#So clearly this technique is doomed to fail!

[mrspenmark]

“What do you think offends him?” she asks, completely unaware that in that moment what offends him is the magnitude of his attraction to her and his apparent incapacity to repress such feelings – in spite of his better judgment.

Mr. Darcy is my severest critic. PRIDE AND PREJUDICE (1995) | Episode 3

[zlobonessa]

also I'm about to get a bit more serious and a lot more annoying but it's really interesting to me how you can actually analyse regulus as a parallel to subaru in the aspect of patriarchy and toxic masculinity — and failing at it, actually.

subaru's issues with traditional masculinity are evident. arc 3 conflict is stemming from his inability to accept the fact that he cannot just be the great traditional hero saving a day and his lady without regards for her wishes. he grew up in a shadow of his father, a man who succeeded in getting everything that is promised by patriarchy — a loving family, a career, respect from his community. subaru cries a lot and scared for his life. he is a loser, he is vulnerable, he is insecure. he is everything that a patriarchal man shouldn't be.

so what does regulus have to do with any of this?

from a first glance at regulus you could assume that he is the one who played patriachy and won. he has a harem! he is violent and he can afford to be violent, he disregards other people's opinions and other people's lives. his wifes are supposed to obey him and if they don't, they are prostitutes snd whores and traitors. his rights are the only ones that matters. he is the one in charge. he is The Man.

but what if we look a little closer?

under scrutiny you can notice he is not actually completely secure in himself — rather the opposite. he directly tells as much:

he also compares himself to reinhard, yet another perfect man (just like subaru does) and not in his own favor:

his wives also notice the pattern:

and subaru puts the final nail in the coffin:

in other words, everybody can see through his scrawny ass.

we can still dig deeper here.

regulus appearance is described as averege (absolutely not impressive enough to get a girl he likes to llke him). he is not physically strong, he immediately loses the confidence that he'll win the fight the moment subaru and emilia take away his main advantage. he is the youngest son, a problem child. he is not particularly liked in his hometown. he is poor, which is a very important detail: combination of poverty and patriarchy produces its own type of helplessness, insecuity in masculinity. you forced to take unrewarding, most often physical, exhausting jobs that destroy your human dignity AND do not pay enough for you be a successful family provider. regulus is a failure in patriarchal society and he desperately wants to escape this position.

unfortunately, the only way he sees is up, and the only climbing technique he knows is the same patriarchal violence that put him down in the first place.

[also, sidenote: it's really funny how he is is only archbishop who gets the fanciest clothing and a whole ass manor.

class traitor.]

the authority of greed for regulus is a way to fight his insecurities by establish his dominance — patriarchal among others. he is the strongest now, nobody can humiliate him. he uses extreme violence to get his way. he forces a woman he likes to become his wife, knowing him, probably under the pretence of saving her from these incomplete swines. he knows better what is best for her, right?

well if it doesn't sound familiar.

that's also who subaru can be. cruel, cold, unable to ask for help and allow himself to be vulnerable, uncaring about what women he supposedly does all this for actually thinks about that. we can clearly see this in the if routes, but a lot of it is present in the main route too, to less extreme degree.

(also..... harem if lmao)

but as we established earlier, all of this doesn't actually makes regulus happy. he is still insecure, he lashes out at the barest hint of threat to his ego, he still deeply discomforted by interaction with reinhard. upholding the ideal of traditional masculinity doesn't help him and eventually leads to his doom. regulus is another dark reflection of what subaru could be — if he had not found another way, if he had been way too stubborn to change, to find support and to free himself from harmful, cruel ideas.

[separatedleoau]

So I don’t know if you are okay with anything like this, but I had a brainworm whilst trying to sleep and had to write this. I do hope you enjoy!

One had never needed nor had he ever wanted brothers at any point in his life.

Don’t get him wrong, he knew he had them, once upon a time. Maybe in some fairytale One would be leading them into battle after battle, victory after victory against the humans, brothers in arms.

But that was a fairytale, the one Draxum had desired, not the life that One and Draxum lived.

One was well aware of his origins, of the crucial fact he wasn’t the only experiment, as Draxum would remind him on occasion to… help motivate One. Maybe he expected the fact that there was once competition to drive One to be better than he was or maybe it was the fact that it was the human’s idiotic actions that doomed the three other mutant experiments. Either way, One always aimed to please and it wasn’t because of some long dead turtles.

One had never had brothers and he would never need them.

He was Draxum’s number one experiment, his number one warrior. Who needed family when you could be the hero of a civilisation?

One never looked at the Yokai children with envy as they ran around chasing each other, wrestling in the mud with siblings or telling crazy stories that were clearly faked. He never needed that. One was faster than any of them and his technique would pin them in less than a second, no struggle. His stories were crazy, but they were true, tales from his own life. The great turtle warrior would never understand the appeal, but this was why he existed, to allow them to have their ‘playtime’ whilst he brought about the revolution the Yokai needed.

One was the warrior, the first and the best. He was engineered that way and he never let it go to waste, pushing his limits constantly. It didn’t matter if his arm was bleeding or his leg had a small fracture, he knew he had to win the fight, no matter what. A human would never show him mercy in such a situation.

One was used to relying on no one but himself. Draxum had taught him that lesson well. You are only as good as your body allows. You may be able to push it, but in the end, your body is what fails first, what must be trained to fight, no matter what.

One was used to being alone, despite talking the ears of people that he couldn’t hear, watching Draxum in his lab doing his sciency stuff, pranking the gargoyles.

So it was a shock to the system when his mission forced him across enemy lines and straight into the lions’ den.

One rolled his eyes as the box turtle’s -Mikey, his name is Mikey, don’t forget that, it’s important- grip tightened. He wasn’t trying to squeeze the life out of the slider, as One had originally presumed, just trying to show affection.

A hug.

Urgh.

He patted the box turtle’s shell, glaring the other two turtle’s down with a smirk, watching them glare back, snarling quietly at him.

Good.

One had never needed brothers. He had never wanted brothers.

It didn’t change the fact that eventually he would do anything for them.

EXCUSE ME???? I'M????

[ronaldanthony4]

Television Rules

Alright, so let me spill the beans on what's been bothering me lately. Recently, I've been feeling incredibly annoyed with my family and their complete infatuation with those dark, high-end TV shows that are clearly not suitable for kids. It's reached a point where their obsession has transformed them into TV snobs, and quite frankly, I've had enough of it. Their fixation on these dark shows has created a divide between us, as I find myself unable to relate to their conversations. It's disheartening to see their enthusiasm for something that I find unsettling and unsuitable for our family dynamic. I yearn for the days when we would gather around the TV to watch light-hearted sitcoms or engage in meaningful conversations that didn't revolve around fictional characters. It's become increasingly clear to me that this obsession with high-end TV shows is taking a toll on our family's relationships and overall well-being.

I mean, here I am, just trying to enjoy some innocent animated kids' shows, and they're giving me grief for it. Yeah, I might be a grown-up lad, but I've got my reasons. You see, I reckon watching those cartoons actually does some good for my artistic skills. It's like an autistic thing for me, in a way. And I've had enough of them acting like I'm doing something wrong. I've always been fascinated by the stunning animation techniques and the attention to detail in these kids' shows. The intricate plotlines and character developments often inspire me to think outside the box and push my own artistic boundaries. In a way, it's like a form of visual storytelling that ignites my imagination and fuels my creativity. So, why should I be judged or ridiculed for finding inspiration and solace in something that brings me joy and enhances my artistic skills?

They keep harping on about how adults shouldn't be watching cartoons. Well, if they're so quick to forget, it's adults who made those cartoons in the first place. Adults who dismiss the value of cartoons fail to recognise the immense talent and artistry that goes into creating these animated masterpieces. Cartoons are not just mindless entertainment; they possess complex themes, nuanced storytelling, and stunning visuals that captivate audiences of all ages. By appreciating and finding inspiration in cartoons, I am embracing a medium that has the power to transcend age barriers and ignite the imagination of anyone willing to open their mind to its wonders. It's like they've forgotten that creativity isn't confined to age, mate. But nah, they're too wrapped up in their bleak dramas and twisted mysteries to see the bigger picture.

And don't even get me started on Netflix. Every time I try to use the kids' account, they're all like, "Oi, that's for your younger cousins!" Like, give me a break. The grown-up version of Netflix is just a cesspool of grim tales and mind-boggling mysteries that I've had my fill of. So for me, there is nothing good to be watched in Netflix. So, I ain't budging on this one. If they want to judge me for sticking to the kids' account, then let 'em. I couldn't care less. At least with the kids' account, I know what to expect - bright colours, funny characters, and wholesome storylines. It's a breath of fresh air compared to the dark and twisted shows that dominate the adult section. Besides, who says cartoons are just for kids? I find them entertaining and lighthearted, a perfect escape from the harsh realities of the world. So, while others may scoff at my choice, I'll continue to enjoy my favourite animated shows on the kids' account, without a care in the world.

But here's the kicker. When I've got my own place someday, mark my words, I'm laying down some ground rules when it comes to TV time. It's going to be a whole different ball game under my roof. First off, no more of those overly premium, doom-and-gloom shows. None of that rubbish. Instead, we're sticking to the good stuff – kids' shows, educational bits, religious content, and lifestyle channels. Oh, and if they're hankering to watch something that ain't exactly for kids, they gotta come to me first. I want to create a positive and family-friendly environment in my home, and that starts with the television. I believe that exposing children to educational and age-appropriate content will not only entertain them but also stimulate their minds. Additionally, I want to ensure that any media they consume aligns with our family values and beliefs. By having them ask for permission to watch more mature shows, I can monitor what they are exposed to and have meaningful discussions about it.

Yeah, you heard me right. They'll need my permission. I'm gonna be the TV gatekeeper, examining the content and deciding whether it's fit for our screens or not. And let me tell you, I've got high standards. The shows I'll approve of? They gotta be light-hearted, family-oriented, a bit comedic, maybe even historical or educational, and definitely uplifting for the spirit. If they can't meet these simple criteria, they're out. I strongly believe that as the TV gatekeeper, it is my duty to ensure that my family is exposed to quality content that aligns with our values and promotes positive messaging. I want to foster a wholesome and enriching environment, where we can enjoy shows that not only entertain but also educate. By carefully examining each programme and selecting ones that meet these criteria, I can guarantee that our TV time will be both enjoyable and worthwhile. With my high standards, I am confident that our family's television experience will be nothing short of exceptional.

In terms of channel selection, I prefer to keep the options limited to a few specific categories. Firstly, I opt for kids' channels to ensure that the content remains suitable and engaging for younger viewers. Additionally, I am inclined towards educational channels as they provide informative and thought-provoking content that helps me broaden my knowledge. Furthermore, religious channels are important to me as they allow me to stay connected with my faith and engage in spiritual content. Lastly, lifestyle channels appeal to me as they offer a range of programmes related to health, wellness, fashion, and overall personal growth. These channels not only entertain me but also inspire me to lead a healthier and more fulfilling life. Moreover, lifestyle channels often feature experts who provide valuable tips and advice on various aspects of life, making them a valuable resource for self-improvement.

In order to maintain control over what is being watched in my space, I have established clear rules for the television. If anyone dares to disobey these rules, they will face consequences. For instance, if someone chooses to watch a violent movie without my permission, they will be immediately disconnected from the Wi-Fi for the entire duration of their stay. They are still free to watch whatever they desire on their personal mobile gadgets. This strict policy is in place to protect any young children who may be present from being exposed to any negative or disturbing content that could potentially influence them negatively. If they think this rule is too strict, I give them freedom to leave, but they will be considered as persona-non-grata in my household. By implementing this strict policy, I aim to create a positive and nurturing environment for them. I understand that some guests may find this rule challenging, but it is essential for maintaining a harmonious atmosphere where everyone feels comfortable and protected.

Oh, and just for a bit of extra mischief, I'm gonna hide Netflix in the TV settings and slap on some good ol' Christian-oriented Pureflix instead. That'll teach 'em a lesson about assuming things, won't it? So, there you have it, my grand plan to bring some sanity back to our telly time. It's all about maintaining a positive vibe and making sure our visitors' kiddos don't get scarred for life by the gloom and doom that's all too common these days. I believe it is important to further enhance the positive atmosphere of our television experience. By incorporating more uplifting and family-friendly shows and movies into our selection, we can ensure that our visitors' children are not exposed to the negativity and darkness that often pervades our screens. It's about creating a space where everyone feels comfortable and entertained, while also instilling valuable morals and lessons through Christian-oriented content.

In the end, I reckon it's about time someone stepped up and put a bit of order into our TV habits. Sure, we all like a good show now and then, but it shouldn't come at the cost of our overall well-being or the innocence of the little ones. Call me the TV sheriff if you will, but I'm determined to keep our home screen a source of joy, laughter, and a bit of education. It might ruffle a few feathers, but I'm willing to stand my ground for what I believe is right – a television time that's positive, inclusive, and a little cheeky at times. By curating a selection of programmes that promote kindness, empathy, and diversity, we can create a space where everyone feels represented and uplifted. Let's make our living room a sanctuary of positivity, where laughter is contagious and learning is disguised as fun. Together, we can redefine what it means to have a good show and create a TV experience that brings us closer as a family.

[xxxdragonfucker69xxx]

RESISTANCE

Chain and Armor Mortification: this is all the First and Forsaken Lion's armor stuff, this is the bit where the chains attached to his armor fucking Get you

Merciful Guillotine Motion: if you're grappling people with your chains... well... see charm name

Iron Maiden's Kiss: Trap someone in in an iron maidon. That's abyssal shit.

World-Denying Invincibility: resistance capstone, i think it mirrors the solar one but holy shit hardness 20

RIDE

Apocalypse Beast Stampede: fucking trample the shit out of people. hey this has an effect if youre riding something thats legendary size

Wretched Ridden Nightmare: mutate your monut

Saddled in Epic Monstrosity: what if a horse... was a kaiju

SAIL

Seaborne Pariah Curse: laugh at someone, and ships and sailors hate them??

Ocean's Maw Malediction: Sing up some nasty sea hazard, like reefs impaled with moaning corpses or blood tides

Mist-Swallowed Harbor Doom: when you sail into port you can cover the whole city in haunted fog???? WTF????

Fallen Titan's Death-Barque: your ship becomes a shadowland, you can call up curses and msit and shit on command

SOCIALIZE

im so sleepy

Fatal Obsession Finale: if you're obsessed with someone, which abyssal socialize loves, you get really good at biting killing them

Paragon of Death's Peace: you're fucking talking. people shouldn't attack you while you're talking. or ignore you. or resist you

STEALTH

im going to come back to stealth later bc of tower

Dark Wings Scatter: fucking corpse decoy, you never got hit it was just an illusion

Dread eye Sees All: newsflash asshole! you've been here the whole time!

Seven Edges of the Raiton: invoke seven shadow blades?? they let you make followup attacks and have their own effects, like fathomless gluttony and weeping mother

SURVIVAL

Blizzard of Tears: you can already summon foul weather, but now you can summon a deadly hailstorm to absolutely fuck the landscape

Dread Witch Domain: desecrate a wild place for the dead, granting them peace and driving away the living. its heart is a shadowland

clearly lover and dowager stuff. i love it

THROWN

Red-Winged Raiton Murmuration: if you've hit multiple people at once, draw bturn their blood into raitons, covering you and guiding your weapons

Crimson Gala Massacre: if you've interacted socially, you get a fast decisive attack against anyone who likes you, has failed to fuck with you, has been fucked with by you, or is trivial.

WAR

Echoes of the First War: banger name. fuck with enemy stratagems

Omnipresent Overlord Technique: psychically direct a battlegroup, and be spiritually present over them. hey theres a charm called Acclaimed Company of Sinners

The Abyssals crowdfunding campaign closes in about 24 hours.

I did not get to hourinblack all their charms. As penance, I am going to skim just the end of each charmtree, and tell you about the biggest, coolest power of each tree. I am also going to do this for necromancy because i am a necromantic slut.

ARCHERY:

World-Wounding Darkness: Shoot a hole in the world, leaving a black hole that sucks people in. This isn't actually near the end of the tree but it caught my eye and I was like holy fuck.

Heart-Numbing Spike: When you shoot someone, wound their ability to care about things.

Last Days Portent: Shoot out the fucking sun. Kills the lights over the battlefield. If you're being goth about it, kill the lights for miles around.

ATHLETICS

Mountains Become Dust: Physical scale is no longer a limit on feats of scale or destruction.

Light-Killing Stride: Move faster than someone. Didn't ask how fast they moved, you move faster than them.

Temple-Shattering Ruination Curse: Destroy a building to curse the land, making it shadowy and blighted and supernaturally scary. if you were being intense about it, it becomes an abyssal demesne, a permanent upwelling of goth energy

AWARENESS

All-Seeing Overlord's Lair: Extend your senses throughout your stronghold, you can't be surprised inside and your ghostly sentinels (you know, the wraiths you cast to patrol for you) can roam throughout

Morbid Inspiration Witness: Find inspiration in " the morbid, the eerie, or the darkly beautiful: an albatross dropping dead in flight, three  black cats crossing the same street in sequence, lightning striking a distant temple." That inspiration grants you bonuses on various projects, and also makes you care deeply about it. This is enhanced by further charms like Fervent Caprice Fever and Unrelenting Obsession Genius

Piercing Gaze of the Unmaker: Pick a place within, like 20 miles. You see it like it's your lair and you're there. Or maybe you want to cast your gaze on your rival instead? they are going to feel a crawling sensation up their spine from your gaze through <3

BRAWL

Illustrative Overkill Technique: When you kill or incapacitate a guy, it's so fucked up you can use it to threaten anyone else. Or like blow up a building or whatever

Explosive Gore Eulogy (!!): When you do that ^ you can also use their corpse as a weapon. Jesus christ.

Life-Annihilating Castigation: Pyreflame your attack and multiply (!!) damage by your opponent's wound penalty. If you get their ass they explode with pyreflame from within, and if it kills them their ghost burns up on the spot

Void Avatar Embodiment: Now with 0% prana! Envelop yourself in the void, dealing aggravated damage on touch and withering ranged attacks away. Also you're as close to death as you want to be <3

BUREAUCRACY

Hateful Scorn Panopticon: when you use Accursed Overlord Authority to inspire hatred in your followers, you can sense when any of them encounter your enemy, and where.

Rotting Palace Proclamation: Reveal that you embedded a traitor in a rival organization. Or was it someone we knew all along?

Iron Tyrant Reign: When you do that Accursed Overlord thing, if it's a Defining Principle you can carve it into the world as an Old Law: everyone who hears or reads it must follow, words bleed through coverings or hover like fire in the air, the mindless dead automatically obey

Suffer No Betrayal: When you do the Panopticon, you can also count people who've broken your laws as enemies. You can immediately gain Defining Hatred... and possibly carve that as an old law with Iron Tyrant Reign? That isn't in the charm im just reading between the lines

CRAFT

Malicious Mechanism Mastery: Jesus this one is a cartoon supervillain bit. Reveal that an enemy has stumbled into your trap! If it's a corpse-based trap, it's worse!

Fivefold Malice Curse: Lay a curse on something you make, for instance if its bearer breaks an oath or acts against one of your principles. and if they trigger the curse they get blasted by your Bleak Expiations, aka Abyssal Limit Break aka You Cannot Escape The Goth

Soul-Tarnishing Treasure: Instead of an overt curse you can cause it to inspire vice, a sword demanding bloodshed or a chalice inspiring drink. You can't be totally free of this unless you give the object up

Drawn to Death's Beauty: When you use Magnificent Cenotaph Allure to imbue something with emotion, you can also fill it with the mesmerizing lure of death, so that people wander towards it like a will o wisp and cant look away

Betrayal-Spurring Gifts: Annatar their shit socially if you've given them something you've made. &btw cursing that shit is free

DODGE

Hanging Shrike Focus: Dodge up into the air and float back down, or fall on your enemies maybe

Queen of Killers Pirouette (!!): dodge so good you turn it back on them, like fucking zelda's neutral-B in smash

Tenebrous Cloud Dissolution: DRACULA FOG its fucking dracula fog

Breath-Seizing Mist: Hey how would you like it if dracula fog was inside your lungs

Icy Sepulcher Entombment: When you cause someone to despair at hitting you the ice literally grows around your heart and then freezes them over. The freezing stuff is actually pretty early in the tree but this is setup for

In Awful Glory Crowned: When you bring them to despair with Frozen Fears Blossom you can also drain their Willpower, and if you drain it all they become obedient to you. Unless they're unimportant in which case they might just fall over dead, turn into a ghost, and then be obedient to you

INTEGRITY

Freedom In Chains: If forced to act against death's chivalry or your principles, brood about it, then break free

Clarity in Hatred: Shaping defense if you're mad enough

Immortal Malevolence: If you've enshrined an intimacy with Eternal Enmity Approach, you can care so much that you simply do not die. Wake up the next sunset completely healed, but you can't use that intimacy again

INVESTIGATION

Heart-Haunting Condemnation: Scrooge a bitch. Nightmares and omens reinforce your accusations.

Bleak Justice Malediction: If your victim of the above draws on Ties to resist giving in to your accusations, the haunting spreads to those people and things too. If they die they haunt your victim. You can fully Book Of Job somebody here.

Omniscient Spymaster's Web. Know something. Your people told you. You think anyone can keep a secret from you?

[hangezoeenthusiast]

Totem of Undying

gn!reader

person: c!technoblade

word count: 1,852

warnings: blood, yelling, cursing, failed execution (art not mine, SAD-ist on youtube)

One day, you were pacing across Techno’s floor, wearing out the carpet, wondering were he was. He was gone for 9 days, and normally he isn’t out for that long.

He specifically said before his little expedition, “I won’t be gone long, I just got to get something for Phil.” “Ok, have fun honey.” you said, not looking up at him from your book. “You’re sure you don’t need anything?” he asked, trying to find a way to spend a little more time with you before he left. “Yeah, I’m sure, just tell Phil that I said hi.”

“Ok, bye my Aphrodite.”

Ever since, you haven’t gotten any messages on the comms, no messenger birds from him, or any sign of communication between the piglin hybrid and you.

“If he was going to Phil, then I should call Phil.” you murmured under your breath. How could you forget, he said he was going to get something for Phil, so he must be with him.

You looked for you phone, and called Phil’s number. “Hello, who is this?” replied on the other side of the phone. “Phil, is this you, I need to talk to you.”

“Oh hey Y/n, how are you doing?” “Not particularly well, um I have a question, is Techno there, he isn’t answering my calls.”

"Umm, well, he isn't here right now." he states, regret lacing his words. "Well where is he, it's urg-" Phil cut you off, "Y/n, you don't know?"

"What do you mean Phil?"

"I don't wanna say this, but he got captured by the Butcher Army." "Are you fucking kidding me, when he get caught?" you questioned. "IThey came to your house a few days ago, didn't you see them?" "No, I don't think so."

Then you suddenly remembered, “I think they might have came to our house. I was on a trip to get some spider eyes, so I guess that’s when they came over and got Techno.”

“Yeah, they haven’t come back yet, they tried to interrogate me, but I said no, and then they put an ankle monitior on me.” “They decided that if I wasn’t going to tell them anything, they would confine me to my house.”

You apologized to him, “I’m sorry Phil, hopefully you get that off soon enough.” “It’s fine Y/n/n, right now, what I’m concerned about is Techno. The Butcher Army built something, it’s a little cage with an anvil, I watched them build it, but it was kinda vague to me.” "I'm coming to L'Manberg Phil, I'll be there in a hour or so." "Ok, be safe."

-

You arrived in L'Manberg, looking for Phil's house. "Hey Y/n." he spoke. "Right back at you Phil, how are you doing today?" "I'm doing eh, I'm just worrying about Techno." "Me too, hopefully he turns up soon."

So then you stayed with Phil for a while, drinking tea and talking about random stuff. You were trying to buy your time until Techno popped up somewhere, preferably unharmed.

“Yeah Phil, there was-” Hooves stomped on grass, triumphant talking covering every sound outside. The people that cut you off was the Butcher Army, who was boasting their victory over their fight with Technoblade.

Techno, blood all over his skin, bruises on his face, barely showing any sign of his true skin tone. Chains rapping all over his body so he wouldn't escape. You felt devastated, what had they done to him? Behind them was Quackity riding Carl, holding him hostage so Techno couldn't escape on his steed. "What did they do to you?" you whispered under your breath.

They led Techno to the stage, when he looked up at you and Phil, suprise basking his face. "PHIL, PHIL, WHAT DID THEY DO TO YOU PHIL, Y/N, WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?" he yelled from under you guys. "I'M FINE TECHNO, THEY PUT AN ANKLE MONITOR ON ME." Phil screamed back.

They dragged him away from the house, bringing him onto the stage. "LEAVE PHIL AND Y/N ALONE YOU HEAR ME, LEAVE THEM ALONE." he retaliated. They locked him in the cage, where he was waiting his impending doom.

"Technoblade, this is actually not a trial, if you look up, you can see an anvil hanging down. When we press that lever down there, what it's going to do is drop on you and it's going to fucking kill you."

After Quackity's little statement, he demanded Tubbo to explain to everyone what was happening, but what they didn't know was that there was an ally, or friend of Techno's that would help him sooner or later.

After Tubbo spoke about how Techno betrayed the country, and how he had to pay for his wrongdoings, Punz swooped in, throwing snowballs to distract the Butcher Army. With his armor clad self, he started to attack them, momentarily trying to buy time for Techno. He splashed potions all around himself and the Butcher Army.

Then he started to load up the stage with unlit TnT, sending a warning to the Butcher Army not to fuck with him. Quackity yelled in scaredness, hoping that Punz wouldn't light the TnT. "PUNZ, PUNZ, CHILL THE FUCK OUT PUNZ, CALM DOWN." Quackity begged. He didn't stop, and that lead to the whole Butcher Army attacking him with their axes.

While they were chasing Punz, they didn't realize that he slipped Techno a totem of undying. That's right, one of the only things that can prevent death if someone was to kill someone else. So when Punz left the scene, and Ghostbur came to the stage to secretly tell Techno that he named his sheep "Friend", they started to prepare for execution.

"Ok, no more, I'm pulling this fucking lever." Quackity stated. And there is was, he pulled the lever, and the anvil went crashing down on Techno's head. But Quackity didn't know that he had a totem of undying in his hand, so when the anvil came down on Techno, there was a flurry of green and yellow sparks all around him, protecting him from his death.

During the little show, Techno escaped the iron cage, and ran for his life. The Butcher Army was confused, why did Technoblade die, he was supposed to perish, right?

He ran to the little hole in the ground, and was meet by Dream, riding Carl. Dream started to block up the hole, while Techno rode Carl to victory. As he rode Carl, he reached a control room, where there was chests filled with stuff for specific people. There was Eret's, Tubbo's, his, and many others.

He looted his chest, put iron armor on, and started to prepare for his journey. He splashed potions onto his body, giving him strength for a few minutes, and swiftness. When he realized that the pathway wasn't large enough for both him and Carl, he started to break blocks so he and Carl wouldn't suffocate in the walls.

While he was doing that, Quackity sneaked up behind him, taking him by suprise. “Techno, you’re not leaving this place, how didn’t you die?”

“None of your business Quackity, how about you leave me alone.”

“You’re my business Techno, and as long as you’re alive, this server is going to go to shit.” And this the fight began, Techno only donning a pick axe for a weapons, and iron armor, and Quackity, with full netherite and all the tools you could ever need for a fight.

Their weapons clashed together into a disgusting sound. “I’M GOING TO DEFEAT YOU TODAY TECHNOBLADE.” shouted Quackity, thinking he was going to win. “NOT A CHANCE.” Techno answered.

Quackity was clearly arrogant in this matter, even though he had the good stuff, and Techno had the shitty stuff that would be easily broken, he forget something. He forgot that he didn’t have technique, and Techno was the great night Blood God. Technoblade could’ve easily, if he wanted to, take down an entire village.

But he didn’t, and that’s what Quackity didn’t realize. Yes, Techno did some shitty things in the past, but he declared that he was going to retire from the fighting, from everything that related to violence. It wasn’t necessary to try to execute him.

So when the final swing hit, Quackity with his ego to a high capacity, at almost half a heart, Techbo easily defeated and killed Quackity, taking one of his canon lives.

-

You paced across the wooden floor for 10 minutes. “Phil, is Techno ok, where is he, why isn’t he here right now, Phil-” you cut yourself off, “Phil, is he dead?” “No he isn’t Y/n/n, I know Techno, he’s still alive, trust me.” he assured you, trying to comfort your thoughts, but it wasn’t getting to you.

Techno had to be dead, an anvil fell on him. “But what was the green and yellow sparks, what was the reason for that?” you thought. Was that a distraction, or was it something more significant.

“Phil, are you sure he’s-” he interrupted you with a shush. “Do you hear that?” he asked, not sure what’s was happening outside of his home. “No, I don’t, what’s wrong?” “Stay here Y/n.” he ignored your question.

He sneaked toward the door, trying to quiet his footsteps. He slowly opened the door, looked around, and saw Techno standing there, covered in bloody armor. “Holy shit Techno, what are you doing here, they could come any minute.”

“I need Y/n for a second.” he calmly said, trying to ease Phil’s nerves. “Mate, what about the Butcher-”

“I killed their leader.” “Heh?” “I killed Quackity, unfortunately it isn’t permanent.” he sighed. “Ok, first of all, weirdchamp, and secondly, please come inside, you’re worrying me right now.”

Phil let Techno in, and offered him a cup of tea. “No thanks Phil, so back to what I was saying, where is Y/n?” “Oh, they’re in the back, I thought you were someone else.” “Thanks.”

He stepped towards the direction you were in, and opened the door to find a frantic, worried Y/n. He put his body on the doorframe nonchalantly, “You missed me?” You turned around from your pacing, and looked at Techno, relief coating your eyes, “TECHNO.”

“Y/n.” he replied. You hurriedly walked to Techno, and gave him a bone-crushing hug. “Oh my goodness I’ve missed you so much, why did you have to leave, I don’t want you to die, fuck Quackity and the rest of them...” You rambled on and on about how the Butcher Army should be convicted, and a whole bunch of other things, when Techno cut you off, “Calm down my Aphrodite, I’m back, and that’s all that matters.”

"Ok, well are you hurt anywhere, Phil has some healing pots as well as some bandages." "I'm fine, but are you ok, did they hurt you?" he put his hand on your shoulders. "I'm ok, they didn't acknowledge me."

"Well, I'm glad that was the case."

You severely hugged him again, "Please never leave without me, I don't want this happening again."

"Never Y/n, never."

[sailormoonandme]

Usagi’s Evolution as a Healer Goddess

The other day I saw a post discussing the evolution of Usagi’s fuku and it occurred to me how Eternal Sailor Moon’s costume was her first Senshi uniform to ditch the tiara. 

That in turn led me to consider how that kind of makes Usagi weaker as it removes a very useful weapon for her. After all, if you include the movies, Usagi uses some variant of Moon Tiara Action in practically every season prior to Stars.

However, dwelling more upon it I realized how this tiny change was all too appropriate for Usagi’s character development.

Firstly, by supplanting the Tiara with her Moon planetary symbol, Eternal Sailor Moon more closely resembles both Queen Serenity, her own Princess Serenity form and her future self as Neo-Queen Serenity. 

Since all three are objectively more powerful than Usagi typically is as Sailor Moon I think the change emphasises how she has ‘levelled up’ in her Eternal form. When combined with the angel wings, Eternal Sailor Moon shifts Usagi visually closer to her future self as NQS, which in the anime is implied to be her most powerful incarnation.* It is almost as though the visual was communicating that the Divine Miracle Magic that she’d previously drawn upon as Princess Serenity in Classic-SuperS had now become ingrained in her standard Senshi form and thus was more accessible to her. 

It was in thinking of her previous efforts as Princess Serenity that I inevitably recalled her duel with Metalia/Beryl in episode 46 and realized that Eternal Sailor Moon was the first time since Classic that Usagi’s default attack was a healing  technique not a destructive one. 

Moon Healing Escalation was Usagi’s first healing technique but until Starlight Honeymoon Therapy Kiss (and it’s later upgrade, Silver Moon Crystal Power Kiss) it was also her only healing technique. 

Between regaining healing techniques and ditching her tiara/other destructive attacks/weapons, I think this represents her subtle growth in both her power and status. After all, it is a sad fact of life that it is easier to destroy something rather than fix it, thereby making the latter far more impressive.**

This skewing towards healing power rather than destructive power is also (arguably) thematically appropriate given the nature of Sailor Moon as a female power fantasy as (rightly or wrongly) the act of healing is typically coded as feminine. 

We can even take this further by examining things from the ‘opposite direction’ as it were.

Consider that in the climactic final episodes of Sailor Stars, Eternal Sailor Moon’s healing technique actually fails her when used against Galaxia. In later episodes, upon adopting her Princess Serenity form (complete with larger and more obviously angelic wings), she uses a sword to duel Galaxia.

Obviously a sword is, at least predominantly, an offensive weapon and can therefore be viewed as symbolic of aggression; let’s leave any Freudian or gendered interpretations alone for today. Her use of the sword is highly uncharacteristic (in the anime). Even her explicitly offencive weapons (like the Cutie Moon Rod or Spiral Moon Heart Rod) weren’t as clearly aggressive nor obviously violent. Desperate times calling for desperate measures? Perhaps, but we might also speculate it was her subconsciously reacting to grief. Not only can grief make you act in ways you wouldn’t normally, but a sword after all was a weapon wielded by her lover in his Prince Endymion incarnation. Her lover whom Usagi had just learned Galaxia had murdered. In other words, amidst her grief she reacts by going too hard in the other direction after healing her enemy proves ineffective.

However, when all is said and done the sword fails her.*** Ultimately is simply escalates the conflict by prompting Galaxia to become Chaos Galaxia and thereby make Usagi’s chances of victory all the slimmer. If we wished to stretch things, you could perhaps say that this is a commentary about how war and violence ultimately begets yet more war and violence.

Even if that is an over extrapolation though, it still served to emphasis the point that a sword is not befitting of Usagi, that she was doomed to lose if she continued to battle with destroying her enemy as the end goal.

In fact, her road to real victory begins when she not doesn’t attack Galaxia but makes it easier for herself to be attacked. In the end, Usagi doesn’t confront her most powerful enemy as the God-Queen of the future, the demi-goddess Princess of the distant past, the sailor-suited soldier of love and justice in the present, nor even a humble school girl.

She does it by literally stripping herself of all those things, of stripping herself of everything in fact.

Her weapons? Gone.

Her other items, like her Tiare? Gone.

Her comrades? Gone, and they’d be powerless against Galaxia anyway.

And finally, even her clothes? Gone!

Beyond the Silver Crystal (an outward visualization of her heart/soul) and the angel wings (symbolic of her role as a saviour) she is completely (but tastefully) naked.

Usagi visually and quite literally is more vulnerable  than she’s ever been, even more so than on her first night as Sailor Moon.

And yet this is Usagi at her actual most powerful.

It is her distilled to her absolute essence as a person, all other trappings removed. She’d just one person showing another they will categorically not harm them, that they bear them no malice and they have nothing to hide. That openness and compassion is what ultimately enables her to connect to the good within Galaxia and pull her away from the darkness that had corrupted her.

Usagi in this moment completely fulfilled her character arc.

·      In the Dark Kingdom arc Usagi destroys (or seals away depending upon your POV) Beryl/Metalia.

·      In the Hell Tree arc, Usagi resolves the over all plot via a healing technique (although it is functionally similar to a destructive attack). However, that only happens because the Hell Tree both instructs Usagi to do that and because it lets her. It is the equivalent of a sickly doctor instructing a nurse on what to do to make them better. The nurse might have the power but their agency as a healer is limited.

·      In the Black Moon arc, Usagi, with help, destroys Wiseman/Death Phantom. 

·      In the Death Busters arc, Usagi does save Hotaru and ‘purify’ her. However, like the Hell Tree, that was something Hotaru wanted. Additionally, her purification functioned as a way to heal the body of someone sick and who wanted to sacrifice themselves, not someone actually evil. The evil in question was Pharaoh 90 and it is presumed that Usagi destroyed him (although it might’ve been Hotaru or the pair of them together). 

·      Forgive me for skipping the Dead Moon Circus arc as Chibiusa is the real protagonist there, and Usagi’s role is chiefly as a rescuer. It therefore doesn’t really apply, although the Nehelenia mini-arc from Stars is a different story. There, Usagi was a healer again, but she did it with the help of her loved ones and with the aid of her Tiare device. Nevertheless, we can see by this point Usagi’s capacity as a healer heroine had been gradually growing until we get to the battle with Galaxia.

By the end of series, Usagi has successfully healed Galaxia and it is neither with the aid of her comrades, nor with the power of a weapon or device, nor with any instructions from her ‘patient’ or any other third party.

Additionally, Galaxia (unlike Hotaru) wasn’t someone’s who was saved from a noble self-sacrifice or had a physical ailment that needs to be addressed. In Galaxia’s case, her very soul had lost it’s way and become corrupted. She had lost who she was supposed to be and her purpose in life had been perverted.****

When combined with how powerful Galaxia always was, how Chaos and the Star Seeds empowered her further, Usagi’s victory here cannot be understated.

Her ‘patient’ was more powerful than all her other adversaries, was in need of more healing than her other ‘patients’ and was more resistant to being healed. Not to mention, since she’d directly murdered her beloved friends (and indirectly aborted her future daughter), Usagi would’ve been forgiven for not  even trying to salvage Galaxia 

And yet, with no weapons, no backup and just the power of her heart and soul basically, Usagi succeeded. 

After Stars the idea that Usagi could heal the entire planet after a global catastrophe and reshape it into a fairy tale crystalline utopia was all too believable.

What’s healing one planet when her ability to empathise had already healed a whole galaxy?

Who needs a tiara to reduce evil to dust when you can simply convince evil to be good?

*This is arguably symbolized by baby Hotaru’s vision of NQS transforming into Eternal Sailor Moon in episode 1 of Stars.

In fact, we might argue that a low-key subplot running through all of Stars (both the Nehelenia and Galaxia portions of it) is gradually transitioning Usagi closer to the person she is destined to become as Neo-Queen Serenity, hence why the first episode features the most explicit reference to her fate as Queen since R. 

**Personally I am an atheist, but nevertheless I and others like me can grasp why  deities in most major religions through history weren’t simply capable of mass scale destruction, but also of essentially manipulating reality to create  things too.

By that same token, it’s little surprise that perhaps the widest spread religious figure in history was Jesus Christ who rarely (if ever) engaged in aggression or destructive acts, predominantly employing divine healing powers.

I suspect the attraction of such figures to human beings lies in the fact that on some level we know that, given the right time and resources, we mere mortals would be capable of destroying anything. Given time it’s all but certain we will develop the technology to even destroy planetary bodies. On the flipside, I think we also intuitively grasp that  reversing  such damage, of reattaching a limb, of stanching bleeding, etc, is far more difficult if not impossible. Hence we attributed the ability to do such things to larger than life Divine Entities.

*** Now that I think of it, it’s also poignant that Usagi tries and fails to defeat Galaxia with a sword when we take Sailor Uranus into consideration. 

Uranus is of course associated with her weapon, the Space Sword and, like Usagi, tried and failed to use such a weapon against Galaxia.

Giving Uranus a sword is symbolically appropriate given her role as the leader of the more aggressive branch of the Sailor Team. Having her fail against Galaxia and Usagi consequently fail by in some way ‘mimicking her tactics’ is equally symbolically appropriate. Not only because of their ideological conflict in Sailor Moon S but also their tensions in Sailor Stars itself. In both situations Usagi’s more open, less aggressive, ideology was ultimately proven correct. 

Thus in using a sword against Galaxia it represented how Usagi was always doomed to fail by taking the aggressive/destructive route and how she was arguably not being true to herself in that moment. 

****It’s not to dissimilar to Darth Vader/Anakin Skywalker now that I think about it. 

[anika-ann]

Attached: Hurtful Words Pt.2

Type: (mini)-series,  Modern-college-professor AU… aka the wrong attachment AU ;)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader   Word count: 3530

Summary:  Steve’s been hit hard with the events involving bad poetry on campus too. He thinks he knows what needs to be done; but sometimes, what people truly need is a really good friend who knocks some sense into them. 

Enter Bucky Barnes and Penny Cooper.

A/N: Attached: Hurtful Words is an addition that loosely followes the Attached series. You don’t necessarily need to read the mini-series as a whole, but you will understand much better.

Warnings: mentions of name calling and humiliation, brief violence, swearing, some angst and lots of talking

Story masterlist

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

The friendship between Bucky and Steve had begun with a beautiful chain reaction.

On a cold November day many years ago, a six-year-old Steve Rogers witnessed a pair of stupid boys stealing a girl’s hat and tossing it around and he stepped in; a seven-year-old Bucky Barnes saw two jerks hitting a younger and obviously weaker kid and decided to take it personally.

That day, Bucky Barnes met Steve Rogers and instantly became a protective older brother, for he recognized that Steve had a brave and kind heart. That day, they became easy friends, because Steve recognized the same qualities in Bucky.

Even if they grew as people, they had their ups and downs, they never grew apart completely and stayed best friends for life – and the protectiveness over each other never disappeared. Which was only one of the reasons why Bucky felt an unbearable urge to punch someone – preferably the idiots who got his OTP into this mess.

Fairly enough, he wanted to punch you a little bit as well for keeping Steve in the dark and hurting him too, but hey – you were entitled at least, you were the target of the jest that the three antichrists came up with.

Hell, Bucky even considered reaching out to you himself since you kept ignoring Steve; not necessarily to scold you, god forbid actually punch you, but just to beg you to talk to his friend.

In the end, he decided against it, because it wasn’t quite his business and you probably knew better than him when you were ready to talk. God knew that seeing you broken and in tears would hurt Steve too and it would only feed his doubts and as Bucky suspected, misplaced guilt.

No one wanted to see that right? Bucky surely didn’t.

He truly just wanted his friend happy and the thing was, you made him the happiest Bucky had ever seen him, even with the complications and ‘controversy’ surrounding your relationship.

So when after days of silence on your end Bucky entered the office and saw a sombre expression on Steve’s face, somewhat more pensive than his recent usual, and a phone in his hand, he froze in the doorway, heart stopping in his chest.

Oh. Oh no, please don’t let that be it.

His heart kicked back in when he focused on Steve’s eyes – they were downcast, but visibly not teary and Bucky breathed a sigh of relief. Manly men and all that, but fuck, Steve would shed a tear or two if you two were completely definitely over. Oh, and he would probably devastate the office in a burst of frustration.

“Hey Steve,” Bucky hummed nonchalantly, closing the door behind him and making his way to his desk. “Who was that?”

He purposely didn’t look at Steve so the punk wasn’t shy about talking about whatever conversation he had. It happened on occasion, Steve keeping stuff to himself, when he was thinking he was annoying Buck – but joke was on him. Yes, Steve could be annoying as fuck, but Bucky could stand a few emotional talks when his friend was on the verge of losing what seemed to be the love of his life.

“Uhm… nobody,” Steve responded simply, putting the device away. He started going through the papers on his desk as if searching for something in attempt to look busy.

Bucky rolled his eyes. As if that would work on him.

“Right. Try again.”

The rustling stopped, a resigned sigh falling from Steve’s lips before he admitted the truth. “Penny Cooper.”

Bucky’s head snapped to Steve, eyebrows jumping for a second.

He did not expect that answer, but he couldn’t say he found it an unpleasant surprise. When Bucky had thought about contacting you, he considered getting in touch with your best friend too.

And yes, he knew Penn Cooper’s name; hell, he had met her on a sort-of friendly hang-out night where you and Steve tried and very much failed at not being a disgustingly-in-love couple when having a night out with friends. Bucky hadn’t complained nearly as much as he could have, mostly because he was delighted to see Steve so lovestruck for a girl who was evidently just as lovestruck for him.

Anyway.

“Ah, Penny. You finally decided to call her. Good. How did it go?”

Steve didn’t appear to share Bucky’s hopeful sentiment, running a hand down his face and turning his gaze to the ceiling.

Bucky narrowed his eyes; while his heart sank at what seemed to be no good news, he could tell that this was not a mourning Steve. In fact, looking closer at Steve as he approached his desk, it was dawning to him that this was Steve overthinking something he heard from Penny.

Great. That’s probably even worse.

In attempt to prevent a catastrophe in making, Bucky did the only thing that came to his mind. He probed.

“That bad, huh?” he stated more than asked, crossing his arms on his chest. “She told you to leave her bestie alone?”

Steve grimaced, his eyebrows furrowing; a clear sign that he was digging deeper into a hole he was creating for himself in his head. The pit of misery and gloom. The pit of despair.

“Not exactly… I think.”

That was the problem with Steve really – sometimes, he thought. Steve Rogers was in fact known for occasional and epical impulsiveness, but so the gods above help if he sank into a well of overthinking. Because that usually led to a stupid decision, which was practically irreversible due to Steve’s infamous determination and stubbornness. It was next to impossible to talk him out of something once he made up his mind.

“Stop that, punk,” Bucky warned him silently, uncrossing his arms and giving Steve a glare.

“Stop what?” Steve asked with a sigh, as if he didn’t know.

“Overthinking. Get out of your head. It just produces loads of bullshit right now.”

“Bucky-“ was all that Steve said, sending his friend an imploring gaze, but Bucky was not fooled. The wheels of doom were still turning in Steve’s head, inevitably leading to the aforementioned bullshit.

And as Bucky had learned the hard way, once the final stage of decision-making was reached, there was no going back. Not with Steve. Which meant he had to stop that disastrous thought before Steve’s stubborn ass grew it into an apocalypse plant.

Then, Steve’s expression shifted; a minor change, yet all too visible to a man who knew him since he was a kid.

Bucky recognized what just happened… and he panicked.

When Bucky Barnes was panicking, he did things he wasn’t necessarily proud of later, but of which he was certain would work.

Plus, the quickly set-up plan was bound to kill two birds in one stone, giving Bucky’s unbearable urge lasting for the past few days an outlet. Win-win, crisis averted, right?

“Get up off your ass,” Bucky ordered, earning a half-heartedly invested surprised and confused raise of eyebrows from his friend.

However, Steve did not stand up.

“Get up, Steven.”

Slightly annoyed but resigned, Steve rose to his feet, the movement a testimony of how exhausted he was. How much energy the past few days had stolen from him… how much of energy he had spent on navigating through the maze of confusing and self-doubting thoughts.

But that was ending now; Bucky was going to make sure of that.

“What?” Steve sighed, clearly expecting more of the pep-talk, possibly more intense since he was asked to stand upright.

He was wrong.

Sorry, Steve.

Like a lightning, Bucky’s fist shot up to Steve’s nose and connected with it with a snap.

Steve stumbled back into the chair, barely catching himself and his nose, staring on Bucky wide-eyed and hurt.

To be fair, Bucky was hurting too – fuck, he forgot how punching people without boxing gloves felt.

“The fhuck-“

“-is wrong with you?!” Bucky finished as he was wondering the same, shaking his hand in hopes to distract himself from the pain.

For a brief second, satisfaction flashed in Steve’s eyes; but Bucky could tell that his get-out-of-your-head technique worked, so he was pretty satisfied himself. Not to mention that Steve probably felt that punch in the back of his skull, having literally rocked his world.

“I wah jugh godda hask!” Steve mumbled, checking the fingers hovering around his nose for blood, frowning as they indeed stained in some crimson – but nothing terrible, Bucky thought.

Then again, he wasn’t the one with cracked nose.

“Outta your head now?” he asked, unable to hide all of his smugness.

Steve frowned at him, clenching his jaw, but didn’t try to punch him back as he probably realized which purpose the unexpected and unusual violence served.

“Bhacky, wah ta hell-?”

“Right before I punched you – you decided to give up on her, didn’t you?” Bucky questioned, being 95% sure about it. Steve’s face told him it should have been 100%. Idiot. Sad and having the right, but still an idiot. “The Steve Rogers I know wouldn’t give up.”

“How did you even-?” Steve asked incredulously, not trying to deny it, not even with his words.

As if Bucky still needed words with him. He knew him almost better than himself.

Also, it was funny how quickly Steve’s punch-induced mumble disappeared.

“You kidding? You’re acting like I didn’t know you since you were six. And during all that time, I didn’t see you give up, not fucking once!”

The slight raise in volume of Bucky’s voice stirred something in Steve – or perhaps it was the accusatory tone by which Bucky was shamelessly trying to provoke a reaction. Because really, Steve desperately needed to leave his overactive brain behind and experience some new emotion besides pure misery and guilt. Anger was okay, Bucky supposed – not great, but okay.

“Jesus, Buck! You know this isn’t it! Look at the mess we already made!” Steve exploded, throwing his hand in the air. “What about in the future? She was planning doing her master’s here! And what about in her future job? It was on the Internet – it never goes away! It will stay with her like a fucking plague, a bomb loaded with C4 ready to be set off! They’ll do a background check and come across it and decide that it would send a bad message to people. Or they’ll humiliate her again, mock her that she’s gonna start an affair on the workplace too. She won’t get the job just because of being with me and they’ll call her a whore on top of that--she doesn’t deserve that!”

The name you had been called stood out even in the long passionate monologue – Steve spited it out with so much venom and hatred towards anyone who would dare to call you that that Bucky nearly had to take a step back from the intense crackling in the air.

He watched Steve take a deep breath in silence, frustrated and sorrowful blue orbits watching with a silent plea to understand.

And Bucky did; he really did. To a point.

“She doesn’t deserve that, Buck,” Steve echoed in a whisper.

A whisper of a broken man, torn between seeking his own happiness on expense of someone else’s and doing what was right in his mind.

Bucky reciprocated the stare, simultaneously impressed and unimpressed as his mind had already put together what Steve had been thinking before saying it out loud. Steve’s speech only confirmed his fears of how Steve would twist what was happening into something he was to be blamed for completely... and would come up with doomsday scenarios.

Except there were always two people (well, sometimes more), when it came to this sort of thing, weren’t there? Two people who were equally participating in this relationship, both very much willingly.

“…you done?”

The plea in Steve’s eyes seemed to deepen before he averted Bucky’s gaze in shame.

Like Steve should be ashamed for the crimes against human decency others committed. Crimes like writing bad poetry and putting in on walls.

“No. You know what else is there. I know you know.”

Yes, Bucky knew.

“You bet your perfect dramatic ass I do, Rogers. I figured they weren’t exactly love letters, because you have zero poker face. How many times? What did they call you? A perv? A molester?” Bucky grinded his teeth, the urge to hit someone returning instantly, hungry and thirsty for blood – and Steve’s nose wouldn’t do this time. He needed a real asshole so he could feel like he made a difference.

Bucky was aware that Steve had started receiving the hate letters almost as soon as the whispers about the relationship started. He had never said a word about them to Bucky and at first, Bucky had been thinking they might have been love letters from someone else, causing him to frown, because in which universe wanted Steve someone unhappy, let alone because of him?

But it soon dawned to him; precisely because Steve hadn’t shared them. Not with Buck and not with you, he suspected. He couldn’t decide which was worse.

“…among other things,” Steve sighed and shook his head. “It would be tiring, it is, but… you’re right. I don’t give up easily. That kind of hate letters… those I can handle. But they said I’ll ruin her future too… and they’re right, it’s already started. I can’t-- not her, Buck. I can’t watch her deal with that bullshit. This can never happen again. I—I have to let her go.”

Weren’t they just over it? That Steve’s head was in no state to make reasonable choices?

“You cannot unring a bell, Steve. It’s done. You said so, it’s on the internet. Tony’s done his best to delete the trail, so the digital print is practically non-existent, but it’s done,” Bucky remarked matter-of-factly. “The things you’re saying, they might be true to some extent, not as tragic as you paint them though. The question is – are you gonna fight for the two of you, so the good stays too… or are you gonna leave like that, on that real fucked-up note and regret it in few years’ time when you look back at this?”

Bucky could pinpoint the exact moment all fight left Steve’s body – his shoulders slumped and his expression turned resigned, almost desperate as he looked up into Bucky’s eyes, his gaze speaking thousands of words.

“It doesn’t matter,” Steve whispered, averting Bucky’s gaze then, focusing on his desk instead, staring blindly ahead. “She wouldn’t talk to me, Buck. I tried, you know that. She’s done with me.“

Bucky sighed and leaned his palms onto the desk, easing the pressure on Steve’s poor tormented soul by softening his demeanour. In the end, all he was trying to do was to help – no matter how frustrated he was getting.

“Of course she wouldn’t talk you, Steve. She’s probably just as caught up in her head as you are in yours. I just hope that Cooper is working on getting her out. What did she tell you?”

Steve gulped and bit on the inside of his cheek. Bucky would swear he saw a hint of a blush on his friend’s cheek and an unpleasant hunch crept up on him.

Oh no, he didn’t.

“…that I shouldn’t come over so I don’t push her too much. That she might not be responding, but she’s listening to all of my voicemails and reads all the texts and e-mails, so until she explicitly asks me to lose her number, I should keep trying,” Steve mumbled, traces of both hope and shame lacing his voice.

Bucky pushed off of the desk and huffed loudly, looking up to the ceiling and pleading God for strength.

A dumbass. His friend was a complete and utter dumbass.

When Bucky spared him a glare that told the blond what he was thinking, Steve sunk further into his chair.

And Bucky was honestly so so done.

Hadn’t he been delighted at the turn of events and Penny, the best friend, giving them hope, he might have punched Steve again for being a dramatic fool. And for being an idiot.

“Sometimes I think you like getting punched, Steven, I have no other explanation,” Bucky deadpanned and then closed his eyes and went to massage the bridge of his nose to ease the headache that was starting to build up in reaction to stress. He loved Steve to bits, honest to God, but he really could be an idiot sometimes. “So you talk to the friend, who probably knows her through and through, she tells you this and still you go: nah, let’s leave her alone, let’s break things off, let’s give up. Jesus, Steve.”

Steve held up his hands palms up, apparently lost and clueless.

Okay, Bucky felt for him. But still.

“I don’t know what else to do, Buck. I- I love her. She’s everything I could ever want, I cannot imagine losing her. It’s… it’s making me sick to just think-- but I don’t want to ruin her life either, Buck, I don’t want to-“

“Be happy?” Bucky interrupted, earning a deadly glare from his friend. “Don’t give me that look. I told you. Now, she’s probably still processing, just like you. Her head is probably a mess… just like yours. I know it’s hard, fuck, I know. But try and do what Cooper is telling you and stay patient. Oh, and I don’t know, maybe just-- don’t. Give. Up.”

Bucky had to gather his next thoughts, not at all happy about what he was about to say next, feeling like he was undermining the message he was trying to get through. But he believed that Steve needed to hear that too – his righteous side would love it, in fact.  

“And then, let her make the choice. It will hurt like a bitch if she decides to break up, but at least you won’t be making her choice for her. I think there’s a fair chance that she’ll come around. She likes you a lot too, you know.”

“She said anything to you?” Steve’s head snapped up automatically, his face lighting up with a hint of an eager smile.

Hadn’t he been so cute, Bucky would have rolled his eyes at him. Instead, he shared his observation that took zero effort to gain. Everyone who had at least one functioning eye would notice… which included Fury. Anyway-

“She didn’t have to. It’s written all over her face, in her body language. Shit Steve, you practically live together, how can you even doubt her feelings for you? I thought you were like… soulmates almost. Shared everything and stuff…” Which lead him to another thought, a brief surge of fear that there was one thing that might complicate this matter further if possible. “But she doesn’t know about those ‘love’ letters, does she?”

“God, of course not!”

“Good, then she can make a decision to overcome this on her own, just like you decided to deal with your problem alone,” Bucky offered and a smile slowly spread on his lips. “Just… share it with her once things are a bit calmer, will ya’? You don’t want her to find out on her own.”

Steve mirrored his expression, the tension in his body visibly easing. Bucky could kiss Penny Cooper at that moment. Hell, maybe he would the next time he saw her, just because.

“…you really think I should keep trying?” Steve asked, genuinely curious, but obviously knowing the answer already, seeing as his bashful smile widened.

Really?!

“Steven, my hand hurts, don’t make me punch you again.”

“…point taken,” Steve chuckled, turning his palms to Bucky in a show of meaning no harm. And not wanting to get hit again, probably. “I can’t believe you hit me.”

Bucky had to admit that it wasn’t his brightest moment – but hey, it worked, so guess it was sort of a genius move after all.

His eyebrows jumped suggestively, teasing. “Didn’t think I’d see the day you’ll be on the receiving end of the infamous Barnes’ super-jab.”

“Oh, quit bragging.”

“Blah blah blah, you’re just mad because my fists are like made of iron,” Bucky exclaimed, clenching them and showing them off, causing another chuckle bubble in Steve’s chest.

Bucky’s heart jumped in joy – it was like gift from heavens to see Steve like this after the days of gloom.

“Jerk.”

“Punk.”

“Thank you,” Steve retorted in the same manner, but Bucky read honest gratitude in the two simple words.

“You’re welcome,” he replied with the similar simplicity and depth they both understood. “Drinks?”

“God, yes.”

“No hard liquor tho, we need you in good shape when your girl calls you back,” Bucky pointed out, satisfied when Steve’s smile widened a fraction more.

“You got yourself a deal, Buck.”

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

The night before graduation ceremony, Steve forwarded one of the strangest texts he had ever received to Bucky: Come. Incognito. Blend with the crowd till you get a signal.

Steve apparently wasn’t sure what was your best friend trying to say – or he rather had no clue why would she ask him to do that, why come to the graduation (which made him hopeful) and why in secret (which confused the heck out of him).

He and Bucky agreed that Steve should listen to the advice though; what did he have to lose anyway?

Few minutes before midnight, Steve sent a simple answer: OK.

Several moments later, somewhere in the campus, another phone beeped on a young woman’s nightstand.

Operation: Morons is on.

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

Part 3 (final for Attached: Hurtful Words)

⊱-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦ ✉ ◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-◦-⊰

Thank you for reading! 

It got a bit out of hand... I really had planned this to be a two-shot for the series, but my usual longwinded writing got in the way. I hope that’s okay and that you liked the Steve-Bucky bro moment at least a bit :)

[cheri-translates]

[CN] Victor’s Encounter Date (Eng Translation)

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for a date which has not been released in English servers! 🍒

Edit: This date has been released in EN!

The date begins with MC in her office at 11pm, preparing Victor’s “big surprise”

Over the past two weeks, she has been sending Victor small gifts to express her gratitude for his help in getting her a smooth interview with Mr Sheng, a real estate tycoon

While she’s in the office, Victor calls her regarding the puppy apron he received

Overall, he would give brief comments on these gifts. He would only say a word of thanks when he occasionally comes across a gift which suits his tastes. 

As for the puppy apron I sent today...

Before I can continue asking him about the apron, Victor has already changed the topic. 

Victor: If you’re willing to spend all your time on official business, you wouldn’t need to stay up every day... work is never-ending. It’s about time to go home and rest. 

MC: Eh? 

How does he know that I haven’t returned home to rest yet?

I hastily look out the window. A black car is stationary under the streetlamp. Even though I can’t see the car plate clearly, my instincts tell me that it’s Victor. 

MC: Why are you here? 

Victor: I was just passing by. 

Really...

Victor: Come down. I’ll send you home. 

MC: Okay! I’ll pack my things and head down.

Victor: There doesn’t seem to be a big proposal recently. Why do you have to stay till so late? 

My heart rattles, and I hurriedly find a reason to get by.

MC: Maybe my mood hasn’t been good recently, so I’m always not in the zone when doing work. 

I thought Victor would respond to my words with taunting remarks. Instead his tone slows down, revealing his certainty in me. 

Victor: The interview you did with Mr Sheng wasn’t bad. There’s no need to be too impatient, or give yourself too much stress. The accumulation of work always requires time.

Just before I turn the lights off, I toss another glance at the present on the table. Even though he can’t see my expression, I can’t help but smile and nod. 

MC: All right.

~

The next day, Mr Sheng sends her an invitation to a club to meet some of his friends in the industry, mentioning that MC’s interviews have had a positive effect on his company’s reputation

She agrees because it’s an opportunity to expand her network

When she arrives at the club, Victor happens to be there too

Mr Sheng receives a phone call and leaves Victor and MC alone 

Victor doesn’t let her drink alcohol, and orders her a glass of warm water instead:

Noticing me look longingly at the beautifully coloured tequila sunrise in his hand, he puts a small red paper umbrella into my cup. 

Later on, MC finds herself with nothing to do, so Victor stuffs a cue stick into her hand and suggests they have a game of billiards

MC suggests that if she wins, he has to pass her proposal

She had spent two months on the proposal, but Victor had put it down, saying that it's overly risky

MC: Don’t underestimate me! I’ve won second place in my school’s billiards competition.

While I was prepared for his taunting remarks, Victor grows silent instead.

His interest seems to be piqued, and he sits sideways on the billiard table. 

Victor: You’ve left the nest?

He chalks the tip of the cue stick slowly. Seeing that I didn’t say a word, he lifts his eyes towards me, as though genuinely wanting to know my answer to this question. 

Actually...

These types of situations happen from time to time. After all, no one wants the proposals they’ve worked hard on to be rejected. 

As long as Victor doesn’t completely reject the proposal, I’ll keep on striving.

Come to think of it, this seems to be the first time he has commented on my efforts to keep striving.

Victor: All right. We’ll have one round. 

Without waiting for my response, he has already made a decision. His low voice has a hint of joy in it. 

I hold my breath and find the most comfortable angle to strike the ball. The colourful balls crash and collide, and one of them rolls in a straight line to the lower right corner--

MC: Yes!

Victor looks at the colourful ball as it rolls into the bag. His brows are raised slightly, and he is clearly surprised. 

Victor: No wonder you dared to challenge me today.

MC: The stereotype you have of me is too deep. I’m not really a dummy!

Victor: A dummy’s luck just tends to be better.

My desire to win is ignited. No matter what, I’m going to fight back against his ridicule.

MC: Watch carefully - this is skill, not luck!

Victor leans at the corner of the billiard table, his arms folded. It’s as though he is intrigued, and has an expression which says that he’s going to continue appreciating my “performance”. 

My cue stick moves forward, and the white ball leaves my corner, colliding firmly against a bunch of colourful pool balls, and then gets hit into the diagonal bottom pocket...

At the very same moment, I can clearly hear Victor’s chuckle. 

Victor: Mm, your skills are not bad. 

MC: There’s no need to be too happy. It’s 1 against 0. I’m in the lead. 

Victor takes two steps forward. He retrieves the white ball from the bag, gets into position, and leans down slowly. 

He isn’t anxious to enter the game at all. He adjusts the angle several times before lifting his head to look at me. 

Victor: If you lose, you’re not allowed to cry.

MC: Are you treating me like a child?

Right after the words leave my mouth, the two balls that are hit roll outwards with a “ping”. One rolls into the middle bag, and one rolls into the bottom bag. 

At the same time, he stands in position without a hint of hesitation, and strikes. The “ping ping” sounds of impact reverberate continuously in the room--

I lean against the wall nervously, “appreciating” how Victor makes shot after shot, striking the balls into the hole.

His calm expression and skilful techniques completely strip the game of suspense. 

He stops his movements and looks at the watch on his wrist. He straightens up and arches an eyebrow towards me slightly.

Victor: Do you still want to continue? 

MC: Of course we’ll continue...

My words lack confidence, but I’m someone whose resolve will not die until I reach my goal...

Victor: Don’t waste time. Let’s set new rules. The one who gets the black ball in first wins. 

Victor lets MC go first, but she starts feeling nervous

Victor: Want to admit defeat? 

MC: Not at all...

After a pause, I say what’s in my heart.

MC: I can’t win against you.

Suddenly, a familiar scent surrounds me. 

Victor leans over, pressing himself against my back, holding my cue stick with both hands. 

The cue stick controlled by Victor strikes the white ball cleanly. After a crisp sound of impact, the black ball rolls straight into the middle bag. 

Victor: Congratulations, your proposal has passed. 

Victor’s low voice is at my ear, tinged with a smile. 

Not knowing if I should be happy or not, I mutter softly.

MC: This can hardly be called winning...

Victor: I didn’t say that you won. I already passed your proposal last night. You didn’t check your e-mail after work.

Victor’s breath descends on the side of my neck, bringing with it a ticklish residual heat and water vapour. His embrace limits my movements, and my line of sight is confined to the frizz on the billiard table. 

MC: ...

Victor: This round of creativity is indeed very risky. If you lose against the market-

MC: I will win!

Without waiting for him to finish, I cut him off. 

MC: If it fails, I’ll double this year’s revenue!

I express my attitude decisively. Victor suddenly lowers his head and leans even closer. 

The sudden closing of distance magnifies every small detail between us. I can smell his cool and clear scent, and hear every one of his steady breaths. 

Victor: I’ll wait and see. 

Victor’s body temperature seeps through his thin shirt, covering my slightly trembling back. 

Flustered, I try to turn around. Just as I turn my head, my cheek is pressed against his chin. 

At this moment, the doors are suddenly flung open. Mr Sheng and a group of others are chatting heartily and about to enter the room. Seeing Victor and I, they pause. 

Realising in shock that the position Victor and I are in appears too intimate, I hurriedly squirm out from under his arm, and stand at a corner silently. 

On the other hand, Victor calmly straightens up, looking straight at the audience.

Mr Sheng gives me a knowing smile. There’s even a bit of unexpected fondness in his eyes...

Mr Sheng: CEO Victor, I was going to introduce you to two friends who just returned from Wall Street.

Victor retrieves his business card from his pocket, and a small hairpin falls onto the ground. 

It’s a red hairpin with a small bowknot on it. There are even two coloured diamonds embedded on the bowknot...

Everyone’s attention is focused on the hairpin. 

At that moment, a sentence flashes across my mind: I’m doomed.

With a blank expression, he stoops down to pick up the hairpin, and looks at me without a trace of surprise. 

Victor: When did you put this into my pocket? 

Sensing the playful glances from the crowd of onlookers, my cheeks flush involuntarily. 

MC: I... don’t remember the specific moment, but I did it when you weren’t paying attention...

Victor knits his eyebrows, revealing a perplexed expression. 

Victor: Another gift for me? 

MC: Yes. 

After speaking, I have a “since I’m going to die, I might as well make it worth it” attitude, and continue.

MC: You can use this hairpin to clip up your bangs. I think it’s quite practical when used during work...

Even though I’m certain that I’m speaking in a volume only Victor and I can hear, everybody’s teasing smiles make me feel uneasy...

Victor has maintained the reputation of a thousand-year iceberg for so long. I’m afraid it has been ruined by my hands on this night. 

Victor: What nonsense are you thinking about the entire day...

While saying this, Victor puts the small hairpin back into his pocket. 

Victor’s reputation is still a formidable one. Even if Victor doesn’t explain himself, the gossip of the onlookers end as soon as he takes out his business card. 

All the way till the end of dinner, I obediently maintain a smile, not daring to mention the hairpin to Victor. 

On our way home, after much rumination, I decide to give Victor a solemn apology. Before the apology leaves my lips, Victor brings up the topic. 

Victor: I accept your goodwill entirely. Could you stop giving me gifts now? 

I nod reluctantly, but still struggle with my apology. 

MC: I’m sorry about what happened today...

Victor: What are you sorry for? 

MC: For making a fool out of you in front of so many people.

Victor: No one will think that way.

Victor adjusts the cuffs of his suit with a calm expression on his face. 

It’s as though what happened just now was really not enough to pose an issue to him.

~

After a few days, MC appears before Victor with a exquisitely wrapped present

👀

It’s a 32 page business report...

It contains data from the company’s monthly financial reports, business index data, word-of-mouth surveys from large-scale programs, market share, etc. ever since LFG started funding MC’s company

MC: All the data reflects that our company has had good business this year. We not only filled in the losses, but our profit margin was also 50% higher than expected. 

Victor: So? 

MC: It shows that you have a good eye, and have once again made a successful investment!

I expected him to simply cast a sweeping glance at it. Instead, he starts flipping through the report seriously after hearing my words. 

Every rustle of the paper flipping makes my heart rattle.

I start feeling nervous for no reason, worried that he would be as he usually is, picking out all sorts of mistakes from the report, and fiercely criticising me. 

After some time, he finally closes the report. 

Victor: Not bad. 

MC: ...

MC: !!!

Victor: What kind of an expression is that?

MC: I’m happy! Only a few gifts I gave you received praise...

Victor pulls open a drawer. While he places the report inside, he takes out a few items at the same time and puts them on the desk. 

A salon card, a red hairpin, essential oil for sleep...

Victor: You want me to compliment these things?

I huff, feeling a little guilty. 

MC: I... shall return to my office then? 

Victor looks as though he’s about to say something, but his phone rings. I stand up quietly, silently gesturing an “I’m leaving” with my hands.

Victor: Wait. 

Right after taking two steps, Victor stops me. 

Victor: I’ll pick you up at 6pm.

I turn around to see him covering the bottom half of the phone. I hurriedly nod, and suddenly think of something. 

MC: Have you started using the puppy apron? 

Victor tosses me a glance. After a few seconds of silence, he continues with his phone call. 

Fine...

I’ll record this as an addition to the “Victor Not Saying What He Truly Feels” series.

-

Phone Calls: First // Second

[starstwinkleplanetsshine]

Dear Wormwood

Inspired by the song "Dear Wormwood" by The Oh Hellos, Darth Vader looks back on the last 20 years of his life and the events that led him to becoming Emperor Palpatine's apprentice and wishes he could take it all back. But just when all hope seemed lost, when Vader accepted he was doomed to live a shell of a man, every day filled with pain and regret, a glimmer of hope and Light appears to him in the form of his son, Luke Skywalker.

Luke believes there is still good in Vader, and deep down, he knows his son is right. But is it enough to make things right, or is the Light buried under too much darkness?

Read on AO3

“When I was a child

I didn't hear a single word you said

The things I was afraid of

They were all confined beneath my bed”

Vader awoke from his agonizing nightmare with a start, the same way he greeted every new day. As images of red rivers and blue blades and flowing brunette hair and bouncy lekku and burning suns faded away into the stark grey walls around him, he cursed his sleep for reminding him of a time long gone. In the early years when the weight of his losses still threatened to crush him, when the mere thought of the man who called him brother or the woman who called him husband or the girl who called him master threatened to crumple him into a ball on the floor with a single thought, he never allowed himself to sleep. He survived on hatred and anger alone, letting his suffering be his rest. It was the only way. 

But now, nearly 25 years later, those thoughts brought only a sharp sting. Vader didn’t know if he was becoming numb to the pain or if he wasn’t as affected by it anymore, and he didn’t know which answer frightened him more. And now, nearly two decades later, events had taken place that caused all those old feelings to rise to the surface, all the memories of his life before which he had forced into the darkness were being dragged out to the light, and they were too blinding. 

The first crack had appeared three years ago when he stared into the eyes of a man he thought was a ghost. The moment when the blade of his saber struck his old master for the last time, Vader felt a shattering deep within him, inside a dark and dusty corner of his heart that he hadn’t felt in decades. He felt a thin and decaying string, once golden and shining, finally snap. Vader didn’t even know his bond with Obi-Wan was still there until he felt it break forever. 

The next crack appeared one year ago when Vader had learned of the survival of his son. Being a father was a dream that died alongside the Republic, alongside Padme, alongside Anakin. Just another loss to add to the growing list. Learning that that was not true, that the child born of the only woman he had ever loved was living, breathing, moving with The Force, had awoken something deep within Vader that he thought would stay dormant forever. But Vader could only remember his son in times of absolute strength, for thoughts of Luke always led him back to his mother, and those thoughts led him back to the time when his days were filled with laughter and golden sunlight. A time of blue eyes, not yellow, of smooth skin and golden-honey hair, not black metal and machinery, a time where the world was shades of blues and greens and purples and golds, not red. 

A time of Padme Amidala. Ahsoka Tano. A time of Anakin Skywalker. Obi-Wan Kenobi. Names that all died with the Republic. 

Obi-Wan. 

Now that was a name that caused fire to burn inside Vader, a fire full of passion and hatred and love and regret. They say the line between love and hate is thin, that those two emotions were closer than any other, and since that day on Mustafar all those years ago, Vader knew why. He couldn’t think of the man he once called master without being filled with bitterness and regret, for his betrayal stung so because his love for him once ran so deep. Obi-Wan was the one person the man who had once been Anakin loved the most, trusted the most, the one who could always calm the storm swirling within him, the only one who could contain it when it threatened to erupt and destroy everything good and light. 

Now he was the man who Vader hated with every ounce of metal keeping him alive. 

He thought finally killing Obi-Wan would also kill the ache within him, the pain he blamed on his old master. But it turns out it was never Obi-Wan who caused the pain, it had truly been Vader all along. For twenty years after that dark night on Mustafar, the image of Obi-Wan that was frozen in Vader’s memory was the one who cut off all his limbs and left him for dead, burning and gasping for air beside an unforgiving torrent of fire. But ever since he had struck the fatal blow, his revenge upon Obi-Wan that Vader had dreamed about for nearly two decades, that was no longer the image he associated with Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

For the past few years, the thought of his old master brought back images of warm smiles and reassuring shoulder pats. It brought back fondness and memories of fighting alongside him during the Clone Wars, even memories from before that when Anakin was still a child. Their first sparring match. Sitting across from his old master meditating. The nights Obi-Wan would stay up late helping Anakin with his Temple assignments. All those nights Anakin sheepishly walked into Obi-Wan’s room after a particularly bad dream, his eyes still wet with tears. Remembering how he would let Anakin curl up next to him under his pillow and sing ancient lullabies to him until his breathing steadied and his heart slowed enough for him to finally drift back to sleep.

Only in his moments of strength could Vader remember the words Obi-Wan spoke to Anakin all those years ago, when his old master would remind him he no longer had anything to fear, that no matter what dangers or trials the young boy faced, he would always be by his side, guiding him and protecting him. 

Obi-Wan promised that he would always be there. 

But deep down, Anakin could never truly believe him. 

-----

“But the years have been long

And you have taught me well to hide away

The things that I believed in

You've taught me to call them all escapes”

One year since Vader found out his child survived. Four years since Vader struck down the man he labeled his greatest enemy. 23 years since Anakin Skywalker died on Mustafar. 24 years since Anakin failed his padawan and she walked away from him. 26 years since Anakin lost his mother on Tatooine. 36 years since Anakin first entered the Jedi Temple. 

If only Vader could go back and tell that little boy of nine years old all that was in store for him in the years ahead. All the fear and pain and heartbreak and suffering. But also the joy and laughter and bliss and growth. 

If only he could tell him that it would all be worth it, that he could survive the pain without using the help of the Darkside. That he could trust the people who loved him, who truly cared for him, and that being a Jedi was the greatest gift he had ever been given. 

If only he could say that that was true. 

But time didn’t work like that. 

Vader sat alone in his silent chambers on the very planet where the only thing more red than the lava flows beneath him was the glowing of his lightsaber and the hatred deep in his soul. He thought back on all the years, on all the moments that led him to becoming the empty shell of a man he was, and he wondered just where he went wrong. Looking back, he could see it all so clearly, his mistakes like a map leading him straight to the dark. He often wondered where it all started--if he had never left Tatooine would it still be like this? Was it his selfish choice of love over duty, or maybe it was his first violent outburst of revenge against the Tusken Raiders who murdered his mother? Or was it every soul he couldn't save during the Clone War? Or perhaps the way he failed his padawan and lost trust of the council forever? Or could it have been his outrage at not being granted the rank of Master? 

Or was he doomed to darkness from the moment he was born under the harsh cruelty of the Twin Suns? 

Vader tried to keep himself occupied with anything, everything--military strategies, saber techniques, even tinkering with droids--just as long as his mind was busy so he didn’t run the risk of remembering. He couldn’t let himself dwell on those thoughts for more than moments, for if he did, his strength threatened to fail him. 

No. 

He had to remember the way Obi-Wan failed him. The way Padme betrayed him. The way Ahsoka abandoned him. The fact that Anakin Skywalker was too weak. For if he remembered the truth, then he could never actually live with himself. 

-----

“I know who you are now

I know who you are

I know who you are now”

Vader could feel the shifting tides of the Force like a riptide surrounding him. Ever since he had learned that the young rebel who blew up 20 years of strenuous work with a single shot was his son, Vader hadn’t known peace. 

If he was truly honest with himself, though, Vader had never known peace. But the man Vader once was did, and its name was Obi-Wan Kenobi. Padme Amidala. Rex. Ahsoka Tano. 

He slowly walked to the large window in the side of his ship and gazed down to the Forest Moon below. His son was down there, he could feel his presence in the Force like a beacon of light in a dark tempest, guiding him to safety. 

Maybe, just maybe, could it be possible for Vader to know peace once again? 

No. 

Any hope of that was long gone. 

But perhaps…

Vader closed his eyes and opened himself up to the tides of the Force, just as his old master had taught him to do. For the first time in a long time he didn’t try to control it or channel it through his anger, pain, or passion, he simply let go and let the Force show him what she wanted him to see. He wasn’t surprised when the face of a man with sky-blue eyes and a kind, bearded smile swirled around his memory. 

For the last four years, the face of Obi-Wan had followed him like a shadow he could never run from. At first it only fueled his anger, but now it piqued Vader’s curiosity. Why now, years after his death, years after he killed him, did the face of his old master continue to haunt him? He was beginning to wonder if it was for a purpose, if maybe The Force was trying to tell him something, something he was refusing to hear. 

The Force used to sing to him, back when he was called Anakin, and she would wrap herself around him in golden light and carry him along her gentle current. 

But it had been years since he had unplugged his ears and let himself listen to her song, and Vader wondered if she could still sing. 

He also wondered if this feeling that he felt when he thought of Luke, the ache in his heart he felt when he gazed upon his son, if maybe that was the same feeling that Obi-Wan once felt when he looked upon him. He remembered a time long ago when he felt something similar when looking at a young Togruta with the kindest eyes and an even kinder heart. 

Vader thought he could almost name the feeling. 

Obi-Wan once said he had loved Anakin, and now Vader could admit that that must've been true. 

And Anakin knew he had once loved him too. 

-----

“There before the threshold

I saw a brighter world beyond myself

And in my hour of weakness”

You were there to see my courage fail”

All Anakin ever wanted was to protect the ones he loved. He believed in the hope of a world where he could keep pain away from all those he called his own, a world where everything was right and just and beautiful and safe, all because he had made it so. He was raised to stand up for those who couldn't, to use his gifts and power to help others, both by his mother and his master. He always knew he was special, but he never wanted to be great for his own sake. No, everything Anakin ever did was motivated by those he loved, and he just wanted to create a better, brighter world for the galaxy. 

Everything he did, he did for others. 

Or so he thought he did. 

He thought that by becoming a Jedi he would be able to spread goodness and light, justice and peace to the galaxy. So where did it all go so wrong? 

Looking back on it all now, Vader could see how blind he was. How blinded by fear and possessiveness, obsession and the inability to let go. Like a child who loves an injured bird too much and squeezes it between its fist, never realizing that it was its desire to help and protect that ultimately ended up killing it. He called it the need to protect the one he loved, but now he could name it for what it was: selfishness. And it was that selfishness that brought his whole world crumbling down around him. All that was left in the wake of that dark night on Mustafar were shattered dreams and dashed hopes crashing around the one who used to be Anakin like forsaken ashes, his old life going up in smoke along with the Jedi temple. 

And who was there to watch him burn it all to the ground but the one man he never wanted to let down. The one man he had striven to please since he was a small boy of nine, the one man who he had loved like a father, a brother, a best friend. 

Obi-Wan had sworn to always be by Anakin’s side, so it was only fitting that he would be there to witness his worst mistake. 

Anakin never wanted to fail anyone, especially Obi-Wan. 

And in the end, he failed everyone. 

You're breaking my heart…

You were my brother…

I won't leave you, not this time… 

Vader still couldn’t think of all that he lost without hearing the echoes of his past.

----- 

“For the years have been long

And you have taught me well to sit and wait

Planning without acting

Steadily becoming what I hate”

Vader could remember a time long ago when he confided in a man he thought of as a grandfather, a man who he trusted, who told him he could trust him. He couldn’t see it then, the years of careful manipulation and meticulous planning that Palpatine went through to gain Anakin’s trust. Like a serpent whispering in Anakin’s ears telling him he had to keep secrets from those who truly loved him, making the boy believe he was the only one who would understand. Feeding him the lie that if he ever truly opened up, everyone would hate what they saw. If he shared his fears with Obi-Wan he would be kicked out of the order and sent straight back to Tatooine, back into the chains to which he was born. 

So he kept it all inside. 

And he told his feelings to only one man, the one man who only ever saw him as a pawn, a means to an end. 

But by the time he saw the truth, it was too late. 

It wasn’t until Anakin was gone and Vader was clad in metal and machine, and he felt the first of many lightning bolts that Palpatine used to keep him in line. It wasn’t until he tried to speak of his fears, his losses, his hurt, to the now-Emperor only to receive nothing but punishment in return that he realized it was never real. 

So he retreated even further into himself, for now he was truly alone. 

He looked back in regret on all the years he thought he had no one to turn to, able to see now that that couldn't have been farther from the truth. How had he let himself feel so alone in the days where he was surrounded by those who loved and cared for him, immersed in a community of family bonded by The Force? 

It almost made him laugh to think of how wrong he was. 

For in Anakin’s emptiest moments he still had more than Vader ever would at his fullest. 

Vader stood in front of the Emperor, the man he had called master for the last 20 years but who never truly deserved the title, with his shields high and impenetrable. He couldn’t let Palpatine see the turmoil within him, and over the years Vader had gotten skilled at hiding his true feelings, even from himself at times. But especially now as his master told him of how he would have to either turn his son to the dark or destroy him, he was thankful that his thoughts were only his own. 

The path of the darkside or destruction. 

‘Those are the same thing’ Vader thought to himself. ‘And I will not see my son fall down the same path that I did.’

Vader stared forward, and the smallest part within him was grateful for the mask that hid his features from the prying eyes of Emperor Palpatine. For years Vader had suffered under his hand, doing his will without complaint or hesitation because he had nowhere else to turn. In his greatest moment of weakness he had burned everything good he had ever loved, and so there was nothing left to do but turn away from the light of the flames and follow the dark. It's what he deserved--torment and pain and suffering. 

But now there was the smallest glimmer of light, and it was burning inside Vader once again. Inside the shell which used to be as black as a bottomless cave there was now a long-forgotten ember, lit by the boy called Luke. Luke Skywalker. 

Skywalker. 

But even with the light beginning to glow within him, Vader knew it was too late for him. He was already doomed, and the man he once was had been destroyed. 

Palapatine had made sure of that. 

-----

“I know who you are now

I know who you are

I know who you are now”

Palpatine. 

How many years had Vader spent blaming Obi-Wan, blaming Anakin, blaming the Jedi, the council, the Republic, the war, anything but the one man who’s fault it truly was. 

And why had it taken so long for him to see the truth? 

Why was it not until Vader came face to face with his son, face to face with goodness and light and hope for the first time in decades, that he was able to see his master for who he truly was?

-----

“I have always known you

You have always been there in my mind

But now I understand you

And I will not be part of your designs”

For years Vader played his part, doing his master's terrible bidding without hesitation. Denying the parts of himself that refused to die, the soft spots in his crystalized heart which he could never turn completely to stone. In the beginning he had told himself that he was doing the right thing, that the Jedi were traitors and the reason the Republic fell. That the Empire would bring peace and security to the galaxy, that he was ushering in a new age of prosperity for all. That The Emperor saw things clearly and that he wanted the best for him and the people in the Empire. But eventually he could not be blind to those lies, so he traded his optimism for apathy, following orders out of a sense of duty and the feeling that he was in too deep to get out now. 

When Vader, no, Anakin, was a boy he had been a slave. His life was not his own, everything he did was controlled by another. When he ate, when he worked, when he played, when he slept. He could be beaten or even killed in an instant for something as insignificant as his master's poor temper. It was an exhausting existence, one without peace or rest. 

But he was given a new life when he was nine years old. For the first time in his life, Anakin was given freedom. But even then, even from his first moments of true happiness and liberation, Palpatine was there whispering lies in his ear. 

“You’re still calling someone master” he would hiss. 

“No, it's different. I’m a Jedi now. It’s an honor to call Obi-Wan master.” Anakin would counter, believing every word. 

“You're still being told when to eat, when to work, when to play, when to sleep.” Palpatine’s manipulations started from a very young age. 

“No, it’s different. I made a choice to be a Jedi, I’m not being forced to do anything.” Anakin’s new life as a Jedi was nothing like being a slave on Tatooine.

 Right? 

“But was it your choice? Is this really the life you want? I only want you to be happy, my boy.” 

Anakin never knew how to respond to that. 

Slowly, steadily, over time, Anakin began to wonder if there was truth to the venom Palpatine had been injecting into his brain. Maybe he was still a slave. A slave to duty. A slave to the Republic. A slave to the Jedi. 

Anakin never wanted to be a slave again. 

So he swore to put an end to it. To get out. To be free and the only one in control of his life. But the only thing he succeeded in doing was in tightening his chains, wrapping himself with ropes of metal and locking himself in a prison of hate. 

For Vader could now look back and see what he could not see then, that he was never a slave as a Jedi.

But he was one now. 

And now his master was requiring of him an impossible task, to hand over his son to endure the same fate he did. To doom Luke to serve the same dark master and force hatred and passion and anger to consume his soul and corrupt him into something unrecognizable, twisting him into a monster. 

Vader hadn’t failed his master in years, but he had a choice to make now. Should he continue to be faithful to a man who took everything from him, to an Empire that only left death and destruction in its wake? Or would he finally put an end to it all, finally turn back towards the light that used to be his home? 

Vader had been a mere pawn to Palpatine for as long as he could remember. 

A slave. 

He vowed when he left Tatooine he would never be a slave again. 

-----

“I know who I am now

And all that you've made of me

I know who you are now

And I name you my enemy”

Vader’s heart was a whirlwind of conflict as he stood in front of his son and his master. As much as he tried to fight it, to push it down, to keep his mind focused solely on the Dark, he couldn’t ignore the call to the Light that plagued him at the mere thought of his son. It was even stronger now as Luke stood before him, like a beacon of hope, and Vader didn’t know how much longer he could fight it. 

He couldn’t bear to listen to the words the Emperor was speaking to his son, the same lies and empty promises that were made to him so many years ago. He only hoped that, unlike himself, Luke was able to see through the falsehoods for what they truly were, and he hoped his son could resist. 

For even now the Dark had such a strong hold on Vader that he was still doing his master’s bidding, fighting his son and trying to turn him. But his mind was at war with itself, and his soul was being torn in two, his loyalty to his Dark master being ripped apart by his love for his son and his old connection to the Light. 

His unfocus betrayed him and he soon found himself on the ground at the mercy of his son, bested in combat as he felt anger and darkness swirl around Luke. No, he could not destroy his son, but it was not out of weakness. As he felt the Darkside grow like a rising tide around Luke, Vader’s heart tightened in his chest. He could not bear to see his son fall down the same path as he did, he didn’t want the same pain and torment to follow him and fill his days with nothing but agony and regret. And as he lay with Luke looming over him, hearing The Emperor urge Luke to finish him off, to take his place at his side, to join the darkness and rule the galaxy with fear and terror, Vader, for the first time in over two decades, could finally see it all for what it was. 

For now he knew. 

Vader wasn't born of Anakin, buried deep within the boy just waiting for the right moment to emerge. 

He was made. 

Forged by Palpatine and molded out of the hatred and desperation the Emperor had instilled in the boy, carefully crafted over years of subtlety. 

It had taken decades, but Vader finally saw through the lies. 

In an instant Vader had the Emperor in his hands lifted high above his head. He could feel the Force lightning coursing through his suit, singeing whatever flesh was left of him, overheating circuits and frying power couplings. He knew that this would be the last act he ever did, and yet Anakin felt a peace flow through him that was more powerful than the electricity. 

For the first time in a long time, Anakin was finally doing something right. 

-----

“I know who I am now

I know who I want to be…”

For years Vader had wanted nothing more than to turn back the hands of time and take it all back, take back every mistake he ever made that led to the destruction of everything he ever loved and held close. He wished through strangled sobs that he could hold his wife again, that he could see the smile of his old master with his shining blue eyes, hear the banter of his young padawan who always made him so proud. What he wouldn't do to feel the sunlight upon his skin as he strolled through the gardens of the Jedi temple, listening to the sounds of murmured conversations and ringing laughter as the Force flowed through him like a gentle river, carrying with it peace and love and Light. For twenty years he had cursed himself for his selfishness and greed, for his destruction of anything good and pure in the galaxy. If he could take it all back, he would. In an instant. Without hesitation. Even if it meant losing his life, he would give anything to go back to how it was, before the dark times, before the Empire. 

But he never could, he told himself it was impossible. 

But now, looking at his son, now he saw there was a way. 

He couldn’t turn back time, but he could make a better future, for his son had been right. There was still goodness in him, and Anakin was done leaving it in the darkness.

It was time to return to the light. 

For he finally understood. 

All of the mistakes he ever made he made because he couldn’t let go. He couldn’t let go of his fear of losing those he loved, he couldn’t let go of his pain, his grief, his losses, his doubts. He couldn’t let go of his need to control. And so this refusal of peace had led him to darkness, down a path where everything was gripped firmly in his hands, even if it burnt or cut him. 

But he had finally learned to let go, and in doing so, he could finally make things right. 

Luke saved Anakin, so it was only fair that he saved his son in return. 

Anakin could feel the Second Death Star rumbling around him and he fought the call of unconsciousness as his son dragged him towards a ship, but he knew what Luke did not, that it was too late for him.

No, not too late. It was just in time.

  “Help me take this mask off” Anakin struggled to speak as his life support began to fail.

“But you’ll die.” Luke was still holding onto hope. 

“Nothing can stop that now,” Anakin had accepted his fate, the death that seemed long overdue. “Just for once, let me look on you with my own eyes.” Vader was dead, he fell to his destruction alongside Emperor Palpatine, and that mask belonged to him. But those eyes, those blue eyes who longed to gaze at his son's face for the last time, those were Anakin’s. 

As the Force began to swirl around him, gently singing her ancient lullabies, songs Anakin used to hear but had been deaf to for so long now, he needed to say one final thing to his son, the one who saved him, who reminded him of who he truly was. 

“You were right. Tell your sister…” 

How Anakin wished he could look upon her in this moment, too. He regretted all the time he lost, he hated that his only times with his daughter were moments when he was hunting her, hurting her, causing her to fear and hate him. He thought of her resilience, her strength, her determination, her beauty. Her commitment to justice and goodness in the face of tyranny, how she never backed down from a fight. He remembered how she could command a room, how she knew her worth and she never let anyone diminish it. He thought of her love for her family, her people, her planet, and her love of the light, and he was so proud of her. In his daughter's eyes he saw Padme Amidala, and he stole a smile thinking of how Leia was continuing her mother’s legacy, whether she knew it or not. He could only hope that she would listen to Luke and maybe, just maybe, be able to forgive him enough, even though he knew he didn’t deserve it. 

“...you were right.” 

The world around him grew darker now, the Force moving in closer and transitioning his spirit from this world to the next. He looked into his son’s eyes one final time, seeing nothing but goodness and light, and he breathed his last, letting go and releasing himself into the larger will of the Force. 

And as he went, he felt only peace. 

Darkness gave way to light, and as he opened his eyes in a new plane of existence, he was greeted by a face that he would recognize anywhere, regardless of the effects of age and two harsh suns beating down upon it. 

“Hello there, my old Padawan.” 

And without a moment of hesitation, eyes brimming with tears, Anakin Skywalker fell into the open arms of Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

“...I want to be more than

This devil inside of me.”

[theodora3022]

The Outlaw Prince Part.1 (Fanasty AU Shigaraki Tomura x F!reader)

Summary: As the sovereign Queen, you must sign every execution order before the punishment is performed. This give the criminal a final chance to plead for their case. You would summon them into the castle, treat them like guests, and hear their final words. Your grandfather was the one that made this tradition, to show how he is a merciful ruler (he is not, he is only doing this to save his reputation of a being tyrant).  If they have some small final wishes, like what kind of coffin they like or some money for their family, you will fulfill that. Always have mercy on the dying, even they are murderers or human traffickers. That is what Grandpapa told you. You seen your father did this many times, but this is the first time you host such an event. Unfortunately, this criminal seems to have peaked your interests.

Notes: You all seem to love Shigaraki, so here I am. Maybe yandere in second part? This has been stewing in my mind ever since I thought about that fantasy AU. The reader is still the new Sovereign Queen, this happens before she takes suitors. Of course I am not going to make Tomura a conventional Prince! I may or may not write a bit nsfw in the later chapters, but don’t get your hopes up lol. I planned three parts, but it could get out of hand and become a multi-chapter project...

The other fics can be found on my master list. 

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Warnings: Swearing

           This is the moment you dreaded ever since you put that ruby ring on. Signing death sentence warrants. You know it is going to come sooner or later, since you watched your father perform these duties, even accompanied him on several trials. It should not frighten you.

           So why does this sense of unease have been plaguing you as of late?

           Now you are sitting at your desk, studying the file of this unfortunate soul.

           “Tomura Shigaraki, Crimes: attempt murder of one of the most renowned mercenaries, All might.” The stunt failed, and this man received the death sentence for it.

           You had met All Might back when you were a princess and think of him as that caring uncle everyone wants. He once praised your sword techniques, leaving you flustered. Who would want such a wonderful man dead? Sociopaths, probably. That is what most criminals are, after all.

           “Age:21”

           He is about your age, although you cannot even begin to imagine what happened. What made a young man commit such immoral acts? There is more to this file, but you want to hear him firsthand without any prejudice. Shutting the folder, you massaged your temples and mentally prepared yourself for the trials. You received a messenger yesterday from the State Prison that they are transferring him here today. You are supposed to greet him in a few hours.

           Grandpapa surely knows what he is getting his descendants into. Meeting criminals? Did he have too much time in his schedule? I know most of these people deserves death, but why do I have to be the final judge?

           Cursing your grandfather under your breath, you decide to take a little nap before. Such an exhausting activity surely calls for a little rest prior, right?

           As the third bell of the afternoon rang, you got up to stretch and yawn, then takes your time to the special dungeon. You had always disliked attendants trailing behind you, therefore you always traveled in the castle alone. Even if something were to happen, the sword in your skirt pocket can be put to use (That is one advantage of such elaborate crinolines). You are your most dependable protector, or so your grandfather said. So far the castle has been peaceful, thanks to the capable guards.

           Even though you were supposed to treat them like guests, you cannot just let them occupy the regular guest rooms. Your grandpapa had built a special building in the northeast corner of the castle gardens, especially for this matter.

           The door guards bowed to you as you stood in font of the metal gate, contemplating your mindset. Your father usually treated them like official business partners, cold and distant. That approach is prudent, but you want to do something different. You want them to open up to you, get to know them before you send them to their dooms. Maybe you can even get some wronged ones spared!

           “This is the room, your majesty. Should I accompany you?” The steward of this building asks you nervously. Ah, your mind had wondered too far. You did not notice how you had followed him to the location.

           “Thank you, but I’ll manage. You can sit on the other side of the glass and aid me if necessary.” You smile, though your tone is firm. This is a good chance to prove you are a competent monarch, interrogate a criminal alone.

           The room was decently furnished, without a single unnecessary decoration. Except that big mirror that almost covers the entire wall, a mirror made with two-way glass, see through from the other side. Two armchairs, a little tea table in between and a couch.

           There he is; the criminal you’re going to interrogate for the next month. He is sitting on the couch, with shackles on his wrists and ankles. His back is facing you, so you cannot see his appearance beside that messy blue hair.

           “Finally here? Your Majesty? You certainly took your sweet time.” He did not come kiss your hand, as expected. Gods, how long has it been since he had a proper drink? Those chapped lips did not form within a day. Even with those scars, his crimson eyes still stood out as beautiful. Ignoring his mocking tone, you told the servants to bring tea and refreshments.

           “Mr. Shigaraki. I am sure you know who I am, so I will skip the pleasantries. So, tell me about yourself.” Settling on one of the sofas, you start to caress the wooden handle of your sword. Even though this man is in tied in chains only long enough to just move around this room, the best thing to do it stay on your guard.

           He laughs, almost sent a chill down your spine, but decides to take a set on the opposite sofa regardless. “Your country is an odd one.” Shigaraki studies you with that unsettling red gaze, with a grin on his lips. “The Queen has to have tea parties with criminals. Do you have nothing better to do?” That is when the maids brought the tea trays. She offers to come in to act as a chaperone, but you took the tea tray and assure her you are doing just fine.

           “This is part of my duties. Sugar cube? Honey? Whichever you prefer.” Pouring yourself a cup of your favorite blend, you offer him some as well. Your mouth already started to water at the chocolate cake on the set.

           Tomura is stunned, to say the least. He did not expect you to be so...friendly with a lowly criminal like him. He thought this is just another interrogation session, despite the guard had him bathed and dressed him in nice clothes. Sure, he knows this process, but he thought it was just a gesture of the ruling class to appear merciful.

           Still, it would be rude to turn the invite from a beautiful lady like you.

           He had heard about you before. A spoiled little girl who took the crown due to family tragedies. So why not indulge in some lighthearted conversations before meeting his end?

           “...One teaspoon of honey.” Tomura wanted to add please at the end, then remembered the current situation. This tea sure smells good. When was the last time he drank such sophisticated beverage? He honestly cannot recall; it was such a long time ago...

           The clear sound of fine porcelain landing in front of him woke Shigaraki from nostalgia. “So, mind introducing yourself, Sir?”

           “You already read files about me.” “Maybe, but I want to hear your story from your lips.” You wonder whether it would be possible to let one of the guards apply lip balm on him, by force or otherwise. Taking a sip from the cup, Shigaraki begun to tell you about his hidden past.

           “Despite my current situation, I was born to a high station. Although I am also the one who thrown all of it away. I abandoned my old name and took the current one. I have no family left, nothing to hold me back from my goals.” The tea is sweet, almost too sweet for his liking.

           A noble fell from grace, then. You seen those kinds before, usually quite well-mannered, but bitter about how fate had treated them. At least you do not have to bear with profanities. You nod to signal him you are listening, stirring to dissolve the sugar cube. “So why would you kill Mr. Yagi? I personally would never do that, for example.”

           Of course you would not. You are too good to even think about killing a hero like All Might. Girls born with golden spoons like you would never understand what peasants had to go through just for a mouthful of food.

           “The current social order is crooked. Someone must fix it, by whatever means possible. Even if you were to kill me now, there’ still countless others like me. Have fun with them.” Putting down the cup, Tomura turns towards the small window on his right.

           “Interesting. What is wrong with the current society?” Taking out a notebook, you begin to scribble with your pencil. “Do you think this continent should have anarchy?”

           “Do you wish to give up your crown this badly? I thought you know better, little Queen. I guess I could tell you, you’re curious one.” Most people would spit on him as if Shigaraki is a rat from the sewers, forgotten who he was before descends to villainy. You are one of the few who shows compassion to him, fake or not. He wonders if this is your usual business attitude. Something in your knowledge hunger attitude, your glistening eyes makes him want to open up to you.

           Kindness do come from least expected places.

           “Those mercenaries, self-proclaimed heroes, disgusts me. They did the same thing as outlaws, taking lives. But they earn all those praises and adoration? Because of what? The f**king greater good.” Scratch the polite part, Shigaraki is clearly not above using swear words.

           “Could you refrain from using vulgar language? You said you are of noble birth; you should know the proper protocol for talking to a monarch. Also, what is your place of birth? Which kingdom are you from?”

           “I forsaken my status long ago, right now I’m nothing more then a lowlife. It is only fitting that I act like one. How about you tell me a bit about yourself, little Queen? It’s only fair, and I don’t have anyone to tell.” Cracking a wide smile, Shigaraki took amusement of how you shiver a little. Not so fearless after all, unlike the urban legends.

           You do not see any harm in sharing whimsical details about yourself. Just treat him like those irritating distant cousins, you told yourself.

           You start by how your grandpapa is a cruel tyrant, but you still love him dearly. How he taught you swordsmanship, riding, cooking simple meals, bandage minor wounds and make a fire in the wild. In between you offered Shigaraki some sweets on the tray, frowned when he only took a pretzel, the least sweet one.

           That does not sound like a spoiled upbringing at all. That sounds like how an assassin or soldier was raised. One of his formal guards used to said how hard it was.

           “Mr. Shigaraki? Are you feeling alright? Do I need to send for a physician?”

           “You’re a funny girl. I think I will give you one clue of my past if you are so eager to learn. Others used to refer me as Tenko.” Shigaraki threw out the bait already, now it is time to wait and see if he can catch the big one. Even if he loses this gamble, this should provide him some entertainment in his final days. A fruitful endeavor either way. You wrote that name down, ready to do research on it.

           The gentle knocks on the door reminds you it is time to wrap up this little chat. This is...a lot better than you expected. You cannot help but feel he is charming, in his own twisted, wicked way.

           “Is there anything that can improve your stay? A change in meals, perhaps?” Putting the notebook back into your skirt pocket, you fetch up the tea tray and ask.

           Look at you, being the good hostess, really care for Shigaraki like a guest. So nice and naïve, it would be a shame if some villain like him to take advantage of that.

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

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[the-darklings]

—𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒈𝒐;

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

word count: 15.2k+

summary: “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

warnings: swearing, violence, angst (?)

notes: So straight up: no John this chapter. But we are doing a lot of groundwork for plot and characters (hence why the chapter is so long because I’m getting it all out of the way in one, big sweep) cause covering just the movies would be boring anyway, and when have I ever made life easy for myself? So strap in, grab a snack, and enjoy this monster chapter!! 

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

“It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” the priest reads loudly, his voice soaring over the pews of the dim church. “In due time their foot will slip; their day of disaster is near, and their doom rushes upon them.”

You sit beside Avi, who nudges you when he notices your attention drifting, and you shoot him a quick glare. Tarasov’s hands are clasped together, his head bowed in deep prayer. His action is mirrored by everyone inside the church, and you bite back an amused laugh.

A man like him has a lot to repent for.

Especially for building his little safe house beneath this very church. A smart, but hardly original idea. Still, it keeps most people from sniffing around, and guarantees privacy considering that everyone—even the priest—is on Tarasov’s payroll here.

His call this morning came as a surprise. Apparently, after this little display of repentance, he plans on meeting with his brother to discuss some potential business deals with new blood from the West Coast.    

Drugs, guns, money laundering, fraud, human trafficking. Everything and anything on the menu will likely be discussed.

Which explains his insistence for you to be here.

Tarasov always likes being prepared and asked you to come fully prepped in case talks go South. Your presence is also a good method of power posturing. Outsiders don’t need to know that your debt is almost repaid, meaning that your loyalty to Tarasov is flimsy at best. Still, it’s just like the man to try and squeeze whatever little use he could still get out of you.

The church door cracks open loudly, but people don’t so much as twitch, respectfully keeping their heads bowed.

Avi looks behind him at the sound of multiple footsteps echoing through the alcoves and you feel him go rigid beside you.

Even the priest falters in the middle of a verse, looking stricken as he stares at whoever just walked in.

Your head turns too and you feel yourself freeze.

Shit, shit, what is he doing?

The thought roars through your head as you stare at the approaching party. Santino’s eyes catch your own after a moment and his lips twitch upwards upon spotting you, pleased. His entire guard is with him, including Ares who stays loyally on his left, shadowing his every step. She looks less than thrilled to be here and you can understand why.

Tarasov stands to his feet, having paused his prayer in favour of checking what all the commotion is about, and exits his pew with deliberate slowness. Avi stands with him immediately, his left side covered, and you rise stiffly too. Your position is, ironically enough, that of Tarasov’s right hand ever since John’s departure—a fact that has never sat well with Avi due to your lack of iron-like loyalty which would be expected in such a position. Still, Tarasov has never changed his initial outlook of you outranking other members of his own guard, even if that knowledge has never brought you much joy.

“Ah, my apologies. We did not mean to interrupt the service,” Santino greets pleasantly, his cocky demeanour in full swing as he comes to a stop a few pews away. “We have simply come to…join you in prayer.”

You almost groan.

What is he doing?

Despite your efforts to subtly catch his notice, he looks only at Tarasov who seems to loom as he stands beside you unmoving.

“Didn’t take you for the praying type, D’Antonio.”

His voice is neutral, but you sense the danger there. People still sitting in the pews shift uncomfortably, wondering if the tension scale is about to tip in favour of bloodshed, and you find yourself wondering that too.

You’re more than armed. Tarasov would expect you to do your duty if it came down to a fight. But the idea of watching your poison eating away at a collection of mostly familiar faces makes you feel queasy.

“On the contrary, when I was a little boy, our family attended mass every Sunday morning without fail,” Santino says conversationally, his hands clasped in front of him as he sways slightly from side to side with a friendly curve of his mouth. Like two friends sharing a pleasant conversation. “Perhaps, that is why I like churches so much. Their walls are so full of secrets.”

His green eyes slide slowly, deliberately, around the space and you tense.

“Everyone, get out,” Tarasov informs in calm Russian and the people inside the pews scramble as fast as they can, not daring to look back.

Avi rests his hand on his gun, smiling faintly, and Tarasov’s guards that were previously scattered around the large space come to stand behind their boss.

You don’t move. Ares’ eyes flicker to you for a second but you find no answers in her expression. She seems calm though, unworried, and it eases your mind if only a little. Surely, she—Santino’s most loyal without a fail—would not allow him to come here and do something stupid. But it certainly doesn’t explain his idiotic egging technique. As if Viggo Tarasov is a man to be played with.  

“I’ve heard you’ve come back to my city,” Tarasov finally speaks after a lengthy, tense silence between both parties. “But that fails to explain as to why you are here. Uninvited.”

Which is an insult and a provocation.

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep your expression straight as you listen to their exchange, but you also know better than to interfere with a conversation between two leaders at the peak of their power.

Santino chuckles as if he’s just heard the funniest joke. “Your city?” he repeats, amused. “Ah, and here I thought that your city is Moscow.”

Tarasov does not share in his amusement. “That would make Naples yours.”

Santino’s friendly smile dips, practically disappearing and his eyes go from friendly to cold in a blink. “Indeed it would,” he muses, unblinking, but then his smile makes a comeback even though it’s smaller this time, sharper. “Bravo, bravo. So it seems to me like we are both a long way from home, no? Which would make all of us, here, what exactly? Tourists?”

He chuckles, the rich sound bouncing through the otherwise empty space, but no one else joins in. Both sides are too tense, too ready for violence to see much humour in this situation.

“As for the why,” Santino continues smoothly. “I’m afraid that I’ve found myself in a rather irritating little situation that requires the expertise of your poison master.”

Then, finally, since first walking into the church, Santino’s eyes find yours.

You make sure that he can clearly see your anger and disapproval.

The man has enough gall to actually wink at you.

Tarasov shifts, and you can hear his mounting irritation when he speaks next, “Poison master? Pretty title for a snake.”

Santino’s head tilts slightly to one side, and he observes Tarasov through narrowed eyes, his faint smile fixed in place.

“The deadliest kind, yes.”

“And this couldn’t have been handled over a simple phone call, I assume?” Tarasov wonders, his words rough with controlled anger. “No, instead you come here, into my territory, on a holy day no less and expect what? For me to shake hands with you? Your father is barely cool in his grave and you come into my kingdom, posturing like I’m supposed to be impressed. As far as I’m concerned you are nothing more than Giovanni’s heir. Not his only one, either. Or even his favourite. Which makes you…a nobody, really.”

Ares steps forward, a faint snarl twisting her upper lip, but Santino puts out his arm, freezing her in her tracks. The woman still glares daggers at Tarasov, her eyes narrowed and expression hard.

Tarasov’s booming laughter tears through the church, but you don’t pay him any attention. You’re silently trying to capture either Ares’ or Santino’s eyes to indicate to them that they should leave now.

“Fiery little thing,” the Russian comments with another deep chuckle before turning to face you. “Reminds me of you, little viper. Back when I first found you. You have mellowed out over the years though. A real shame. Took after John, didn’t you?”

It’s a provocation and Santino is not smiling anymore.

The next few seconds crawl by in another tense silence between everyone.

You say nothing.

“That nobody,” Santino finally breaks the stillness, his voice gentle—forcefully so. Chaos rages in his eyes when he speaks though. “May very soon be the new Camorra family head, and have a seat at the High Table. A rather unfortunate enemy to have, no?”

Tarasov says nothing to that.

Santino may be a “nobody” in his eyes now, but he’s right. If his father left him the seat…

He would outrank almost every person in this city, and then some.

“Now, shall we discuss business? Or will you try to undermine me some more, hm?” the Italian questions lightly, his easy charm back, and previous cold fury forgotten. Still, you know that Tarasov’s words would have cut deep. Under different circumstances, you might have felt some semblance of remorse, but he came here knowing full well what kind of reception he will likely receive. “I am, unfortunately, rather pressed for time.”

“What kind of job?”

Tarasov’s anger deepens his accent and you shift, trying to hide your unease.

“Oh, nothing too difficult,” Santino explains, waving his arm a little, dismissive. “A bit of murder, a bit of poison, that kind of thing. Might take her off your hands for a week or two though—”

“Two million.”

The church goes so silent you could hear yourself—and others—breathe.

It’s a well-known secret that Tarasov always overcharges Santino for your services. He didn’t at first, but when Santino’s interest in you became clear, Tarasov saw a prime opportunity to cash in. But even all those times in the past pale in comparison to this.

From everyone inside the church, Santino is the only one who doesn’t have a strong reaction to Tarasov’s demand. His lips press shut lightly, and a glimmer of a smile comes back as he regards the Russian curiously.

“Deal.”

He says it so easily, so calmly, you only blink. Even Ares looks surprised though she masks it quickly.

Tarasov, clearly, did not expect such an easy agreement, either.

“You get her for one week,” he informs, though sounds reluctant to do so. But he was the one to set the terms and the other party agreed to them. He has no choice but to follow through unless he’s purposely looking for a fight. Or is an idiot for refusing that amount of money for one job. “Any overtime and I’ll charge per hour.”

“Meraviglioso,” Santino calls out with a wide smile, he extends his hand your way, his overcoat pulling back slightly. “Shall we?”

Swallowing, you step forward, feeling confident you can do so without Tarasov dragging you back to his side. Your every step is stiff but you hold Santino’s gaze the entire time.

Coming to a stop before him, you frown deeply, and drop your gaze, choosing to walk past him. The guards who know you well by now part like the Red Sea and you step past them without a glance, heading towards the exit.

What you’ve just done is an insult. Not taking a boss’s or heir’s offered hand is punishable in every major crime family you know. Ones that follow the old code at least. In some places, such a blatant show of dismissing one’s authority would even get you a bullet in the head—and that’s the best-case scenario; a quick, clean death.

But it’s more about not giving Tarasov any more ammunition against you. He already knows far too much about you and Santino; a fact that sits like a sickly weight in your stomach. Santino being willing to throw 2 million away simply to have your service is also too telling. But then again, when has he ever played by the rules? Or been subtle?

That brilliant idiot.

“Ah, women, such fine but complicated creatures,” you hear his voice cut through the pews with a warm chuckle. “My father used to say that a wise man will always admit that his woman knows better than he does. Tell me, do you agree?”

Tarasov is silent, and you’re not sure if he replies because the church door is right in front of you and you shove it with enough anger in you to make it fly open.

The New York air is crisp today with heavy, rolling clouds overcasting the sky. It looks like it will rain again. But you don’t want to think about that because it makes you remember the funeral. It makes you think about John and how he’s possibly holding up.

Shaking your head to lose the thought, you come closer towards the collection of large, expensive cars you know are Santino’s and the three guards outside look up at you in surprise.

It doesn’t take long for the door behind you to creak open again but you don’t turn to face him.

Because angry is a little bit of an understatement right now.

Your back is a tense coil of muscles and you shift in discomfort at the thought of all those people behind you.

A hesitant, slow hand lands on your shoulder after a moment and your head snaps to the side. Ares winks at you in greeting, her arm snaking around your shoulder blades when she knows that you’re comfortable it’s her and not some stranger touching you.

“Always one to have the last word, hm? Or is it last action?” Santino wonders out loud before his figure appears in your line of sight, turning to face you both. “A bold little display back there, cara mia.”

“Inside,” is your tight whisper.

Santino’s expression smoothens but his eyes still flicker over the churchyard with dismayed understanding, and he nods his head.

Ares gives you a tight squeeze and you turn to face her.

Go easy on him, she signs discreetly but you ignore her.

Much to your surprise, she goes to the front, allowing you both privacy in the back.

As always, Santino is a picture of elegance as he sits facing you, drumming his fingers against his leg. In such a small space, you can smell his cologne and don’t bother masking your irritation.

“What the hell were you thinking?” you explode the moment the car starts moving, and no matter how hard you try to sound controlled only an idiot would miss your clear annoyance. “Coming to Tarasov like that? That was pretty damn stupid of you, Santino. You’re lucky you didn’t start something worse with this little stunt. I mean did you even think about the position you put me in? What if it came to a fight? I would have had to—”

Your voice breaks off, and he looks caught off guard by your deluge of words.

“Bella,” he broaches, delicate but surprised, too. “I did it for you. That tyrant is holding you in a standstill to prolong your service to him. I simply forced his hand. But I am also in a need of you and your skills. Two birds, one stone, cara mia.”

“I’m flattered,” you shoot back dryly, crossing your arms over your chest as you slump backwards. “You really thought this through.”

Santino practically pouts at you. “Can you ever find it in your heart to forgive me for my foolishness?”

“No, that was stupid.”

“Ah, you blinked.”

“People do that Santino.”

“And now you are smiling.”

“I’m not smiling.”

“No, no,” he laughs, pointing at you with a smug expression as he tuts. “That, is most certainly a smile, cara mia.”

You groan under your breath, turning away from him, but he remains smug for the entire length of the journey. Which just shows how useless your attempt to stay mad at him really is.

Once, out of curiosity, you asked Santino how much his New York penthouse cost.

Without batting an eye, he told you 30 million.

Your first—and looking back on it, unwise—reaction was to call him a rich idiot. The man looked so taken aback by your blunt words that, at first, he said nothing.

Then, he laughed till his shoulders shook from the force of it.

Not exactly a reaction you expected given that most rich, powerful men can’t stand even the slightest criticism of their wealth. But having come from close to nothing, money has always been an abstract concept to you. Such an amount back then sounded ludicrous to you, but by now you have witnessed deals go down amounting to two, three times that number.

Sometimes though, you look back on that moment as the first time you saw anything even remotely genuine about the man so many fear and hate.

“So, as you can no doubt appreciate, I need him alive,” Santino talks as he moves around the large lounge area leisurely. His dark navy suit jacket is off, and his hands are buried deep inside his pockets as he continues on his little path, occasionally lifting his eyes to you. “For now, of course. Which is where you come in, bella. He wasn’t working alone and I need to know the names of the dogs who helped him.”

“I’m sure you can find plenty of fun ways to get that information out of him without me,” you tell him offhandedly, inspecting one of your blades. “Why did you throw 2 million at Tarasov again? To show him you have some spare pocket change?”

Ares’ shoulders shake in silent laughter as she observes the exchange, her feet propped on the expensive coffee table despite Santino’s earlier—“feet off the table”—as she cleans her gun.

The man in question pauses, shooting you an unamused look and you shrug. He deserves a bit of attitude after his earlier stunt. Him and his intent need to show off are going to give you a permanent migraine one day.

“So,” you start, eager to recap and get everything in order. “That little hiccup a few days ago was a shipment to Brazil going missing, then? An inside job that cost you a pretty penny. Also too big of an operation for only one person to handle. This guy you caught says he knows where the shipment is, so you need him alive to find it and also learn who else was helping him. What about the people waiting on the other side? Any troubles?”

“None, for now,” he informs, though doesn’t hide the annoyance in his voice. “But they are getting irritatingly persistent for updates. The one we caught is being brought to us from the Mexico border. He thought he could run from me. Sciocco.”

Balancing the blade on your index finger, you hum thoughtfully. “Motive?”

Santino rolls his eyes, and reaches for his tie, loosening the silky material slightly. “The same as always, bella. Greed.”

“Clearly,” you deadpan, flipping the blade and catching it in your hand as you lean forward, resting your elbows on your thighs. “But no other motivation that you know of? You don’t exactly lack enemies.”

He’s silent for a moment, thinking, before he sighs and sits down on the plush chair, completing your council triangle. He reaches for a glass of half-finished scotch on the table, taking a large gulp and rubs his temple for a moment. Ares’ eyes move to you momentarily and you see her worry.

Santino looks more exhausted than usual, his earlier bravado muted, and you know he only shows it because his most trusted are in the room right now. He hates showing weakness in any capacity, you know that well enough, so this must be weighing heavier on his mind than you first assumed.

“Right you are, cara mia,” he mutters, and you don’t miss the hint of bitterness in his voice. “Right you are. But I’m afraid that I do not know.”

“Look,” you say firmly, and his eyes meet yours, weary. “Give me two minutes with him. He’ll tell you everything you want to know. If he does know anything, that information is as good as yours. When are we expecting him anyway?”

Ares catches your attention and your eyes swing to her.

Tomorrow morning, she signs and you can tell that she’s personally looking forward to that meeting.

“Then there’s no point in us sitting here and wondering about it,” you say firmly, giving Santino a pointed look. “You have people out looking. Relax for the rest of the evening. We’ll have answers tomorrow.”

I should secure us a location, Ares adds, already rising from her spot and gives you a slight, knowing nod; a silent moment just between you two. Truthfully, you’ve always appreciated your easy understanding of each other, and the man you both work for.

Santino nods in agreement too, briefly looking up at her. Appreciate it.

Ares leaves without another word and you watch Santino silently.

It’s an odd reversal of situations. Usually, you’re the misbalanced one, constantly clawing for some semblance of security; both emotional and physical.

But Santino is a businessman before all else, and this is a failed deal—an embarrassment to his otherwise spotless reputation. You’ve seen firsthand the depth of his ambition, his drive to reshape things in his favour. His raw desire for power and success. He works for it constantly; focused and driven. Often cruel, and even vicious.  

But despite what he may say, you know he’s not as unaffected by his father’s death as he may try to convince the world he is. You don’t strive for someone’s approval, their love, for years without holding love for them in your heart.

The uncertainty of his own future must be hanging around his throat like a noose. It’s a feeling familiar to you.

“Still angry, amore?” he wonders idly, disturbing the tranquil silence between you, and tips his glass from side to side.

The amber liquid glows due to the fireplace casting light on it, and you shake your head slightly.

“No.”

“Oh?” he voices in amusement, his accent a purr, and his eyes lift to you. “That would be a first.”

A slight smile curves his lips and you chuckle too, nodding in exasperated agreement.

“You should get some rest,” you whisper after another minute of quiet, your eyebrows furrowing. “Long day tomorrow.”

“On the contrary,” he replies, and there’s something sharp in his voice as he takes another swing of his drink. “I feel in a mood for a swim. Care to join me?”

You stare at him for a heartbeat. Shaking your head, you smile faintly and stand to your feet, moving past him. You pat his shoulder when you stop beside him, and he turns to stare up at you.

“I should get going.”

He places his hand on top of yours immediately, stilling you. “Before dinner? I was just about to order.”

Hesitating, you look at him for a few seconds before carefully pulling your hand from under his. It drops like a heavy weight and he breaks the eye contact.

“I have a table booked at the Continental,” you explain, but it feels forced. “And I think Winston mentioned something about brandy later.”

Santino places his glass on the table, standing to his feet, and you meet his stare reluctantly. He moves closer one slow step at the time, and you fight to keep your expression straight.

“Or you could stay here,” he suggests, his tone and expression saying a thousand things all at once. “You know my home is always open to you, cara mia.”

“I do. But I can’t stay.”

“Ah, now why is that?”

There are a great number of things you can tell him. That it’s not right, that you’re just friends, that Tarasov might find out, that it took you two years of working with him before you were even given permission to carry weapons in his home. That every moment you’re not carefully watching yourself, your mind slips back to John.

That this is dangerous. For both of you.

That he is dangerous to you but not in the way he is to everyone else.  

“You know why,” you tell him instead, your voice hushed. His still crooked tie catches your attention, and as if on automatic your hands reach forward, fixing it for him. “Because I think that it means something different to you.”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything, (Name).”

His voice is barely a shallow whisper as his fingertips delicately ghost over the silver chain around your neck. You stare at his tie for a hard moment before pressing your lips together, and quickly glance up at him. Your hands drop away when you register his expression and you avoid his heated stare.

“Don’t lie,” you breathe with a slight shake of your head and give him a meaningful look. “It always means something with you, Santino.”

His eyes roam over your features like he’s looking for something important—vital—to him. “I do wonder how long it will be before you let me in. Before you realise that I am not like him—that I will never abandon you.”

Your heart stutters painfully in your chest.

“Please, don’t,” you plead, and somehow sound weaker than you have in years. This is not an exchange you are ready for or wish to have right now. So instead, you try to divert the conversation. “I mean, maybe I don’t even like you.”

He grins; a wide, lazy thing that shows off his dimples and brings back that familiar gleam in his green eyes.

“Oh, amore,” he purrs, knowing and sly. “I have seen you with people you do not like. I know there is more than simple indifference here. But, what I said the other night still stands. I’ll wait.”

He leans closer, and your breath hitches in your lungs when you feel his warm breath fan over your ear. He inhales deeply, humming, his fingers coming to lightly rest on your hip for a moment.

“But one day, we will have this conversation,” he promises you softly, and the steel in his voice tells you that his conviction will hold no matter what. “And I will not let you run away from your feelings anymore.”

He pulls back, his half-lidded stare pure fire, and smiles faintly. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, cara mia. Enjoy your dinner.”

“Halt.”

Your eyebrows rise but you do as you’re told.

The man in front of you is unfamiliar and you regard him with open curiosity. Much like all of Santino’s guard—with exception of Ares—he’s a 6’0 muscular giant. His neat suit seems to creak at the seams as he moves closer towards you. His reaches for you, but you swipe across his hand with a concealed blade, frowning.

The man jumps back as if you’ve shot him, clutching at his bleeding palm.

“That’s a warning scratch, next one will be your throat,” you inform him calmly, watching him fumble for his gun.

“Flavio!” a deep voice calls, anxious and loud. “What are you doing? Lower your weapon!”

“Roberto,” you greet with a slight nod, casting a look at Flavio who does as he’s told but continues glaring at you. “Whose the new blood?”

The older man looks apologetic as he approaches you. From all of the guard, he’s the most bearable one. Not that you’ve ever purposely mentioned names in hopes that Santino will bring your favourites along. Of course not.

“My apologies about that. We had to have him called in at the last second,” he explains with a pointed look at the other man, gesturing for you to come along. “He was not informed you were coming. Boss is inside waiting for you. You’re running late. He’s displeased.”

Glancing at Flavio, you wiggle your fingers at him playfully before walking into a seemingly abandoned industrial warehouse. “Santino is always displeased about something. I’m sorry but I don’t control New York traffic. Once I do I’ll be sure to inform him of it.”

Roberto coughs into his hand, trying to mask his smile as he walks beside you.

“If Flavio has insulted you in any way I will have to inform boss—”

“Don’t bother,” you cut him off, giving the man a knowing look. “He’s new. I rather not ruin this opportunity for him before his first day is even over.”

Because it’s a well know fact that Santino culls his guard ruthlessly till only the best remain in his employment.

“—I will not ask again,” the devil himself speaks in the distance, his voice calm, almost amiable. “Tell me their names. Tell me where my property is, and you will live to see another sunrise.”

“Get fucked,” a distinctly Scottish voice spits back immediately, his words gurgled as if he’s speaking through a mouthful of blood. “I ain’t scared of you, Italian scum.”

“Famous last words,” you call out, stepping into the vast hanger. The guards relax upon spotting you and Roberto while Ares only winks in greeting. “And not very creative ones, either.”

Santino straightens, adjusting his black overcoat and a grin splits his previously stony expression.

“Ah, just the woman I was hoping to see,” he speaks pleasantly, extending his hand in your direction. You walk up to him, placing your hand in his and he lays the customary greeting kiss across your knuckles. “Now, the real fun can really begin, no?”

You reach inside your pocket, pulling out a thin vial with light blue liquid inside. Your eyes sweep over the guard and you frown, realising who the new fish is replacing. “Whatever happened to Mario?”

“His wife gave birth to a beautiful baby girl,” Santino responds with a little quirk of his mouth that only widens when he notes your own delighted expression. “Birth of your first child is a special occasion. I allowed him to fly back to Rome.”

“That’s nice,” you say with a faint smile. “If he checks in tell him congratulations from me.”

Before Santino can reply the man tied to the chair cuts in. “If you think I’m gonna talk, you’re wrong. The arrival of this dumb cunt ain’t changing that.”

Santino’s expression flickers; his slight, playful smile fading as he continues gazing at you seriously. Ares shakes her head with an amused little smile as if she’s one of the few to understand the magnitude of the mistake just made.

“Well,” the man in front of you begins, his voice low as he turns to face the prisoner. Santino’s head tilts to one side as he examines him with faint but open disgust. The man already has a split lip and a swelling eye which explains his inability to speak clearly. “I can’t say that I am a man fond of such disgusting shows of disrespect.”

Already knowing where this is heading, you slide the vial back into your pocket, and cross your arms over your chest, staring. Trying to stop Santino now would be useless anyway. He’s a man of principle, and you’ve long since learned when to pick your battles with him.  

The Italian hums lightly, tutting like he’s talking with a petulant child as he approaches the man, bending closer so he can look him in the eyes. “In fact, I believe a lesson in manners is in order,” he decides, turning to one of his guards. “Break his left kneecap.”

The guard does so without hesitation, and the man screams, drowning out the sound of cracking bones.

“Ah, ah, focus Mr Murphy, focus,” Santino chides, grabbing the still struggling man by the face so he can look him in the eye again. “You do not talk about her like that, is that understood?”

His voice is like velvet but Murphy only glares at him, attempting to gather blood and saliva in his mouth in order to spit. Santino anticipates this, letting go of the man as he sidesteps him. He glances down at his now bloodied fingers with vague disgust and Roberto offers him a clean serviette.

“Oh, Mr Murphy there is no need for such disgusting acts,” the Italian berates, wiping his hand, and watches the panting man with pitiless disinterest. “This pain will pass. Your bones, too, will heal. But manners? Ah, those are forever. Now shall we return to business or do you need another moment to catch your breath?”

“Fuck you,” Murphy mumbles, but his smile is cutting, arrogant. “You think you’re so fuckin’ smart, don’t you?  With your fancy guards and suits. Why I bet you think you’re the king of the whole fuckin’ world, don’t you? Did you really think no one was going to figure it out, huh? What you and that snake did in Chicago?”

Murphy laughs; a twisted, crackling sound as his bloodied teeth shine in the light.

Santino pauses, looking taken aback and you step closer till you’re both side by side, staring at the tied man with a scowl. “What are you talking about?”

“You dumb bastard,” Murphy continues as if he hasn’t heard you, shaking his head as he continues grinning; an awful, bloody thing that twists his mouth into a sneer. “You really did think you got away with it. But nah, we were always going to find you out. And now you’re both exactly where we want you to be.”

You react with the gunshot.

Your body slams into Santino’s, the impact of the bullet hitting you in the back as you both fall to the floor. A sound like an explosion shakes the foundation of the warehouse, and you twist to the side, shooting the assailant who rushes through the doorway you walked through with Roberto only minutes prior.

On the opposite side of the warehouse what appears to be a military plated van has smashed through the closed shutter door, and you glare at the people in black gear that pour out of it.

People are coming from both sides, leaving you outnumbered one to three; and that’s your best case calculation.

Santino’s fingers latch onto your wrist, pulling you back with him, and you pause in your shooting to check on him. Before any words can be exchanged, you shove him towards one of the few crates littering the hanger, watching a shot miss him by inches. Two seconds later the one responsible for the shot collapses on the floor, a silver blade no bigger than a nail file sticking out of his throat.

Ares finally manages to shoot her way through to you, and collapses on Santino’s other side, checking him. You reload in a handful of seconds, shooting another three men before they can reach your spot, and quickly survey the area.

Four of your men are dead already and you calculate it’s been a minute and a half at best since the assault began.

“Shit.”

Your turn to Ares, half-covering Santino as you catch her notice.

Get him out of here, you sign hurriedly before taking another few shots over the crate. Two men fall to the floor with subdued groans. Hopefully their last. Take the east exit. Fewer windows. Give me five minutes to deal with this.

“No,” Santino snaps, glaring. Not without you, his stormy expression seems to say.

You don’t have time for his tantrums now.

“You stay here and you die,” you bite out harshly, jerking him lower by the shoulder as something that sounds suspiciously like a goddamn machine gun joins the symphony of bullets overhead. “Get out of here, and the guard. We need these men alive and I have just the thing for it. Go!”

He glares at you but Ares puts her hand on his shoulder, pulling him back and he follows willingly. You nod at her and you both count together before you rise and open fire, giving them both a small window to get closer to the East exit.

Most of Santino’s remaining guard is already there—a standard procedure that they’ve been trained for, for months—and you roll across the floor to avoid bullets, snarling low in your throat as one of the men on the opposing side grabs you.

His mistake is leaving your arms open and you wrap them behind you, kicking the larger figure in the ankle brutally. His weight sags, and you twist his head sharply to the side, his neck snapping like nothing more than a dry twig.  

His body falls with a heavy thud but you feel nothing. He made the mistake of trying to kill you and that’s on him.

You dive behind the crate and glare at the small cluster that remains of your party. “Which part of ‘get out’ did you all not understand?”

“We don’t take orders from you, nor do we run,” one of the guard’s snaps. “It is not the Camorra way.”

The man falls quiet as the crate gets rained on by more bullets, and your eyes find Santino’s, staring at him with an annoyed, pointed purse of your lips. He glares at you too but after a moment his expression relaxes somewhat.

“Do as she tells you,” he states, reluctant and displeased, but the guards’ pause. “We are leaving.”

You reach behind you, pulling out a vial from a special pouch that you’ve had custom made years ago. Made especially for you to securely carry your solutions in without the worry of smashing any of the vials.

Removing one of the many thin, custom-made gas canisters you carry sewed into your clothes, you slot the vial inside. The guards continue offering cover fire and you work quickly, shaking the canister harshly. The liquid reacts to the gas inside, losing its mass as it transforms.

“On my signal, get the hell out,” you speak loudly, directing your words at Santino and Ares. “Don’t look back or pause no matter what.”

His glare drills into you, hard, but he still nods his head.

From the original guard, only three remain and you’re happy to see that Roberto is one of them. You lock eyes with Ares and jerk your chin; a sign for her to get ready. She reloads smoothly and her hand rests protectively on Santino’s shoulder. She nods, just once, her expression drawn.

You tighten your fingers firmly around the canister and a clear crack inside pops through the air. Inhaling, you immediately throw the canister over your shoulder, listening for the telltale sound of it hitting the floor. It does after another few seconds, nothing but a tiny ping against the deafening sound of bullets and you jerk your head towards Ares.

“Now.”

You rise over the damaged crate, opening fire and hear the party next to you hurry along. Two bullets hit you; one in the shoulder and one in the side, making you wince in pain but the bullets fall away harmlessly. Oh, the wonders of custom made, bulletproof clothing. It will bruise an ugly purple, you know that, but better than be bleeding out from three bullet holes.

A few seconds later, you collapse down, your magazine empty and find everyone has managed to make it to the exit without problems.

Reclining back, you check your watch, resuming your mental count as you reload unhurriedly. Straining your ears, you listen to the familiar sound of hissing poison fill the warehouse.

15 seconds and confused, pained shouts start replacing gunshots.

30 seconds and bodies start collapsing; the last few, disorientated shots sailing completely off the mark.

45 seconds and the only sound drifting through the air is the last dispersing gas and groans of pain.

45 seconds? Still too slow.

Frowning, you rise to your feet, your gun still raised defensively.

Most people fail to understand that poison is—by its very nature—rather easy. Given the right materials, anyone can do it. Being able to properly weaponise it and find ways to use it to such a widespread effect without being effected yourself, is where the real art—the raw difficulty—of being a poisoner lays.

The men that are still alive—you count ten that are still twitching—lay prone on the floor, breathing in more faint mist that has paralysed their bodies and continues spreading steadily.

At that moment, you are a Reaper standing in the field of half-dead, and it would be so easy to finish them off.

Cutting through the hanger, you slowly approach Murphy who—unlike his little friends—is still conscious. He has maybe ten seconds before he, too, is paralysed completely. It will fade. Eventually. But you doubt Santino will allow any of these men to survive past getting information out of them.

Such a direct attack on his life in broad daylight is—

Murphy’s dark eyes roll and he tries to glare at you.

Swiping a blade from under your jacket, you sink it into his left thigh—right above his smashed kneecap, and the man howls.

“Wakey, wakey,” you call, your voice dull, irritated. “We’re going to have a little chat, you and I.”

“B-Bitch,” he slurs, and you release the blade before placing your palm on the top of the hilt, pushing deeper; and then all the way to the bone. Murphy cries out again, trashing clumsily. “I—I ain’t tellin’ you shit.”

“Trust me, you won’t have much of a choice in that,” you inform him with mock cheer, and release the pressure on the blade, taking out your initial delivery to Santino. You shake the tiny vial with blue-tinged liquid in front of his face. “This is going to make you sing like a little bird.”

Grabbing his face, you jerk his chin up, forcing the liquid into his mouth. “You try to spit this out and the blade currently inside your leg is going to be the least of your worries. Yeah, that’s right that one right next to your artery, buddy. Do you think this hurts? You don’t know pain, not yet.”

Murphy swallows. Whether because he believes you or because he knows enough about you—clearly if he’s aware of Chicago, he knows you well enough—he doesn’t try to fight back.

You smile faintly and pat his cheek with a patronising smile. “Good boy.”

With one last cold smile, you head towards the Eastern exit, knowing full well that no one still alive in this room is going to be going anywhere for a long time yet.

You cut across the street, pausing in front of a closed building door, whistling a little tune. The sound slices through the fresh air and you smile slightly when Ares opens the door, her eyes sweeping across the street before she grins at you.

It’s a signal you agreed a long time ago. To whistle a little tune before you walk into a secure building to avoid getting accidentally shot by the very people you’re trying to keep protected.

Finally, she signs with an exasperated roll of her eyes. He is starting to become grumpy.

“I’m sure,” you begin, checking your watch. “That a whole eight minutes is far too long for his majesty to wait. My bad.”

You both share an amused grin before heading inside.

You find Santino on the phone and pacing back and forth like a caged animal. “I do not care about your incompetence,” he snaps in angry Italian, and his curls fall into his eyes when he pivots angrily to one side on his heels. An old habit of taking out his frustration by running his fingers through his hair. “You will get me more—I will call you back.”

His eyes catch the sight of you, and he hangs up without waiting for a reply. His legs carry him to you in a few strides and he glares.

“Foolish woman,” he mutters with a fixed frown, still speaking in Italian, but it lacks bite. His frown only deepens when he spots the bullet indents in your jacket. “Do you enjoy playing with your life, hm?”

You grin, wide and innocent. “Well I associate myself with you, don’t I? Same thing.”

His expression falters and he closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling deeply. Mentally, you know he’s asking for all the patron saints to give him strength. You have often done the same thing over the years due to his actions.

“They’re all yours,” you report, your smile sliding off your face. “You have an hour till they can talk. Murphy is ready for a nice, long chat now though. It will be roughly another three before they start regaining mobility, so I suggest you deal with them before then.”

“They know about Chicago,” Santino points out quietly, his gaze guarded. Ares shifts. From the remaining guard, she’s the only one who knows what happened there—parts of it, at least. “I intend to find out how.”

You don’t say anything, but the long look you share is telling enough.

“If there’s more to this,” you start frankly, though you already know this conversation will not go down well. “I will need to inform Winston.”

Santino’s chin tilts upwards, displeasure twisting his expression immediately, and he glances at Ares, jerking his head to one side. She nods in understanding, snapping her fingers at the remaining guards.

We are going to collect the prisoners, she signs and you gesture for her to cover her face. She knows to do so by now—as well as time limitations of your poisons—but a reminder can’t hurt.

The room clears out, leaving you two alone.

“Do not go to Winston, cara mia,” Santino speaks bluntly and your eyes narrow. “You know what will happen when you do. We broke his precious rules. He will punish you. We can handle this on our own.”

“He will not punish me,” you argue, and continue on despite his small, disbelieving scoff. “The situation escalated but it’s been years—”

“He will inform those who have the power to punish you, then,” he rebukes and gives you a long, searching look. “You know I’m right.”

You exhale, shaking your head. “Let’s not stand here and pretend like this isn’t about protecting your own self-interests, Santino.”

“Oh, certainly,” he shoots back easily, and reaches forward, swiping his thumb just above your brow, his touch gentle. “Which just so happens to include you too. So let me handle this for now, yes?”

He stares at the speck of blood on his finger and smiles that devilish, sly smile. “As you are so fond of saying. I will make them sing.”

“Indonesian Green Erla,” the Doc shows you, carefully taking the plant out of its container. He clips one leaf off, offering it to you for inspection. “It took me a while to hunt down a mature tree. They are hard to come by.”

You raise the leaf to your nose, inhaling deeply, and then proceed to place it against your tongue. The taste is even more bitter than you’re used to and your eyebrows rise, impressed.

“I appreciate it,” you say with a nod, placing two golden coins in front of him. More than the entire order cost but you don’t mind overpaying him. He always finds you ingredients of the highest quality. It was an accidental partnership that was born years ago when you both realised you had a shared interest in rare plants and ingredients.

Him, for medicine—mostly his own private studies.

You, for poison—less private studies and more an attempt to refine your craft.

While the Doctor and you do not see eye-to-eye when it comes to the usage of these rare plants, you both find a great deal of use in swapping notes and researching together. His insight has been incredible, and you drop by his private clinic often. Both to collect any outstanding orders but also to swap notes and have some tea together.  

No one makes better Jasmine tea in all of New York City.

Your senses prickle suddenly and you straighten, glancing towards the window outside. Nothing.

Twilight has fallen but other than that the back street is quiet.

“Is something the matter?” he questions, glancing over his shoulder.

Still nothing.

“No,” you state slowly, frowning. “Just wondering if perhaps you have a rodent problem.”

The Doctor looks affronted at first but it takes a split second for understanding to dawn across his weathered features.

“I will have to look into it,” he says, shifting wearily. “This city is overrun.”

Your eyes slide back to him and you hum under your breath. “I will take a quarter of it. Is it okay if I come back for the rest another time? You still need to finish your story by the way.”

The older man chuckles and secures a portion of the plant for you. “Most certainly,” he tells you, a knowing gleam in his eyes as he places it in your hand. “You are always welcome at my clinic. As long as you don’t bring any trouble with you, that is,” he adds, giving you a pointed look and you nod in understanding.

Bowing your head in respect, you tell him a quick goodbye and exit his clinic.

Your phone buzzes the moment you’re back in the fresh air and you pull it out.

Something has come up. I will speak with you in a few days.—Santi

Frowning, you immediately text him back. Is everything okay?

For Santino to text instead of calling—“I like hearing your voice much better.”—it would have to be something truly important. Worry gnaws at your bones as you cut through New York streets and back towards the Continental. Is it something to do with the earlier attack?

Your phone buzzes again. Yes, it reads and you can almost hear his devious voice in your head. I have my men looking for the shipment already. But I need to fly back to Rome. Family related.—Santi

And immediately after, another sharp buzz. I like it when you worry about me, cara mia. :)

Rolling your eyes, you text back. Don’t get carried away. It would be inconvenient if you died now. Also, you would make an ugly corpse.

You turn towards an alleyway, a faint smile lingering across your face as you wait for a reply.

An indistinct shuffle…

You slip the phone back into your pocket.

Smile wider as your back muscles tense.

A slight breeze.

The concealed blade in your sleeve hits the man right in the shoulder, sinking deep and he yelps, collapsing against the dingy alleyway wall. You’re on him immediately, kicking him in the chest and he slams against the wall again, baring his throat to you which is an opening you use to place another sharpened blade against the fragile skin.

Your free hand latches onto the blade already stuck in his shoulder and you glare at the dirty face before you.

“You have twenty seconds,” you snarl at him, sinking the blade deeper and he lets out a small, pained sob. “Why are you following me? Who sent you?”

“The—The Bowery King—”

You falter in surprise before your features harden. “Why?”

“He—please don’t kill me—” he whimpers and you press the blade in deeper, not in the mood for snivelling. If you wanted him dead, he would be. “He demands an audience!”

“Demands?” you echo coldly. “No one demands anything of me. Be sure to tell him that.”

Face twisting in disgust, you rip the blade out and take a step back, watching the man press his fingers against the bleeding wound. Under his woolly hat, his eyes are wide and frantic.

“P-Please! He will not be happy if I don’t take you to him.”

You clean the blade, not bothering to look at him. “I’m busy. I’ll come to see him tomorrow. Noon.”

The man looks momentarily stunned by your simple refusal. “But—”

“Or,” you emphasise, casting your eyes his way and he freezes, pressing closer to the wall, terrified. “You can tell him you failed. Tomorrow noon.”  

“Next time call instead of sending one of your little rodents after me.”

You wonder down the creaky, metal staircase and fresh New York air kisses your skin as you hear a deep chuckle float through the air.

“Should I send some flowers next time as well?” the large man questions as he turns to face you. The Bowery King is an imposing figure and he approaches you slowly with a grin that turns into a sharper thing when he comes to stop in front of you. “I can’t say that I was too pleased about the state poor James came back in last night.”

It’s an effort to not roll your eyes, and you note how the King’s own guards circle you. Clearly on the defensive. These men are survivors, their instincts are better than most.

“I barely scratched him,” you defend, bored, meeting the Bowery King’s stare head-on.

His eyebrows arch in open surprise. “The man has a hole in him.”

You take a step towards him. “He’ll heal.”

The guards shift, coming closer the moment you move, and Tick Tock steps closer as if in attempt to check you for weapons. His hand freezes midair when your eyes snap to him, your glare harsh enough to give him a pause.

“I won’t do that, my friend,” the Bowery King says with a laugh as if the whole situation is incredibly amusing to him. “The Vipress does not like being touched.”

Tick Tock wisely steps back but the tight circle remains. Your eyes pass them all, taking note of their open distrust and wariness. “What is it that you want, your majesty?”

The Bowery King exhales loudly, considering you, before his head tilts towards the open blue sky. It’s a stunning day, bright and clear. Unlike the misery of the last few weeks of cool or straight-up miserable weather. He nods at Tick Tock, and the small gathering disperses, leaving only the King’s right hand behind.

For a moment it’s silent, only the distant sound of traffic and gentle hooting of pigeons filling the air.

“Do come along,” The King says as he turns towards the cages. “It’s been a while since our last little chat.”

“I’ve been busy,” you explain as you move after him but not before giving Tick Tock another measured stare. The man grins at you widely and your slight frown doesn’t drop.

The King stops suddenly and you almost run into him, tensing.

“Yes, you have,” he says knowingly, grinning at you over his shoulder. “Between the Russians and the Italians you have your tiny little hands just full, don’t you? Appetite for everything, ain’t that right?”

You say nothing, watching as he ghosts his fingers over one of the cages. The birds come closer, clearly recognising him and you watch the tiny pigeon rub its head against the King’s open palm. “I’ve also heard about the little shootout you and your Italian got involved in the other day. Nasty business.”

That doesn’t particularly surprise you. There’s very little that happens it this city that The Bowery King doesn’t know about. Something of that magnitude happening in broad daylight would have been impossible to conceal even with Santino’s influence. “It’s being handled.”

The Bowery King practically cackles, his laugh deep and rich as it bounces through the open air. “Handled? Ha! That is the D’Antonio way.”

Folding your arms, you stare at him for a moment. “I assume you’ve heard about the old man passing.”

“Halle-fucking-lujah if I do say so myself.”

You don’t bother holding back your own amused smile, and allow your face to turn towards the sun for a moment. When your attention returns to the Bowery King, he’s holding a light grey pigeon in his hands, stroking its head carefully. A gentle action for a man of violence just like the rest of you. “Then you know that there’s 50/50 chance that Santino will be the next head,” you comment neutrally, your double meaning clear.

The Bowery King’s smile is a slow coming, knowing thing. “Good friend to have.”

Shaking your head, your arms loosen, and you step through the rows of little cages, peering inside curiously. Tick Tock’s stare drills into you, and you know that he is not the only one. “I assume this is more than just a social call to share gossip.”

The King moves closer, steady and purposeful as always. “Maybe it isn’t? I am so very fond of gossip,” he tells you, his teasing tone almost making you smile. But then his expression shifts. “But no. This is no ordinary meeting. But then again, it is not every day that you learn about John Wick’s wife, unfortunately, departing the land of the living.”

Your eyes find his and you hold his gaze steadily. He chuckles, and strokes the pigeon’s head with his thumb again, glancing towards the horizon. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“Not at all. I assume Winston told you.”

“And if he did?”

The Bowery King turns to face you, and this time his expression is serious, previous amusement forgotten. “I would say the same thing I’ve been saying for a while. The man is getting old.”

You scoff. “If you think that makes him any less dangerous—”

He shakes his head, lips pressing into a tight line. “That ain’t it, sweetheart,” he argues as if disappointed you would assume that, and releases the pigeon in his hands. “I know the old man has power extending far beyond his little castle. But some believe that it’s no accident that he has taken you under his wing. Some even believe that you are his not-so-secret protege—that he’s grooming you to take his position as the head of New York Continental. After your unpleasant business Viggo Tarasov is concluded, of course.”

You stare at him with wide-eyed disbelief, trying to digest his words. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” you mutter, sounding just as baffled as you feel. “If you really think that Winston of all the people is busy making retirement plans, then you haven’t been paying attention.”

The King moves towards you slowly, stopping a few steps away—just out of arms reach like most smart people do now.

“Except I have been paying attention. And it’s all very…peaceful, isn’t it?” he questions knowingly, closing his eyes with a smile and inhaling deeply. Sun bathes his skin with light and you stare at him silently. “But you can feel it, can’t you? There’s a little something in the air again. A bit of danger. There’s a storm coming, dear Vipress, and I do wonder how many of us will survive this fucking thing.”

He glances at you again, strolling past your prone figure leisurely. You let him pass but turn immediately after, your muscles tensing despite your best efforts to remain calm and collected.

“You mean John, don’t you?” you wonder quietly, a slight catch to your words as you gaze at his broad back. “He’s not coming back.”

“Why won’t he? What does he have that is holding him to the other side anymore?”

You consider his question for a moment. “He’s retired. He’s found peace.”

The King laughs; a short, amused sound. “Peace. Now, now, we both know that no such thing exists.”

Why you are here is the real question. Something about this entire encounter rubs you the wrong way. Any conversation with the Bowery King is an effort in both patience and mental gymnastics. Often he speaks in riddles or muses random thoughts that only come together later to form a murky narrative. Most of the time you both simply try to bait each other for information.

Eyes narrowed and lips pursed, you ask him a blunt, “Who is it?”

The man looks at you over his shoulder with a slight grin.

“Sharp as always,” he states but it doesn’t particularly sound like a compliment. “We have an understanding when it comes to business, don’t we? We work together every once in a while and then go back to our respective little corners of the kingdom.”

You turn your attention towards the New York skyline and frown.

“I can’t do a job for you right now,” you inform him bluntly but keep your tone respectful. “I’m still finishing things up with Santino.”

“By all means,” he dismisses with a casual wave of his hand. “This time, I don’t actually require you personally, just one of your little potions.”

That gets your attention. You usually refuse jobs unless you are there personally to carry them through. That’s not only because you doubt the competence of others—and God if that doesn’t make you sound like Santino—but also because you don’t trust your creations with others. Who may steal and study what you have created. There’s been plenty of attempts to copycat in the past. Some more successful than others, but none like you. That’s because you guard your secrets fiercely.

“Since when do you poison people?” you demand and don’t bother hiding the suspicion in your voice.

The man before you grins, indulgent, amused. “Since this job requires a more…subtle touch.”

That’s not good enough. But instead, you simply ask, “Who is it?”

“Someone you know,” The King admits, nodding his head from side to side, unbothered, almost bored. “But worry not, it’s not anyone from our little New York family. I would so hate to upset the established order.”

The smile on his face by the end does little to comfort you and your scrutiny doesn’t drop.

“I will need a name, your majesty.”

His smile fades, and you know it’s because he’s not used to being questioned, and by you of all the people. “Since when do you care?”

“I care when I’m not the one doing the job personally,” you tell him tightly and take few measured steps towards him. Tick Tock moves forward, intercepting you, his expression twisted into a mocking expression. “The last thing I need is the High Table on my ass because you mishandled my creations.”

For a moment, the Bowery King only stares at you. “Careful with that tone, sweetheart. I am the King, and you are still in my kingdom.”

Sighing, you shoot Tick Tock a look and he steps back with arms raised slightly. Then, you turn your attention back to the man before you. Wind blows gently across the rooftop, and you can’t help but find it ironic that you’re openly discussing murder with such a lovely backdrop.

“Well then, your majesty,” you inform him flatly, not wanting a fight but not in the mood for games, either. “When you’re ready to give me the information I need be sure to send me one of your little birdies.”

The Bowery King gives you the name eventually.

Zach Kahanek. In your world more commonly known as “Divider”.

An American mother and Czech father. Suffice to say, he took after his father in terms of career choice and his aptitude for it.

You do not particularly care for the King’s reasons for wanting Zach dead. Nothing from your dig for information brought up anything that could potentially get you into trouble. That did not, however, mean that you are about to pass your poison to just anyone.

No, the last 48 hours have been dedicated to creating a vastly different, more wash out version of your original formula. If anyone tries to misuse it or copy it, they’re in for a nasty surprise.

Your hotel room phone starts ringing shrilly and you jump in your chair, almost dropping your tools. Straightening, you blinking at the harsh glare of your phone screen which reads ten minutes to midnight. Your eyes feel dry and heavy as you open and close them one sloppy blink at the time.  

Bones aching and head heavy, you patter across the room, grabbing the phone and lifting it to your ear.

“What?”

So maybe you sound cranky, but it’s been a while since you had human interaction. Or sleep for that matter. In fact, now that you are standing you feel positively nauseous.

There’s a pause on the other end, and you frown before a voice finally speaks. “Miss Vipress,” Charon’s familiar voice filters through and you blink again. “My apologies for disturbing you at such a late hour, especially when you have requested privacy to focus on your work. However, I have a visitor wishing to see you.”

“A visitor,” you repeat and wonder if you sound as dead to him as you do in your own ears. Swallowing, you crack your neck, trying to push your brain back into the land of the living. “Who? I’m not really in the state to see anyone right now, tell them to come back tomorrow.”

“Mr D’Antonio insists that he will not be leaving until he sees you,” Charon speaks and his voice is so flat that under normal circumstances you might have found it comical. “However, due to our security protocols—”

“Santi?” you mumble, now even more confused as well as worried. Santino never comes into Winston’s territory unless it’s absolutely necessary to do so. In fact, you had no idea he was scheduled to fly back to New York today. Your last contact was the few swapped texts before he went back to Rome. That was three days ago. “Send him up.”

“Miss Vipress, as you have said so yourself you are in no state—”

“Charon.”

The man falls silent, and after a beat, “As you wish.”

“Thank you.”

The line goes dead and you sigh. As if that doesn’t mean that he will be telling on you to Winston.

By the time it takes to gather yourself, and go to the door, there sounds a sharp knock against the wood.

“If you expect me to entertain you at this hour,” you grumble with a frown as you wrench the door open. “Then I’m crushed to inform you that I’m in no fit condition to be your court jester tonight.”

Santino stands with a familiar air of cocky elegance, his bright eyes searching and suit immaculate as always. Today he’s favouring dark charcoal grey with royal blue accents that seem to add a different dimension to the green of his eyes. He shifts, straightening when your eyes meet.

He frowns the moment the sight of you registers though. A beat, and then, “You look terrible, cara mia.”

“Thanks,” you snap with a wide, sarcastic smile as you gesture for him to come in, and give a mock salute to two guards waiting by the elevator. “Just what everyone wants to hear. Please do come in.”

Santino shrugs off his overcoat, folding it over his arm as his eyes sweep over your room. Given his nosy nature, it doesn’t surprise you that his attention snags on your work desk. He takes a few steps towards it, his expensive shoes gleaming and he hovers his arm over an array of samples, ingredients and solutions.

“I won’t if I were you,” you tell him off as you pass him, collapsing on the loveseat with a groan. Your neck is aching and so are your fingers and arms. Your work takes precision which means a lot of squinting to get correct measurements and very steady hands which doesn’t do much for one’s muscles. Stretching helps, but you’re usually too lost in your work to do it often enough. “Unless you want to be left as a drooling mess on the carpet. I’m sure Winston would have a field day seeing you like that though. Do sit down at your earliest convenience by the way.”

His attention returns to you, and you find him still frowning, eyes sweeping over your features as he seats himself in front of you. He still hasn’t said anything past his initial assessment of you. Which is unusual. Santino likes to talk.

“I don’t have any fancy drinks and the fridge is empty so I can offer you…water,” you inform after a lengthy pause of racking your foggy brain. “Want a glass?”

Santino nods but his frown doesn’t let up. “You look tired.”

It’s a loaded statement.

You don’t answer at first and let the water fill the glass silently. When you approach him and place the glass on the table, you meet his stare.

“So do you.”

Which is true and rare. Santino seems to have some bizarre drive that makes him near unstoppable and always hungry. It’s not that you’ve never seen the cracks in his armour before—you have, so many times: his last birthday, Chicago, New Years in Prague; they come to mind first—but this is different.

“Not with you.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it which worries you even more. There’s not much you can say in response to such a soft, almost absentminded confession.

“I’ve been working for the last 36-something hours on maybe 3 hours of sleep,” you offer up as you walk to get yourself a glass of water too. Till this exact moment, you haven’t even noticed how thirsty you’ve gotten. “What’s your excuse, grumpy?”

“You should have called me,” he says seriously, and there’s that knowing tilt in his low baritone that tells you he knows exactly why you haven’t been sleeping. “You know that I do not like it when you choose to suffer alone, bella.”

Drowning the first glass, you pour more water, letting your tongue wet your lips. 

“As if you don’t already have a mountain of problems to deal with,” you remind him because as much as he likes to think he’s the only one who worries, that’s hardly the case. You’re a team. Kinda. Sorta. Maybe a team. Because you’re certainly a something—it just usually feels too large to fit into any tangible bracket or label, so you don’t bother. “And whatever came up with the family must have been pretty important for you to drop everything—”

Your words cut off when you turn around and spot his expression. He sits slumped in the chair, his features almost—

It looks almost pained and you don’t know what to say to that.

He twists his golden Camorra ring around his finger and you feel your pulse jump.

“Santino?”

He blinks, and his expression clears as he looks up at you with a faint smile. “Nothing to worry about, amore,” he tells you, his voice soft. “They moved the will reading to yesterday, hence the reason for me flying back on such short notice.”

Shit. Oh fuck.

Suddenly, you feel so awake and alert that your head hurts.

You cut the distance between you at once, and plant yourself on the table, staring at him expectantly. “And?”

“And,” he bites out after a moment, controlled fury twisting his voice and thickening his accent. “You are looking at the Spare of Camorra family.”

A Spare.

The failed, back up heir. Which means—

You don’t know what to say—don’t know if there’s anything you should even bother saying. For so long, he’s wanted this. The entire time you have known him, Santino has had no other goal than to become the head of his family and inherit the High Table seat from his father. Control all the power that comes with it. His father and grandfather had, in their time as Camorra bosses, transformed and pioneered the family into a new age; an age of fortune and indisputable power. A terrible sort of legacy for both Santino and Gianna to live up to.

Seeing your disbelief, he chuckles but it doesn’t sound happy or amused or warm in any way. It’s a cold, hollow sound and you watch dumbly as he rises to his feet, frustration marring every inch of his body.

“Ah, life,” he whispers through clenched teeth as he fixes his cufflinks. There’s not a seam out of place though, and you know the motion is more about channelling his frustration. “It sure does have a fine sense of irony to it, won’t you agree? But no matter, I seem to be in the business of never getting what I truly desire.”

You rise to your feet slowly, still staring at him.

It’s not pity that you feel—not really—but it is…sadness perhaps? Frustration on his behalf?

You recall Naples. You recall the warm, salty breeze of the Gulf and Santino’s home. His office and the immeasurable pride he has in it.

He is most certainly a power-hungry man. He has an appetite you don’t think anything or anyone could ever quite sate, but he also has deep-running pride and love for Camorra. He doesn’t hold illusions that what they do is good or fair. He doesn’t bother to present himself as anything other than what he is. He is deeply hated for it, but it has never stopped him for working towards his goal.

And now—

You try to imagine what he must have felt in that moment, sitting in a silent room with his sister, and learning that everything he has worked for, for decades has been blown away like old dust by a few lines on a paper.

Back when you first met, you didn’t think he would make a good boss, either. He always struck you as too selfish, arrogant, vicious and—on an occasion—even petty. It took you a long time to begin seeing anything beyond a powerful man who you could use to your own advantage. It started as nothing more than a business necessity, your work with him, and you’re still unsure when exactly you began classing him as someone you could rely on.

Chicago is when you knew, a voice deep down reminds you and your lips press into a thin line.

You don’t even feel yourself approach him. The only thing that registers is your arms wrapping around his shoulders when you hug him. They squeeze tightly around him and you don’t care if he will find it unnecessary, or if there’s some unspoken rule about not touching an heir without their expressed permission first.

You’re friends, aren’t you? Even if he’s always wanted more, right now you can tell that’s what he needs.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe quietly, bumping your nose against his shoulder as your eyes squeeze shut for a second. “I’m sorry.”

His suit is like silk against your skin and you inhale deeply, trying to keep yourself calm for his sake. He’s already angry, you don’t need to add to it.  

He breathes. Shallow, soft breaths that seem to fill his lungs as he stands there. Then his arms hesitantly wrap around your waist, and he holds you to him with such ferocity that under normal circumstances you might have said something about it. His face buries itself against the crook of your neck, desperate, and his shaking fingers come to rest against the back of your neck. Gentle.

He doesn’t say anything, and for a moment you simply hold him, and he you, before he pulls back with one last inhale of breath.

“Is there anything I can do—”

“You could come to Paris with me,” he jokes, his voice thick, but his sly smile brings you some semblance of relief. “You still owe me a trip, carissima.”

“I might take you up on that offer after we deal with everything,” you say with a slight smile and Santino’s eyebrows rise in amusement. His expression drops after a moment though, drawing into a more serious and morose thing, and you try hard to control your breathing when his large hand comes to rest against the side of your face. “Anything else?” you force out, hopeful that you can dispel the change in the air between you.

The heat of his thumb leaves featherlight kisses against the curve of your cheek as he tenderly traces your skin, seemingly lost in thought, and your throat goes dry.

“Poker?” he suggests calmly, and you both pretend he isn’t staring at your lips with enough intensity to leave most people flustered.

“Learned my lesson in Chicago,” it’s an effort to keep your voice steady, and Santino laughs under his breath, his hand finally dropping away. You inhale discreetly and watch him for a moment. Your next thought comes unexpectedly—like all best thoughts do—and your expression brightens. “But I do think that I have a better idea.”

“This is not what I had in mind when you said ‘better’, cara mia.”

He glances outside as if to double-check if Ares is still out there, waiting for you by the car. As if the brunette would ever leave either of you here of all places. You follow his gaze and find that the woman in question is still with other three guards seated inside the car and waiting patiently. Thankfully, it’s so late that even by New York standards, this place is quiet. But you already knew that prior to coming because you frequent it often. It’s a cheap place with pretty great food, even if it’s far below Santino’s usual high standards.

“Speak for yourself,” you intone flatly, scooping another spoonful of ice cream and shoving it in your mouth. Santino frowns at your forced cheery smile and inspects his own ice cream dully. “Oh, come on, eat it. It’s not going to bite you.”

He scoffs under his breath, shooting you a disbelieving look as he inclines in his creaky seat; all tailored edges and sharp lines. “I’ve had ice cream before, carissima. I know that. I simply—”

He pauses, lips pursing and you feel a stab of surprise at the conflict he lets show clearly on his face for once. He usually guards his emotions carefully, and it’s often hard to pinpoint what exactly he feels unless he wants you to know. Today, however, is a mess and even though your distraction seems to be working, your previous conversation still hangs over you both.

“You can tell me,” you promise him, and see his expression twist as if your words pain him before he clears his throat, nodding his head once. “Is it something embarrassing?” you guess helpfully with a tilt of your head.

His laugh is short, unpleasant. “No. I have simply never eaten—this is my first time. Having ice cream like this. On the outside. In some dingy diner of all the places, too.”

There is a clear question to be asked here; a clear line of enquiry to pursue. But seeing the guarded look on Santino’s face keeps any questions under lock and key. You can’t bring yourself to ask how the son of one of the most powerful criminal families in the world has never had ice cream outside his own house before. How come he has never experienced something as simple and as ordinary as having a frozen treat growing up.

You can’t. Not only because you can’t bear the thought of pushing him into a headspace he may not want to revisit, but also because you are a coward. Santino talks about his childhood like one might about a broken toy; fragmented into times before and after, clearly divided by the death of his mother. Old conversations paint an image of life full of plenty but no real joy. He might have had luxury others can only dream of growing up, but being who he is—the only son of Camorra’s head—meant a childhood of living in a golden cage. Protected and stifled. Forced to conform to the role his father expected him to fill. Gianna adapted—blossomed into something fierce and deadly—but that restless hatred for rules and traditions still lives in Santino to this day. Unlike his sister, he has never let go of that wildness raging in his blood.

A part of you may never fully understand him. For you, having had nothing for so long, it seems almost funny to compare your lives. Santino doesn’t understand the terror of not knowing where you will sleep next, of never settling down anywhere, or going to bed with an empty stomach. He had everything growing up expect that which he needed most. Your parents may not have been able to buy you new toys every week but at least they loved you openly.

What must it have been like, growing up in a mansion with luxury and money found in every corner but with a father who pushed you into being what he wanted you to be? What must it have been like for two young children to lose their mother so tragically and for their father—instead of comforting them and being there for them—starting to pit the two siblings against each other. 

Every conversation you’ve ever had with both Santino and Gianna about their father painted a clear image of a man who did everything in his power to turn his children into suitable heirs. He only saw or cared about Camorra’s future—the family’s wellbeing past his own service to it—and failed to care about his own kids along the way. He only ever added fuel to the blaze, fanning flames of hatred and mistrust between the brother and his sister. Perhaps, Giovanni D’Antonio thought he was doing them a favour, forging them into strong leaders, but at what price?

“Power is a dangerous thing. You have to be willing to lose everything in order to take it.” When he said those words to you on that bitterly cold New Years night in Prague, you took his words at face value but now you know better than that.

He’s dead and his children resent each other because of his actions.    

And the very dream Santino fought for—had tried to break himself for—has been taken from him.

It concerns you. Because he is not a man to take things laying down. This frustration and hurt will pass, and it worries you what might come after.

“Well, you’re here now,” you state calmly, watching the golden ring on his hand reflect light as he drums them on the table. “Having some with me. Seems like I’m destroying your diner innocence. I’m not sorry either, and I’m not going to take it back. This is a right of passage with me. Think you can handle it, Santi?”

A faint, crooked smile twitches his lips and he hums, still staring at the ice cream like it holds all the answers to the universe. “With the added pleasure of your company, I imagine I can weather a great many things, cara mia.”

It’s a relief to hear the usual haughtiness back in his voice, and you nibble on your lip, trying to hold back a snarky smile. “You know what?”

He glances up at you immediately, and the startling green of his eyes steals your breath for just a second. “What?”

It’s your turn to give him the largest, most shit-eating grin you can muster up. “You look like an absolute idiot sitting here in your ten thousand dollar suit while we eat half-melted ice cream in this run down joint.”

The slightly distorted music from the jukebox wraps around you both for a second before Santino laughs. It’s a slightly awkward, unsure laugh that shakes his whole body and you like it more because it’s not practised, not expected of him. He laughs genuinely—a warm, rich sound—and it’s the first one of the night, maybe even the week. You sit together, facing each other, and you’re suddenly reminded of Chicago. Of how much your situation has switched since then to now. But you’re not here because you owe him. You’re here because, despite his questionable methods, you really do consider him a friend. 

“Ah, I will look even better when you take it off me,” he comments idly, his eyes twinkling with mirth; a sly promise. “That, cara mia, I can promise.”

“I think you look best when you’re snoring.”

“I do not snore.”

“Sure you don’t.”

“My, my, why do I put up with this again? You are so…vexing sometimes.”

“Have you met you? I’m surprised I haven’t thrown myself over the nearest cliff yet. I should really be paid more for putting up with you.”

“Ah, bella, I believe it is because you adore me, no?”

You roll your eyes at the smugness in his voice but don’t deny his statement.

He waits for it, but it never comes.

You see the realisation dawn across his features—a mere split second that softens his entire face before he hides his expression with a turn of his head.

Neither of you speak after that. But that’s fine.

Santino spends the rest of the night with a strange little smile on his face and you don’t question it.

“You could be free,” Winston muses, taking a sip of his tea. “Could just walk away from everything. Not many would be able to stop you.”

You shake your head, a hint of an ironic smile lingering across your face. “You make it sound so simple,” you remark, tapping your finger against the rim of the cup. “When we both know it’s anything but. Tarasov will not make it easy.”

“If the debt is repaid, he cannot hold you,” Winston shoots back, and your eyes lift to him, noting the sharper edge in his words. “There are rules about this sort of thing. You served loyally. He must release you or the High Table will get involved.”

You know that. But it also seems too easy. It’s been so long. The idea of there being just one last job to do till you’re finally free seems inconceivable.

Your job with Santino overran by two days but he had his information, and his missing shipment has been tracked all the way to Canada. The thieves believed they could safely move the shipment and lay low for a couple of months before attempting to sell it in parts. Santino and Ares left earlier this afternoon to personally handle the people caught and you can’t help but feel sorry for them.

You wouldn’t wish the terrible storm that is Santino D’Antonio onto anyone right now. Not even Perkins.

There would be no mercy for stealing from him nor trying to kill him. Or you for that matter.

It grates on you that you couldn’t go with him though. This whole situation is giving you a bad feeling and the fact that you can’t do anything yet is annoying.

There is also the matter of someone on the outside knowing what you did in Chicago. That’s a whole other can of worms you don’t want to open any time soon.

But information gathered from Murphy—the other ten soldiers didn’t know anything aside from their orders to kill you and Santino—made one thing absolutely clear.

Someone else definitely knows. And that someone wants revenge.

You haven’t been able to learn how, exactly, they knew about your location in advance to get a drop on you like that. The intel has simply been passed along last minute by, presumably, whoever ordered the hit. The worst part is that you have used that warehouse in the past, as have other people, expanding the pool of potential suspects. Ares took the blame on herself but Santino has been dismissive of it. She has proven her loyalty plenty of times in the past, and you know that he trusts his left hand without question.

You’ve also considered the fact that maybe someone had eyes on you and was tracking you instead. But as with any mission, you have made it into a habit of taking misleading routes to throw off any potential trackers.

So, in the end, you’ve been left with too many questions and too few answers. And although physically you are still tied to Tarasov and New York and your last job to him, your mind is adrift, fractured into different places which is unwise. You have no idea what to expect from Viggo but you doubt it will be anything straightforward. All of your time and focus should be going into preparation for The Last Job as Winston calls it.

“It could be a happy ending,” the said man continues, bringing you back to reality. “If you want it to be.”

You snort, rubbing your eyes tiredly. “People like us don’t get happy endings, Winston,” you tell him, your voice distant. “You know that.”

The older man doesn’t disagree with your statement and you stare at the crowd.

People are dancing and drinking and having a good time. But something sits in the pit of your stomach; a weight you can’t explain but it looms over you like a nameless threat.

There’s a storm coming.

“Johnathan did.”

Your head snaps to Winston, your hard stare locking onto him. “His wife died. Some happy ending.”

The man exhales deeply, lowering his pen and you watch him take off his glasses, too, placing them carefully next to his open notebook. He laces his fingers and regards you frankly, thoughtful.

“But he found it,” he says knowingly, scrutinising you. “Even if for a short amount of time. People are so cynical nowadays. Some individuals come into your life and it’s so easy but when they leave it takes so long to let go, to forget. Most assume that positive emotion is better than negative, but in my experience, you learn far more from the negative. From the pain. Otherwise, we’re empty. Better to find something good, and have it for a little while, then not at all.”

You glance down and your tiny smile is scornful. “Can’t say that’s a sentiment I can share in, Winston.”

His stare is curious, shrewd. “You wish you’ve never met him, then?”

“No, not in the beginning,” you speak and tap your fingers against the table, keeping your attention away from the too-clever man. If only because he can read you too well. “I still loved him too much back then, so even though it hurt more, I kept holding on. But with time…Yes, I now spend most of my days wishing I’ve never met him. Whatever we once had died a long time ago.”

He regards you silently for a few seconds before nodding his head once, and reaching for his pen and glasses again; the conversation clearly over in his eyes.

A blade slides free and into your palm when a man suddenly comes too close to your booth and Winston raises his hand at you in a pacifying motion. The young guard, to his credit, doesn’t flinch and you watch him lean closer to Winston, speaking something hurriedly in his ear.

The expression that falters Winston’s face makes you pause.  

Your phone lights up, a familiar but unwelcome name glaring through and you glance at the message on the screen.

And promptly feel something cold slice through your entire body.

You both speak almost simultaneously.      

“Oh my.”

“John.”

Iosef stole John Wick’s car and killed his dog.

. . .

an: heh. now that all that is out of the way and the playfield is a bit more even...let the real fun begin :D

as always, you all have my eternal love and appreciation for reading!! love it? hated it? feel free to let me knowwww. and thank you for your support! x

[fairycosmos]

I have my finale exam tomorrow and I'm 99,9% sure that I'll fail. I feel like such a failure right now. I could retake the school year but why I understand the school work then, if I don't understand it now. I'll probably stay unemployed forever, because I'm so anxious at job interviews and I literally don't know how to talk to people. Maybe it'd be the best if I didn't exist because nothing would change if wasn't here anyway. I wouldn't be missed and I know I will never be happy anyway.

hey dude, listen. it sounds a bit like you’re spiraling right now and i really think it’d do you some good to just take a step back and breathe. i hope the test went okay, and by okay i hope i mean you got through it, because that’s literally all you can ask of yourself. it’s natural to be nervous about such things and if you’re also struggling with mental illness on top of that, it’s easy to get lost in the heaviness of that anxiety. making big unfounded assumptions about your future, feeling a sense of doom, thinking in black and whites instead of recognizing the nuance and middle ground - all of those are red flags, not reliable thought processes that you need to build your life around. it’s okay to process negative emotions, to be upset and to feel overwhelmed and to want to give up at at times. we all need to break down a little when we’re overwhelmed so we can let some of that pent up tension out. but that should look like allowing yourself to cry, reaching out to those around you, getting some rest, and removing yourself from situations that exacerbate the pain when possible. not harming yourself in hopes of dulling those emotions, because that’s how you get stuck in a cycle of self destruction that is more suffocating than just confronting the pain and trying to let it go. look, you’re young and life is generally a lot longer than it seems when you’re in school, in the sense that we learn how resilient we are over and over again. we’re supposed to ‘mess up.’ things go ‘wrong ’and then we carve our paths out of that, and we adapt. whether we realize it or not. you’ve done it before, and you can do it again. if it turns out you have to retake the school year, then with the extra time and maybe additional support from your teachers, the school work may become a little clearer if you give it the chance and try out new learning techniques to find what works for you. that doesn’t make you a failure at all. you clearly care a lot about your future, and you’ve already made so much more progress than you realize. i know it doesn’t seem like it in this moment. but seriously, whatever happens, after the initial disappointment and frustration, you WILL be able to return to a sense of normality. the extent of how much it hurts right now is not permanent. there’s truly no set time schedule for education, no matter how much they want to convince us otherwise. you just have to do what you can with what you’ve been given. that’s more than good enough. you’re more than good enough. and about job interviews - try to slow down. there’s absolutely no evidence that you will be unemployed forever, in fact it’s very unlikely, and your worth/future happiness doesn’t rely on that factor anyway. honestly, i’ve been to a few job interviews by now and i’ve always thought the same thing about myself. especially when i was in school, i thought i knew, that there was no way i could handle it, no way anyone would take me on. and they are uncomfortable and nerve wracking, sure. but they’re also not the beginning and end of the world. nobody is expecting you to be the worlds best talker especially when you’re new to the whole thing. it’s about showing your enthusiasm and your skillset, and if you dont believe you have one, you do. you just cant see it because you dont like yourself right now. i’ve been rejected from jobs too, and yeah it’s a dig at the self esteem, but it’s not a personal failure. it’s just the nature of applying for a position that loads of other people are also applying for. you learn to accept it. but you don’t even have to carry that weight yet, love. so try to recognize what your brain is doing by bombarding you with worries that are entirely out of your control, and that there is no actual proof of. more than anything, it’s important to remember that school nor your career defines everything that you are. we’re taught from a young age that we only deserve to be here if we’re ‘useful’ by capitalist standards, if we can justify the space we take up. but it’s a fucking lieeeeee. raising us like that is the only way to get us to work work work without questioning it too much. it’s got nothing to do with you and everything to do with the world being a soul sucking machine. so, relax. you deserve to be here and you deserve to be gentle with yourself, nothing changes that. not tests or the future or your self hatred. i know it’s hard to believe that such concepts apply to you, but they do. nothing and nobody would be better off without you, i promise. when you’re in a dark place it’s only normal to believe that you’ll never be happy, but it’s really not the case in reality. happiness is an emotion that comes and goes like all else, and it is entirely possible for it to become a consistent theme in your life. that is, if you’re able to make it through this part. if you’re able to try to engage in healthier coping mechanisms so that you see your situation from multiple perspectives, rather than just from a one dimensional ‘things will never get better’ stand point. even if you just have to survive hour by hour, until you get there.

i’d really recommend considering talking to someone about what’s happening in your head right now, man. i know that’s not what you want to hear and part of you will want to immediately write it off, but try to pause and keep it in the back of your mind. whether it’s a teacher, a parent/family member, a school counselor, a mental health hotline, a friend, your doctor - there are so many people out there who have the tools to help you learn to manage. and it doesn’t matter if the process is slow or non linear, or if you have to force the words out. all that matters is that you try. whatever that means to you, even if some days it’s just staying in your room and breathing through it. you can recognize that not wanting to be here any more is an unhealthy thought, indicating that there is a lot more going on beneath the surface, yeah? it’s alright to talk about that and to let others in. our mental health is often just as fragile as our physical health and sometimes it needs medical intervention in order to be adequately supported, and that’s totally fine.  yeah, opening up is embarrassing and yeah it’s not something anyone ‘wants’ to do, but it’s often very necessary, because it’ll allows people to be able to relate with and guide you. please consider your own needs and know that there is no shame in speaking up. even if you have to take some time to find the courage. honestly, you don’t even need to go into great detail. a simple ‘i need help and i’m not sure what to do’ is a great place to start with someone you trust, or someone who is in a position to help you. anyway, i’m sorry this got super long. navigating school is fuckin difficult at the best of times, and i’m infinitely proud of you for making it to this point and for being able to articulate your feelings like this to me. i have no doubt that you will be able to get through this if you give yourself the time and the tools do so. and i dont say that lightly at all. try to ground yourself for now, and start again tomorrow. if you want to talk about this properly or if you ever need a friend, my dms/inbox will be open. take care. focus on one day at a time.

[sweetteaanddragons]

Where Is the Power that Made Your Pride?

Title is from Rudyard Kipling’s “What of the Hunting, Hunter Bold?”

(Also, please note that the following story is from Celegorm’s perspective. All views expressed therein are Celegorm’s opinions, not necessarily mine.)

. . .

Curufin had always talked fast. His ideas flowed far faster than his mouth could move, but that didn’t stop his mouth from desperately trying to keep up.

Their father had done it to a certain extent too, but their father’s innate respect for language had at least kept him intelligible. Curufin had no such boundaries, and when he got particularly excited, his words had a tendency to run together into a block of sound that left intense impressions on the listener’s mind without imparting anything so mundane as specifics. 

Celegorm was the only one who could reliably translate those rants. He was well used to decoding messages no one else thought of as language. He was the one who could capture his little brother’s brilliant ideas and summarize them for everyone else. Language was Celegorm’s portion of the family genius, and he was never more proud of it than then.

What had finally slowed his brother’s lightning mouth was Sindarin. Curufin had learned to speak it carefully, even through his scorn. He had refused to give anyone grounds to mock him for his ability with the tongue, and so he was careful to speak it perfectly, which precluded speaking at his closest approximation of the speed of thought. By the time he had learned the language perfectly, he was out of the habit.

Celegorm still held a grudge against Thingol for that.

Curufin was talking slowly now, painfully slowly, and Celegorm cursed not only Thingol but every member of his line as he knelt in the accursed halls of Doriath and held his broken brother in his arms.

“It’s . . . dark,” Curufin managed. “So dark.” His voice shook.

“It’s just the torches,” Celegorm soothed. “The fire went out during the fighting. That’s all.” It had been pure luck that he had stumbled over Curufin as he called for his brothers. Caranthir hadn’t answered at all. He was trying not to think about that.

“No.” Curufin’s voice was barely more than a terrified breath. “The Void. The Void - “

Celegorm clung even tighter to his brother, hoping that the shared warmth would convince his brother that he was not yet in the eternal chill of the Void. “You will not go to the Void,” he promised. He didn’t say his brother wouldn’t die. He could hear the strange hitches in his little brother’s breathing. He could feel how much warm blood was even now soaking through his brother’s tunics to his. He couldn’t change that now. Only this. “Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean, brood of Morgoth or bright Vala, Elda or Maia or Aftercomer, Man now born upon Middle-earth, neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, dread nor danger, not Doom itself, shall keep me from redeeming our Oath. Our deed shall not fail, I swear to you. You will not be left to the dark.”

He was the one talking fast now, and it was just barely fast enough. Curufin’s breath was thin and desperate now.

Thin. Desperate.

Gone.

. . . 

By the time his men had finally managed to catch up to them, thankfully with torches, Celegorm had carefully lain his brother’s body and crawled onward. It had been possible, after all, that Caranthir was merely unconscious and might need aid.

The torches revealed the truth.

Caranthir had fallen on the far side of the room. His throat had been slashed messily.

Terrible technique, a coldly distant part of him noted. Nimloth was dead by Celegorm’s own hand, so presumably the one responsible was Dior, wounded to the point of death by Caranthir’s side.

If things had gone differently, he might have been my son.

He could walk over and finish him off. The king had mere minutes to live, all of them promising pain.

His brothers’ blood lay thick upon the floor.

He turned his back on the scene and looked to his followers. “What news?”

“We found his sons, my lord,” the captain said, shoving two young boys forward. “We’ve searched them thoroughly. Neither has the Silmaril.”

Celegorm looked at them for a long moment and tried to think what to do.

It was like that first terrible battle when they’d lost Ada and nothing had made any sense at all. He had been glad, so glad, that it was Maedhros’s role to be king, and then Maglor’s. It had been his role to hunt - hunt for orcs, hunt for food, hunt for a way to figure out the dark tongue Morgoth’s creatures spoke, hunt for a way into the terrible fortress -

And nothing had changed, he realized with something approaching relief. That was still Maedhros’s role, especially now that all that nonsense about giving up the crown was over and done with and they followed no one but Maedhros once more. It was Maedhros’s job to work out what to do. It was his job to hunt.

“Take them to Maedhros,” he ordered. “If they don’t have it, my father’s work must be with the daughter. I’ll hunt her down.”

. . .

The woods were thick with shadows and webs. The darkness had moved in quickly, eager to make up for lost time when Melian’s protection disappeared.

Celegorm had learned his art in the shadowed places outside the light of the Trees. He was well accustomed to hunting in the dark.

These days, he was even used to hunting with only the ghost of a hound’s footsteps at his side.

He had heard some whisper rumors that no hound would have him after Huan left him. Celegorm always wondered why they thought he’d given any other hound a chance. There was no possible replacement for Huan.

How far from here had Huan died?

He pushed the thought to the back of his mind where Caranthir’s ruined throat and Curufin’s terrified rasps rattled and waited to haunt his dreams. Later, he could think of them. Later, he could find a spot beneath the trees to hurl knives at the twisted wood until something else had as many holes ripped through it as he felt like he’d gained.

Later. But there was no room for distractions on a hunt.

. . .

He found them within hours. There were only two guards with the girl; they must not have run into any other survivors yet. They were out there, Celegorm knew. He’d run into other panicked trails through the woods.

He shot the first guard without thought. It came easily now.

Don’t worry, brothers, Father. I will not leave you in the dark.

He had another arrow nocked before the other guard turned around, not that such haste was fully necessary. The second guard’s arms were full of a little elleth, not a weapon.

“Give me the gem,” he ordered, directing his words to Elwing, not the guard. “Give me the gem, or I’ll shoot your guard and search you for it myself.”

She would be all alone in the woods then, and by her frightened eyes, she knew it.

The guard pulled her closer. “She’s a child, just a child, please - “

“And I’m not going to shoot her,” Celelgrom said agreeably. “Just you, if I don’t get my father’s work back. Now.”

He wasn’t sure quite how young Elwing was, but however young she was, it was too young to prize even the precious light of a Silmaril over the safe comfort of an adult’s arms. She opened her clenched hands, and light spilled out from them.

“Princess - “ the guard said.

She threw it.

Her arms were too weak to throw it far. It landed halfway between them, the light clearly visible even through the undergrowth. 

“Thank you,” Celegorm said. He raised his bow a bit higher. “Now I suggest you run.”

The guard took off immediately, the princess still safe in his arms. Celegorm waited until they were safely out of sight before he dared lower his bow and put the arrow back in his quiver. 

The gem was so close. It seemed impossible that he could just reach out and take it.

He stepped forward. Reached down.

And jerked his hand back as the light burned.

He stared down at the gem for a long moment.

It made sense, he supposed. A Vala had hallowed it, and the Valar weren’t exactly happy with them at the moment.

He used one of his knives to cut a strip off his tunic and wrapped the cloth around his hand before picking it up again. It still burned, but it was bearable, at least for long enough to drop it into his quiver since he didn’t have a better container at the moment.

His hand still burned, but that was alright. He could get it looked at when he got back.

And they were one step closer to keeping their vow.

. . .

Maedhros was dead.

Celegorm stared down at the light spilling from the quiver at his feet and tried to understand that.

For so long they’d stood invincible, he’d almost convinced himself that Ada would be their last loss, and now he’d lost three brothers in one day.

But he still had two little brothers to look after and Maglor to follow. He had to focus on that.

This war was a hunt, and he had to keep his focus until the very end.

. . .

Maglor kept them headed vaguely north. The Oath pulled them in that direction, but Maglor showed little inclination to actually get there.

Celegorm chafed at the pointless wandering, but even he had to admit that they need a plan before they attacked. Plans were now Maglor’s job, so he left that to him. 

Until then, Celegorm hunted. The twins rode out with him most days, and they brought in badly needed meat that grew ever harder to hunt down, even for skilled hunters such as they. 

Celegorm could hear what the animals murmured to each other, though there were fewer and fewer left to do it. The land was dying, bit by bit, and at this point he wasn’t sure even stopping Morgoth’s poison at the source would stop it.

Celegorm wasn’t afraid of dying. 

Not so long as he fulfilled his promise first.

. . .

The first they heard of Sirion’s fall was when Celegorm realized they were being followed by someone, and Maglor turned their people back to encircle the other camp, if it could even be called a camp. They’d crowded under the lee of a small hill for protection from bitter wind, but there was little supplies to give them more protection that that. 

It turned out to be Elured and Elurin, who had shown up with their nephews and about two dozen other injured, starving, exhausted people with orcs on their tail.

Of course there were.

The Feanorians outnumbered them and had the additional advantage of being comprised entirely of warriors. The other group held a few children and those who carried their weapons like they still weren’t quite sure what to do with them.

Maglor had been the one to let Elured and Elurin go free with a few captured Doriathrim guards, so it was Maglor who stepped forward, presumably on the idea that the frightened elves would be less likely to shoot him.

He was also the most diplomatic Feanorian brother remaining, though Celegorm found himself wishing fiercely that Maedhros was here for this.

“We have nothing,” Elured - Elurin? One of the two - called from where he stood protectively in front of his nephews. “We have no desire to fight. Let us go our own way. We bring no quarrel to you.”

“We want nothing,” Maglor said, a hint of soothing power in his voice, hands raised high and without weapons. Celegorm, safely hidden in the trees, had that taken care of for him. “Nothing but news. What brings you out this way and in such a company?”

“Morgoth’s forces have brought down Sirion,” the other twin said, wary, but willing to talk. As long as they were still talking, no one was fighting. “Most fled to the Isle of Balar, but we were cut off from the harbor. We had no choice but to flee. His forces ride hard against us still.”

“Then are you sure you wish us to go?” Maglor asked. “They cannot be far behind you now. Will you not accept aid in defeating them?”

It was an offer the beleaguered refugees could not possibly refuse, no matter how wary they were.

Celegorm’s grin was fierce.

At last, a proper fight.

. . .

It was a proper victory too, and the refugees ended up sticking with them after that. It was an awkward experience all around, but there was safety in numbers, or at least as much safety as anyone could get these days.

Celegorm kept the Silmaril well covered. 

No need to start another fight over its brilliant light.

. . .

They found out the Isle of Balar had fallen when Amrod and Amras came running back to camp with a report of a group of orcs dragging a line of elvish prisoners, one of whom they thought might be Gil-Galad, though it had been years since any of them had seen him - not since he was a child.

They attacked because they didn’t have better ideas and because, Celegorm suspected, Maglor, Elured, and Elurin had the same rising lump of dread in their throats that he did.

The attack was a success, more or less. The orcs were dead, at least, and they managed to save five of the prisoners, though Celegorm suspected at least one wouldn’t last the night.

Gil-Galad might make it, though. The orcs had been careful with him, probably because their master had wanted the fun of torturing the so-called king of the elves himself.

Gil-Galad reported the fall of the city in a blank voice. Elwing’s fate was unknown, a fact that cheered up her wide eyed children and worried her more worldly-wise brothers.

Celegorm felt an unwilling spark of sympathy. He remembered all too well when Maedhros’s fate had been unknown.

Then Gil-Galad announced his next bit of news, and all sympathy for outsiders fled.

Celebrimbor was dead.

Gil-Galad talked about how bravely he had fought as if that somehow made things better, as if they wouldn’t all have a hundred times over preferred it for Celebrimbor to run at the first sign of trouble, or for Celebrimbor to have been a little less brave in Nargothrond, all those years ago.

Follow the leader, Celegorm had told his nephew once on a hunt, when he’d been young and impressionable and mostly done as he was told. Stay with the pack.

But little Tyelpe had grown into stubborn Celebrimbor, and now he was gone.

At least his nephew wasn’t counting on Celegorm to save him from the Void.

. . .

Celegorm confronted Maglor in his tent. The question of power had been tricky since Elured and Elurin showed up and had only gotten more so with Gil-Galad’s arrival, but Maglor maintained the majority of it by virtue of commanding the absolute loyalty of the majority of the people wielding weapons. 

Maglor was the rightful leader anyway, but at least this way Celegorm only had to convince one person of his plan.

“We need to attack,” he said, and Maglor startled from his position of leaning over the battered map on an even more battered table.

“We have less than a hundred men,” Maglor said wearily. “If we couldn’t take Angband at the Nirnaeth, what makes you think we can do it now?”

“We can’t,” Celegorm admitted. “But if we can create a diversion outside the gates, we can sneak in and steal the Silmarils.”

Maglor stared at him for a long moment. “It’s a suicide mission,” he finally said.

Celegorm waved that off impatiently. “The whole continent’s dying,” he said. “We’re not getting out of this, you know that. But we can still keep our Oath.”

“Our Oath,” Maglor said bitterly and turned away.

Celegorm grabbed his arm. “I swore it again,” he said. “I swore it again as Curufin died in my arms, I swore I would not let him be devoured by the dark.”

Maglor closed his eyes and breathed deeply. His hands shook.

“Alright,” he finally said. “Alright. We’ve fought Elda and those born of Maia and Aftercomer, defied bright Vala and every law ever written. It’s time we fought dark Vala too.” His eyes opened. “But if we’re going to do this,” he said, “we’re going to do it right.”

. . .

Apparently, doing it right involved talking the others into not wanting to go gently into Mandos’s good night and then riding out to find as many of the small, desperate bands of Aftercomer, Eldar, and Naugrim that they could. If they were going to charge on Morgoth’s gates, Maglor wanted to make as much of a show of it as he could.

Celegorm wasn’t sure what number they got up to. It was still far less than they’d had at the Nirnaeth. It was still doomed, in every sense of the word.

But it would be distracting, and that was the main thing.

. . .

Maglor ceded leadership of the expedition to Gil-Galad, and Celegorm said not one word of protest. Elured and Elurin eyed them warily, but Celegorm just smiled.

These days, no one wanted to look at him when he did that, he’d learned.

Maglor couldn’t lead the expedition.

They’d need him for something far more important.

. . .

Amrod and Amras were the ones left to lead their men because it was decided that was the slightly less suicidal job, and the twins were the youngest, after all. Maglor and Celegorm were fully agreed on that; it was their job to protect them, one last time.

Celegorm was a hunter, and he was well equipped at finding game trails through places thought to be impassible.

Even if this time, the game trail in question had been made by orcs.

Below them, the free peoples of Beleriand made one last glorious charge. 

Meanwhile, Celegorm quietly led Maglor up the winding trail into Angband itself.

. . . 

Most of Morgoth’s forces were focused on the gate, so it was surprisingly easy to slip unnoticed to the throne room where Morgoth sat directing this last stage of the war.

His throne was at one end of a long hall, with thick pillars carved to look like agonized Eldar and Aftercomers groaning under the weight. 

Celegorm was relieved. Elves were hard to spot in hunting cloaks, no matter what the environment, and he was more stealthy than most, but this was would help his purposes immensely. 

Morgoth himself hurt to look at directly, so Celegorm didn’t try. Instead, he sidled to the side of the room, softer than a breath and noticeable as a dust mote while Maglor threw his cloak off and strode forward.

His brother had been beaten down by the war, but he was still a performer at heart. Even in the shabby finery that was the pathetic best the Noldor could still produce, he still commanded every eye in the room as he strode forward.

He didn’t bother wasting time with a formal challenge. Instead, he just burst into song.

The force of it nearly pushed Celegorm over, and it wasn’t even aimed at him. It must be costing Maglor enormous effort - too much to keep it up for long. And though Maglor was holding his own for the moment, with the added force of surprise on his side, against Morgoth surely it wasn’t doing much. His brother’s power was great, but he was no half-Maia brat to contend with a Vala.

And Morgoth would be warier now.

Any moment now, he would grow weary of this novelty and strike. Celegorm’s feet flew across the floor toward an appropriate position. His bow was ready at his side. He just needed the right angle.

And then two bright presences in his mind - distant, but always noted because it was always important to know where the rest of the pack was - went dark.

Amrod and Amras had fallen.

Maglor’s song faltered, and Morgoth smiled, opened his mouth - 

Celegorm raised his bow. The arrowhead that was nocked against it was dull but heavy. Very heavy.

He let it fly.

He had no illusions about killing Morgoth with it, but that was alright. He hadn’t aimed for Morgoth. Not exactly.

He’d aimed for his crown.

The iron monstrosity with its twin stars clattered to the floor.

In the moment of stunned silence that followed, the orc chiefs and twisted Maia stood frozen. Even Morgoth only stared.

Maglor renewed his attack.

Celegorm was already running.

He heard it when others finally started to move after him, but he hardly cared. He was the only one who’d known exactly when this moment would come - one of only two people who had known it was coming at all - and it didn’t matter if someone caught up with him in a few moments. 

A weapon whistled through the air. Celegorm hit his knees and skidded the last yard to the crown.

His brothers were counting on him. His father was counting on him.

Celegorm grabbed a gem in each hand, never minding the burn, just throwing back his head in a yell of triumph as he felt the Oath’s chain snapped.

He had one in his belt and one in each hand. All three gems were united in Feanorian possession once more.

There was no chance of prying the gems out of the crown, not in the time he had left, but there’d been an idea he’d been playing with ever since he proposed this mission, and he had nothing to lose now.

He let go of one of the gems and drew the third out of its pouch. His hand felt like he’d stuck it in lava, but it wouldn’t matter. Not for long.

The Silmarils were almost indestructible. The Valar had thought they could break one, and they were probably right, but Celegorm was no Vala.

He did, however, have a substance just as hard and powerful as the Silmarils in the crown.

Namely, another Silmaril.

Please, Ada. Let me be right. Let me do this one thing right.

He brought it crashing down with all his might on the Silmaril he’d let go of.

His whole world turned to fire, every fiber of him screaming out as the sacred fire scourged him, fused with him, and burst outward.

The clawed hand that had just reached him turned to ash.

Morgoth screamed out, and the sound ripped through whatever remained of his eardrums and twisted the world, because this was light undimmed, light unfiltered, light so holy that it was the antithesis of everything Morgoth was, and Celegorm didn’t know if this would kill the dark Vala, but it certainly seemed to be coming close.

Maglor screamed too, and it went on for just one agonized moment before his last brother’s light winked out.

The light built and burned and Celegorm would have been screaming if there was anything left of him that could -

And then everything was cool and dim, and Namo was looking down at him with an expression so stunned that even dead, all Celegorm could do was throw back his head and laugh and laugh and laugh.

[winterbuckytho]

Aint’ Too Proud To Beg

Pairing : Stucky ft. Recovered Buck

Wordcount : 3240

Plot : 2018. Bucky gets turned in to a nekoboy, and Stucky has their first failed attempt at making it together, awkwardness ensues. But it’ll all work itself out...right?

Warning : NS.FW, Sm.ut, Erot.ica, Swearing, An.al Fing.ering, An.al se.cks (lmao)

A/N : Yea, so I just do that ⬆ to make it harder for the  t a g s  to be hidden. I’ll still link it with something else too

"Are ya happy now!?!" Steve shouted slamming the door as the went into the house

"How am I the bad guy here?!" Bucky yelled throwing the keys on to the couch fighting his way out of the combat gear he wore down to his undershirt and leggings.

"Bucky, what the fuck were you thinking?!" Steve shot back ignoring what Bucky had said in the heat of his anger, which was really fear with a sharp tongue.

"Would you fucking stop yelling at me?!" Bucky nearly shrieked hands in clenched fists at his sides.

"You jerk!!"

"You punk!

"You... You are the worst right now, Steve! I can't believe you! I was trying to save you!"

Steve replied arm out gesturing at the state of Bucky "By diving face first into incoming fire from weird alien tech we've never seen!?"

"I couldn't help it! I couldn't stand there and do nothing! I had to try, it's what you woulda done too!" Bucky yelled before stalking off to the bathroom and slamming the door shut once he got there.

He stared into the mirror and kind of wanted to cry. He was scared and uncomfortable and all he wanted was Steve's help right now and instead was only getting lectured By Mister I’m-Tall-Now-So-I’m-The-Daddy-Here. He hadn't had time to understand what the thing was doing to every transformed victim, just time to see their human bodies begin shift and change becoming more bestial in form as they screamed in pain. And the end of one of the glowing spear things pointed at Steve.

He put himself between it and Steve without even thinking. There had been so much pain but a lot of it he could barely remember now, but it had started with weird sensations on his head feet and base of his spine. He had screamed with the intensity as Steve put the creature out of commission ceasing the blast from the device. But by then the transformation was half over and had changed him.

Bucky looked and he saw six four inch long whiskers, three sticking out each of his cheeks. His eyes reluctantly crawled upward and took in the dark furred ears perched atop his head. They sat limply looking sad. He could hear from them. He heard Steve still grousing under his breath three rooms away. He looked down at his hands. One of them was now covered in fur, his fingers more squat and tipped with retracted claws. He found he could extend them and retract at will. Bucky turned sideways and saw at the back of his shirt a long dark furred tail stuck out. It swiped back and forth at odd intervals it's tip sometimes twitching. He had never spoken cat body language before but he on instinct knew this is what you do with your tail when you are a step away from swatting any offender in the face.

Now Steve was saying "Christ... you can't be so damn ready to sacrifice some... " as he went to the kitchen to do something and get this frustrated energy out. He began gathering things and Bucky knew he was making something for Bucky to eat which he would deliver with an apology.

"Fucking asshole... Why can't you just... " Buck whimpers as he does start crying, covering his face with his metal arm. He more than anything had wanted to hug Steve and make sure he was alright and let Steve hug and make sure Buck himself was alright.

Anxiety hit him and as he was beginning to panic he stumbled back and his legs struck the tub. He turned and looked at it and instantly needed to be inside it. He didn't so much as think as he felt "I am scared and can fit there".

Without thinking he stepped in and sat down in the tub then leaned forward as he wrapped his tail around his butt and thighs and rested his head on his arms and he felt the most comfort it ever felt in his whole life. He felt something strange but also comforting something in his head oscillating was producing a purr in his body. Bucky soon closed his eyes and rested in a light dose, his anxiety melting away again far faster than with any other technique he tried.

In the kitchen Steve yanked open the fridge and as upset as he was, had the presence of mind to moderate his strength and no trip the darn thing off the fridge as he went after the mayo. Unable to quit ranting he was thinking. 'Jesus Christ, please never let anything make him scream that way again. I just about tore that fucking thing’s head off for it. I don't know what I will do if someone hurts him like that and I fucking find out about it! And now he's mad as hell at me? Well, Buck I stick with my guns on this one, you can't keep doing things like that! I was so fucking scared. Also Lord forgive my potty mouth it's been a trying ass day...' while making tuna sandwiches until half a dozen of them sat on the plate in front of him.

"Goddamn you, Bucky. I understand. You're all I have left of my life before the ice too..."Steve sighed. Then he paused realizing the house was totally silent. Which was wrong if an angry Bucky was in there somewhere. He should be blasting something loud and angsty to get the intense physical part of frustration out as he has begun to do these last few years. Steve picked up the plate and went to see if Buck ever left the bathroom.

Finding the door closed, he tapped gently. "Honey?"

Bucky opened his eyes slowly and lifted his head. He uncharacteristically remained quiet preserving the soft vibration of oh his own purring. But then realized he smelled food and had to stop himself leaping across the room to rip the door open. He made a soft plaintive sound and turned his head to look at the door.

When there was no answer Steve began to speak again, now calming a bit further. "Sugar, you got to know, I would do the same in a heart beat, I would. And you would be in my shoes... Scared shitless, worry eating up any restraint and organization of yourself... So I'm sorry. But you can't keep doing things like that. What the hell am I supposed to do if you die saving me? How do you like the sound of being cloned?"

"Stupid. That is so stupid. And you did scare me. You were yelling and kicking the shit out of everything around us and I was confused, just wanting you to tell me the pain would stop and I'd be alright." Bucky said. It had a whine to it and he allowed it to because if he couldn’t be himself with Stave where the hell should he?

Steve opened the door and could now clearly hear Bucky purring. He looked on a moment astounded by the changes but also because he's never seen anything more adorable than the man of his dreams with the features of a cat. He came to the edge of the tub and handed Bucky the plate and then proceeded to lift him out as if he were a cat sitting in a shoe box once more happy that he was as strong as he was now to pick up this other grown man with just as much muscle as he and hold him and care for him. They moved into the living room where he sat on the sofa with Buck on his lap and Bucky took up a sandwich to handing it to Steve and took one for himself and began to nom on it. They nibbled and tried to refuel after a hard day of being almost killed and almost turned in to a 6 ft tall feline of some sort.

After a moment Bucky licked his lips and said in quite rational tones. "I'm sorry. But I all would do it again. I can't watch something happen to you."

Steve's smiled and in it was some exasperation. "Don't doom me to watching something like that though!"

Bucky's left ear flicked as he said it. "I... I'm sorry Steve. I'm so tired. I didn't mean to scare you, baby."

Steve without thinking reached up up rubbing Bucky's head forgetting about the ears then ending up bumping them with his hand. "I'm sorry too. Oo, do they still hurt?" He said removing his hand.

Bucky placed it back out top of his head with both his hands before Steve could move his hand too far. "N-no... it's like regular ones. they're stupid sensitive so I heard you still spouting off in the kitchen. Even heard the can opener. They feel a little uncomfortably cold though."

Steve smoothed his hand over one then the other gently then closed his hand over them trying to warm it up.

Bucky felt the touch as if amplified by double and couldn't stop trying to flick his ear when Steve touched it but it felt quite nice and he wondered how much more of his body would be like this. ”M-mnf~”

"Ah, s-sorry..." Steve blushes as he starts to move his hand but then Bucky presses his head against Steve's hand with the cutest hecking expression of both yearning and pleasure Steve chuckled and pulled him close, hugging him to his chest and going to let the other ear.

Again Bucky began to purr and Steve nearly exclaimed out loud at the sound till he realized what fit was. Then he had a brief fight with himself which he lost and finally simply went. "Aaw... Is it bad if I want to say it's not so bad? Because I could get used to your purring."

Bucky hated to admit it but he gave in. "Now that it doesn't hurt... I can't wait till someone comes up with a fix. But no... It's not that bad." His tail wiggled in the air as if drawing S shapes on it and he found himself after the chaos and fear in the mood for more intimacy.

Steve agreed hand now sliding down Buck's back. "Yeah, we know a few genius scientists, people that were known as gods and an honest to God wizard. We'll get you back to normal and I'll take care of you every step of the way."

"Thanks Stevie. I'm so glad you're here. I can't image what fresh hell those asshats at Hydra would have done to me after something like this..." Bucky murmured.

Steve rubbed his back a moment and he rubbed Steve's chest in a moment of mutual reassurance. Then Buck turned his whiskered face and pecked Steve on the lips but Steve stopped him turning away again. "No, don't you're still a fucking knock out, Dollface..." He said softly smiling as Bucky blushed. He knew having his body changed this way must hurt Bucky and he also knew he was going to make sure Bucky never had time to worry he was not good enough anymore. He kissed him deeply hand sliding lower to squeeze Buck's ass and came in contact with the new limb sticking out of his beloved. "Oh, I forgot-" he started but was drowned out by a loud cry from Bucky.

The man in question had tilted his head back as his voice came out in a wild get aroused reaction. He then flopped against Steve taking a few shaky breaths.

"Lord in heaven, did I hurt you, oh God sweetheart I'm so-"

"Hng... it w-wasnt that kind of feeling...it was just so... intense, hah~" Bucky said his face flushed red.

"What do you mean? I can stop..."Steve said with worry. He tilted Bucky's face up to his with a finger under his chin and saw unexpectedly an expression of Bucky's he knew very well. Buck's ocean hued eyes were full of lust and he looked on Steve as if just realizing who he was.

"Y-you don't have to. I ju-just never had a tail before..." He looked away a second brows furrowed. "That I can recall anyways." He returned his gaze to Steve. He didn't know how he hadn't noticed until then but the smell of Steve's body was making him crazy for him. He obviously had been smelling Steve for most of their lives and knew his scent well but he figured with the outer changes some mental impact had occurred and now smelling was as important as seeing in a knife fight is. And he felt he could swim in a tub scented with Steve. The fact that this smell was more important at the moment than the fact he might have cat's brain in his head was proof of it. He licked his lips in a slow manner and bit his lower lip as his back arched and his tail whipped side to side in an expression of obvious excitement. "It... it felt good just, explore gently. It's kinda like first time anal, you know?"

Steve blinked in surprise a moment and slowly rested a hand on Bucky's new appendage. It's tip flicked in side to side motions and Bucky inhaled in a soft gasp.

"God, that is so bonkers. It's like the opposite of phantom limb or something because, ah~ it's definitely there. It's sorta... getting to me." He said not wanting to admit he was growing more aroused by the minute. The combination of scent and touch were making something odd but enjoyable happen. For some reason he kept wanting to emit some message to even the empty room that Steve was his.

"You mean... it's a turn on?"

"Maybe..."

Steve returned to kissing Buck, his finger smoothing down the tail’s length. "Are you sure you don't know? Because a certain hunch is telling me you know the answer." He said in quiet tones wrapping a hand around it loosely at it's base and stroking all the way out off the top of the end of Bucky's tail.

Bucky grabbed a hold of Steve's shirt and tugged him down on to the plush carpet with him where he nipped and kissed Steve's throat. Steve in turn rolled Bucky on to his belly, kissing Buck around the shoulders and nape. Bucky presses his hips up and back rubbing against Steve's crotch with a deep moan.

Griping the tail Steve scratched about the base of it digging his fingers in to the fur, yet not scratching hard.

Bucky shuddered pressing his hips further upward into Steve's touch. "Come on, it's getting weird. I'm starting to earnestly want you to fuck me."

"OK. Fine. " Steve let go and made like he was gonna walk away.

Bucky mewled on the floor staring up at Steve. "You can't leave, you have to fix this!"

"Didn't you just ask me to stop?"

"I did. But you're a dummy. I meant that... I just didn't want you to think you can touch me there any old time you want! I want you to touch it when I say!"

"Oooh, I understand now. So should I continue?"

"Mmfff!! " Bucky half moan half sqealed with impatience.

"What was that? I didn't hear any consent so guess I'll just go have a cup of frozen yogurt, seeya Bucky... "

"You big dumb... Get over here now and finished what you started, Steven!"

Steve went on all fours leaning over Buck. He ignored the fur and grasped Bucky's ear in his teeth.

Bucky moaned and his head began to tilt back towards Steve. Steve undid his fly and pushed Bucky's leggings down. He gripped him by the tail and Bucky cried out again. Then he began toying with Bucky's hole, massaging the head of his cock against it. "I'll take you for little ride... Won't you like that baby? Huhn? Who's a good kitty?" He spit on his hand and Bucky gasped "Oooh, fuck!!" knowing what the sound meant. Steve used his hand to get Bucky open and push his dick inside. "Uh-hoh, yeah, do it, babe!

When he was ready he released Bucky's tail and pinned his arms to the floor by the wrist and began to plow Bucky like no tomorrow. Tail lifted ass up and face down Bucky moaned and gasped as Steve fucked him hard there on the livingroom floor. His tail ear and back all still vibrated with pleasure. He thought he could really get used to it.

"Oh, aaahn! "Bucky whimpered in long loud tones.

It was with intense jackhammer like thrusts, Steve thought drove Bucky to cum rather quickly.

"Ooh oh oh god!!!" Bucky moaned Steve kept going to let Bucky ride it out and soon came himself.

But then he noticed something different that had never happened before. Bucky still laying on the floor was staring straight ahead no longer panting or moaning in bliss till Steve asked. "Babe? You okay??"

Bucky turned his head very slowly and in a different situation would have made Steve laugh at how much he looked like that one famed gif of confused Britney Spears. "T-that's it? How..?"

Steve frowned and pulled away to sit beside Bucky looking at him very seriously. "Honey?"

"How in the fuck did we do all that and I didn't even make it? Something is seriously wrong if you can fuck me like that and I don't cum from it. What new fresh hell..?" Said Bucky unaware that Steve was rather disappointed in himself for the poor performance and the fact he just assumed Bucky was having as much pleasure as he did.

"I... it sounded like..."

"Yeah, it was that good, I just hit a wall and nothing happened." Buck paused for a long awkward silence. "Alright, now this feels weird and I don’t like it."

"I could try again if you just need more time." Steve offered. His own opinion mirrored Bucky's. It's had been a long time since he felt so inept and he did not miss feeling his shortcomings so starkly. 'Shortcomings indeed...' he thought wryly.

"I... dunno. Maybe I'm too stressed out. We can try again later, because I was really looking forward to finishing with you. Don't worry, Nat says it can be like this sometimes, and nothing is perfect 100% of the time." Bucky said trying not to make Steve feel inadequate.

Steve pulled him into a hug. "Okay babe. As long as you're okay. It's just one time. I don't know maybe because we usual don't argue then try that."

Bucky nodded but disagreed. 'Steve, we have stupid little fights and have make up sex all the time. You just don't want think about this anymore and even though I need release still, I'm gonna let that go because today has be too much.'

The pair separated, Bucky going to bathroom to finish alone and Steve to the bedroom to take out something for both to put on after a nice shower. Oblivious to Steve Bucky frustrated himself trying to to prompt an orgasm with anal then finally gave up and begrudgingly took the easy o which came with cock stimulation. The rest of the night had a sour taste to it though they tried had to go back to normal. Bucky's new appearance confirmed normal might not be 8n reach anymore.

TBC

[smallblueandloud]

thoughts on episode ii

subtitled let’s fix attack of the clones!!: anakin edition

i came out of this movie really not shipping anakin and padme. he is selfish, awkward, and distracting - and she should too busy to consider a romance.

the prequels are trying to tell two stories (anakin’s fall and the fall of the republic) and it barely tries to link them, instead just spending time on the boring, clunky one (anakin) at the expense of the more interesting one (the republic/the clones, represented in this movie by obi-wan), which seems like it’s missing vital conversations.

but this post is about anakin and anakin/padme. so let’s get started.

this movie, at least in terms of anakin’s development, suffers from middle-of-trilogy syndrome. nothing really happens. his mother dies (oh my GOD) and he angsts about it for a while, commits mass murder, and then jumps right back to pursuing his terrible “romance” with padme.

i mean, there are NO lasting effects of his mother’s death. he learns no coping techniques, feels no real emotions about it...

shmi was done dirty in general though. the idea of her marrying the guy that bought her is pretty icky. i’m becoming more and more fond of fialleril’s headcanon that shmi meets beru and adopts her as her daughter. cliegg is nothing but owen’s offscreen father.

i mean, that would’ve been SO MUCH BETTER, even if you keep the whole shmi-dying-solely-to-cause-her-idiot-son-pain. WHICH YOU SHOULD NOT. why spend all of episode i talking about freeing the slaves and then do absolutely nothing about it??

picture shmi, her adoptive daughter beru, and her adoptive daughter’s boyfriend owen (who really isn’t sure how he got involved in this but isn’t complaining) running an underground slave-freeing operation.

not sure how this would tie into the movie, plot-wise or anakin-development-wise, because yeah, you do need to start getting nervous around this kid. (I MEAN, IN MY PLAN FOR THE PHANTOM MENACE, YOU WOULD’VE STARTED THIS IN THE VERY BEGINNING BY USING A SLIGHTLY WORRYINGLY COMPETENT AND BRUTAL 14-YEAR-OLD, NOT THE PREPUBESCENT NONSENSE WE GOT. but regardless.)

i guess you’d need anakin and padme to be hanging at on naboo, in her lake house (god padme’s so freaking bougie), and padme asks how anakin’s mom is.

queue the obligatory “oh, haha, i don’t actually,,,, know??”

padme proposes that since they have no duties and she’s actually bored out of her mind, they should go visit shmi. anakin protests for about two seconds before realizing a) there’s no stopping her, and b) he’d actually kinda like to see his mom.

(padme has some ulterior motives besides wanting anakin to see his goddamn mom again. she wants to buy her freedom, since she’s actually prepared with real funds this time, and she wants to ask her advice on helping out with abolition, since she and sabe had failed miserably when they tried on their own. [this is canon, go read queen’s shadow if you haven’t already because it’s an excellent book.] we love women acknowledging other women’s expertise!! padme has grown a lot and wants to stop being so core world-y.)

so anyways, they go there, meet shmi (who’s already freed herself, thanks so much), and beru and owen. anakin, because he has had no emotional support network since he was nine goddamn years old, is jealous, but does his best to keep it under wraps.

at some point, while anakin and padme are helping out with the freedom trail, and someone (not sure who) gets a little violent with shmi.

anakin... goes ballistic, we’ll say. it gets violent. he gets harsh. it’s an overreaction, but shmi manages to calm him down.

(padme, on the other hand, is frightened. she takes a step back the next time anakin turns to her. but she manages to hold it down until later.)

the flighty escapee that beru is operating on goes into hysterics. shmi pulls anakin outside and tells him, quietly, that she’s so overjoyed to see him but that she thinks he needs to be getting on his way.

padme, meanwhile, gets pinged on her communication device. obi-wan has contacted them, just like he did in canon.

also, there’s some kind of beru&anakin moment, or maybe a beru&padme moment. just a conversation of some kind, for uber talented gifset-makers to gif and put alongside beru talking to luke so i can be destroyed emotionally.

this serves several purposes.

the movie feels more emotionally coherent. anakin doesn’t jump from awkward flirting to mass murder to making out with his girlfriend.

shmi gets some closure.

we’re introduced to beru, who clearly meets anakin and padme.

we get to see the little people making a difference, which is a huge theme in star wars. this can act as a foil to the hugely ineffective senate.

padme gets the opportunity for some character growth (she’s my wife and all but she’s so bougie).

we get to see anakin be dark, over something.... sorta understandable?? and it doesn’t quite make us think he should be locked up (unlike murder) (except the movie says it’s okay because they’re just sand people and i really don’t like the implications of that). also, we can see the inherent tragedy of someone who needs so much community support being “”chosen”” by the force to go into an order of emotionally private individuals (not that that isn’t a bad thing for someone like obi-wan, but it really isn’t good for anakin).

AND I HAVEN’T EVEN REALLY MENTIONED PADME. i have a wishlist for padme, and it boils down to: at least mention her relationship with sabe, show her being good at politics, let her have character development, don’t make her have to mother anakin, and oh by the way make her two-dimensional enough that her abandoning her ideals to get together with a jedi actually makes sense.

because like! i can believe she likes anakin! he’s an old friend, from a time that seems simpler in hindsight, and he’s in love with her and flirts awkwardly and makes jokes. i mean, the dialogue makes it impossible for anakin to seem remotely attractive, but we’ll leave it at the fact that padme desperately wants something simple and a relationship with anakin, paradoxically, looks like a winner.

but i want to see her like anakin. show, not tell, georgie boy!! all we see in the movie is her giggling at him and her rejecting him, and then her kissing him, and there’s really no falling in love.

because okay. they’re a fundamentally doomed relationship, total opposites who are both startlingly naive wrt their personal lives. so i accept that they’re not really in love - they’re just clinging to ideals of each other. well. at least padme is. she’s smart enough to recognize what she’s doing, but she pushes it down because she is forced to hold too much on her shoulders (BECAUSE THE SENATE DOESN’T WORK) and she needs something that is just for her.

look, i really need sabe in these movies, okay. this is unrelated to my humongous crush on keira knightley. i need padme to have a friend, someone she can express this to, who can look at her doubtfully when she says she’s in love with anakin, because we really need to drive in the idea of this being a tragedy and we can’t see it unless we see how goddamn foolish even padme “good choices” amidala is being.

also like. padme needs friends. and i firmly believe that the “mother” that leia remembers was sabe, who is actively involved in the rebellion during the OT. because like. i have emotions, and most of them come back to luke&leia.

i’m not sure i’d have them get married, but that’s just a matter of taste. and you have to admit the set of final shots - the victory with the clones, baby boba pressing his forehead to his dad’s helmet, the marriage - with the overlaid music is really something. i mean, there you have the myth stuff that george wanted. i vibe with it.

anyways. thank you for coming to my ted talk, part the second.