’re killing yourself with all of this. God’s all loving is he not?”

 “Oh, Jett… could we not?” Could we not? Jacob always asked that question, desperate to escape these confrontations. Jett always acted like he knew what was best for him - he always did this! But the answers never changed, nor did their positions, nor opinions, nor did their relationship change. The frequency of these talks drove Jacob absolutely ballistic, especially when it always ended the same; somehow, Jacob would find himself cornered by his brother, his hand gently encased, and the stench of alcohol stained on their breaths. It was more often than not that tears tended to paint Jacob’s face. “You know I only-”

 “Every single thought you have won’t upset the thing up there, Jake. Not every lil’ fucken thing will put you in hell.”

 “It’s my comfort…” He whispered, unable to retract his hand from the others grip. He felt hollow - his brother always bore through him like this with only a sentence. “If there is a big man up there, isn’t it better to be safer than sorry? If there’s happiness after this life at least I’ll get it. I could be like Ma-”

Jett shook his head in disagreement, but didn’t say much more. He had drained his bottle, his eyes staring out into nothing, exhausted of this conversation already. The clock ticked on somewhere, enunciating the precious time they were wasting in silence. “You can be lost, and still believe you’re happy Jacob. If anyone’s going to hell, it’ll be me. I can’t repent for the things I’ve done-”

 He swallowed his tongue, and the rest of the sentence remained unspoken. It was silent, the only sound being a drip from somewhere in the house, and a quiet little creak of the floorboards under pressure. Nothing more needed to be said with an admission as such, and the two knew it so well by now.  

 Jacob didn’t look up when Jett moved, nor did he look at him when he went into the lounge, rummaging through whatever he was. His eyes stayed on his wrist, even when he felt Jett suddenly tease a hand through his hair, playing with it like he had when they were children and oblivious to the pain surrounding them, blind to the agony between them alone. He stroked his hair maternally, in a way Jacob had learnt to stroke Victoria’s himself before school every morning, filling in for the affection the little girl was missing, like Jett had done for him. It wasn’t fair on them, and Jett was growing to hate the very thought of Jacob’s ‘comfort’ - and the destruction it was causing his brother. He was beginning to hate this ‘saving grace,’ when it hurt his brother like this. Jacob knew his brother hated everything the church stood for, even when it was the only positive they had left.

 With a small shift of the hair tie, Jett placed something in Jacob’s hair, stabilising it delicately. “Don’t dwell on it too much, and go rest… love you kiddo.”

 Jett left in silence as Jacob removed the flower from his hair, gently stroking the soft petals of the pristine white lily that Baptiste had surely brought over earlier in the night for Victoria. The simple gesture of affection was enough to bring Jacob into little, stifled, hiccuped tears.

[jashasedai]

Tame AU- Asking Questions and Getting Answers

Asking Questions and Getting Answers

Alternate Universe- Tame Racing Drivers

Fandom- MotoGP, Indycar

In an AU where a secret species is used as Racing Drivers, sometimes Racing Drivers and their human matches have conflicts that are too big for them to solve by themselves.

Colin goes to visit to a little Racing Driver who is having a BIG problem.

Tags: MotoGP, Indycar, Colin Edwards, AU Tame Racing Drivers, Alternate Universe, Mentions of Racism

Asking Questions and Getting Answers

Haas Motorsport Compound- Post Season 2014

In some ways, Valentino had power that made Colin afraid.  He could call Ferrari and tell them he was walking into their stable in an hour and would be walking out with as much of their prime stock as he wanted.  He could arrange for Honda to divert funds into building a state of the art medical center, or a test track.

In some ways, Colin had things that made Valentino sick with envy.

He could walk into any grocery store in the world, wearing regular clothing and sunglasses, and walk out without being recognized, hounded, or groped.

He could travel to races where ever he liked, and no one asked him why.

He could meet people Valentino would never be allowed to lay eyes on.

He drove down to Haas headquarters in North Carolina and asked to be taken on a private tour.  He had Jake with him, and Mike, but no cameras, no publicity.  Tony Stewart wasn’t onsite, which Colin didn’t feel sorry about, he’d gone head to head with Smoke twice when Ratchet had been driving NASCAR, but Danica Patrick happened to be there.  She met them and invited them to see the informal part of the facility.

“Colin just loves lawn mowers,” Mike commented, slapping Colin on the back so hard he staggered.

It made Colin happy when he saw Danica’s eyes narrow at the demeaning nickname for young Racing Drivers.  It was a little test Ricky had taught him for determining who believed in Racer’s rights and who didn’t.  Apparently, Danica was on the same side as the Riders.

She took them down to the newly matched wing, anyway.

America matched early these days, Valentino had said.

Jake grunted when they walked into the mess hall.

Haas didn’t own a stable, just a team, but in addition to their team Drivers, they owned several dozen prospective team members.  These lived at the GMC stable most of the time, but were sent to Haas for off season training.

It was easy to find the Racing Driver Colin had come here to see.

He had his mother’s smile.  The same wicked grin she leveled at the Riders who thought because she was a small class champion, she did not know how to be responsible for a herd.

No one made that mistake about Winter Spark twice.

[Hello, what is your name?] He sat down at a table next to a foal with fluffy brown hair.

[Ferret, what is yours?] The foal answered, one handed, pushing food onto his spoon at the edge of his tray.  He put the overcooked greens into his mouth and then looked up.

[My name is Colin, I work with deaf Racing Drivers.]

Danica must be onto him by now.  A glance told him she wasn’t going to interfere.

[That is cool,] Nodded Ferret.

[I do not just work with deaf Racing Drivers, sometimes I help Racing Drivers who are having a hard time making good times,] He said, watching the young stallion push another bite of food into his mouth.

Ferret turned and put his left elbow on the table, chewing and considering Colin.  [Can you help a Racing Driver if he is confused?]

[What are you confused about?]

His elbow dropped off the table and his turned, hanging his head over the tray, with a sad expression.  [I think there is something wrong with my match.]

That could mean almost anything.  Colin waited.

There was a long wait, and nothing more was said, so he asked, [What do you think is wrong?]

Ferret pinched his lips together in the Racer gesture for confusion and disgust.  It didn’t mean a word, it meant a feeling, the gesture equivalent of a human watching someone pick up and eat a live spider.

[Santino is not always kind to the other Racing Drivers.  He got very angry at Kembar, and said he should not be the color that he is.]

Colin had no idea who’s Racing Driver’s name was Kembar.  [Why, what color is Kembar?]  Red, probably, that color affinity tended to draw ire, sometimes on reputation alone.

Ferret made the confused face again.  [Brown.]

That was ridiculous, only baby Racing Drivers wore brown.  It wasn’t even a color affinity.

Colin’s stomach dropped.

Some idiot had matched Rasoio’s son with a racist.

And now Ferret hoped Colin was equipped to help him.

To change Santino’s mind.

Colin turned around.  Mike and Jake were wide eyed.  Danica looked like she’d run into this problem before.

“Do you think you can help?” She asked in a tired voice.

“Take on white supremacy single handed?” Colin said.  “I think if it were that easy it would be taken care of already.”

“Not everyone who is...like that...is a match.  Racing Drivers can have a big influence.”

“Bigger than society?” Colin asked.  “Why did you match him to someone like that in the first place?”

“It’s not alway apparent with 13 year olds.”  She put her hands on her hips.  “Besides,” She waved a hand to indicate Ferret.

He was fast.

Of course he was.

He had a career ahead of him.  The company wasn’t going to waste that profit.

“I can teach his boy how to ride, that’s hardly going to make him accept all mankind as equals.”  Colin threw up his hands.

[You cannot help,] Ferret said, lowering his eyes.  [There is something wrong with him, and you cannot help him.]

He looked so much like Rasoio when he was sad.  

[I will try,] Colin said.

Mike snorted.  “Anyway, this one’s a cake walk.”

The other humans looked at him in confusion.

[Hello, colt!] Mike gestured to get Ferret’s attention.  [Where is Kembar from?]

How was Ferret supposed to know the names of countries?

“Sean is Indonesian,” Danica started.

[Kembar was born at the Redbull stable,] Ferret answered promptly.  

Oh.

“See,” Mike said, “With Racers, it’s all a matter of perspective.”

[homesoutofhuman]

Part 8 - How am I supposed to live without you?

John enters your room and almost stumbles back from the fragrance. Your room is filled with lilies, white and some pink, overflowing from expensive crystal vases. Even Nora’s bed is surrounded by them since there are so many.

He comes to your bedside. “I don’t want to be a killjoy but this isn’t really acceptable. This is a hospital...there are rules...”

You bite your lip, anxious. “I’m so sorry...Santino didn’t tell me he was going to do this…”

John’s gaze softens when he looks at you. “Tell you what. Pick one vase to keep and we can distribute the rest among the ward patients. There are some people who never get flowers…”

You feel guilty again so just nod, keeping your eyes low and feeling ashamed at how John must see you, spoilt and shallow.

He finds a place to sit not taken over with flowers. “He must really love you….to go to all this trouble.”

You snort. “His assistant will have had the trouble I’m sure…”

John looks even more perplexed at your reaction and you feel the need to explain.

“I’m sorry...Dr Wick…” somehow you don’t dare call him John since he’s being so stern with you. “I sound ungrateful...but this is just how our marriage is. Outward displays of grandiose affection with little behind them.”

John looks concerned and you know you’re babbling, know he has better things to do, but then he leans in closer.

“Listen, we’re friends aren’t we? You can tell me anything…”

Oh...back to that..

You feel a shock of sadness, you know your marriage is over but you can’t bring yourself to say it out loud. Your feelings for John are strong and confusing, so new and delicate like a wild flower, so you just stare at him with sorrowful eyes.

John chucks you under the chin. “We’re going on an adventure.”

You sit up, looking at him questioningly. “Great. But where?”

John moves to the side of your bed and you place your arms on his shoulders, using him to lift yourself up. He wraps an arm around your waist and holds you steady, you never realised how strong he was.

John guides you gently, you sigh against his neck and he feels himself growing warm just from having you in his arms. He tries to concentrate on getting you out of the ward without accident.

“Are you kidnapping me John?” you ask, thinking of Santino’s face if he happened to come and find you gone.

John laughs. “If I were we’d be getting out of this hospital as fast as possible…”

You catch his mood, giggling as well, your stress about the flowers and Santino not coming to visit forgotten. “Where would we go, John?”

He pretends to ponder the question seriously. “How about...Napa Valley? Great wine...sunshine...we could hire an open top car...play good music and sing along...I’d love to hear you sing again.”

You sigh, almost going weak in his arms at the image he conjures up. “Sounds amazing...a great road trip with friends…”

John frowns a bit, nodding, but his eyes stray to your lips remembering how it felt to kiss you. “I’ve got to make you better first…”

“I feel okay…” you let him go and show him how you can stand on your own. John gives you a sceptical look, staying close ready to catch you at any moment and you poke your tongue out at him.

“Leave me be Doctor! Stop fussing!” you playfully push at him and he grabs you, tickling you into submission until you’re giggling, laid back in his arms, still trying to push him away weakly.

He stares down at you, your flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, your chest rising and falling with rapid shaky breathes. You catch his eye and stop smiling, bringing a hand to caress his handsome face.

“John…” you try to convey all your longing and regret in one gaze, and he nods almost in answer, nuzzling his nose against yours but leaving your mouth alone.

There is a loud cough and you grab John’s arm, worried he will drop you. Of course he doesn’t, tightening his hold, sliding a hand on your back and lifting you upright again.

Nora is regarding you both with a sceptical look. “I know you came to visit me but I’m not feeling the centre of attention at the moment…”

You push John away, missing his offended look and rush to her. “Nora! How are you?”

She waves away your concerns. “Never mind that...tell me the gossip back on the ward...has that guy with the Harry Styles hair gone home yet?”

You nod and she scoffs. “Too bad.”

John leaves you to catch up and when he returns 20 minutes later he finds Nora napping in bed. You’re sitting in the chair beside the bed stroking her hand and looking sad. He sighs and moves to lead you away. Nora shifts in her sleep but doesn’t wake, John pulls you towards the canteen, watching you with concern.

“Maybe the visit wasn’t such a good idea…”

“No...she liked it I think, she just got tired quickly from the excitement.”

You look worn and pale and John curses himself. “I meant for you...it was meant to make you feel better but you look worse..”

“Oh thanks.“ you say sarcastically, sliding into a booth in the corner of the hospital canteen. “Can you get me a coffee...please?” you put on your best wide eyed Disney stare and John rolls his eyes.

“I was going to anyway...no need to break out the lashes…” he mutters under his breath, moving to buy two cups of fresh coffee and a muffin. He remembers when he was last in here, with your husband, and the thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

He comes back to you, urging you to eat. You sip your coffee and pick at the muffin halfheartedly. “Nora wouldn’t tell me John, but she’s really sick isn’t she?”

He sighs. “You know I can’t discuss another patient’s medical issues with you.”

“Oh.” you look down, frowning and waiting for him to scold you more. Instead you feel a hand on top of yours, rubbing your knuckles.

“I’m sorry Y/N...it’s the way it is…”

You look back up. “I know...please don’t be mad at me…”

“I’m not mad. What are you talking about?” John snorts a bit in disbelief, the thought he could ever be angry at you seems preposterous, then something clicks in his mind.

“Does Santino get angry at you?”

You shrug. “Sometimes…” John’s eyes go murderous and you rush to reassure him. “He never hurt me John…”

John makes a low growl in his throat. “If he did I think I’d kill him.”

“You’re a doctor...you swore an oath not to hurt people.” you remind him gently, but feel your heart swell at his words. “But...thank you...I appreciate it.”

John glares at an invisible Santino, finishing his coffee. “He neglects you though...I’ve seen it.”

“As you said...it’s not fair to discuss him with you John...can we talk about something else?” you plead again and he relents.

“Sure. Eat your muffin.”

You roll your eyes but shove a large piece on your mouth. “You’re trying to fatten me up..”

John smirks. “Anything to stop you leaving…”

You gasp, almost choking on the muffin and immediately his face falls. 

“Sorry...I….I know you have to leave it’s just...I’m going to miss you…”

You feel like crying, speaking in a small voice. “Me too….”

John can see his world crumbling before him and he doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t want to scare you off with the intensity of his feelings, but he cannot let the chance pass him by.

“I think we should talk...not here…” he glances around the canteen full of his colleagues and knows what he wants to say would lose his job instantly if overheard.

“Outside?”

He leads you to the hospital garden and you spy the flowers he picked for you, they mean more to you than the hundreds of dollars worth of fancy blooms sent by your husband you feel a depression settle on your heart.

You sit on the bench side by side and rest your head on his shoulder. John strokes your hair, savouring the moment. You relax into him, sliding you arms around his waist and cuddling him like a teddy bear, a very attractive teddy bear but still. He smells like rain and he feels like hope.

He turns to you, running his eyes over your face. “I never thought I’d be the kind of man to suggest this, but I also never knew I could want something so much as I want you so...” he holds up a hand to stop you interrupting.

“...so I’m asking you...be with me...give me a chance...and we will keep it a secret. It’s not fair of me to ask you to choose, we hardly know each other..but I cannot live without you anymore...”

“I....” you feel overwhelmed by his sudden declaration, your instinct is to run away and John senses it, holding you tight against him. 

“I don’t know John...” you whimper, tears coming to your eyes as the conflict rages in your heart.

He gives you a longing look, his eyes full of emotion and desire, and before you can even say another world he grabs your face in his large hands and kisses you passionately.

His tongue is in your mouth, erasing all protests, any rational argument, and you let yourself drown in him, his warmth, his want. He kisses you as if it may be the last time, and the intensity makes your head spin. Santino always kissed you lazily, as if assuming the next kiss would always be there whenever he chose to want it. John’s sweet desperation is turning you on like nothing else and you kiss him back then, letting go. 

When John feels you respond he groans into your mouth, grasping you eagerly and you feel a rush of power that comes with affecting such a gorgeous man. His eyes rake over your body and see him lick his lips.

“I feel....dizzy...” you whimper and he presses his fingers against your neck to take your pulse.

“You’re fine baby....” he whispers, brushing your lips again and you realise...this is what true desire feels like.

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

Heal the pain masterlist

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, MONA! You’ve been accepted for the role of VIOLA. Admin Kaitlin: There’s no hiding the fact that Valentina has always been somewhat of a fan favorite here at DiVerona, and Mona you certainly delivered our girl to us. The voice you gave to Val in this application was so wonderful, and I loved how much you honed in on the emotional playing field of Val’s internal thoughts. I can’t wait to see where you take our favorite undercover Montague! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Alias | Mona

Age | 20

Preferred Pronouns | She/Her

Activity Level | I’m in Nursing school along with work, but honestly I never sleep and haven’t been in a role-play in a long time, but I loved it when I was in them around two years ago… Basically, I’m really excited to take part in a rug again and write for a character I love, so I expect to be around a lot.

Timezone | PST

Current/Past RP Accounts | Sadly, I have lost track of all my role-play accounts!

In Character

Character | Viola, also known as Valentina Gallo

What drew you to this character? | Looking into Valentina’s history, it’s clear that she had to build a tough shell as she grew up into the world that she did. Having been through what she has, Valentina could have gone two ways… have others fear her, or have them pity her - the latter of which sounds far worse than any other version of hell you could put her through. She’s a strong woman who did what she had to do in certain situations, and will continue to do that for as long as she needs to.

Honestly, I’m a sucker for anything that is even remotely sad - and whether she wants to admit it or not, Valentina’s situation was devastatingly so. To be abandoned as a young child by the people who are supposed to love you for the rest of their lives, that’s not something someone recovers from just because they said they have. I see Valentina wanting to join the Montagues as a replacement for the things she’s lost, even though that’s something that she’s not going to accept for a veryyyy long time. I really want to build on how strong she is despite everything, though, and I really want to be able to develop her relationship not only with her brother but with the people she surrounds herself with. I truly believe she has not let anyone form any sort of bond with her since the night her parents left, and while she’s in no way mopey, in my head she’s just this bitter woman who sees everything in the worst way imaginable because she learned her lesson a long, long time ago.

Just a little extra thing, I really feel like Valentina never had much control over her life in any way, and also never really knew safety in the same way. She wasn’t allowed to have a childhood, nor a normal upbringing. So as an adult, I think every word she says and every step she takes is going to be fully planned, and I feel as if everything she does has to be fully in her control or she just loses it completely. I believe Valentina has a hair-line trigger, where she goes from being completely calm to just exploding all over the place, and while she’s been better at taking control of this anger and using it only when needed, there are still moments where she explodes and will have to disappear for a while to either calm down, or let her anger out in whatever way she can.

Basically, I just can’t wait to be able to unleash just how relentless she can be.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character?

                    C H I L D H O O D   D O T T E D    W I T H    B O D I E S

Forever. It was a luxury Valentina allowed herself to apply to one person and one person alone - Santino. He had lived up to his names meaning, truly a saint as she stood behind him, bathing in sin. Not a single possession could come close to where she held him, not a single man could live in her brothers shadows. There had never been a lie between the two, never been a secret they could not share. Where Valentina is no stranger to walls, she had never built one between herself and her brother.. Yet, she feels herself yearning to be a part of the Montague’s, and while nothing has ever rivaled the loyalty she had for her brother, she had never had anything else so large in her life. She tells herself it’s fine, that a few cracks in the foundation never tore down a house, that a few lies between family would always be forgiven… but with each step, she can’t help the thought that lingers in her mind. What if she’s found the one thing that cannot be forgiven?

Santino leaving her is not something she can fathom.

               L E T   T H E M   G O   ,   L E T   T H E M   B E   G H O S T S

At one point, she’s sure, she must have led a normal life. Yet, that life is so far away now there is no point in dwelling on it. She has no mother, no father, and if you ask her she never did. Faced with them today, she would not be able to pick their faces out from a crowd, as she refuses to acknowledge them in any way. Just because someone made her does not give them the credit for who she has become now. No longer can anything be done to Valentina that she does not allow. When asked what happened to her parents, her response will always be “What parents?”. There were always whispers, of course, as the streets love a morbid tale, and the whispers grew more and more gruesome as Valentina grew more and more cold. Were they killed? Who were they running from? Were the Gallos murdered by those they loved most? Of course, this is all much more entertaining than the truth - that the Gallo parents were plain cowards, who had bitten off more than they could chew. It had always been easy to believe, that they had left willingly, but what if the people she had always hated hadn’t had a choice?

Maybe she did not know her past as well as she thought she did.

             M A K E   T H E M   S T A Y   ,   M A K E   T H E M   S T O N E

Everybody needs somebody, or at least that’s what Santino says to her every now and then, relentless. Friendship, love, anything besides a lie. Yet, this is not something Valentina sees to be in her future. Valentina is far from naive, she had her eyes open to the world around her from a very young age, and does not romanticize the role she plays in it. Valentina romanticized nothing but the war she wanted so earnestly to take part in. Yet, it is possible that the secrets she is keeping, others are keeping as well. Who is to know what lies others weave, possibly far more intricate than those that she spun from such a young age. She believes herself invincible, untouchable.. but as did Icarus, as he flew straight into the sun. One day Valentina will let her guard down, and likely get burnt for it.

Having shut herself away for so long, wouldn’t it be ironic, for Valentina to allow in the one person who would be her destruction?

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | This is so tough, but depending on the circumstances, yes!

In Depth

In-Character Interview: The following questions must be answered in-character, and in para form (quotations, actions written out if applicable, etc). There is no minimum or maximum limit for your response - simply answer as you would if you were playing the character.

What is your favorite place in Verona?

It was far too personal a question, but to be fair, most questions were. An immediate image comes to mind, and there is no doubt of where Valentina would want to spend her last breath, her happiest moment, her lowest low. Before she was a part of the world, the Castelvecchio Bridge was the closest she was ever allowed to get, a sneak peak into a forbidden world. “What does it matter?” she asked, a sly smile painted onto her lips as she leaned back in her chair, seemingly calm but alert to any prying questions - one couldn’t give too much away. It was her favorite place, after all, and it should be hers alone, not for anyone else to spoil. It was where she had gotten her first glimpse of the forbidden, her first taste of the fight that would have her coming back for more. “I suppose the Twelfth Night Museum will do, if I have to pick a place, but the street life is always far more entertaining than what can be found inside four walls”. Valentina did not indulge in much, this would be hers and hers alone.

What does your typical day look like?

“What is typical?” she asked, a slight chuckle escaping her lips. One persons typical could be another persons extraordinary, and Valentina’s ‘typical’ would not count as that in most people’s worlds. “I start it with Santino, I suppose, as I have for as long as I can remember…” she trailed off, trying to think of a moment in which one of her daily tasks had become habitual instead of just fleeting. She hadn’t given any thought to a question such as this one, and it was a surprise that this is what would have caught her off guard. She could not help but think of the various faces she put on throughout the day, the various roles she found herself stepping into when the situation allowed, a fire burning in the background nonetheless. “I eat where I can, I sleep where I can… I go where the city takes me. I do not limit myself to routine.” she admitted, and for once it was not all a life, they had caught her in a good mood, a rare mood. “I do not limit myself to one thing, I go where I am needed, I go where I please.”

What has been your biggest mistake thus far?

Oh, there were so many. The scars that could have been avoided. The jobs that went bad. The beginnings, when she couldn’t steal candy from a baby, let alone enough to get by. It was getting late, the show she was putting on couldn’t go along for too long, better to answer quickly and get it over with, she was getting tired of the relentless prodding. “Missing anyone, who would voluntarily chose to leave.” she shrugged, carefully examining her nails as she let out that vital piece of information, it was no secret that Valentina did not have time for pointless attachment, not anymore. “Time wasted which could have been much more useful doing other things”, the statement was left with a cruel taste in her mouth, and she knew that the smile she tried to put on was far more sadistic than kind, yet maybe that was intentional.

What has been the most difficult task asked of you?

There was not much Valentina would not do, she was no stranger to getting her hands dirty for her own personal gain. If others knew, how easily Valentina would turn on anyone (correction, almost anyone), they wouldn’t trust her with a single thing, never their life. “Nothing too difficult, if I’m being quite honest. You do what has to be done, don’t you?” she asked, probably one of the most truthful statements that Valentina had ever uttered to anyone besides Santino, but the question woke up the dark thoughts she kept pushing to the back of her mind. If she were being honest with herself, she would admit that keeping this secret from him was truly the hardest thing she had been asked… but what use is lingering on what is already done.

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

“People disagree, it’s bound to happen… just have to be on the winning side" she sighed, thinking back on the days where she longed to be a part of what she was currently swimming in. “Men have been raging war all throughout history, it did not begin nor end with this one.”

Extras:

Once her and Santino could afford to have a ‘permanent residence’, Valentina found herself obsessing with keeping it clean. Everything had to be in it’s place, not a single thing could go awry inside their four walls. Santino thinks she just needs to be in control, Valentina demands that she just refuses to live in a pigsty.

When they were teenagers, it was always as if her and Santino would take turns being the mature one, and admittedly it was Santino’s turn more often then it would be hers… it’s hard to imagine Valentina being any more rebellious than she already is, but the version of her now is quite tame compared to how she used to be.

Whenever her nights get too quiet, Valentina enjoys going out and creating a new life for herself. It’s easy to tell a drunk tourist your name is “Bella” and that you just love their accent, it’s easy to pretend to be someone else. She’s been doing it more and more, creating different people to become for an hour, for a night, for a fleeting moment. She finds she’s most herself when she’s surrounded by people who don’t know who she really is.

OKAY BASICALLY, idk I love her and I feel like she’s far more damaged than she wants to admit and she’s wayyyy too codependent and I really want to develop her relationship with her brother because honestly it’s great.

thank you for reading all this :)

[multific]

Simple Moments

Santino D’Antonio x Reader

Request: Hey! I saw that your requests were open so i was wondering could you write something with Santino and doctor!reader? I am just curious what would be their domestic life would be. I mean if u r ok with that idea. Love your writing ❤ Have a good day/night❤❤

A/N: I love this idea! Sorry that it took so long to finish! Hope you like it, enjoy~

  People always assumed that only and gold digger would be stupid enough to date and then marry Santino D’Antonio.

Being the head of the mafia and a member of the high table, people were scared of him. And when they learned that he was married, they expected a stupid girl to walk in beside him, but instead, you came in. Everyone’s jaw dropped to the floor, you looked amazing and not only that, but you were very intelligent as well. After the meeting, they learned that you were a doctor.

And thanks to your profession, you met Santino.

He had what you’d call a man-flu, but since he was too proud to admit that he was sick, he didn’t get any treatment, until he collapsed due to a high fever.

His men rushed him to the nearest hospital, which happened to be yours, and you became his doctor.

His men, who you thought were either his friends or co-workers, explained what happened. You gave him medicine and only saw him the next morning when he woke up.

You had to admit, he was a charming, handsome man, with his Italian accent and sweet words, he took you off your feet pretty quick. But you didn’t tell him that. You made him fight for you, so you’d know that he was serious.

And he was.

Very serious indeed.

Not long after you met him, you were married and you lived in a beautiful house with him. Life couldn’t be better.

Every day you went to work, long long shifts after you arrived home, you were always tired, so after a quick shower, to the bed, you went.

Not long after you made yourself comfortable under the sheets, your husband would arrive and do the exact same. He would pull you close to his warm and firm chest whisper into your ears a simple “I love you”, and you’d be both off to sleep.

But not today, today was Sunday and you had the day off, hearing that you’ll have free time, your husband took a day off of his business as well.

So when you woke up to the smell of freshly made breakfast, you were more than impressed to find him in the kitchen and not one of your housekeepers.

“Good morning, My Love.” he said as you sat down at the table and took a sip of your morning beverage.

“Good morning. You made breakfast?”

“Yes, and I didn’t burn it!” he said smiling like a five-year-old as he put some bacon and eggs onto your plate. You were so glad that he was happy and relaxed, the last few days were crazy for him. It’s been a while since the two of you slept until nine in the morning,

After breakfast, you headed out to the garden to just enjoy the warmth of the sun while reading.

Your husband joined you and sat with you between his legs, after he finished the important phone call that he had to answer.

He kissed your shoulder and placed his chin on it. “What are you reading, My Love?”

“A study on some new medicine, noting interesting to you I’m afraid.” you said as you leaned into him. Just being close to him made you feel ten times better. Nothing could ever make you be scared of him, he was your safe place, your home. Many hours passed of you just reading and you could feel that Santino got bored of the situation. So, you decided to close your book after you marked the page you were on and said,

“How about bake you something? Like that chocolate caramel cake, you like so much?” you could physically feel him smiling without even looking at him, it was true, that cake was his favorite since you baked it for him for his birthday. It impressed him so much he promised to marry you just for that.

“Sounds good to me, Love.” he whispered the last part into your ear with made both shivers go down your spine and a ticklish feeling to creep up.

A while later, you found yourself on the couch with his head in your lap. You just finished eating cake, and both of you were full of the sweet tasty dessert. You stroked his hair as you still read your book while he watched TV.

These simple moments meant the most for you. You didn’t need to go to a fancy place or do something elsewhere. All you needed was for your husband to be there with you, so you can enjoy each other’s presence.

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ˇAO3ˇ

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Feedback means EVERYTHING to me, so please take the time and tell me how you liked my story. Thank You~

[weclassygirl]

𝐀𝐜𝐭𝐚, 𝐧𝐨𝐧 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐚

Word count: +4.7k

Pairing: santino d’antonio x f!reader

Summary: “They’re already waiting.”

Warnings: none i guess, fighting 

Author’s note: hi! i’m back with another part. the next part may take a bit longer for me to write, cause i’m dealing with something at my uni rn. as always give me your most brutal honest opinion so i can improve. english is not my first language so beware. take care everyone <3

dulce periculum series: 01 / 02 / 03 / ... / 05

Gif credits (x) 

After the plane lands in Rome, both of you waste no time driving to Naples. It's already night time in Italy, almost midnight actually. You drive through the heart of Rome, the car passes by the Colosseum and your eyes linger on it as you drive past it. The whole monument is even bigger and more magnificent than you could ever imagine.

Santino's eyes linger too but not on the ancient structure but on you. Once again he's studying your face, your reaction to the place you're in. Your face is still covered in bruises but they are nearly gone, right now the orange street lights dance on your face as well as the cover of night. 

You sigh softly, not being able to stop a gentle expression taking over your features. For a while you feel at ease, taking in the scenery around you. None of you utter a word throughout the almost 3 hour drive. You believe that it may be due to the long flight, everyone would be tired after sitting in one place for 8 hours. You have slept for almost the whole flight, somehow you still felt exhausted after the event at the Lounge… or maybe it has to do with the bruises still placed on your body.

The car stops before a gate that is followed by a brick driveway. You cannot see the mansion from your seat, the only thing visible is the well tamed grass and some other trees with bushes growing on it. 

You see a few guards placed in various spots, all of them wear elegant suits. The car nears the mansion and your eyes go slightly wide. You expected the mansion to be luxurious and grand, but somehow it feels like that richness collides with simplicity. 

Both of you step out of the car and walk towards the mansion. The two guards placed at the entrance nod their heads at Santino. You follow him as he steps into the building, nerves start to creep up your body as you move further into the mansion. 

"You will have a bedroom here too." he says as you pass the big mirror on the wall. You see your reflection in it for a moment before you move along. "Someone will show it to you later." 

As you keep walking further into the grand mansion you see a man coming up to Santino and whispering to him in Italian. 

"They're already waiting." both men glance at you and Santino nods his head to the guard. You draw your eyebrows together, wondering what they could be talking about. Who's waiting? 

The two of you move upstairs, walking along the wide hallway. There are paintings on the wall and some flowers placed on the tables. Both of you come to a stop and stand in front of rich dark door. You can hear a faint chatter behind the doors and look at Santino. He stares at the door as if he could see who's waiting behind them. Both of you enter the room.

There's ten people sitting at the table. Their discussion dies down as soon as they see you enter. A woman with gray hair sits at the head of it and by her sides sit two man, one dressed in a brown suit, the other in a black dress shirt. All of them look dangerous, the tension is filling up the air and you wonder if walking away now would be a wise idea.

You weren't expecting Camorra to have its own Council, but it does make sense in your mind. Someone has to be there if the head is dead or on the other side of the world.

"It's not proper to keep us waiting, boy." says a man with a nicely trimmed beard.  His eyes sharp and dark. 

Santino changes his whole attitude in a matter of seconds. "Well, seeing as I am the current head of this family I would have thought that it didn't matter if I arrived on time or not." he says with that arrogant grin growing on his face. It reminds you of the same arrogance he showed in front of Winston when he asked for John's membership to be revoked.

The gray haired woman doesn't respond to his statement. She gestures to the seats in front of you with her elegant hand. 

"Sit down, both of you." 

"We'll stand, let's get this over with quickly." Santino says in a hurried tone.

The woman is not pleased with that answer but decides to let it go, getting right into the reason you're all here. 

"What's your name girl?" she addresses you. 

Once again you think if it would be wise to give your real name, but still stick with the one you've been using since you got here. 

"Umm… Jade." you answer hesitantly. 

She can see through your lie as well as the others gathered around the long table.

"Jade." she tastes your name on her tongue, it makes your skin crawl. "Ms. Jade, we’re hearing that you have come from a world where all of this is a movie, correct?" she leans in her seat, her elbows rest on the dark table. 

"Yes." 

"And you stopped Mr. John Wick from killing Santino?" she questions further and you notice a hint of an Italian accent in her statement. 

"That's right." you answer her slowly. Your whole body is tense, all eyes are turned in your direction, the Council and the few of the guards placed in every corner. 

"Tell us then… what is it that you want?" she asks with an accusatory tone. "Money? Power? What would make you save him from the Baba Yaga?" 

You can't believe what you're hearing. Saving Santino could be seen as some kind of deal in the eyes of others, that you've done that only to gain some money for yourself but that's not the case.

You lived in one of the worst conditions possible over the years, your rent was cheap and so was the apartment. It wasn't much but it was home… even if you could call it that. You learned how to live off of scraps, you don't need luxury to feel like someone worthy, respectable even. 

"You're seriously think that I saved him because I want money?" you scoff in her direction, your eyes slightly widened and eyebrows raised. 

"Who wouldn't? Money is the language of the modern world, people with money are the ones that rule it, any world at that." you stare at her, disbelief taking over your features. You look towards Santino and immediately switch your attention to the woman at the table. 

"I don't need to tell you the reason. He lives, that's what matters, doesn't it?" you question, your voice is getting colder and colder with every passing minute. At this point you don't care that you're surrounded by one of the most powerful organization in all of Italy, maybe even the world. "Without him this whole organization would have been gone."

"You think that his death would have changed anything here? Listen to yourself, girl. Even if he were killed, we would have continued as before, stronger even." the woman argues, thinking she has the high ground. You look around, the others at the table watch your interaction like a tennis match. You begin to smile.

"No you wouldn't." you scoff.

"Excuse me?" the woman blinks.

"Jade…" Santino addresses you in a warning tone, but you just shake your head slightly and put your hand up as if to stop him from coming nearer. 

"No." you step closer to the table "If he wasn't alive, then all of this that has been build by his father would have been for nothing. The Camorra line needs to continue and you cannot do it without the heir. His father and Gianna are dead, he is the only person now that deserves that power here. Without a leader… you would all fall." you say, the accusations rise with every breath you take. "And I am pretty sure that any of you here wanted to see him dead,  just so you could have a chance at taking up that seat.” you finish your statement and see the woman put her hand up. 

You hear a soft click before you feel a cold barrel of a gun pressed on the back of your head. You freeze and raise your hands up slightly. You hang your hand down briefly and scoff. The grey haired woman has a look in her eyes that many surely would fear.

“One more word that would come out of that insolent mouth of yours and you will end up  with a bullet in your pretty little head.” she warns you through gritted teeth. Your shoulder tense up, you look towards Santino and his eyes filled with unexplained worry. You turn your gaze to the woman when you hear the Italian speak up next to you. 

“Maybe we could talk about the real reason why I called you all here,” he says with a serious expression forming on his face “rather than pointing a gun at her head.”

The woman at the table narrows her eyes at him, visibly agitated with the situation. 

“So what would be so important that you would call us here, at night with a stranger by your side?” she questions, her voice becoming more and more frustrated. 

Santino just smirks and briefly looks your way. The smirk faintly reaches his eyes that gleam in the low light of the room. 

“I’m sure that you would have her killed the moment she steps outside of this room, that’s why I want to make a proposition.” There’s a pregnant silence hanging in the room, but is soon dropped as the Italian man continues with his offer. “Let her work in the name of Camorra.”

You widen your eyes and look towards Santino who's already looking at you, his expression blank when you mouth to him what?. Your face shows confusion but is quickly replaced by the same calm that he now wears. 

Joining Camorra could help you in getting familiar with this world. If they trained you, you would have some kind of advantage, but also Santino could use it in his favor. The movie never showed how they truly work but from what you've seen you would believe that they do train the best of the best.

You hear a quiet chuckle from one of the other members sitting at the table.

“You think that a scrawny girl like her is capable of joining Camorra?” he questions with an anger and amusement building up in his voice.

“Yes I do, in fact at the Continental Hotel she told us that she has knowledge of multiple languages and of fighting, we could tests it here if you’re all doubtful.” the new Camorra leader responds, his eyes are solely focused on the people gathered in the room.

Before Santino can continue you hear a man speak up in Italian. "That stupid girl wouldn’t even survive the first night here.” he comments with a smirk directed to the man next to him. 

You feel anger and frustration build up inside you. 

"That stupid girl can hear you old man.” you respond in perfect Italian. The man's face quickly turns sour and shocked. You feel like you've made a terrible mistake, answering in that tone to one of the Camorra's Council. You feel the barrel of the gun being pressed into the back of your head with more force. Your eyesight travels to the edge of the table and stays there for a moment before it moves to the old woman. She raises her hand and you fear the worst. 

The guard behind you takes the gun away from your head but still remains in a close distance. Your shoulders seems to release some tension yet it doesn't make you even remotely relaxed.

Another member decides to take up on a voice but this time you hear him speaking in Chinese. “She is not of this world, she has no knowledge of it, it would be better to just get rid of her.” you decide to respond in the same language. “If you’re so worried about my knowledge than I can always learn everything there is to it here, it wouldn’t be a problem.” you look to Santino, he's watching the conversation like a game. 

There's a faint scraping of a chair on the marble floors and the old woman comes up closer to you and Santino. 

“You’ve got some fire in you girl, I’ll give you that.” she says. You don't know if you see amusement or even some sense of pride on her face. She looks towards the table and the rest of the Council gathered around it. “Very well, let’s see if you are capable of surviving here.”

The guard behind you hides his gun and all of you quickly leave for the shooting range placed beneath the mansion. You lock your eyes with Santino before departing to it.

You stand in front of the table, guns splayed across it as well as a set of bullets. You pick the gun up and weight it in your hand. Too heavy. You place it down and grab another one that is not too heavy but also not too light. The Council notices your choice of weapon. 

You look towards the target in front of you, at least 15 meters far. “Any specific point you want me to shoot?” you ask no one in particular but the woman standing behind you responds "Head, heart, mouth and a lower region.” you nod.

The gun in your hands suddenly feels heavy. You look towards the target and aim your gun. A faint breath is released from your lungs as if to calm yourself down and focus. 

You are surrounded by the most dangerous organization in all of Italy but now they don't matter. You imagine that they're not here with you, that even Santino is not here. You shoot. 

BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG.

The sound echoes in the open space. You still hold the gun up as the sheet of paper comes closer for all of you to see. The headshot is there but missed by a few centimeters. Mouth shot hit the jaw, heart was a bit off but very close. As for the lower region, you could hear some of the men gathered in the room wince softly as you shot the target. You put the gun down on the table with a soft thud.

You back up and the Council members come closer to inspect the target. They don't say anything but you see them nodding their heads as if they are impressed with your skill. You turn to Santino and he's wearing a surprised and proud expression on his face.

The thing is, you know how to shoot… vaguely. Your dad thought you how to shoot when you were in your early teens. It was a family trip to a fair, there was a shooting range and your parents saw that you have a good aim and you yourself liked it. They went with you to the shooting range whenever they could. 

The Council turns to you, all eyes burning into yours. They don't say a word just look you up and down. Everyone quickly moves to the gym. It's a simple place, handles placed in their designated area, a ring in the middle and punching bags along with some other equipment scattered around. One of the members, a man with a scar going up the side of his face throws you some gym clothes. Santino follows you as you go to change but lingers behind the slightly ajar door. 

"You don't have to do this." he says, concern lacing his voice.

"You were the one to offer this in the first place." you respond as you strip yourself off the clothing you previously wore. 

You're turned away from him but he still catches a faint scars adoring your arms, legs and back. The ones on the back seem more visible then the others, still red in some places along with some nearly invisible bruises. Santino quickly turns away and speaks up.

"I know that, what I meant was that you're about to face one of the best, here at Camorra." his voice is calm with a hint of that Italian accent. "Are you sure you want to do this?" 

There's a short pause hanging in the air. You want to do this, you do. This is your chance at belonging somewhere and if it's one of the most dangerous mobs in the world then… well, what do you have to lose. 

You step out of the room and face Santino. "I'm sure. If I back down now they'll know that I'm not up for this job. I have to try at least." Santino regards you but nods. He knows that you’re stubborn and won’t go down that easily. It’s one of the few things that made him so intrigued in you. 

Both of you walk towards the ring in the middle of the gym. Members of the Council have already gathered around it. A well build man is standing on the ring, ready for a fight. You look up at him and recognize the man as the same one that held a gun to your head. Your attention goes to the grey haired woman, her expression hard. You step under the lines of the ring and stand in the middle. 

No one utters a word, the only sign of the beginning of a match is a raised hand of the woman. The guard heads towards you. 

You advance at him, trying to kick him in the chest but he slaps your leg away. He swings at you with force that could easily knock you out. You move under his arm and elbow him in the ribs. He buckles down slightly, but quickly recovers and tries to punch you to the side of your head, you block him, but don’t hold for too long, given his strength. Instead you move under his arm again and twist it behind him. He stops for a moment and looks at you with unexplainable expression on his face. 

He uses your lack of attention and kicks his leg under yours, you lose your balance and fall onto the floor. He backs away and smirks at you, challenging look in his eyes. You quickly get up and glance at the Council. They don’t show any sign of approval or even a sign of being impressed. Santino locks his eyes with you before you hear the guard heading straight at you. He lands a punch to your face and ribs. You stumble backwards and hit the rope lines of the ring. 

You hear a clinking sound and see two daggers on the edge of the ring. Both of you quickly reach for them and the guard attacks. He cuts your arms and manages to get a cut in your thigh. You don't yell in pain, instead just run at the guard. He might be strong and much more build than you, but you're much faster. You go for his shoulder but he catches your arm and twists it in front of him so that you fly over his shoulder. Your back hits the floor with a thud, the knife flying out of your hand to the side. You grunt in pain and look towards the Council, still a blank expressions on their faces. 

You slowly get up and hear the guard chuckle. “Don’t you have enough, girl?” he asks. The dagger still in his hand, ready to be used. 

You take the dagger laying on the floor and run at him, he doesn't expect you to get down on your knees to cut his calves. He grunts in pain and turns around with anger behind his eyes. You manage to cut him in the arm and even stab his shoulder. You back away as he pulls the dagger out of his body and throws it to the ground. The man kicks you with a force that sends you to the edge of the ring. You feel the ropes press into your back again but this time the guard holds you by shoulders and punches your face until your lips bleed.

You don't give up, the man earns a nasty kick to his balls. He grunts in pain and you manage to punch him in the neck, cutting off his airflow and then go straight for the jaw. He's disoriented for a moment which gives you a perfect opportunity to wrap your legs around his head and hold him in a choke hold. He tries to throw you off of him but your grip only gets tighter, the man starts to become red. The Council and Santino watch the fight intently before the older woman's voice carries through the gym.

"Enough." Both of you stop your movement, though you feel that the man wouldn't hesitate attacking you if the woman didn't give the order. You pant and raise your hand up to your lips and feel the sting and a pulsing sensation going through your lips. You already feel another set of bruises blossoming all over your body. The woman steps in closer to the ring. "Get down." 

You duck under the rope lines and face the older woman.  She studies your face and dismisses the guard with a wave of his hand. He looks at you briefly with a warning hidden behind his eyes and leaves the training room. 

"Surprisingly you have proven yourself, saviour." She moves her hand up and takes your jaw with a tight grip, tilting your head from side to side. You want to wince in pain but won't show her any weakness coming from you. 

You clench your fists as she leans in closer, still holding your jaw and your freeze momentarily. Santino notices your discomfort at the woman's touch but doesn't move. He knows that if he does so, than he may be facing some kind of consequences. 

The Head of Camorra is the most important organ in this whole family, but some of his decisions depend on the Council's vote. 

The gray haired woman backs away but still holds a strong grip on your jaw. She looks down on you. "You'll spend a year here before we decide if you're worthy." she says in a menacing voice. "If you fail your first task in the name of Camorra, then know that you will never be going back to your world." she releases your jaw with a jerk. Both of you stare at each other. Not going back to your world surely means death in this one. You know that she would have been glad to see you die, preferably at her hands. 

The Council departs from the training room, giving you last looks. Some of it of warning, amusement and even concern. You turn back and sit on the edge of the ring releasing a shallow breath. You hear shuffling of feet and feel Santino sitting next to you. 

You look down at your hands, knuckles bruised and bloody. You feel the pain in your ribs as you take a breath and see a drop of blood fall onto your arm. You raise your hand to your busted lip and hiss. You see a blue handkerchief being offered to you and look at Santino, his expression not showing any emotions. 

You take the soft material and dab it carefully on your cut lip. "See?" you hear the Italian speak up next to you. "I knew you would fit in." 

You look to him with raised eyebrow and start to laugh. The sound echoes throughout the gym and Santino joins you, hanging his head down. You haven't laughed in what feels like years and maybe it's true. It's nice to feel that kind of emotion spreading through your body. Your moment of joy is cut as soon as you feel the pain in your ribs and face. Your hand raises up to your ribs and traces it gently. 

Santino offers you to see a doctor but you refuse, already feeling tired and exhausted after the fight. The only thing you want now is to lie down and sleep. Both of you leave the gym in search for your designated bedroom. 

Santino leads you through the white hallway with rich dark flooring. As you walk he tells you briefly where each rooms are placed, his office is on the same floor as hers at the end of it. When you arrive at your bedroom you stop in your tracks behind Santino. He notices your absence by his side and turns to you. 

You look tired and feel like it. The last 24 hours were the most intense in your whole life… well, at least one of the most. 

The Italian looks at you, his green eyes darker in the low light. There's a reassuring look in his eyes. You stare at him and feel the leftover tension from your shoulders disappear completely. He seems to notice that action cause he smirks lightly your way. 

Both of you turn to the door and open them to reveal a big room. The flooring is just as dark as in the hallway, the pearly white interior adds elegance to the place. There's a queen bed settled beneath the wall and in front of it a small fireplace. You notice a door that surely lead to the bathroom. 

You step into the room and look around. Santino watches you from the door with his hands in his pockets. This isn't the place you would have imagined to be, yet here you are.

"The training starts at 7am, you already know where the gym is." Santino's voice comes from the side. His suit has creased during the day but he still holds that attitude that screams power. You look towards him and a question burns at the tip of your tongue. Santino already knows what it is. 

"If you need anything just tell me. It would be a shame to waste someone like you with this much potential." he says with a smirk. 

"That woman would disagree, like many of them in fact." you say back. You're sure that that woman is already having you in her mind as some sort of threat. 

You don't know if Santino will use you to his needs or not, right now it doesn't seem like it. He's been nothing but respectful towards you, but maybe he's just hiding his true colors. You need to become wary of this world, trust only few and always observe. Adapting to it will take time but you're ready to at least try and not waste your time here. Even if it kills you. 

Santino looks at you one last time before closing the door, wishing you goodnight and good luck. You momentarily keep your eyes on the closed door before moving to the bathroom. You look for the first aid kit in the cabinets and luckily find one. You open it, take out some bandages and put them on the counter. The cut on your arm and thigh are not big, but it’s better to take care of them in case there’s some infection. You pour the hydrogen peroxide onto the cuts and hiss in pain. You put on a fresh bandage on it and repeat the process on the arm. You look at your reflection in the mirror and examine the busted lip. It has gone numb but even the slightest touch hurts. 

You exit the bathroom and go over to the bed. You basically sink into it as the soft material embraces you. You lay in it for a few moment, thinking about what the next day may bring. You’re Camorra now… sort of, you still need to prove yourself here. You know the basics of fighting and surviving, you know how to get by. Right now you can just hope for the best. 

You don't remember when you fall asleep, but you dream about the water and a faint deafening sound that carries through the wind. The sound of the bullets from the gun range still ring in your ears. 

You spend a over two years there before everything changes. 

[emoselenas]

summer tour days 10 + 11, post-tour thoughts

wow it literally took me over a month to get this entry up, sorry haha. santino roasted me for this several weeks ago and it still took me this long. i’ve been chronically bummed out for what seems like a month now, so it was hard to muster up the will to write. period, actually. it’s been really hard for me to write music lately i literally have to push myself and i find no joy in the things i love anymore!

anyways, here’s the last 2-3 days of our tour! 

day 10 - philadelphia

sunlight peered in through the glass sliding door behind me as i woke up around 8:00 am in a living room with 8 other people, packed tightly across deflated sleeping bags and worn-in couches. i felt tired, but i was up already. i knew that if i didn’t get up and shower now, i was going to be waiting for five other people to shower before me. 

everyone took a few hours to get ready before we decided to head out to breakfast together, including jorge. we had a lovely lil family breakfast at this nice cafe about 10 minutes from jorge’s house. it was a small spot overlooking the valley that had an expansive coffee and espresso drink menu. i got a cappuccino that had some FUN art in it and a Very Disappointing Eggs Benedict. I was a dumbass and asked for the florentine benedict with lox added, instead of asking for the lox benedict with spinach added, which would have cost me significantly less hahaha. 

look at how small this bullshit is

sitting at a table with my bandmates and julie, we agreed that despite how long we had been on the road that we felt like we could keep going. i could tell everyone felt drained, but content. it’s like we all knew we were enjoying the last moments of freedom away from our boring lives back home and were cherishing each other’s company. 

after paying our checks we said our goodbyes to jorge and piled into the van. we had a much shorter drive due to staying in state college, but still hit some traffic approaching philly. not a surprise. it was also weird arriving philly from the west and not coming over the ben franklin bridge, haha. as we drove towards south street we admired the sight of the chinese lantern festival, which we sadly wouldn’t have time for. as opposed to missing DGD’s tour, i was sure i’d live vicariously through photos of it from my friend’s back home and didn’t feel too bad.

i completely forgot that south street is one of the busiest streets in philly and is mere minutes away from TLA. i realized i had been here before and felt my blood pressure rise realizing parking would be impossible. however, behind the venue we found a shoddy dirt parking lot. skeptical of whether or not this was a good idea, we approached the lot attendant and asked if it was okay to park, explaining that we needed a clear space behind us for opening the trunk to get gear out. the attendant obliged to our request, or so we thought.

i’m not gonna lie, i had NEVER heard of the tusk before we played there and it was actually a cool spot. the staff were cool and it was much more spacious than the pictures led me to believe. loading in up a couple flights of stairs was just the worst part. we played with our friends in copley woods which was great, and played with another philly local old city revival. another touring band also hopped on last minute. our set was purely okay??? we all agreed it wasn’t my best set but whatever i had fun and people still dug us so that was fine. jaime and santino had to be like lined up behind one another with their amps and then joe got one whole side to himself hahaha. 

photo credit: julie yi photography

i’m going a little out of order; i’m pretty positive this actually happened before our set. but out of nowhere i’m in the upper level of the venue by the stage and merch when julie texts the tour group chat BUGGING saying “HELP COME DOWNSTAIRS WE’RE GETTING KICKED OUT OF THE LOT”. so both bands run downstairs to scope out the situation, anticipating hell in the form of trying to find a new parking spot by south street in philly. what happened was, the lot attendant parked a vehicle behind ours, and when confronted about his promise that he made, he threatened to kick us out of the lot. however, jaime somehow magically de-escalated the situation somehow so the attendant agreed to move the car and everything was fine hahaha. 

the night was wonderful because santino’s dad came out and we hung out with some real cool people, the only downer was we had to stay later than anticipated because the promoter added that fifth band/touring band on the end, AND, the touring band were the only people who listened to the promoter and played a long set. yeah, the promoter wanted us all to play for 45 minutes but all of us were like, fuck that. but this band ACTUALLY had that much material so they played FOR AN HOUR. ALL of us stayed and we watched them, but we were so fucking tired and we just wanted to go home. we stayed because we understood the importance of supporting other bands, and these people were out here all the way from denver, colorado. but we were so done. and on this night we were staying at my house in brick so we were only an hour and forty five minutes away from a comfortable sleep. AND, my boyfriend was going to be coming over late too so i was just dying to get home. 

after loading out, a taco bell trip and a relatively short drive, we made it to my house around 1:00 am. and jeremiah still waited up and drove over for me uuugh :’)

day 11 - wallingford, ct

god, waking up to my boyfriend and fresh homemade breakfast by my parents was so, so good after being away for so long. it felt pretty strange to be home, and so briefly, but it was so good.  we sadly couldn’t stick around for long after eating breakfast, as we had our van drop-off scheduled for 1:00 PM before our last show of tour in connecticut.

we have shindle drive us up to jaime’s house for one last drive in the van. it’s always sad when you’re in the van for the last day and you know your grand adventure is soon coming to an end. it rained as we drove up parkway north and shindle weaved in and out of shitty new jersey traffic. i definitely did not miss the parkway while i was gone.

shindle wanted to run home quickly to shower and change at home (understandably), so not soon after we unload all of his belongings he takes off. it sucked so badly unloading the van in the rain but what could you do. we started plotting where we were going to get a bite to eat after jaime, julie and i dropped off the van. 

i look around at my bandmates and i go, “okay, who has the key?”

everyone stares blankly at each other.

joe goes, “uhhh, i think shindle gave it back to santino?”

santino looks back at us and goes “... i don’t have it.”

we tear apart our bags and turn our pockets inside out. search the interior of the van hoping it was left in the dash or on the floor by accident.

the drop off time for the van is 1:00 PM. it’s 12:15 PM. 

and we realize that, shindle still has the key. 

shindle’s phone died from the fifteen times i called him. he had left his phone on silent and didn’t look at it while he was driving back to little falls (who would). i had to call bandago and add another day to our rental. it sucked so badly. i was so frustrated that i started crying and jaime’s mom had to console me hahaha. i had to come to terms with the fact that there was literally nothing i could do. we weren’t going to get the key back until we saw shindle later. so i took a deep breath, put myself back together and we just left for the show anyways. 

photo credit: julie yi photography

we arrived to wallingford, CT around like, 5:30, maybe 5:50 PM. i felt my throat acting up again. in fact, it started to feel shitty a day prior but i was praying that i could still pull off a good set later that night. julie walked with me from the venue to get throat coat from CVS and hot water from mcdonalds. i couldn’t really go on voice rest; i had to just drink a lot of fluids, warm up as well as i could and hope for the best. cherry street is a small venue/dive kinda place, but i actually really liked it. anthony told me a lot of people have complained about the sound there but we actually had a really easy time. but there were two people doing sound, one was scotty the venue’s regular and then there was a guy named will who ran the board for our set. will was great. scotty was just really nice too haha. 

our friends migrant played the show as well as the band visitations. it was really great to see the guys in migrant again; we’ve been playing shows with them since 2016. we both played our first-ever studio at webster show together opening for sianvar before AEG shut all of webster down. because it was such a memorable night and they’re such a great band, we’ve kept in touch since then. visitations were also really awesome; i tried to watch as much as i could in between warm ups. i feel bad that i have to disappear to warm up while bands i’ve never gigged with before play, but i have to. 

well it turns out, it was pointless anyways!

yeah, wasn’t fond of the set i played at all. and the sound wasn’t bad either. it was just me. i was really upset. this was our chance to win over people in a state we could easily travel up to and play whenever, and it felt so embarrassing to be up on stage and watch these people hear me blow it haha. its like nails on a chalkboard for me when i hear my mistakes. even if i know what i’m doing sometimes i just blow it anyways. chris knew i was upset too because he just patted me on the shoulder as i slumped off stage like “it’s okay just go do your cool-downs” HAHAHA. but apparently i did something right because scott, *the* sound guy everyone knows at cherry street, bought me a shot LMAO. and some other people from CT chatted us up too, and they bought our merch (and also bought me more drinks). maybe we did do something right for these people to still approach us and have nice things to say. but i still felt like they were being way too nice to me. i still feel like people lie to me. all of the time. 

it was so awesome to watch destination dimension play to their hometown, as we were all surrounded by friends of theirs who were shouting the words to future cougar with us. it was so much fun to watch them play. and it was really nice of them to wear our t-shirts on stage haha. i didn’t wear mine but i bought the gray one which i loveee and is so comfy. we didn’t get to hang long after the show ended with them which sucked sooo badly because almost everyone had work the next day. i had the next day off but not everyone was so lucky. we loved touring with destination dimension so so much. it was nice to tour with a band in the same genre. we had such a happy time and we couldn’t wait for the next time we’d all get to see each other. 

photo credit: julie yi photography

it’s always so weird, the last day of tour. in the middle of tour, it feels like you’re living in this dreamscape where calendar days barely exist and your only job is to show up, play and then do it all over again the next day. that night, it felt like it all barely even happened. all of tour was already becoming a faint memory. i’d look back at photos and only barely remember what it was like to feel that joy again. and i dreaded how distant every adventure we shared together was about to become. 

epilogue

my alarm went off at 9:00 am. i hear sounds of jaime’s dad walking around the kitchen and in minutes time julie wakes up next to me. i lay there for a bit before texting jaime, “you up?” he comes downstairs, i throw my shoes on and my hair up in a ponytail and we go drop off the van. 

it feels like tour is over but i’m still with my friends so i feel okay. julie and i grab our belongings from jaime’s house, say goodbye and return for our drive home together. we talk about tour and how fast it flew by. i’m sort of in a rush to get home in time for E3, so julie is kind to oblige and we get her stuff out of my car expediently when we pull up to her house. 

i say goodbye to julie and joel, get back into my car and instantly feel my face muscles sink. the rest of the day just sucked. 

i’m driving myself home feeling sleepy and don’t even realize it. i run a stop sign and nearly get t-boned by some poor person who didn’t just spend 11 days on 4-5 hours of sleep. 

i finally arrive at jeremiah’s apartment in asbury and go to pick up the coffee i bought for my boyfriend, only to realize the ENTIRE cup spilled out everywhere all over the seat. 

jeremiah meets me downstairs to help me bring my bags up. there’s just so, so much shit. a heavy bag of clothes, souvenirs, non-perishable food i never ate. i’m happy to see him; i’m happy for a little bit. we place an order for delivery at our favorite taco place, and i’m joking about post-tour depression as i walk out the door to go buy beer downtown real quick. already drinking at 1:30 pm! post-tour depression, is it a thing? probably not. there’s probably nothing wrong with me. 

i check my work email and the dread floods in, full force. i did promise that i’d work from home, and i did, but there weren’t a lot of time sensitive matters. i took care of some youtube community engagement, checked stats on videos uploaded while i was gone, checked the socials throughout the day. 

i’m home in time for the next E3 conference but i’m not even paying attention. my work laptop sits in front of me, screen glaring back at me as i’m not even using it. i’m on the couch looking out the window and seconds later tears are pouring down my face. seemingly, with no rhyme or reason. 

well the crying thing happens like every 3-5 days lmao

but it just, didn’t stop. at one point i turn to jeremiah sobbing hysterically and he just holds me. like a broken record all i could say was “i hate that i have to go back to work tomorrow, i loathe that tour is over and this is just it, no more for the year. i have to wait until next year to go out again.” 

and to be transparent, this is sort of the melancholy that has sat with me ever since that day. i wake up five days a week and drive the longest hour and five minutes of my life to work, and back home again in an hour and twenty, sometimes thirty, sometimes forty. 

for my entire adulthood (let’s say like going back to age 18), i’ve dreaded my mid-20s. because my parents would warn me “you need a full-time job by the time you turn 26. you’re going to have to worry about health insurance. we’re going to turn over your bills to you.” so since then, my entire experience of living has been haunted by this death clock ticking down to year 26 of my life. so at 18, i said that by age 22 i needed to be somewhere with my music or i needed to give it up. completely. 

hah.

the first few years of my 20′s i coasted. my band broke up so there went my shot at playing shows until i found something new. without delving into too much detail- for three years i dated someone and because i wasn’t happy i lost a lot of time. i finally recorded music again towards the end of that relationship. when i left that person at age 22 it felt like an entire world opened up to me. an enormous weight was lifted off my shoulders and i was free. i was starting over, in the best way possible. and then mere weeks after, something serendipitous happened- a friend i met because of that relationship approached me, offering to fill-in for drums for me so that i could play shows. 

i was now 23. we were way past the cut-off date for me to be pursuing music seriously. but i couldn’t say no. and now here we are. 

i stayed at my dead-end, incredibly far-from-home job for too long and now i’m finding difficulty finding something closer to home. i almost had a job a few times but i got scared of losing the ability to tour due to the nature of each company, so i idiotically turned those opportunities down. it seems like, to get signed to a label, you have to be both churning out digital content AND actively touring. if we could get a booking agent and/or signed to a great label i would quit my job immediately and work at a coffee shop. i just can’t swing an intense touring schedule if i get a serious full-time job in marketing. i just want to see how far i can take this band. yet, i may be screwing my future after the band if i don’t settle for a better job than just starbucks. but i don’t want to settle, at all. i’ve been panicking about this for a year now and recently my stress has become paramount, ruining every other day for me. when i sit down to practice and feel like i’ve barely accomplished anything in that practice session, i break down. because i feel like i’m running out of time. always. i have a finite amount of time and i’m running out. 

so if you haven’t seen me lately, that’s probably why. i feel guilty for going out and spending time with friends because i feel like it’s time i could be spending on music. and i work day in and day out on my singing, guitar playing, writing, learning new tools for my craft, maybe i’ll go to kickboxing or the gym so that i stay in shape... and that’s it. and it’s crushing me. managing the band takes the fun out of everything too. i’ve become such an irritable person. i hate it. i feel like i’m not myself anymore. but i don’t think the problem is music. i don’t hate music- i hate this pressure to have every facet of my life fit perfectly together. i hate not having the freedom to only worry about music. being in a serious/active band is time-consuming. i realize i can’t have it all- the stable job with money and benefits and the life of a musician- but the pressures i’ve faced my entire life to settle for security have been making me lose my mind. 

i hope that something good happens next year. i hope that something good happens sooner than that. i’m pretty sure this is how i wrapped the last tour journal too. but this has been my entire life- praying that things will just work out and that something good will happen. a year from now when i look back, i hope that i can regret any worry i’ve ever had. but if i find myself looking back in regret, no longer able to tour/pursue music seriously, i’m just grateful it all happened. 

[artificialqueens]

Sk8er Girl CH2 (Trixya)- Squeaky Pink

Trixya!HS AU. Trixie is a nerdy, girly girl with bows and frills. Katya is a skater chick with scuffed knees and a  Flazéda attitude. When they’re assigned as lab partners, can they discover chemistry together?

Or: She was a sk8er girl. She said see you later girl. She wasn’t good enough for her (or was she?).

[AN: Pink Shrooms aka Squeaky Pink. We’re writing this together but alternating chapters and POVs. Pinky is Trixie’s POV and Squeaky is Katya’s POV. We wanted to write the ending of this chapter based on the actual experience of a friend. The goal was to emulate life it its honest, messy way.]

PLAYING HOOKY

“You have to stop crashing at our place,” Alaska snaps as she throws open the curtains of the trailer. Katya groans and rubs her eyes. Ugh, she can still taste last night’s booze.

“But I thought you liked it when I warmed your couch? Doesn’t it get lonely without me?” Katya yawns as she grabs some cereal from the drawer. Sharon Needles greets her with the middle finger as she comes out of the bedroom in a leather studded jacket.

“Nah, bitch. ‘Lasky and I like to fuck without you a fart’s distance away, listening to our every creak.”

“I’ll close my ears next time.”

“Girl, you live right next to the skate park. So why are you constantly come crawling over to this dumpster?”

“The scenic view,” Katya says and gestures out the window to the pile of rubber tires. Willam zooms past them. Then the whirlwind of a girl kicks open the door, cracks open a can of beer from the fridge, and raises her eyebrows at the three of them.

“So we gonna skate or you blonde fucks too busy finger-popping each others’ assholes?”

“You’re blonde too,” Alaska points out.

“That’s bottle-blonde,” Willam burps. “AKA the dick sucking brand of blonde. Y’all be the lesbian variety.”

“I’m bisexual, bitch,” Katya says, flicking Willam on the forehead and stealing her drink. It’s too early to be drinking, especially on a Wednesday, but it’s not the worst decision she has made this week.

She sighs in relief as the LA sun warms her back, the wind whips her hair, and wheels happily hum against the concrete. Katya’s still a little sore from her fall a couple of days ago, but it’s nothing an early morning spin can’t soothe.

They practice new tricks. Willam finds a new trick and sneaks off into the bushes with him. Alaska tries to ride on Sharon’s back, but they end up collapsing on top of each other, laughing like idiots. Katya smiles up at the blue sky. In the distance, she sees the yellow school bus chugging by, and her easy smile falls away.

“Aw, shit, gotta get my ass to math class before princi-PAL Ru-PAL suspends me,” Willam says and snaps her fingers. “Again.”

“I’m just gonna stay here,” Katya mumbles as her friends grab their backpacks.

Alaska throws a friendly hand over her shoulder: “Can I assssk you a question?”

“Yeah?”

“How are you going to graduate if you don’t show up? I’m surprised that you, pardon the expression, have the balls to skip so much school with that Barbie doll as your lab partner.”

Katya rubs her fingers over the bandaid. She bites her lip as she remembers how gently Trixie had applied it. Sure, Trixie had come off as a bitch during class, but Katya also saw a softer side to her that afternoon. Fuck, then those stupid tampons and Katya had run away…

They’d made Katya anxious. Her? Anxious? Groundbreaking. She wasn’t ready to come out to Trixie as trans. Although she definitely liked Trixie, they just weren’t that close. Trixie was an out and proud lesbian…so maybe being a part of the LGBT community she’d be more understanding? Katya shook her head; she didn’t want to risk it. It’s none of Trixie’s business, anyway.   

She sighs: Why bother, ‘Lasky? My brain’s full of small mice that run and run, but they’re going nowhere. You think my mouse-run brain’s gonna get me to college? Nah, fuck school knowledge. I should just take the GED exam so I can spend more time practicing my skating for competitions.“

Alaska squeezes her shoulder, but Willam gives the back of Katya’s helmet a firm smack.

“Now listen. Stop being stupid, stupid! Teachers want you to graduate, so they don’t gotta deal with yo ass. So just show up and show tits. Unless you have Michelle Visage, then wear a turtleneck. I’m saying this cause I love you, and I don’t want to see you sellin’ that ass on the side of road for a quarter when you’re worth a million bucks. Go to school. Get a diploma. Maybe get head from a hottie. And get the fuck over yourself.”

Katya laughs even as she shakes her head. God, why are her friends so amazing? Even though she’d rather spend the rest of the day here, perfecting her moves at the park, Katya goes with them to school.

Choices.

——

BACK TO SCHOOL (AGAIN)

First period is gym, and Katya’s secretly glad to trade in her helmet for a badminton racket. Coach Santino gives her a nod and tosses her a birdie. Most students think he’s a creep ever since that rumor that he took Violet Chachki to Red Lobster and ate her out, but he seems ok. Well, at least he doesn’t have a dildo wedged up his ass like Ms. Del Rio.

Katya plays a game with Alaska. Their shots fail to go over the net, but they’re giggling anyways. Gym has always been her favorite period. Besides lunch and study hall.

RIIIIIIIIIIIING.

Katya slumps into the back of English class, and they’re reading -surprise!- Shakespeare. More like Shakesqueer, Katya mouths to Sharon Needles. They fist bump. It’s Romeo and Juliet, and everyone groans except for this one girl with grey hair, Max, who’s a little too excited to do assigned reading. Oh, wait, she’s a theater kid, so of course she diddles herself to The Bard.

“It’s the most romantic play of all time! I can feel every line in my bosom,” Max sighs.

Bosom? Suuuure. Katya zones out and looks up a Sparknotes summary on her phone. Romeo is super in love with this Rosaline girl one day and then Juliet the next day? Wow, true love. Katya’s seen this exact drama played out behind the skate park bushes at least twice a week featuring less death and more herpes.

“Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs,” Max reads with a pathetic sigh. Katya wants to stab her eye with her pencil.

Katya is relieved when English class finishes. “If I have to listen to that British girl jerking off to Romeo’s monologues for the rest of this week…I don’t think I’m coming back,” Katya groans as they walk out back to the dumpster. She lights up Sharon’s cigarette and then her own.

“Love is bullshit,” Sharon agrees as Alaska arrives; she offers the younger girl a puff.  

“You have a girlfriend though.”

“Nah, I gotta friend, who likes to fuck. Big difference. Romeo just wanted to stick it in, so he had to get married to do it to please the patriarchy. Worst thing that happened to us gays was when we started getting gay-married.”

“Are you sure?” Katya rolls her eyes. “Are you sure that’s the worst thing that’s happened to us gays in the last hundred years?”

“Ok, maybe not. But love is fake and marriage is an institution.”

Alaska snaps her fingers in agreement and gives Sharon Needles a peck on the cheek. Ugh, for two people who think love is fake, they look like they are going to elope and drive to Las Vegas any day now. They’re that one couple that everyone knows is a thing, but they pretend it’s not as serious as it is. Katya has a That’s-So-Raven moment where she sees their wedding invitations. Gross.

“I mean is capitalism’s corporate dick wedged deep inside our every sacred tradition, including marriage? Yes. Do I still think social equality for the LGBT community is important? Fuck yes.”

Katya and Sharon go back and forth. Katya wishes that school was like this- a real debate. She wishes that it wasn’t always regurgitating the teachers’ opinions for a grade. Then the bell rings and they head inside, but Katya stays to finish. As she deeply inhales the smoke, Katya rubs the Barbie Band-Aid once more. Why hasn’t she taken it off yet?

“Oh, good, look who decided to show up,” Ms. Del Rio deadpans.

“McDonald’s wasn’t hiring,” Katya jokes back as the entire class laughs. Laganja chirps ‘okuuurrr.’ Ms. Del Rio gives Katya a look like drop another test tube and you’ll wish they were hiring.

Katya forgot her lab manual, periodic table, and basically everything at home, so she just slinks down next to Trixie. She hates that her stomach twists up into a knot when the blonde smiles at her. Katya almost forgets how to smile back.

“I scared you off, huh? Sorry…I tend to have that kind effect on people,” Trixie softly whispers as Ms. Del Rio dims the lights.

Katya’s fingers brush against Trixie’s as they reach for their pencils. Katya may not believe in love, but she believes in the way her thighs clench with arousal at the touch. Electric. Trixie’s wearing a strapless dress, which is tight around her breasts, and Katya believes in the way her cock twitches at the sight.

Katya’s glad the lights are low enough to hide her heated face. What? She’s eighteen and horny, and Trixie Mattel is the world’s least likely girl to ever sleep with her. All things considered, Katya would do anything to bury her face between those thick thighs. 

She tries to slow her breathing and concentrate on the video about potassium. Nothing like ions to try and take your mind off of your growing erection. Katya shouldn’t have worn denim shorts this tight, but it’s too late to do anything but squirm in her seat with regret and arousal.

Trixie leans in, breath curling against Katya’s ear: “Did the Band-Aid help?”

“Not without the expert care of my favorite Barbie nurse,” Katya says, trying for flirty, but she kind of stumbles at the end and lands closer to awkward. Curse Trixie and her breasts and bows and brains! If only Katya had that many B’s on her report card, her parents might actually want her to come home. Wow, now she’s horny and anxious? An all time low.

“What made you come back to chemistry?”

My asshole friends.

“You,” Katya promises with a wink.

Trixie snorts and rolls her eyes. She’s so frustratingly superior, and Katya should hate her for that. It kind of turns her on though. Katya likes when Trixie sasses her with a single look, and, wow, thoughts like that aren’t helping with the boner situation. It’s hard -pun intended- to think when Trixie’s around.

“Sorry about the tampons.”

Katya flinches. Ok, erection effectively killed.

“Don’t mention it. No, like, please, don’t mention it.”

“I thought it was weird that you ran, but I talked to my friends and…well, Max has a chronically shallow vagina, and she says that tampons won’t fit. So, I don’t know you or your medical history, and if I somehow triggered you, I’m sorry. Really sorry.”

Thinking about Max’s chronically shallow vagina has made Katya very un-hard. Wow, that’s the first time that Katya has ever been thankful someone un-aroused her. Chemistry class has taken a turn for the weird. Just how Katya likes it.

“It’s ok,” she promises. “I promise not to run away from you again, if you help me figure out how to pass this class. Da?”

“Wait…you know Russian?”

“I don’t just know it– I am Russian. I was brought here when I was six, so I don’t have an accent. Why?”

“Because I want to go to college in Russia!” Trixie whispers. “Please help me, and I’ll reach-around to help you.”

Ok, now that just sounds vaguely like a sex act. Courtney twists around at her lab table and gives them both a knowing look.

“Fuck, yeah!”

Wow, that was not her inside voice. That wasn’t even her outside voice. That’s her in-the-basement jerking off to porn voice, and now everyone in the room is staring.

Ms. Del Rio click-clacks over to them, and Katya wants to cower under the lab table. The woman hands them both a slip for lunch detention. Trixie gasps as she’s given the pink slip, holding it like it’s covered in poisonous chemicals. 

“I see that I have a couple of clowns in my class this year, so let me repeat- all foolishness will earn you a detention slip. If you don’t want to behave, get packing.”

Katya doesn’t give a shit, but Trixie buries her face into her hands and doesn’t speak to her for the rest of the period. The lab is so simple even Katya manages to get it. Trixie’s face is blank, but Katya can see the hurt just under the surface. She wishes that she knew how to approach her or what to say. Once more, she’s reminded of what different worlds they come from.

“Hey, so do you still want to tutor-”

“You smell like cigarettes,” Trixie snaps and rushes out of the classroom, pink slip crumpled up in her hand.

Katya usually is the first to bolt after class, but she goes up to Ms. Del Rio instead: “I did everything! I cursed and came in late and- and please don’t punish Trixie for me being an idiot.”

“You were both talking. You both get detention. Next?”

“No! I wasn’t talking to Trixie I, uh, I was…talking to myself?” Katya stammers and it’s ridiculous even for her. “Please, don’t punish Trixie. She’s trying her best and school is so important to her-”

“Then she’ll go to lunch detention. I don’t believe in special treatment, Ms. Zamo. I’ll see you both in an hour,” Ms. Del Rio says, and her word is law. What is this? Prison?

Katya skips social studies to smoke behind the bleachers with Laganja. She rants about science class, omitting her erection, and questions why school is structured like the penal system. Laganja replies with her usual yes, mawma, preach, god.

Katya comes back, reeking even worse of smoke, and sits a lab table away from Trixie. She bought french fries and milk. Part of a balanced diet. Ms. Del Rio silently grades work at the front of the room, but then she leaves half way through to go to the bathroom.

“Pssstt,” Katya faux-whispers. “Sorry. Hey, are we even on the whole running away from each other thing?”

“Sure. It’s fine,” Trixie mutters, tearing her chicken nuggets in half and opening up her chem notes. That’s the least ‘fine’ fine Katya has ever heard. Fuuuuck, trust her to have a crush on the girl who’s in love with her school work. They’re in chemistry class, but this feels like a lesson in subtraction; Katya should just subtract her being from Trixie’s being. Maybe then Trixie wouldn’t look so miserable.

Katya sighs.

What bullshit did Shakespeare write? Love is smokey sighs? Accurate.

Katya wishes that she had asked Alaska and Sharon what to do. They were the most functional dysfunctional couple that she’d ever met. How did they manage it?

Remedial algebra passes in a blur of numbers. Tick tock. Katya wants to jump over the clock and punch Mr. Davis with a sock. That’s the gibberish that she texts Willam at least.

Suck his cock -W

U say that whenever anyone has a problem. Broken heart? Suck. Broken leg? Suck. Broken moral compass? Suck. -K

If it’s broken, sucking a cock will help. 10/10. User tested and reviewed. -W

How about if u…hurt someone’s feelings? -K

Hurt how? Fucked their mother kinda hurt? -W

Like if you accidentally got them into detention? And they don’t have a dick to potentially suck??? -K

Uhhhhhhhh, lick their clit -W

Metaphorically? -K

OK, MAX. -W

Hmm -W

Try ‘sorry’ -W

Tried that -K

Try it again but this time with your face in between her thighs ;) -W

Katya laughs and sends a gif of a burning hot dog because it feels right in this wiener driven context. She remembers when she came out as trans to her, and Willam was legit like ‘damn, you got the best of both worlds, Hannah Montana.’ Willam never failed to make her laugh.

She arrives at ninth period Intro to Psychology feeling like she’s lost ten years off her life. How has so much drama happened? On a Wednesday for fucks sake.

It’s started to lightly drizzle, and Katya jiggles her foot as she watches the rain streak down the window. Good thing she has a baseball bat, water bottle, and umbrella in her locker. It’s an ‘escape kit’ for a potential zombie apocalypse. Huh, guess Katya’s like Trixie in that way, always preparing for the worst.

“Write down five words that describe you and try to connect those different parts of your identities. Which one is most important to you? In this Unit of Psychology we’ll be exploring ourselves…”

Katya can think of a lot of words that describe her perfectly: skater, chronic under achiever, ADD, bisexual, trans, disappointment—

Disappointment. That’s the word that keeps repeating in her head as she doodles a tattoo design on the side of her paper. Her parents would never approve of a hammer and sickle tattoo, but Katya’s stopped living her life for them. She stopped the day she’d come out as trans ten years ago. Katya had already been wearing skirts around the house since she came to America, but, when she turned eight, Katya gave the middle finger to the world.

Now, she’s eighteen, and her middle finger is still firmly in the air. Her mother, Pat, understands, but her father doesn’t- he never did. He looks at her, silent, like she’s a mistake. Fuck. Katya excuses herself to go pee. She can’t think of words when her brain keeps racing around like a mouse from one thought crumb to the next. Katya stays in the bathroom stall longer than necessary, pressing her head into her hands.

By the time the bell rings, the rain is coming down hard. Katya can only see the yellow blur of buses and the distant green of trees. Alaska and Sharon are making out on top of her locker, and she pushes them off. 

“Ay, this is the thanks we get for letting you stay in our humble abode?” Sharon grumbles.

“Please keep all hands and tongues inside your space while near my locker. This is a 'No Slobber Zone.’ Bitch needs to keep dry.”

“Mhm, that’s not what Willam’s been texting,” Alaska says and raises her eyebrow. “Says you want to make someone wet…with apology tears.”

“Willam’s a Willam.”

“And you’re showing all the signs of being in looove. Sighing? Lying? Laganja told Gia who told Alyssa who told me that you begged Ms. Del Rio not to give Trixie Mattel detention. What’s really going on with you and Barbie, huh?”

“Nothing,” Katya lies and flushes. Wow, it’s a good thing she’s a skater and not a poker player. Her red cheeks are a dead give away.

———

LOST KITTEN

The buses have left by the time Katya rolls outside, red umbrella above her. The pavement is slippery, so Katya forces herself to slow down. She can’t go to the skate park, and, after this morning, she can’t go back to the trailer park. Heart sinking, Katya directs herself home.

Just as she’s turning the corner, Katya sees the saddest sight. Trixie is walking without an umbrella. Her bow is soggy. Her Moschino backpack is practically dragging on the ground.

“Need umbrella? Da?” Katya says with a faux-Russian accent.

Trixie pushes a strand of wet hair from her forehead and smiles: “My knight on a shining skateboard.”

Katya jumps off and tucks her board under her arm. Trixie’s hand brushes hers as she reaches up to hold the umbrella. Katya can’t help it when her cheeks heat up. Her? Blushing? Unheard of.

They walk in silence for a bit, and Katya knows that the events of this morning are still weighing heavily between them. Katya wishes she knew how to break through all of Trixie’s many shields, but she’s…so confusing. Somehow, the more confused Trixie makes her, the less Katya can stay away.

Rain, rain, don’t go away, Katya thinks as Trixie’s hip bumps against hers. You just saved this horrid day.

Katya opens her mouth to say that and then closes it. Everything she wants to say sounds dumb compared to how brilliant Trixie is. Everything might mean nothing when Trixie doesn’t know she’s trans. Why can’t she just say that? Just be the usual middle-finger-to-the-world girl that she is at home and with her friends?

Instead, Katya clears her throat. Pathetic. They pass by the town stores, and she wrinkles her nose at the reek of wet dog. There are too many strays in this town.

“Wait. Did you hear that?”

“What?” Katya stops, but there’s nothing but the rush of cars, splashing through puddles, and the roar of motorcycles. In the distance, she can hear the rumble of thunder. Trixie heads towards the dark alleyway, and Katya follows her.

“Look,” Trixie whispers, breathless.

Katya hears the most pathetic ‘meow’ as she leans down to see a cardboard box. On the outside it says ‘Lucky’s Treats,’ but, inside, there’s the most unlucky looking kitten. It sadly mewls as Trixie carefully reaches down.

“A kitten,” Trixie sighs as she hugs it to her breast. The motherly act makes Katya’s heart twist.

Suddenly, Katya can see the girl who fell to her knees to help her at the skate park. Trixie’s eyes are soft and lips parted when she looks up at Katya. How can one girl hide so much beauty?

“My mom is allergic to cats,” Trixie confesses as she looks up at her with pleading eyes.

“Well, I live in the basement cause my parents are allergic to me, so…yeah, come one, let’s sneak this kitty cat in.”

Trixie’s eyes light up, and she gratefully presses a kiss to Katya’s cheek. It might just be a friendly gesture, but Katya’s toes curl in her wet Converse. God, the sight of Trixie with that little kitten snuggled into her big chest is the best thing she’s seen all day. They debate over names before finally settling on ‘Lucky’ because that’s what it said on the side of the box. Besides, the little scrap of fur is lucky to have found them.

“Shhh,” Katya presses a finger to her lips as she slips in through the back door. They’re tracking water everywhere, so it will be obvious. Still, Katya’s main priority is helping Trixie and Lucky.

They give him milk and watch as he happily laps it up. Trixie’s head is in her hands, face still unguarded, as she happily watches. Trixie tells her a story about how she used to sneak into the animal shelter in the town over on Sundays, spend the whole day there, and tell her mom she was at church. Katya laughs; she thinks that she could listen to Trixie all day.

“Your turn,” Trixie says and nudges her knee. They’re pressed up close on the couch now, with their science homework spread out on the table. Fuck, she likes Trixie so much. She needs to be honest with her so that if Trixie pushes her away, it’ll be sooner rather than later. 

“When I was a little kid, I…came here from Russia. So I never felt like I fit in. Everyone saw some stranger, who didn’t speak how they spoke. Who didn’t look how they thought a- a “boy” should look.”

Trixie’s eyebrows shoot up and she covers her mouth. Then she laughs-

“Wait, you’re joking, right? You mean you were…a tomboy? Right?!”

“No, I…I’m transgender,” Katya says to her hands, afraid to look up at Trixie’s face.

Silence.

Lucky yawns and curls up on the carpet to sleep. The clock angrily ticks as Katya waits for Trixie to say something, anything. Oh god, everything had been going so great and then Katya had to fuck it up.

“That’s great,” Trixie says, face blank. “Great. Uh, I think I have to…my mom wants me to come home…”

“Right,” Katya says, blinking away tears.

Wow, this couldn’t have gone any worse.

“I’ll see you in class-”

“Wait, but- but how about we go over some of the Russian declensions? Or you show me the element symbols again-”

“See you in class,” Trixie repeats, gives her an awkward side hug, and then she’s gone. She leaves Katya shaken and alone. Katya feels like she’s been stripped naked, raw, and then left out in the rain. She curls up on the floor, cradling Lucky to her chest. Katya has already cried once today, and she hates that the tear count is this high.

Disappointment. That’s the word that keeps repeating in her head. Katya gets up, and, even though it’s too early to sleep, hides in bed. Katya buries her face into the pillow and screams. Louder. She can still see Trixie’s eyes, judging her.

Maybe it would have been better if Katya had gotten Laganja or Sasha fucking Belle for a lab partner. Then they could have just failed together. Katya wants to live in a world where she never met Trixie or opened up to her.

The kitten licks her hand, which is hanging over the edge of the bed.

Katya lifts Lucky up and cradles him to her chest.

“There are too many strays in this town,” Katya whispers. “You. Me. They left you in a box. They left me at the airport. I was six. How old are you, Lucky? They also told me I was ‘lucky’ to be taken in by such a nice, middle-class family. Why don’t I feel that way then? God, we’re both so alone, Lucky, so let’s…let’s be alone together? You and me. Just you and me against this world.”