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the-darklings · 5 years ago

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—𝒘𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒆;

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

word count: 13.2k+

summary: “You will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose.”

warnings: swearing, a dash of drama, a seasoning of angst.

notes: Wow. Suffering for a week was worth it because I wrote this whole thing in like 2 days. I apologise if I haven’t responded to your comments on the last update. I’m a clown, it is known. I love you all though. Please enjoy. *rubs hands eagerly* :)

children of ares series: 01 | .... | 09 | 10 | . . | 12 |

He remembers sunshine.

He remembers the sea breeze.

He remembers laughter. Unsure but carefree; happy.

It’s easier to remember you like that than to think about what’s currently happening. Better than thinking about you in those damp, cold tunnels. Better than imagining how very easily it can all go wrong.

It’s easier to think about his home, a year ago, and the stinging disappointment of knowing you won’t be there for his birthday transforming into something else—something joyous.

Tarasov had changed his plans last second, putting your own plans of flying out to Naples in jeopardy and it was not the first time Santino had contemplated murdering the Russian, all consequences be damned. But you found a way to see him. Found way to come to him. He never asked how. A part of him had never cared enough to know because you’ve been simply there and it had been enough.

Santino remembers every single detail about those three days. Because it was like something straight out one of his dreams.

You, in his home.

You, smiling and happy.

You, sleepy and comfortable and open.

He recalls the warmth of you in his arms as he spun you in a clumsy circle till you were both dizzy with laughter. He recalls the too sweet taste of that god awful wine you brought because you couldn’t find anything else last minute. He did get drunk.

But on more than just the wine.

The next day when he came from the family meeting with his head splitting apart and his throat dry from the hangover, he found you with Gia, cooking and chatting. The older woman had taken it onto herself to teach you some words in the local dialect and your efforts were valiant if a little awkward.

Oh, but the sight of you.

Hair messy, feet bare, a pale sundress wrapping around your frame and a wide smile on your lips as warm Italian sun bathed you in a golden glow. Standing in the same spot he’s seen his mother stand a hundred times, and it had been like a punch right in the heart, right through him.

You had turned towards him a few, breathless seconds later and your smile had widened at sight of him and—

And if he hadn’t already been stupidly, irritatingly, pathetically in love with you by then—

That would have been the final straw.

Sometimes, he still wishes it was as simple as wanting to fuck you. Simply get it out of his system and move onto another pretty face—of which there had been plenty. But no. Of course not. Of course, you had to attach yourself to him, burrow yourself under his skin so fucking deep it’s like a permanent ache— longing, need—that he can’t get rid of.

Because now…

“How long has it been?”

The guards shift at his tone, wary. None of them want to speak first but they also seem to know that keeping silent will only unleash his barely suppressed wrath quicker.

“Twenty minutes, sir.”

Sir.

Not boss.

Because he isn’t one. Not to these lowlife Camorra nobodies. At least before they showed some degree of respect to him as an heir. But now he’s just…what even is he? An afterthought, an irritation. To everyone.

Only twenty minutes though.

During planning, they determined that it would take fifteen minutes just to get there, and that’s assuming they don’t run into any trouble first.

He works his jaw, restless. He hates waiting. He fucking abhors it. He’s been waiting for almost six years—his entire goddamn life—and he’s tired of it already. But it’s not like he can do anything short of taking his pistol and marching into the filthy tunnels to get you back himself.

He wants to. But he’s not a complete idiot despite what you believe him to be.

So he waits. He paces back and worth, his expensive shoes sinking into the wet mud and gravel beneath them. The rain is coming down heavy and harsh now, beating against his umbrella in a relentless rhythm of strength.

He just needs you to come back out already.

Come on, amore. Come back to me. Come and call me your idiot. Just come back.

Time stretches; slow and sluggish.

Twenty minutes become forty and then fifty.

Sunshine, laughter, the gentle expression on your face when you danced, when he gave you his mother’s necklace—

The ground beneath his feet trembles.

He halts, immediately thinking that he’s imagined it, but then a muffled series of bangs echo that shake the ground once again, stronger this time. The guards' curse, pulling their weapons out as if that’s going to do anything.

Underground.

The tunnels.

Explosions.

A destructive chain of concrete, water, and death that stretches far, far too wide.

They’re also pyromaniacs. Experts from what I’ve gathered.

It is then, only for the third time in his entire life, that Santino D’Antonio feels awful, raw sort of fear flood through his veins, leaving him completely immobile.

No.

You dream of sunshine.

You dream of sitting in the sun’s embrace and burning, burning, burning.

But it doesn’t hurt.

Fire doesn’t scare you. It has never hurt you, either.

Darkness you fear because it drips with pain and loneliness. Water you hate because you can’t breathe with it lodged in your throat. But fire rages around you and keeps you safe in its destructive cocoon, letting you have your momentary peace.

Golden tears drip down your cheeks as you kneel on the burning, golden surface. Perhaps you are repenting, perhaps you are mourning. But there is something missing and you want it back—a distant, painful ache you can’t shake but one that tugs you back, back, back—

“Why are you crying, viper?”

A touch against your hair, gentle but firm. It brings you no comfort though. In fact, it leaves you feeling cold deep in your bones even if you don’t pull away.

“Because I am alone,” you whisper through hot tears, your eyes sore and throat tender. “Because I am so deeply unlovable that no one wants me. Sometimes—sometimes I think no one ever will.”

“There is no shame in being alone.”

You curl deeper into yourself, your forehead pressing against the scorching surface. “But I don’t want to be alone. I just want to be happy. I want to be free.”

A hand smooths over your head once again, patient and kind. Something inside your chest coils at the contact. “There is no happiness for you on this path. You’ve walked it once before and where did it lead you?”

A weak breath escapes you.

Why is it so hard to breathe?

“To you.”

The hand on top of your head stills. “Yes,” the voice confirms mildly. “To me. You will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose, and it will always lead you back to me. That is how your story began and that is how it will end.”

Your head lifts, but the figure in front of you blurs through your tears

and

then

you

fall.

Darkness spits you out with a violence that jolts your entire body back to wakefulness.

A slow groan slips out first before you even open your eyes.

There’s a distinct ringing in your ears and when your eyes open they feel grainy and dry.

The room is vaguely familiar with its sleek and modern interior.

You try to inhale and find an oxygen mask over your face. Gritting your teeth, your clumsily pull on it. It takes three tries to drag it to one side of your cheek. Almost immediately breathing becomes more difficult, your throat sore and aching, but you ignore it.

Fingers suddenly latch onto your own and you jolt.

Dizziness is slow to pass, as is the queasiness you feel rolling through your stomach like a heavy rock, but when your vision finally settles, a wave of relief washes over you.

Familiar, brilliant blue eyes are staring back at you, unblinking.

Ares is gripping your hand so tightly her own hand trembles and you want to tease her about her unwashed, still dusty hair and red eyes but don’t.

She’s alive. Relatively unharmed except for few scratches and bruises against her neck.

The sight of her sends a rush of memories back into your skull.

The tunnels.

The Lovers.

The male—Lucien—setting the explosions off.

A weak rasp escapes you and your fingers tighten around Ares’.

She looks awful. If she’s this bad then you can’t even imagine what—

“Santino?” you croak out, trying to sit up but her fingers constrict around yours, near painful, and you still.

He is fine, she signs when she releases your hand. Physically.

You understand the addition for what it is.

Swallowing weakly, you dip your head slightly and move onto another pressing inquiry.

“The Lovers?”

Her expression tightens and the subdued worry in her eyes transforms into ice; honed and piercing.

Got away in the chaos, she signs and her tattooed fingers tremble again before she clenches them and drops them into her lap abruptly. She looks both furious and upset all at once and it’s startling to see. Ares is cocky, confident, brilliant. Seeing her as anything other than self-assured is unsettling.

You’re about to ask her what’s wrong but before you can she sniffs and her hands form slow signs, letting you piece together her next words little by little.

I could not call for help. You were dying and I could not call for help.

Your heart squeezes.

You can’t even imagine what she must have felt.

Ares. Ares who was left by her parents at an orphanage when she was still a baby—no more than two weeks old, simply because unlike other children she never made a sound. Because they believed that there was something wrong with her, some form of defect that made her unwanted in their eyes. Ares who never allowed her muteness to hold her back or define her. She was the one who reshaped the world around her as she wished. She was strong enough to stand for herself, fight for herself.

Ares who had been chosen by the heir of Camorra to be his right hand.

A title and an honour never held by another female in Camorra’s history before.

And to be stuck in those tunnels unable to call for help, unable to do anything when she’s always been so capable, so ready to face down whatever came her way—

“How?” comes your fragile whisper.

Ares swallows and blinks her eyes, glancing away. You allow her that moment, though the gratitude in your heart should make it clear that she doesn’t need to hide from you.

Tears are not a sign of weakness. They’re simply a sign that you’re alive.

Your phone, she signs with a little twitch of her mouth. You still had it on you. I messaged S-A-N-T-I-N-O. Had you partially dug out of the rubble by the time he found us. I have never seen him look so afraid before. Had you stood less than a foot further back you would be dead. Lucky you got away with only a concussion and a dislocated shoulder.

“Lucky me,” you repeat softly, your voice frayed, and place your hand on hers, squeezing. You can’t bring yourself to ask why he’s not beside you like she is. “Thank you, Ares. If it weren’t for you—”

Her eyes flash and her mouth twists into half a snarl. Do not dare thank me. You saved my life.

Your own eyes sting and you force out a soft, exhausted, “We’re a team.”

Her mouth presses shut at that, and she examines you shrewdly. She licks her lips once, and you know its more about controlling her emotions when she glances away again, her tattooed fingers squeezing around yours once before she lets go.

Perhaps we are all more than that.

Yes. All this time you’ve been so afraid of calling them your team you never considered the notion they might have become something even more important. Something like family.

Your eyes flutter shut and you smile slightly. “We are, we…”

The world slips into a comfortable, infinite dark again.

When you awake next, Ares is gone.

But someone else is beside you.

His head is bowed, his thumb delicately tracing over your knuckles.

You’re at the penthouse, you realise distantly, and it’s stopped raining outside.

Your oxygen mask is missing but you feel clearer, steadier, this time around and blink owlishly to clear the remaining fuzziness from your vision. Then, you take a moment to gather yourself and observe him.

Santino’s shoulders are curved into a tense, weary line with his tie loose around his neck. You only need to look at his messy hair to know he’s destroyed his usually immaculate, gelled curls by continuously running his fingers through them.

I have never seen him look so afraid before.

He asked you to sacrifice everyone and anything to walk out of those tunnels unharmed, but instead, you had placed Ares’ life above your own.

You’re glad that you did not make him any promises because he’s no doubt upset as it is.

You turn your fingers carefully, tracing your fingertips over the tanned surface of his smooth palm. He freezes at the dainty touch, his head jerking up as his wild stare takes you in.

“Hey, grumpy.”

His breath hitches slightly before he relaxes his shoulders.

You can almost see the invisible weight dropping away from him, and it makes you feel even worse. If the situations were reversed—

Your fingers settle on top of his.

After a moment, his expression clears and his own hold on your hand constricts.

“Foolish, brave woman,” he mutters tightly in Italian. “Why must you always do this to yourself?”

“I couldn’t let Ares die,” you reply softly because you can see the bags under his eyes, note how his skin looks more wan and tired, and a permanent frown seems to have settled between his brows. He worried and it’s your fault. Even if he won’t admit it, won’t voice it, it’s marking every inch of him. “I failed, Santi. They knew about it. About the underground and the water, and I was too weak—and—I failed—”

His expression turns stormy in a blink. “You did not fail,” he shoots back hotly, his eyes flashing. “I assure you, (Name). When I find them, I will make them beg for death long before I grant them the mercy of it. They will pay for what they did to you in blood.”

“How did they get away?”

Santino sighs, looking down for a moment. “Ah, I’m afraid that’s on me. Once the explosions went off, I called all the teams to a search, regardless of their location,” he divulges and you understand the heaviness in his tone. It was a choice he had to make. A choice between potentially stopping the people after your heads, or looking for you. You’re not foolish enough to think that Santino won’t have sacrificed the rest of the team if it had meant stopping the Lovers. “If it hadn’t been for the phone Ares found…”

He fades off, staring at your joined hands and you trace your thumb over his knuckles this time.

“I—”

“Do not say sorry,” he breathes, his voice soft with fury, just barely leashed. “Do you know what it felt like, hm? Hearing those explosions. The silence after was far worse, amore, I assure you. Then the searching and the waiting. Do you have any idea what it felt like, seeing Roberto pulling you out of that wreckage? Covered in blood, unconscious, barely breathing. It was like—”

His mother.

His mother all over again.

Bloodied, barely conscious, choking, and then eternally still.

You remember every word of his story.

With his gaze empty and hair wet, he had sat against the backdrop of a Chicago blizzard and told you every last detail of what happened. And it had since seared itself onto your mind, onto your heart. Every single word of it. That night had been the first time you saw cracks in his cocky demeanour. The very first time you saw him as a normal man. More than a nuisance, more than an arrogant mobster prick with a one-track mind.

You try to keep your breathing steady but fail. “I’m sorry,” you choke out anyway because you need to say it. “And thank you for finding u-us.”

His head rises slowly. “I will always find you,” he tells you, his expression serious. “Always. I promised to never abandon you, amore.”

“Even with one ear?” you joke through a pained smile.

Santino exhales slowly, his eyes narrowing and he mutters a bitter, “Hm, yes. Despite their best attempts, you still have an ear,” he informs you and you ghost your fingers over the bandage. There is dull ache there but nothing as bad as it was before. “It will heal quickly because it was a clean cut. Almost like—”

“He was trying to mark me,” you assume and he nods shortly. You can almost taste his keen rage. He’s like a band stretched too wide to a point of snapping. “Well I gutted the bastard, so I feel better already.”

Shifting in your spot, you wince immediately at the shooting pain down your shoulder and neck, hissing under your breath. Santino presses his hand against your shoulder, pushing you back gently.

“You are not allowed to move,” he chides, giving you a displeased look. “While the injuries are superficial, you do need to rest. Tsk, troublesome woman.”

“Shut up Mr If-It’s-Dangerous-It-Turns-Me-On.”

His lips part, outraged, but for a long minute, he only gapes at you before his mouth finally snaps shut. You can’t quite hold back your snort of laughter and wince in pain right after. His expression makes it worth it though.

“Wicked tongue,” he notes with an arched eyebrow; an invitation to play. “Throwing around such accusations, hm?”

You grin slightly at the way your teasing cools his rage, soothes his worry. “And you’re a bossy bastard. Were you like that when you were little, too?”

One side of his mouth twitches upwards; a half-smile, and another victory for you. “I have you know that I was very charming when I was little, cara mia. Can’t you tell?”

It takes effort to control your outright cackle this time, and he leans closer, his own eyes dancing with mirth as a faint smile lingers across his face, too.

“I’m sure.”

He gazes at you, seemingly lost in thought before his mouth opens and closes again. He wants to say something but you can read his hesitance, though the reason for it is unclear.

“What is it?”

He swallows before his eyes drag back to you again. “Do you ever wonder how different things might have been if we met first?”

You feel his words clatter through you before settling inside your bones.

Right up until that moment, you never have.

The past is a dark pit, you don’t like remembering or thinking about on a good day much less lately.

He meets your steady stare and you think about his question carefully. Try to consider how different things are between you now compared to when you first met. All that you know about him now oppose to then.

“Well,” you begin deliberately, thoughtful, “Considering that I looked no better than one of Bowery King’s little rodents for most of my life and you were Camorra’s darling prince…I think you would have hated me on sight. And I you.”

He blinks, caught off guard.

But before he can retort, you continue, this time with a faint smile. “But with time…well, I won’t say you would grow on me but maybe I would find you less annoying. Maybe I would learn that outside of that spoiled, cocky, asshole demeanour you’re half-decent on the inside. Maybe. And maybe with time, we could be friends, too. And I would trust you while you would have no choice but to stick with me because I’m the only person in all of Italy that could handle your little tantrums.”

His lips stretch into a slow smile, his demeanour lighter now, calmer. The look in his eyes is gentler too and you rest your cheek against the fluffy pillow, still peering at him.

The silence between you is softer this time as well, almost hazy.

“I think,” you begin in a hoarse whisper. “That if we met first, it would have been very easy to fall in love with you.”

His expression creases, coming undone slowly as his lips part in wonder. His grip on your hand constricts again but this time it doesn’t ease off quickly. He’s clutching onto you, his Camorra ring cutting into your skin but you let him.

Because it’s true.

If you had never met John, everything between you would be so easy.

But that’s not the reality you live in.

Reality is that you’re no longer sure if you’re capable of the type of love you felt for John anymore.

And what you feel for Santino—

You’re not sure when you fade away again.

The next four days are a slog.

You’re able to walk and move around mostly freely by the end of the first day but Doc is as strict as always.

Rest, and more rest, and no strenuous activity with your previously dislocated shoulder or you’re looking at permanent joint damage. Considering how much you rely on your hands, and the fact that you have two psychopaths still out there somewhere who want you dead, for once, you listen to his orders.

You eat. You sleep. You work on getting rid of the layer of dust coating your tongue whenever you speak.

It makes you feel antsy but you rest.

It also doesn’t help that you have three not-so-subtle guard dogs scrutinising your every move.

You’re not sure who is worse Santino or Ares, or both. Roberto usually backs away from one hard stare but Ares is not so easily moved, and Santino might as well be an immovable object.

When it comes to your recovery, he doesn’t compromise.

His men have been working hard on tracking the Lovers or any remaining members of the Black Dragon but they have seemingly vanished from the face of the Earth. That’s more worrying. You have now lost the element of surprise. But they came out of the confrontation between you with far more severe injuries.

You can still hear it in your dreams though.

Lucien’s cold, soft voice promising you a dance next time you meet.

Your whole body tenses whenever the memory comes back to you which is often. There is no doubt in your mind that you will be seeing him again soon. But he won’t catch you off guard like that again. This time there will be no darkness or water. No weakness for either of them to poke and exploit.

But there is something else.

A shift.

You feel it in the very foundation of every interaction Ares and Santino share with you around. They are good at masking it but you know them both too well. Something is happening, some sort of disagreement, and both are trying to hide it from you. You’re not sure if it’s because you’re still in “recovery” or because it’s something sensitive and Camorra related.

While they have never hidden anything family related from you, there are still boundaries you have never tried to step over. You’re not Camorra. Some things you are simply not privy to.

So you wait for Santino to bring it up first. He always addresses things out loud, unable to contain himself if something is plaguing his mind. Sometimes, on occasion, he even seeks out any advice you have to offer.

But not this time.

He seems to have retreated into himself a little too much.

Your interactions haven’t changed but something in his regard has.

It’s like he’s removing himself, taking a step back, preparing for something.

It worries you—it worries you because you have seen this once before. The last time it happened, John left you and shattered your world into pieces.

You can’t—

“You shouldn’t go,” he mutters as he watches you put your shoes on. “The Lovers could still be out there. Waiting.”

“Winston is old school,” you inform him with a brief, reassuring smile. “He doesn’t do business over the phone. And I’m not about to go to the Bowery King again. Besides I look worse than I feel, you know that. Enough resting.”

He steps closer, blocking your path and you look up at him.

It’s been comfortable spending the last few days with him. With Ares and Roberto and the other guard. Comfortable to a point it’s easy to forget everything going on outside the penthouse walls.

“How do you know he will even help, hm?” he questions but you can tell it’s only an effort to divert your attention. “He cannot get involved in these affairs, you know this, cara mia.”

You dip your head in a nod and ignore the slight twinge in your still bandaged ear. “Yes, and he also likes making exceptions…sometimes,” you say, giving him a pointed stare.

Santino exhales slowly, and mutters a defeated, “Stubborn.”

A grin blooms across your face but it withers moments later as you stare at him. Perhaps—

“What’s going on, Santi?”

His face is calm, his stare focused on you as always. His eyes never stray too far from you whenever you’re around but it’s only lately that you’ve become so aware of them.

He touches you with his eyes almost as gently as he does with his hands. Like he can feel you with his gaze alone.

“Is something suppose to be ‘going on’?” he wonders, his accent twisting his question into something almost teasing, and if you weren’t so sure that something is, in fact, going on, you might have dropped it.

You stare at him expectantly, and after another moment he sighs, one of his hands slipping into his pockets. “Do not worry, amore. Everything is fine.”

“Promise?”

His eyebrows arch, his expression practically oozing arrogance. “Have I ever lied to you?”

No. He’s always been honest with you. Often painfully, directly so.

Your eyes snag onto his tie and you reach forward, smoothing your fingertips over the silky material. The dark brown tie with blue pattern is familiar to you—as is the golden pin with pale green gem holding it in place.

Both presents from you.

You nibble on the inside of your cheek. “If anything happens—”

His hand settles on top of yours and your eyes jump up to him. There is something heavy about his scrutiny and his hand lifts in the air between you, his thumb brushing over the curve of your cheek. “I should be the one saying that, no?” he muses and his eyes roam over your features with that flustering intensity. “Trouble follows you everywhere, bella. But I will keep you safe.”

“That’s rich. You’re just as bad as I am.”

He only offers a slight, crooked grin in reply and you shake your head in mock disbelief, pulling away from him and checking the pistol under your coat.

“I’ll ring you after I’m done talking with Winston,” you inform him and give him one last look over your shoulder as you pull the door open. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m away, grumpy.”

He lifts his hand in a slight wave but doesn’t answer.

And you wonder the entire elevator journey down why it makes you feel so unease that he didn’t.

The doorbell rings just after 1am.

John straightens, his bones creaking as he raises his head slightly and listens.

He’s not expecting guests, and certainly not at this hour.

His mind jumps to you for a brief second, wondering if perhaps something awful has happened after all. He hasn’t heard from you in days but he’s also been busy himself. Finally, his revenge was completed, and the remains of his old life now buried once again.

He treks up the stairs, unable to shake the uneasy feeling that plagues his every step. A shadow of a figure stands behind the door patiently, knowing to wait instead of just leaving. And not you. He knows the shape of you as well as he knows his own, and whoever has come is unlikely to be here for a pleasant chat at this hour. There is a brief instant in which he contemplates not opening the door at all.

After the events of the last few weeks, he just wants to sit and—

Perhaps just sit and think and be with his thoughts for a bit.

With a subdued exhale, he pulls on the handle, the door swinging open silently.

The sight that greets him on the other side stills something inside him.

A familiar man. A man who helped him get out stands before him.

Five years have changed Santino D’Antonio. There is something about the way the man now holds himself that’s different to whatever recollections John still has of him from years ago.

He knew an arrogant, charismatic man who liked setting things on fire just to see if they would burn to nothing or endure. The Santino he remembers never cared about anyone or anything except for himself. That’s why John has always felt so apprehensive about Santino’s keen interest in you—an interest the man has never tried to hide, not even from him.

“John.”

No smirk; not even a show of superiority with which Santino always handled his affairs so effortlessly. Something more cunning, more honed and focused, stares back at him and John’s instincts go on high alert. He has changed.

That focused calm almost reminds him—

Of you.

The same way your cool mocking with Perkins and the priest inside Viggo’s church had reminded him of the man standing at his doorway now.

“Santino.”

The Italian extends his arm and John clasps his hand in his, shaking it even as his eyes skip over the man to take count of his many guards. A familiar, elegant face catches his attention and John’s eyes pause on the woman he recognises from the cemetery.

She’s a friend.

Yes, apparently Santino’s guards are now your friends, too. The woman’s eyes narrow on him when their stares meet, judging and warning all at once, and John drags his stare back towards the Italian.

“May I come in?”

It’s a polite, pleasant request—just barely.

Something in the man’s expression tells John that even if he were to refuse, he would still hear about the reason for this late-night visit regardless. There is just enough iciness in the man’s stare that guarantees a confrontation John would rather avoid.

“Of course,” he says instead, opening the door wider and inviting the Italian inside. Santino steps forward, turning to nod his head at the woman. His second in command? John doesn’t let his surprise show as the door closes. “Café?”

“Grazie.”

John pauses by the entrance to the kitchen, gesturing towards the lounge. The man nods his head in thanks but his expression remains solemn.

It pulls at something—a worry—deep inside his gut. “Is it V?”

Santino’s eyes snap to him, something sparking there, but he controls his expression. The man John knew was expressive and easily provoked. That, too, seems to have changed to a degree.

But he shouldn’t be surprised. That Santino has changed, or that you have, either. Five years is a long time, and the forming picture of that time he was away…

He doesn’t know the specifics, but all the implications press against his heart like a weight.

A part of him doesn’t want to even consider how bad it might have been for you.

Hunted, hurt. All because of him.

“No, (Name) is fine.”

Your name—your real name; it flows from Santino’s tongue like molten honey. He utters it with ease and familiarity, an intimacy that shows years of use. Once, John was one of the select few to know your real name, and he can’t help but wonder what the Italian had to do to gain that level of trust from you.

Something buried deep, deep down coils tortuously at the thought of it.

He blinks and turns to enter the kitchen, moving towards the coffee machine as if on automatic. Silence reigns from the hallways where he left Santino for a few minutes before his voice floats over.

“I was sorry to hear about your wife, John.”

He can’t help but wonder if the man means that.

The last time they saw each other, on the night of his task, Santino wore an expression of such poorly controlled fury that John expected the Italian to pull a gun on him instead. He never asked what had put him in such a foul mood because his only focus had been on getting out. The Camorra heir never did pull a gun on him, though his parting words have haunted John regardless.

“Have a very happy life, John.”

Back then, Santino had sounded like he was cursing him. Wishing him the exact opposite of a happy life. One of the many reasons why his sudden change of heart from not helping him to helping him has never quite made sense to John.

“Thank you.”

Another pause follows.

“And the dog?” Santino wonders loudly. “Does he have a name?”

John leans his palms against the counter for a moment, exhaling, “No.”

If you are fine, then there is only one other reason as to why Santino might be here. Why he would seek John out now.

He gathers the coffee cup in his hand and walks towards the lounge. Santino is already there, shrugging off his finely made overcoat. As always, the Italian man is immaculate. Every seam and inch of him breathes power and money.

He sets down the espresso in front of the man before sitting down himself.

Santino doesn’t waste time though. He’s barely seated before the man begins speaking, “Listen, John,” he says promptly. “With all sincerity, I don’t want to be here.”

That much is true. It’s perhaps the most honest thing Santino has ever said to him. Irony, perhaps, at its finest.

But it also only confirms what John has been dreading.

“Please, don’t,” he says softly. “I’m asking you not to do this.”

But Santino appears unmoved by his request, by his subtle pleading not to go down this path. His green eyes take John in coolly and he shakes his head slightly, pulling a familiar object from his suit pocket. The familiar round curve of the Marker gleams in the light and it clangs deafeningly onto the table as Santino places it down between them.

“No one gets out and comes back without repercussions, John,” he tells him tersely, and a muscle inside Santino’s jaw ticks with a subtle clench. There is a spark of something like resentment there for a second before the man pulls it back, hides it. “Don’t be so quick to forget that the only reason why you are here, like this, is because of what she did for you. If it weren’t for her, you won’t be sitting here right now. So all of this is in part hers…and mine.”

John stares at him, his eyebrows furrowing.

“What?”

His genuine confusion seems to give the heir a pause too, and Santino releases a shallow breath, a sudden understanding gleaming in his too clever, too conniving eyes.

“So you don’t know,” he concludes and this time his bitterness is palpable. He’s still more controlled than usual and John decides he’s better off waiting for some semblance of explanation. What do you have to do with— “She never told you, did she? To spare you, I presume. Ah, such kindness from someone you disregarded so easily.”

That stings but it’s deserved. He could try and explain to Santino that what he did was the only way to make sure you lived, but judging by the pinched expression on the man’s face, he doubts Santino would care much for his reasonings.

But the fierceness in his eyes…

Since when does Santino D’Antonio care—

“Why do you think I changed my mind about helping you, hm?” Santino speaks up, dashing his thoughts apart and John listens, an awful understanding starting to take place instead of confusion. “It’s because (Name) came to me, heartbroken and haunted, and asked me to help you with your Impossible Task. And I did, for her. You owe her your life. A debt that needs paying, John.”

“That’s not yours to call in,” he whispers tightly.

But Santino’s words are sinking in and—

After the hotel. After saying something as final and as destructive as If you walk out of that door, I never want to see you again to still go asking for help on his behalf—

“No, but this is.”

The Marker slides closer towards him.

He doesn’t need this right now. He doesn’t want this.

You had given him this life, this time with Helen. You could have told him what you did but you never did. If it hadn’t been for you, Santino never would have helped him. Not after Tokyo.

“Take it back.”

It’s like a switch being flipped, and Santino’s calm expression seems to stutter, straining, before he manages to rope himself back in. But this time his anger is palpable.

“Take it back?” he repeats sharply.

A slight nod. “Take it back.”

He doesn’t want this life that’s bled him dry again. This life that has made him sick with guilt.

“A Marker is no small thing, John,” the Italian intones icily, his eyes blazing as his fingers motion between them. “For a man to grant a Marker to another, is to bind a soul to a blood oath.”

He knows. He knows this but—

“Find someone else.”

Whatever final shred of self-control Santino seems to be clinging to cracks briefly. He reaches forward abruptly, grabbing the Marker and John hears the tell-tale click of the device opening. In an instant, he is faced with a bloody imprint of his thumb inside the metal. His oath.

“Listen to me,” Santino hisses, his previous pleasantries forgotten. He points his finger at the blood and his head tilts with a mocking little smile. “What is this? Hmm? Do you remember? This is your blood. You came to me asking for help and I helped you. She suffered because of your negligence and then you broke our deal by keeping her away from me instead.”

The Italian releases a laboured breath and gathers his fleeing composure swiftly. Swallowing, he tries again, calmer this time, “Honour the Marker, John, and I’ll have the power to always keep her safe. You can go back to your...make-believe, and never hear from either of us ever again. If you don’t do this, you know the consequences.”

John exhales, his head dipping downwards.

He can still see your expression at the Continental when your phone rang. How your severe, taut features had softened at the name on the screen, and lightness in your voice when you had picked up, “Hey, grumpy.”

How much has changed between you and Santino?

Are you—

His head turns and his stare snags onto a photo of him and Helen.

Helen.

God, he loves her. Misses her daily. His time with her was the happiest he’s ever been.

You get involved in this world again, and there won’t be a ticket back this time.

You bought him this time and he regrets so many things. Regrets not doing a better job of warning you, preparing you, protecting you, trying to fix things between you sooner.

And even after everything—even now, you still understand him better than anyone. Understand how he doesn’t want this, can’t handle the thought of being back much less actually going back.

He could. But there would be no way back. No second ticket just like you said and whatever he is—whatever little good there might still reside inside him—would be wrecked and destroyed beyond repair if he did.

Helen wants him to find happiness again.

So even if it’s you.

Maybe because it is you, he turns back towards Santino and tells him, “I’m not that guy anymore.”

The Italian’s expression falters, growing slack. He regards John critically for a long moment and snaps the Marker shut, pointing at him. “You are always that guy, John,” he retorts calmly, his voice soft with accusation. “You have no idea how much suffering you have caused her. This is the least you can do.”

He places the Marker between them again; a final chance, and waits.

John stares at it.

I’m respecting your decision to stay retired.

“I can’t help you,” he whispers heavily, and slides the Marker back across towards the Camorra heir. “I’m sorry. She understands.”

He knows you do. That you will. He hopes you will. He doesn’t want to lose you again.

It’s in a slow look upwards from the Marker to his face, that John sees a glimpse of the old Santino again. That cold-blooded rage that’s practically spilling out from him as he lightly licks his lips, trying to keep himself in check. But no matter how much he tries to contain it, Santino’s anger is so tangible John can almost feel its destructive burn.

He rises to his feet, and Santino does too. The Marker is already in the Italian’s hand and he pockets it carefully. He then slips his tightly clenched fists into his pockets, too, and cocks his head in a proud, scornful manner. If there’s one thing John can say about Santino, is that the man has never flinched away from his stare. Never looked away or lowered his eyes. He’s not sure if it’s arrogance or genuine lack of fear but he’s always admired that in Santino.

The Italian’s next words might as well be a knife straight to the chest though.

“You don’t deserve her,” he states calmly, coldly, looking him up and down as if disgusted. “You never did.”

Then he turns and walks away without a backwards glance.

For a moment, John is rooted in his spot, unable to form a coherent thought in his suddenly too empty head.

He follows after the heir moments later, dragging his feet after him.

Santino pauses in the doorway of his home, fixing his sleeves as he gives John a dispassionate little smile.

“You have a beautiful home, John,” he remarks thoughtfully, glancing around briefly with a slight grin. It dies seconds later and Santino turns away, dropping his overcoat around his shoulders with a sweep of his arms. “Buona notte,” he calls out loudly as he walks away.

John closes the door with a soft click and moves across the hallway a few deliberate steps at the time. His eyes trace over his home slowly, savouring the sight and the feel of it. He lifts a photo of him and Helen to his face, staring at those adoring, happy faces.

He can’t recall the feeling of that happiness anymore. Everything in his life has turned to ash.

A distant crash tears through the house and he raises his head.

The world around him promptly explodes into flames.

“Charon.”

The man greets you with a faint glimmer of levity in his eyes. His glasses reflect the light emitting from the computer in front of him, and he inclines his head in your direction.

“Miss Vipress. It is a pleasure to have you back with us again,” he says and your own smile stretches. “How may I help? A doctor, perhaps?”

Biting back a sarcastic retort, you quirk your eyebrow at his deliberate baiting and lean your elbows on the counter.

“No, I’m fine,” you reassure, tapping your fingers in a restless little rhythm. “Winston?”

Charon’s lips flatten in a professional line, and you already know what will come out of his mouth before he speaks. You have seen him adapt this cast many times before.

“Sir is currently away on business but he will be back by the morning,” he divulges and clicks the computer keys a few times without even glancing down. “Should I schedule a time for you?”

You both know it’s a formality and nothing more than that. For the sake of equality and appearance, you still “schedule” appointments if there are people around. Usually, you go to Winston whenever you please and the man has no choice but to put up with you. Obviously, he loves it when you do that.

But right now, Winston may be the only one able to get you information on where the Lovers have disappeared to. The rules state he can’t get involved in such matters as a manager but Winston is Winston. He lives by his own code, too. One you can’t help but respect and imitate yourself.

You hope he’ll help you because the alternatives make you battle down a weary groan.

“Please,” you voice politely, stilling your fingers when Charon’s attention drifts towards them. “As early as you can.”

He inclines his head in a courteous manner, ever the professional. “Of course. I’ll be sure to let Sir know you are looking for him as soon as he arrives.”

Bobbing your head, you let your hand settle on your phone and glance towards the lounge.

“Thanks. I’m going to grab a bite to eat. Anything good on?”

A thin smile appears on the man’s face, and his rare show of amusement surprises you.

“I do believe your favourite dessert is being served today, Miss.”

You snort, pushing yourself away from the counter with a brief look over your shoulder to make sure you’re not falling into anyone.

“Lucky.”

Giving him another smile, you move towards the lounge, definitely ready for some food.

During the brief walk, you also take a moment to text Santino.

Winston is out. Will be back by the morning. I’ll stay at the Continental for the night. Breakfast tomorrow?

You send the text and sit down at an empty table further away, grabbing the menu as you get comfortable. This thing is so long and changes so often that reading it feels like reading a fresh newspaper every time you come here.

You’re barely done with the starters when distinct footsteps approach your table.

“Sorry I’m not ready to order yet,” you call out without looking up. “Can you give me another five?”

No answer.

And then—

A scent tickles your nose. You know that scent. The strong, heady cologne.

Your head jerks up, your muscles locking at the sight of a large, looming figure standing before you.

He hasn’t changed much since the last time you’ve seen him.

Everything from the strong, sharp cut of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, and the icy, bored gleam in his bright blue eyes. His large, muscular build is as menacing as it’s always been, as is the pitch-black suit he wears that only accents it. But the most telling is the heavy tattoos marking almost every inch of his skin apart from his face. The ink is masterfully etched along his fingers and peeks from under his shirt as it trails all the way up to his neck.

He’s the type of man you would cross the street just to avoid.

“Lady Camorra,” he greets gruffly with a derivative curve of his mouth.

It splits his face apart into something as handsome as it is terrible. His beauty isn’t really beautiful. His beauty is the type you can cut yourself onto but still be fascinated by it.

Cool metal settles inside your palm, your body rigid.

He scoffs at your reaction and wanders towards the empty seat, gracelessly dragging the chair back as he seats himself down without permission. “Relax,” he mutters, irritated, and then adds a mocking, “And don’t forget about the rules.”

He looks huge seated against such a small, intimate backdrop. Danger crowds you, your instincts recognising the predator before you, and you slant your body at an angle, your fingers smoothing over a vial of poison in the seam of your coat.

No paralysers. Not with the Lovers still around.

“Don’t call me that,” you snarl lowly and he tracks your subtle movements with dull disinterest.

“Oh dear,” he drones with a slight sneer. “Did I accidentally reveal one of Santi’s wet dreams? My bad.”

“What are you doing here Hector?”

The man before you smirks, his expression morphing into something frightening, and the Camorra’s Devil bares his teeth at you in what passed for a polite greeting for him.

“Sightseeing.”

Your expression tightens, and you don’t bother masking your heated glare. “Feed that cork of shit to someone who actually believes it.”

As if Hector, one of Camorra’s elite guards, would come to New York for sightseeing. Hector who is known for his ruthlessness, for his unbreakable loyalty to Camorra. He was handpicked by Giovanni himself, recruited when he was only eight, and made into an elite guard at age eighteen. Only four such positions exist, and these individuals protect and answer only to the head of Camorra and no one else. He was the youngest and first non-native Italian to ever inherit the position. Many say Giovanni favoured Hector even above his own heirs for his brutality alone.

From what you’ve seen of how Giovanni D’Antonio treated his children, you would be inclined to agree.

Hector reaches into his jacket, and his smirk stretches at the way you gradually lower the menu onto the table, your blade glinting between you.

But the man only pulls out an envelope from his pocket, placing it between you. The cut is familiar as is the faint perfume exuding from it.

“Judging by your frowny little face, you already know what this is,” he notes and taps his knuckles against the invite once before his tattooed fingers lift. The rings donning them click softly and you follow the motion. You once saw those hands break bones like popsicle sticks. Effortless, quick, and brutal. “Good. That means I won’t have to waste my breath explaining it to you.”

Your eyes meet his warily. You don’t trust him or this entire encounter. “Why is she inviting me?”

To invite Santino to the inheritance ceremony is one thing, but you—

Hector sighs loudly, leaning back in his chair as if this conversation is already boring him. He grabs a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, lighting one with expert ease. As one would expect from two pack a day man.

Sometimes it still surprises you his lungs haven’t given out yet.

“Why won’t she?” he ponders with a tone that implies he doesn’t care to hear your thoughts on the matter. The vicious set of his features disappears in a puff of smoke but you don’t blink. Hector is not the type of man you take your eyes away from if you want to live. “She’s about to inherit Camorra and you’re the Vipress. You’ve worked for Camorra plenty of times before. Maybe she’s simply trying to build bridges.”

This time, you scoff. “Funny. Considering she’s the one who burned them.”

How funny that Gianna would come seeking to make amends now. After all this time, you don’t even think you’re upset or angry at her anymore but the timing of this leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

“Bore someone else with your little dramas,” Hector deadpans and takes a long drag of his cigarette. “If she was stupid enough to make an enemy out of you, I don’t particularly care.”

Your eyebrows lift, and you regard him coolly.

Giovanni’s prized little monster. Best of the best.

But Giovanni is dead now. And Camorra is in suspension.

It’s then, more than ever, that you see the reason for Hector’s dismissiveness.

He doesn’t want to be here. But he is, and Camorra doesn’t just send its best killer for delivery service. No matter how much of a personal touch Gianna may believe you will require.

“Don’t tell Hector.”

Step had known. His hesitance during your call days ago suddenly makes sense.

“Careful,” you purr slowly and tilt your chin. “That’s your new boss you’re talking about. Show a little respect. I thought you liked Gianna.”

He snorts, and slants his head back, staring at the ceiling above. Completely unconcerned with the fact that he’s baring his throat to you. He’s one of the very few you won’t immediately call an idiot for doing so.

“Like her? This has nothing to do with liking her or Santino better. Frankly, I don’t give a shit about either of them. Same bullshit over and over again with those two. ‘Papi loves me best’, Papi didn’t give a shit about either of them,” he mutters tensely, and his attention swings back to you, his pale eyes cutting. He leans on his elbows, the cigarette between his fingers still smouldering. “Giovanni loved Camorra and that’s who I now serve. The family, not the individual. Besides, you of all people should know respect is earned, not demanded.”

You toy with the blade on the table, your fingertips grazing against the honed edges.

The door is wide open for a metaphorical knife so you sink it deep.

“Yes, it must be very hard no longer being Giovanni’s favourite little pet,” you drawl knowingly and watch the way his eyes narrow, a muscle in his jaw fluttering. “Why are you here, Hector? Why didn’t Gianna send someone else? Why not Cassian?”

“Cassian,” Hector begins pointedly. “Is probably too busy fucking her to have time and play the delivery boy. Maybe she simply knows I’m your favourite,” he adds knowingly.

The fucking nerve of this prick.

The blade slips in between your index and middle fingers, and you spin it on the table smoothly; once, twice, thrice.

Hector watches the little show, a shade amused.

“When Giovanni threw me out of their estate, I recall your hands on me,” you remind him, and there is a frigid bite to your soft words. “If Gianna wants to make enemies, then she did well in sending you to me.”

His head tilts and he puts out his almost gone cigarette against the silver spoon next to him before glancing back towards you.

“Giovanni was my boss,” he states flatly. “If he had asked, I would have put a bullet in your head, too.”

It’s that simple for him. He, unlike you, or John, or even Santino doesn’t question, doesn’t hesitate.

That’s always been Giovanni’s genius. His ability to assure such absolute loyalty through any means necessary the individuals in question don’t even hesitate in carrying out his orders. Most in Camorra are recruited young so by the time they grow up, they have nothing else outside of it. Camorra is the only path for them; a maze without end. All the way until their deaths, and then they’re replaced in a matter of hours.

You have never met anyone who embodies Camorra more than the man before you.

“Assuming you could.”

A glimmer of a chilling smile graces his face. “Sweetheart, I’m not like the other three,” he points out lightly. “I would snap your pretty, little neck faster than you can blink.”

“You would be dead before you reached me.”

Hector makes a small, amused sound at the back of his throat, and shakes his head a little, a flash of white teeth filling your sight. “I’ll admit, things have been pretty boring without you around to cause havoc. You know how they get. So stiff.”

You hum, contemplative. “Is that why they sent you?”

Hector doesn’t like to waste his time on pointless chitchat, but he hates stupidity even more.

He nods his head, pleased you’ve caught on, and plays with the lighter between his fingers. It’s a motion just slightly too agitated to come off as completely casual though.

“Yes, well, it’s not every day darling Santi goes around throwing the word of old Camorra around, now is it?” he speaks and his tone is monotonous. “Do you think the old fuckers took it well? When they learned he tied the entire family to your whims? And now that you’re free of your chain it gives you a little too much power for their liking. What happened with the Lovers? Well that’s a pretty good reason to call in the said oath, now isn’t it?”

Your throat is dry and your own fingers are still around the blade. It had slipped your mind. The fact that for Santino’s oath to be binding, he would have had to inform the family head in order for it to be officially acknowledged. Since Gianna has not officially taken over yet, the news would have reached the collective council of Camorra first.

You can’t even begin to imagine the reaction that room had to learning about what Santino did.

Which makes you wonder only one thing.

“Are you here to kill me, then?”

This time, Hector does laugh. It’s a wrapped, ugly sound that rumbles from deep in his chest. Like the act itself is unfamiliar to him.

“If I were you would be dead already,” he states mildly and seems entertained by the slight, annoyed pinch of your expression at his statement. “But no, not yet. Hence the invite.”

“So Gianna wants to buy me instead,” is your bitter, tepid assessment.

The harsh planes of Hector’s features crease with exasperation.

“I don’t particularly care what she wants,” he shoots back briskly. “I’m only here to make sure that Santino doesn’t fuck up again because he’s so desperate to stick his cock inside you.”

He ignores your seething glower and rises to his feet, throwing the lighter in the air before catching it easily in his palm and pocketing it. He fixes his suit as he stares down at you, judging every scrape and bruise marring your face. The expensive, dark material stretches over his powerful, tall frame and you watch him carefully.

“Relax already, but do grow eyes at the back of your head,” he advises, almost pleasantly, and looks you up and down, unbothered by your glare. “I’ll be seeing you, sweetheart.”

And then he leaves you sitting at your table alone, your appetite long since gone.

You take the painkillers dry, not wasting time with water as you emerge onto the terrace, letting the warm sun wash over you.

Today is pleasant. These last few days have brought a spell of bright, warm weather and you can’t help but incline your head towards the light.

It reminds you of your dream when you just woke up after the attack but you shake it off, trying not to think about it.

You’re here only for the man you can already see seated at the table and drinking tea.

Winston’s head lifts at the sound of your approach, and his sharp gaze does one quick sweep over you before he takes another sip of his tea.

“Good God,” he mutters dryly before you can speak. “Did they drag you through those tunnels by the hair?”

Rolling your eyes, you huff a small breath, falling unceremoniously onto the empty chair before him.

“Ha ha. Hilarious,” you retort dully and pinch your voice lower. “I’ve missed you, V. So good to see you’re alive and well, my dear.”

Winston pauses, giving you a flat stare but his eyebrows furrow slightly as he examines you closely, seemingly confused. Maybe even a touch surprised.

“Hmm, you are in a chipper mood this morning,” he notes, sounding just a bit nonplussed, and takes another sip before writing something down in his notebook. “Handling this better than I expected.”

That gives you a pause.

“Handling what better?”

This time it’s Winston who pauses, his pen scratching to a halt as he looks up at you.

“You didn’t see Johnathan on your way up here?” he questions, his voice deceptively calm.

Something sinks in the pit of your stomach; an awful, curdling feeling of unease.

“John?” you murmur, confused. “Why would I see John here?”

John should be back home. Back with his dog. Enjoying his retirement. He should not be here, at the beating heart of your shadow world.

Winston’s expression eases into a cool mask you have seen hundreds of times before, and his next words make your heartbeat spike just slightly, “You don’t know.”

You force breath into your lungs. Slow and steady.

“Winston,” you begin softly. “Know what?”

The man sighs deeply, the look in his eyes probably the weariest you have ever seen, and he moves the teapot in your direction.

“Join me for tea, dear,” he says and gives you a look that makes you sit up. “I’m afraid this will be rather unpleasant.”

You have no idea what expression you have on your face but whatever it is, it makes Roberto cringe. His anxious stare as you approach is telling enough.

“V, wait!”

“Don’t.”

It’s a rasp of fury that manages to freeze the guard in front of you and makes his partially extended hand fall back to his side. His expression is torn, almost pained as he peers at you.

“He did it for you.”

He might as well have dropped a burning match into your stomach that’s full of gasoline ready to scorch its way through everything it comes into contact with.

“For me? For me?”

Ares steps from behind Roberto, her expression guarded and your glare narrows on her.

She knew. What happened last night must have been the reason for the tension between her and Santino over these last few days. The blood roaring inside your ears drowns out the sounds of lively chatter around you. The gallery is full, but you will see him. Regardless of the audience.

Roberto moves to the side, the look on his face full of understanding if not trepidation, and your eyes slide back to Ares. She’s blocking your way, but even she cannot hide Santino from you. Though you can tell by her expression it’s not because he ordered her to do so, and more so because neither she nor Roberto wishes to witness this confrontation.

Frankly, you don’t give a shit about what either of them wants right now.

He did it to keep you safe.

You ignore her words, instead biting out a grim, “Get out of my way. Now.”

Her blue eyes watch you for a tense moment, but she moves eventually. Only one small step to the side.

You brush past them both without a word.

The muffled noise your shoes create as you walk down the hallway echoes around you, and you emerge into a small section that houses a well-known collection to you.

He sits in front of an enormous painting of a battlefield, silent and alone. But doesn’t speak a word as you approach even though you’re the only ones here.

He knows you well. So he knew you would come.

This morning you woke up to a simple: Something has come up. Dinner instead?—Santi without any additional information.

Now, you know the something in question was going to John’s home to demand payment for a Marker you had no idea even existed until this morning. John never told you, and neither did Santino.

Winston thought you knew about the deal made to get you out of Tokyo, but he was wrong.

For his help in getting you out, Santino had asked for a blood oath in exchange. An oath he almost tied you to as well, even if he ended up changing his mind last second.

Bitterness in your chest swells till it’s almost suffocating you as you come to a halt before him.

His expression is serene, a melancholic smile lingering across the seams of his mouth while he sits with his hands clasped in his lap.

You’re so angry, you can’t even form a coherent thought, much less words. But he speaks first, still not looking at you.

“When I was little, my home used to be a kaleidoscope of colour,” he begins, and his voice is soft, almost dreamy. “Paintings everywhere you looked. My mother—she adored art. She even had a painting studio in the west wing. Did I ever tell you that?”

You don’t answer and he still doesn’t look at you.

“To be fair,” he continues after a beat of suffocating silence. “She was not particularly good at it but she loved it so that my father used to buy all these expensive paintings for her to hang around the house. One day, I worked up the courage to ask him why he would pay so much money for something he did not care for. To him, it was nothing more than a bit of paint on canvas. He had no interest in art nor its beauty. So I asked him, and he thought about it for a long time. So long that I feared my question might have angered him, but no. Mhm. He leaned back in his chair, blew out a puff of smoke, and said to me: ‘They make your mother smile.’ As simple as that. You see it was then I realised it had nothing to do with how much money they cost, or even the prestige of owning them. He bought them simply because they made my mother happy. Her happiness was worth any price to him.”

He pauses, swallowing thickly, and his lips tremble for a second before he presses them into a tight line. “Of course after she died, his indifference grew into hatred. He demanded that every painting was to be removed from his sight and from the house. The once vibrant walls of my home became cold and barren. And now, hm, now I look at these paintings from my childhood but they are only distant echoes of a past long since dead. Now, I see what my father saw. Some paint on canvas and nothing more.”

There is something lonely about his expression. About the way he stares at the grand painting before him like he’s half a foot in his past and half in the present.

“What did you do?”

It comes out softer than you’ve intended, but your anger hasn’t cooled—not even at hearing his little story.

Finally, Santino looks towards you. His eyes take you in and his slight smile sharpens.

“Judging by your expression, amore, you already know,” he states and blinks a few times before looking away. The smile on his face is growing colder and colder by the second, and you hate it. “Let me guess. Was it Winston?”

But you’re too angry right now and cut straight to the heart of it. “You blew up his house.”

John’s home; a home that’s a lot more than just a home to him. That house has been a part of Helen too. One of the very few reminders of her, and it was a place of comfort for John—a place where he could be soothed by the happy memories they’ve shared. And now—

Now it’s ash.

“And he refused a Marker,” Santino announces, his tone growing colder, more unforgiving. “We both know I could have demanded his head for that alone.”

You suck in a deep breath, taking a step towards him. “You had no right to that Marker in the first place!”

Your words are like a whip, brimming with fury, and Santino’s self-control crumbles. He rises to his feet abruptly and steps towards you too, his eyes a green flame.

“No right? I had every right,” he hisses and points his index finger between you. “We are not children, cara mia. We do not hand out charity, especially not me.”

Your slight chuckle is icy, as is your sarcastic smile. “No, you don’t,” you agree softly and your heart clenches in your chest. Why would he do this? Why else if not— “You just couldn’t let such an opportunity slip by, could you?”

Ever the businessman. Ever the need for more control.

Santino leans back with an understanding exhale of breath as he regards you.

“You think this is about power.”

“Isn’t everything with you?”

He saw an opportunity to get a Marker from the most feared man in the world, and he took it. You’re not foolish enough to believe it’s because whatever Santino felt for you back then was so pure and special.

But those words hit something deep, you can tell.

You don’t think you have ever seen him so furious in all the years you have known him. Except, maybe, once before. Back in Chicago. When that man—

“Let me tell you something about your precious Johnathan,” Santino bites out, his voice forcefully calm, but only just barely. “Let me shed some light onto his heroic actions in regards to Tokyo because clearly you either don’t know or could use a reminder. How many days were you stuck in that pit, amore? Hm?”

You stare at him blankly, uncomprehending.

“Ten days,” he forces out after a brief pause, and his words quicken with his fraying temper. This is not new. This is years of bottled-up frustration, spilling out at the most inopportune time. This is a result of you refusing to discuss John or anything relating to him for years. “Next question, when did John come to me, do you think? Did he ever tell you, hm? Did he?”

“No,” you choke out.

“No,” he repeats, but doesn’t look surprised by it. “How delightful of him. Day eight, cara mia. Over a week. But wait, it gets better. It was Winston who contacted him about you being missing. So he either didn’t notice or didn’t care enough to check on you himself.”

Those words burn and sting and tear at the leftover shards of the girl you once were. So long ago now. Because no matter what, that’s exactly what you always feared, isn’t it? That either John didn’t notice or didn’t care enough. But you were the one who cut contact with him before Tokyo, so can you really blame him for not noticing your absence sooner? Can Santino?

For a very long time, you did.

But you’re tired of feeling the suffocating shroud of hatred and bitterness all the time. You’ve moved past it.

“Next question—and you are going to love this part, amore—how long do you think it took for my people to track down who took you? Hm?” he proceeds without waiting, and in every word he speaks, you hear the days, weeks, months, years all of this has plagued him. A storm he’s been holding back because it hurt you too much to talk about it. But everyone has a breaking point and it seems like Santino has reached his. “Six hours. Only six. You were there for over a week suffering and alone while dear John was busy charming, dining, and fucking some woman while I found you in six hours.”

Your heart, oh your heart, it hurts. It hurts so much it’s an effort to keep yourself still, composed.

Six hours.

Did it really only take Santino six hours to track your location?

All those days of pain and torture and—

You feel sick. Deep in your stomach, deep in your soul.

“So forgive me, amore, but demanding a Marker had little to do with having power over him,” Santino tells you, a bit calmer now, even if his breaths are still uneven. “It was a punishment. I am punishing him and I will continue doing so because it will never be enough. Because he failed you, broke our agreement, and then almost broke you, too. Because I, unlike you, am not so forgiving when it comes to his sins, cara mia.”

You stare at his tie, confused and speechless.

Another present from you. A little piece of you given to him because—

Because he’s important to you.

“He didn’t know,” you whisper weakly, trying to digest everything you’ve just learned.

“Oh, but if he loved you as much as he claimed,” Santino tells you quietly, and you see his expression soften a touch at your helplessness, his previous rage retreating somewhat. “Then perhaps he should have.”

You’re not sure what you can say in defence to that. If anything.

Your eyes find his and you search his expression for—

You’re not sure what, exactly.

“What did you ask?” you ask him instead. “To kill the Lovers?”

Why else would he want to drag John Wick into this? A quick, clean sweep to get rid of your enemies. A way for both of you to stay out of a volatile situation and safe while John hunts them down.

Santino stills and something in your stomach sinks at the look in his eyes. It’s that retreat again. Like he’s mentally preparing himself for whatever is going to happen next.

“Ah, not quite,” he says cautiously, and you can see him measuring his words—a rarity. “That is only a temporary solution. There will always be the next enemy and the one after that, yes? The only way to keep us both safe permanently...is if I become the head of Camorra.”

A breath shudders out of you, and with it the numbing understanding, a realisation of what he’s saying. There are only two ways he could become the head of Camorra.

If Gianna passes him the title willingly in an official ceremony.

Or—

“No,” you breathe, pained, and see his expression crumple at your reaction. “Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t, Santino.”

He reaches for you, desperate, “It is the only way—”

You jerk away from his touch.

“She’s your sister!”

Santino chuckles, his expression stony and his wild stare cuts away from you, frustrated.

“My sister—” he begins and cuts himself off abruptly, exhaling once before he looks back at you. He takes a step closer, only a step separating you now. “Let’s not stand here and pretend that if the situation was reversed she wouldn’t do the exact same to me, amore. Tell me, if she set her loyal dog onto me, would you still be so defensive of them then? Still call them your friends? Or would you let them kill me? Eh?”

The anger blazing inside your chest grows cold and hard in a blink. Stinging hurt follows swiftly after.

“How dare you?” you whisper softly and his lips part, a glint of regret appearing before he masks it quickly. “How dare you stand there and ask me that? After everything,” you practically gag on the last word.

After all these years. After everything you’ve been through together.

Santino’s hands slip inside his pockets, a shield against you when you can see how your reactions are affecting him, weakening him.

“Perhaps it’s because unlike saint Johnathan, I don’t get all my sins blindly forgiven,” he states evenly, an old resentment coating his words. “Tell me, (Name), do I even exist in your eyes? Or am I simply a replacement?”

His words are delicate, almost like a part of him knows the answer but is preparing to hear you confirm it.

And you feel so angry—so angry he would just assume he knows how you feel better than you do.

“Stop. Stop dragging John into this when what this is really about is you,” you whisper harshly, your voice hoarse as you stare up at him. “This is all it’s ever been about. You and your thirst for power. You were always going to do this, weren’t you? You always wanted the seat above all else, except now you can stand there and feel justified in your decision.”

He smiles at you; an empty, distant thing.

“What is it that you want from me, (Name)?” he wonders curiously. “Do you want me to play at being a good man? Well, I am not a good man. I always thought you knew that.”

Shaking your head, you hate the helplessness you feel rolling in your chest, the despair of knowing how terribly everything is about to crumble apart.

“I never cared about you being good,” you confess gently, weakly, and his jaw clenches so tightly you can see the rigidness of it. “But how many will die in order for you to take that seat?”

Too many. All because of Chicago and what you both did. Or perhaps it would always end up the same. With both of you here, aching with things unsaid.

You will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose.

Santino hums, mock thoughtful. But his expression is still vacant. “Do you want me to confess the depth of my indifference then? Is that it?” he murmurs calmly and frees his hand, placing his fingers against your cheek, his touch as tender as always. He leans closer until you can almost feel the heat of his breath when he speaks. “Very well, cara mia. I would let everyone at Camorra, this city, and even my own sister die if it means keeping you safe.”

Your eyes burn as you stare at each other.

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

“Is that what you think I want, Santino?” you wonder faintly, leaning your cheek into his palm for a fleeting moment. “For you to tell me you would let people die for me?”

His grin grows more crooked and his eyes devour you like he’s imprinting the sight of you to memory.

“No, amore. I want you to understand that I don’t need them but I do need you.”

If this happens—if John does this, it will unleash a storm you will never be able to force back into the genie bottle. It will destroy everything you have ever cared about or change it irrecoverably.

“Take it back,” you plead, your voice thick. “The Marker. Take it back.”

The light in those familiar, green eyes gutters out. “Take it back?” he echoes distantly, and his hand drops away from your face. “If it were for you, (Name), I would not even hesitate.”

His hand lowers, his fingers tracing over the chain around your neck. Your expression contorts, your eyes fluttering shut briefly. “But I know you’re only doing this in an attempt to spare him. So no. For the first time, I’m afraid I must refuse you.”

The weight of his words settles inside your heart, squeezing it painfully. You feel hollow and empty all at once.

“Then we’re done here.”

You turn away from him, staggering away. But his hand latches onto your wrist, pulling you back.

His stare is frantic, desolate.

“Amore—”

You yank your hand out of his hold violently, breathing heavily as you meet his stare, “Don’t call me that! I’m not your ‘love’,” you choke out, your voice cracking as you add a trembling, “I’m not your anything.”

He reels back as if struck, his lips parting and his eyes—

I will never abandon you.

Spinning around, you stride away and don’t look back once.

There is nothing left to say.

. . .

an: ah, things we do for love, eh? :)

jkhfsdjkhf i aM SO READY TO HEAR YOUR THOUGHTS AND THEORIES ABOUT WHAT’S GONNA HAPPEN NEXT *AHEM* we also got both Santi and John POVs this chapter and hoo boi they were rushed and bad but any feedback (and whether you would like to see more of them) are welcome!!! also, if this chapter reads a bit at a rapid-fire pace, that’s intentional. domino effect, and we’re in the thick of it now heh. also,,,, hector? he’s going to be pretty important so keep him in mind. reddit crew sorry for the delay but here he is as promised lol. as always, I can’t thank you all enough for supporting this dumb series. it, and you guys, bring me so much happiness it’s crazy <33

see you next time!!

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

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fandomsilhouette · 4 years ago

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you found me in the ashes then (and taught me how to thrive)

The glass he makes is fragile and firm, shatters at the touch of his hand but holds the weight of his whole heart strong and steady. It melts in the heat and bends to his touch, reshaped by the palms of his hands. Felix has left his mark, made something beautiful, something he could call art.

There are scars on his hands from the cuts and the burns. Looking at them in the morning light, the crisscrossed lines look like art too.

Happy @felixmonth, y’all!

Marinette doesn’t forgive him, necessarily. He’s too far gone for that, and he doesn’t expect anything more than… well, he had expected her to burn the pillow at first sight but clearly that didn’t happen. Felix finds himself absurdly, ridiculously grateful for every smile she sends his way. It’s not often, and usually in passing, but he’s finally getting to see more than the tips of her hair as she rushes around a corner and disappears. He missed this. Felix hadn’t realized how much.

He also finds himself going back to the library, missing his kids (his kids? when did that happen?) and wondering how they’d been all summer. He’s surprised when most of them even remember him, ask about where he’s been and beg for their favorite stories to be read first.

A little girl with black hair all tied up in pigtails pushes a book at him. Felix has never read it before, and, ignoring the guilt that comes with choosing a book out of simple curiosity, picks it up. Savvy, he reads, by Ingrid Law. The children settle down, and he starts reading.

There’s something relaxing about beanbag chairs and bookshelves, and the warmth of a child like a cat on his lap. There’s something relaxing about reading children’s books, too: they reach to the deepest parts of his childhood Felix has yet to shed and call to him, pull him apart into all the pieces he’s broken into and find the spaces where the glass doesn’t fit and smoothes it over, burns him in the light of being seen and heals him in the same breath. There’s no judgement in reading it to the children. They’re a free pass to exploring the themes he skipped over as a child. Felix holds onto it with both hands.

In the book, Mibs climbs onto a bus and hitchhikes her way to her Poppa, injured in the hospital. On the way there, she learns how to work her savvy, and learns that her strongest power is the one she’s had all along. Felix’s heart aches to have a power like that, to be able to touch someone and know what they feel, what they need. He wishes he knew how to be the person that the people around him need.

“Mister Felix, you are what we need.” The little girl in his lap snuggles into his stomach and sighs, half asleep. Most of the other kids have wandered off or nodded off, holding their parents’ hands or clutching at their collar. He hadn’t meant to whisper it out loud. He’s sort of glad he did.

“Where are your parents, noodle?” Her name is Maggie, but Felix calls her anything but. Her favorite is noodle, and he’s inclined to use it when she’s all soft spoken and sweet like this, wiggly and melted in his lap.

“I dunno, I lost ‘em.” She makes no move to get up. Felix shrugs off his jacket and tucks it in around her, and starts in on the second book in the series. Her parents come to pick her up two books later, just as he’s wrapping up the last one, and he lets her take his jacket with her. She wears it gleefully, sleeves hanging past her fingertips and one shoulder sliding off. Her arms wave just to flap the sleeves and her eyes light up when her mama spins her around. He doesn’t expect to get it back.

Marinette shows up with it two weeks later at camp with a note and a messily stitched cat, grinning.

“You have a secret admirer.” The cat is stitched in with the same gap-toothed stitching that shows in the uncontainable joy of Maggie’s smile. On the back, in that messy careful writing, she’s scrawled “You are your own savvy!” Felix’s heart bursts. She’s too young to be so clever. She’s just young enough.

“Very secret, mhm. Definitely.” And then he manages a wink, and that turns into a full blown smirk when Marinette turns pink. She hands him the jacket and Felix doesn’t jump when their fingers brush. It’s been washed out and has that lingering little kid smell, overlaid with something that smells like bakery and flowers. That night is Felix’s turn to fall asleep tucked into a jacket that feels like it fits just right.

Marinette doesn’t avoid him that summer, but she doesn’t seek him out either. It’s a strange truce to be in, to go on hikes on paths they used to walk together, to see his messy stitches propped up against her neat ones in the project storage of the arts and crafts room. Felix makes an effort to wave, to nod at Nino and ask about his new music, to talk to the younger years when they get lost or lonely. Felix finds he has so many stories memorized from how often he read them at the library. He does voices, and the youngest campers are enthralled. The older ones are, too, but they skulk around at the edges, keep themselves busy with something else and act like they aren’t paying attention. Felix leans in, winks at them, and catches a little boy around the waist, throws him up in the air. The older campers laugh at the shock on his face, and when Felix gets overrun with kids demanding attention, he waves over the rest and slips out once everyone is laughing.

He runs into Marinette leaning against a wall outside, waving Nino off so he can catch up with Luka. Felix can see the blush even on Nino’s dark skin, and tries something new. A nod, a wave, something encouraging and bright instead of sneering or snide.

“I was waiting for you.” Her voice is teasing and light and makes Felix blush. He doesn’t respond. “You’re pretty cute with those kids, y’know. Allan is especially fond of you, he won’t stop talking about the voices you do.”

“...you know them?”

She snorts and pushes herself up, starts walking away. “I’ve been teaching them arts and crafts for years, so… yeah. I do.” There’s something sharp in her tone, chiding and playful all at once, and Felix’s heart races. He watches her back, her ponytail swinging, and worries. She pauses. “Aren’t you coming? You’re going to get caught in the rain again if you don’t hurry.” Then she winks, and takes off at a jog.

Felix laughs in delight, shakes off the first raindrops on his skin and chases after her, a few steps behind but getting closer.

By the time they’ve sat down with their lunch, the rain is coming down heavily. Marinette waves and splits off to find Nino, and Felix wanders over to an empty table. He can still see her, animated, waving and gesturing wildly, and Nino laughs with her. She glances over at Luka and Nino pulls a face, but he slides down into his seat too. When Marinette laughs, Felix does too.

By 3PM, not a lot of people are left laughing. The rain is coming down hard, and with everyone stuck in the great hall with nowhere to go, counselors are rapidly losing any ability to keep everyone entertained. By 5, everyone’s irritated and scared, itching to be back in their own cabins or outside or anywhere else. There’s general discontent growing across the room. Felix slips away from his table to make space for the growing group of upset children huddling together in support and slinks into a corner. Cabin fever is setting in, which makes Felix almost smile. They aren’t in their cabins, and the irony would make him laugh if he wasn’t so listless-lost-lonely in this crowded hall. Thunder rumbles. Felix’s spine shivers in time with the skies.

He’s still watching Marinette. He doesn’t know what that says about him.

She hasn't looked back at him, but the lightning strikes and she makes her way away from the seat she’s curled up in for the last five hours. Nino sticks his tongue out behind her and she does the same back to him before turning around to look at Felix. There’s lightning again, sure, but it’s in her thundercloud-blue eyes.

It’s shockingly beautiful.

She slides down the wall, her shoulder barely brushing his. Electricity shoots across his skin and he shudders. Half an hour passes like that, each second tapped out with the beat of his pounding heart.

Her voice is quiet when she finally speaks.

“...why did you do it?” She’s not looking at him, but he can hear the strength it takes her to ask the question out loud. Felix draws circles in the dust on the floor with his finger.

“I… wish I could tell you. I don’t know, Marinette. I’m sorry.”

“I know. I just want to know why.” She pauses. “I… Nino says I shouldn’t care or I should ask you and get it over with, and I’ve never been one to not take my own advice.” Marinette doesn’t explain that statement and Felix doesn’t ask her to; in the time that Marinette’s been here, Nino has been edging his way towards Luka.

“My… mother. I just… I spent so much time around people who just…” Words slip away from Felix and frustration roils in his gut. It’s bitter and biting and hurts, and he screws his face up, clenches his fists. Marinette looks away and leans into his space, and he feels seen and safely hidden all at once. “…this is going to sound so dumb, but I didn’t… I didn’t know what happiness looked like. I thought… I just… that’s what people did, okay? Growing up, everyone who smiled at me wanted something, and usually something I couldn’t afford to give. So instead it was torn out of me and after a while… you start seeing smiles with all their bloody teeth when all they’re used for is taking a bite out of you.”

She doesn’t look at him, doesn’t speak. It feels like the walls are closing in, squeezing at his heart. The fever spikes. Felix thinks he might be sick; he gropes blindly for water and gulps it down.

“I really did want to be your friend. I don’t know what it looks like but it’s damn hard making friends. Chloe spent the first whole decade of my life tearing down any scrap of self esteem I had. By the time I even figured out how to stand on my own two feet, everyone else had managed to make friend groups and build social skills and I was years behind. I worked hard to catch up. I made my way here and I refuse to be called manipulative for being kind.” Words come pouring out of her, like she spent the last half hour building them up behind a dam just to let them all burst now. They wash over Felix like waves, cool on his burning skin.

“I think I’m… starting to get that, yeah.” He tries for a joke: “As it happens, I happen to be pretty behind too.” It makes her laugh, and pride wells in his smug grin. She bumps into his shoulder.

“You’re not too bad, y’know. I’ve seen you with them.” She nods at the kids and then weighs her words on the scales of her tongue, decides to speak. “Thank you, Felix. I forgive you.”

“Thank you, Marinette. You’re… not too bad yourself.”

Counselors start bringing out dinner and the children rouse. By dessert, Marinette is singing and the kids come gather around her to listen, to sing along in their warbling voices. She nods at Felix and he joins in too; then someone demands stories and between the two of them, they manage to get through three Disney movies. She doesn’t move from beside him the whole time.

She falls asleep first, still stuck in the great hall while the clouds pour down, tilts onto his shoulder. Felix doesn’t do anything but slide down until she’s comfortable, and keeps telling stories until his voice gives out and the campers are passed out around them.

Come morning, the sun breaks through the clouds, bright and bold and shining. Felix wakes up to it, revels in the light of the morning sun, and grins.

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sparrowwritings · 3 years ago

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Day Nine: Fresh

Day Eight -- Masterpost -- Day Ten

Soon after Exchange

“Uh...do you need help? Because it looks like you need help.” A concerned voice came from below.

Shiloh just barely kept herself from looking down at the speaker. She could feel Elliot’s grip tightening ever so slightly on her ankles. “I’m fine! I’ve done this before, so I’ve got it!”

She didn’t even know why she agreed to this again. (Golden apples are still golden apples, even if you’re getting them from a specialty store! Who cares if they’re more potent fresh!) Well, okay, Shiloh knew exactly why she was going out of her way to get spell ingredients. Bel had asked her, and she was always so nice and pointed out the cool things that popped up in her family’s store and was also just the COOLEST.

Anyway, the worst part of the ordeal was getting the golden apples. So. Shiloh was trying a workaround to not have to go through that. Hence how she found herself in this position of standing on her tiptoes while on the shoulders of her golem Elliot. Next to an anti-magic wall that kept Elliot at his standard walking-around-outside height of 5’7” instead of letting him be taller temporarily. Combined with her 5’3 self, they had almost 11 feet to scale together. And a wall that was just over that height.

One of the branches of the tree was hanging right over the edge. The apples themselves were right there all Shiloh needed to do was just...get...closer...

“No, seriously, I don’t think that’s such a good plan.” The speaker hadn’t left even after being shooed away. Shiloh made a quick prayer that whoever it was didn’t work for the Extranatural Parks Service. “You’re gonna fall if you keep that up.”

“I’m…fine...” Shiloh insisted through gritted teeth. She was going to have to gain some height nonmagically somehow. That was the only way she was going to be able to reach. Looking down at Elliot’s face, she offered an apologetic smile as she lowered her voice to speak to him. “Sorry El, your head might get a little squished. Your face should be fine, but I’ll reshape things after we get back home. You’ll catch me if I fall, right?”

Elliot’s mouth opened the slightest amount. Otherwise, his face held no expression. “This is ill advised.”

“I know it is, but we promised and I really don’t want to deal with Spot. I know you don’t want to, either. So what’s it gonna be?” She didn’t bother putting any magic behind her words. Not that Shiloh could order him to do something while they were so close to the anti-magic wall.

He hesitated.

And while he hesitated, someone vaulted up his back, used Shiloh’s shoulders to help with their momentum, and leapt up into the air. There was a flash of light, and the branch that had been hanging over the wall started falling to the ground at the same time that the figure did. Shiloh gave a cry, reaching out to grab the magical fruit but was just too slow. Thankfully Elliot had the same idea, for the branch landed safely in a large misshapen hand. The other one had held onto his master even more tightly, though not enough to hurt.

The figure landed in a crouch, a silver sword by their side. Shiloh could see a zigzag pattern in the metal from her position up high. With a swift motion, they rose and sheathed the weapon in what looked a hell of a lot like an umbrella. “Sorry about that, I just thought it was better to help than to risk you falling.” The person scratched at the back of their head as they turned around. “I hope I’m not being rude, but it looked like your balance was a little off.”

Shiloh carefully climbed down from Elliot’s shoulders, making sure that her feet were on the ground before she addressed the person (Savior? Knight? Random Good Samaritan?) directly. They were about as tall as Elliot’s default, with a muscular build that could be seen thanks to their outfit choice of tight jeans and a long sleeved shirt (it had the words Knights of the Bench Press printed on it). Whatever hairstyle they had before, their dark hair had been severely messed up thanks to the leap into the air and potential flips they had to do to make sure they landed on their feet. Their eyes were a gorgeous sky blue.

It was at that point she realized that she was being rude and not responding so Shiloh cleared her throat to answer. “I mean, I still had it but thanks for the help anyway.” She held out her hand to them. “I’m Shiloh. She/her.”

“Charin. And same.” Charin looked all the way up at Elliot’s face. “Uh…and this one is…?”

“OH! Right. This is Elliot.” Shiloh patted him on the arm. “Don’t worry if he doesn’t answer you, he generally doesn’t. He’s a golem, after all.”

There was some expression that flashed on Charin’s face that left before Shiloh could examine it further. “Huh. Don’t see those every day. How come he didn’t deactivate while he was near the wall?”

At least this lady was asking about golems and not about why Shiloh needed golden apples in the first place. “There’s a lot of layers to how golems are made. I can’t talk about all of them, but let’s just say that the most important layer is very very protected. All the other stuff towards the surface…? Not so much. Though those come back very soon after we’re away.”

“How interesting.” Charin put a hand to her chin. “Do any of the layers need golden apples to work, or…?”

Well so much for that. “That’s uh, totally unrelated.” Shiloh smiled sheepishly. “Speaking of which, I need to deliver these ASAP. You can come with if you’d like, the shop’s not that far.”

The other woman went quiet for a moment, staring into space. Then she nodded and put the umbrella into a more secure position under her armpit. “Sure, why not. I don’t have anything better to do today.”

Shiloh smiled. “Great! Because I wanna know more about that sword of yours.”

#writing challenge #day 9 #prompt: fresh #original fiction #magical modern #shiloh #elliot #charin #idk i decided charin should be in there at the last minute #she travels to different worlds in her own canon anyway #visiting shiloh's world is perfectly legit #also i miscalculated when i would get home #so uh #sorry but expect two stories *tomorrow* instead #nine down twenty two to go #next prompt: skeleton

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shadowofthelamp · 4 years ago

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I’m slowly stretching myself back into reverse au and writing Timber again. Minor retcon for the reverse au: Sonic’s dimension wasn’t just conquered, it was destroyed from the inside out. When they went back to check it out, everything was roboticized- there were no signs of life left, not even Robotnik.

Some context: It’s semi-explained in the writing, but Timber moves into Devi’s dimension after they get married because he feels like he can do more there and he trusts the twins to take things back at home. They’re from entirely different universes (and different dimensions within those universes) but can traverse between them via the interdimensional highway. Timber’s universe is based on the M:XYL series where he’s a Shadow/Sally kid who was had a few years before Sonic and Sally got back together, and Devi’s is based on my ‘reverse au’ where Scourge is Sonic Prime and Sonic is anti-Sonic- she’s the daughter of their clone son. Got it? Good. Here we go.

Wordcount: 1050

Timber groaned, rolling his shoulders as Sonic settled down at the table across from him. His book was splayed open and forgotten mere inches away.

“Slept funny?”

“No, it’s the natural energy of this world.” Timber held up a hand, a yellow flame flaring from his fingers before it twisted around in midair as if someone had blown at it. The color flickered from yellow, to green, to red, then back to yellow. “My body just has to get used to it. It always happens when I’m here for longer than a day.”

“Oh, huh.” Sonic tilted his head to the side. “That sucks.”

“You got moved here from another dimension. How did you deal with it?”

Sonic shrugged, counting off on his fingers. “Between the starvation, the cold stone floors, the electroshocks, and Scourge generally being as much of an asshole as he could, I barely even noticed.”

Timber flinched. Genius move, Acorn. “Oh. Right.”

Sonic set a hand on Timber’s head, scratching a little between the fluffy ears. “It’s fine, that’s all long in the past. If you want, I’m sure the nurse can help- she’s dealt with Devi long enough that I’m sure she knows how to handle interdimensional jetlag.”

“Right…” Timber’s ear twitched before he pulled away from Sonic a little. “Maybe later- mostly it’s just kind of an uncomfortable tingling, nothing painful.”

“That’s good, that’s good.” Sonic nodded. ”Devi still wrapped up in the wedding plans?”

“She’s probably talking poor Annette’s ear off. I’m to go down and make sure that she actually eats in...” He pulled a pocket watch out of one of the pouches on his overcoat. “Half an hour, but she doesn’t want me to see the actual dress until the wedding, and I’ll oblige her that.” He looked back up at Sonic. “So, how is ‘Grandpa’?”

Sonic grinned. “Being kind of pissy you’re moving in, but I wouldn’t worry about it. You can take care of yourself, and you’re going to be family now- he respects that more than you’d think. He actually likes Krysta- she kind of grew on him.”

“It’s still weird to think we’re going to be in-laws.”

“He’ll live. He still adores Dev, and you’re a nice kid.”

“He hates me. I’m pretty used to people making snap judgements, but I’d like to think I’ve gotten pretty good at bringing people around to at least tolerate me.” Timber slid one of his inhibitors off, rolling it around underneath his index finger. He’d taken to wearing fingerless gloves instead of nothing at all on his hands, and he could feel the energy within the bracelet shifting from the anarcym in the atmosphere.

“He doesn’t hate you. If he hated you, you’d be dead.”

“Reassuring,” Timber replied dryly.

“You know…” Sonic thought for a moment. “I think you remind him of his dad.”

“His dad?” Timber raised an eyebrow. “Grandpa Jules? He’s a nice guy, sure, but-”

“It’s a sore spot. This universe is all switched up from yours, remember?” As if Timber could forget, considering he was moving into an alternate version of the same castle he’d grown up in. “I don’t think he was that great to Scourge since he was obsessed with politics, and trying to make the whole world better meant he left his family behind.”

Timber sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Ah. But that’s not-”

“You said that was part of why you came here, right? To try and help give us a better idea of what running a monarchy should be like, and helping the people?” He shrugged. “I’m not saying that’s the only thing that you’re here for, since I can tell you and Devi are genuinely tight. Honestly, though, you’re staying for the same reason I did.”

Timber jolted. “I thought you were-”

Sonic raised an eyebrow. “You think Scourge could keep me here for forty-five years without me wanting to stay?” Timber just blinked, and Sonic idly ran his fingers over the leather collar around his neck. “He took the shock collar off when we were twenty. There’s a starpost buried in the basement, and plenty of people didn’t like him when we were younger. I could have gotten out if I’d really wanted when he started giving me some more freedoms, but home was completely destroyed, and shoving aside some random Sonic would have probably caused more problems.” He paused. “Especially considering Scourge is the blueprint for what a Sonic should act like, so all his friends would probably be jerks anyway.”

“Ouch.” Timber winced. “You-”

Sonic waved a hand, dismissing Timber’s concerns before they could even be voiced. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve gotten used to it. I like Scourge now- he really grows on you. Plus, I started helping to reshape things- having a partner that rules the world means I’ve got a lot of power by influencing him. Over the years he’s learned to listen to me- it cuts down on the coup attempts.”

Timber groaned. “I’m going to have to learn to deal with those too, aren’t I? Once the Dark Presence dissipated, we haven’t had too many problems with people grabbing for the throne.”

“Yeah, it doesn’t happen too often anymore, but we’ve got warning systems in place after the time with the knockout gas. You’re a good fighter, Devi says, so you’ll be fine.”

“Oh Chaos,” Timber muttered before straightening up. He’d slumped over at some point.

“We should try a sparring session at some point. If you can fight me, you can fight off any intruder, trust me.”

“It’s not that.” Timber said. “I know I can defend myself, it’s just- still weird realizing I’m going to be staying here long enough to deal with all of this.”

“Hopefully it’ll be forever, if you and Dev don’t drive each other nuts.” He grinned. “We don’t bite unless you ask.” At that, Sonic set a hand on Timber’s shoulder and squeezed. “Just relax. If you ever need somebody to talk to, I’m here, and Krysta is too. Most of the maids are really nice too. I know Scourge, Remy, and even Devi can be kind of a lot at times, but we love them.”

“Yeah, it’ll be worth it,” Timber said, nodding to himself as he stood up, chair grinding against the stone floor. “I’m off to pry my fiancée off her seamstress. Can you tell the cooks to start something?”

Sonic nodded. “Got it. See you later?”

Timber smiled back. “See you later.”

#timber #sonic writing #reverse au #sonic blogging #starway sweethearts #shadow writes stuff #sth

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yourdeepestfathoms · 4 years ago

Text

God Forgive Us All (part five; finale)

[Carrie AU]

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

(Read Anne as Courtney!Anne)

Tag list: @avmlife @shoujingshen

Word count: 12,566

TW: Blood and gore

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

-A Night We’ll Never Forget-

It was the opening night of Heathers: The Musical and the sun was just starting its descent in the sky, bleeding pastel pink across grey-blue clouds. There was no big storm in the forecast that day, just mist and fog, which was good because thunder and lightning might knock out the lights and ruin all the tech.

It was just one of those evenings so refreshing and peaceful that you HAD to be doing something nice. The sunset reached in through your window and dragged you towards it, flinging you out and out and out into the beautiful, mind-numbing twilight. You had to drive or hike or hang out with friends because an evening this perfect may never come again.

And sometimes you had to make sure an overly-cautious girl got a taste of such exhilaration because the mist was glittering and the sky was glorious and the setting sun probably that nothing bad could possibly happen.

“Do you think she’s okay?” Anne asked as she and Cathy sat outside the ivy-swathed house. She’d been more worried about their girl than herself since the moment she woke up, and for a good reason, too. Cathy didn’t blame her.

“I’m sure she is,” Cathy answered.

“Yes, but she’s only had a few days of rehearsals. What if she—”

Cathy set a hand in her girlfriend’s and squeezed it. “Take a breath, Annie.” She said. “She’s proved to us that she knows what she’s doing. Hell, she probably knows my lines better than I do! I’m sure she’s doing just fine.”

( “I can see your dirty pillows,” Bernadette said bitterly.

“They’re breasts, mama.” Joan corrected, not looking up from where she was testing necklaces to her skin tone. Jewelry was few and far between in the house, so she had to make do with whatever she could find because something told her that the theater wouldn’t want her touching any of their accessories with her ‘grimy freak hands’ if she didn’t have to. “Every girl has them. Even you. And I’m just in a tank top to get ready, but my costume will cover more.” She paused. “You’ll see that if you come. I have a spot reserved for you.”

Joan can already imagine herself onstage, boldly and amazingly belting out her lines and being watched in awe by hundreds of people. Even better than that, she could imagine her mother being there, eyes sparkling with pride, grinning widely, and at the end howling through the applause, “Did everyone see? That’s my daughter! My wonderful, glorious, marvelous baby girl, Joan! Oh, how amazing and talented she is! I am truly blessed to have her! The happiest mum in the whole entire world!!!!”

But, instead, Bernadette is shaking her head frantically, not at all looking proud or happy to be her mother at that very moment.

“No, no,” She said. “And you can’t go, either!”

“It’s too late, mama,” Joan turned away from her mother and slipped on a jacket. “I’m going. My friends are expecting me.”

“Friends?” Bernadette actually choked out a high pitched, startled laugh. “Is that really what you think those two women are to you, darling? I’m sure they care about you so very much. Do you think anyone would cry if your decapitated head was dropped in their hands? Admit it: nobody loves you the way you are except me. You are my baby. That’s always been true, and it always will be true.”

“No, it’s not!!” Joan cried. Her powers pulsed like a racing heartbeat in her veins. “There are other people who like me! Miss Cathy and Miss Anne! Miss Aragon, too!” She took a few deep breaths, trying to calm herself. She didn’t want to blow her voice out before the show. “They aren’t like the others, mama. They’re good. I know they are.”

“But wouldn’t they all change you if they could?” Bernadette said, causing a starling, uneasy revelation to zigzag through Joan. “They would strip away your lovely weirdness and reshape your mind until it’s to their liking. But I love every inch of you, my perfect darling little disaster.”

Would they do all of that? Joan wondered. Would Miss Cathy and Miss Anne and Miss Aragon change me if they got the chance?

For a moment, she was almost swayed to her mother’s side, but then she remembered something.

I wouldn’t blame them... I would want to change me, too.

“I want to be normal,” Joan said defiantly. “So I wouldn’t care.”

She turned away from her mother and marched into the kitchen to get a glass of water, but still couldn’t go past the crucifix without casting it a fearful look.

“They’re all going to laugh at you!”

Something snapped in Joan’s chest.

“NO!!” She roared.

She whirled around to her mother and extended a shaking hand, seizing Bernadette in her place. She bared her teeth in a flash of rage.

“No, mama.” She said lowly. “Not this time. You aren’t going to ruin this for me.”

She telekinetically pushed Bernadette backward into the prayer closet as pieces of furniture rose into the air around her with her growing anger.

“You’re going to—stay in there—until I leave.” Joan said. She jerked her head, and the door slammed shut.

“Johanna! Stop this at once!! Stop this devilry!!”)

“Yeah, you’re right,” Anne nodded. “She’s going to be okay.”

“Come on, let’s go get her.”

The two of them stepped out of the car and walked up the front porch. When they knocked on the door, they heard a giant crash from within the house, like the roof had just caved in. They exchanged looks, suddenly worried again. Joan peeked out a moment later.

“Hey!” Anne greeted her with a smile. “Everything okay? Did your ceiling just collapse or something?”

“...Yes.”

Cathy blinked. Anne laughed.

“Cool. Can I see?”

“...No.”

Joan slid outside, and, for a brief second, Cathy and Anne could see into her house at all the furniture strewn on the ground. The door shut quickly, and Joan smiled up at them.

“Come on!” She said with a new bout of eagerness. “Come on! Come on!”

“Someone’s excited,” Cathy chuckled as they all walked to the car.

“We’re coming, darling,” Anne called at the same time.

“Darling!” Joan echoed in a gleeful voice. “Darling! That’s me!” She hurled herself at Anne and latched onto her, nuzzling into her chest.

“Oof—” Anne staggered backward with a laugh. “Easy there, kiddo. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Joan giggled. “You’re not THAT old!” She gave Anne one more nuzzle before galavanting her way over to the car and leaping inside, leaving Anne and Cathy exchanging amused looks.

The drive to the theater was spent with Joan murmuring her lines to herself and fidgeting in the backseat, and upon arriving, she practically flew inside, darting straight to the dressing room she was getting to use. She immediately got to applying makeup and fixing her hair, but she appeared to have a hard time doing everything correctly, so Cathy stepped in while Anne went to go get ready.

It didn’t take long for Joan’s anxiety to kick in. As Cathy was pinning back locks of her long blonde hair, she could feel her start to tremble.

“Joan?” She asked. “Everything okay, sweetheart?”

“Y-yeah,” Joan stammered. “Just a little n-nervous.”

Cathy smiled sympathetically at her in the mirror. “I know that feeling. It’ll be okay, I promise. I’ll be right there with you the whole time.”

“N-nervous about Dead Girl Walking,” Joan mumbled, fidgeting with her jacket sleeve.

Cathy barked a laugh. “Yeah, me too.” She admitted. “I’ll be more hands-off, okay? I won’t grab you anywhere.”

“B-but won’t that r-ruin the scene?” Joan looked up at her.

“Your comfort is more important to me than the enjoyment of the audience.” Cathy told her. “It’ll all be okay. You’re gonna do great.”

There was a knock on the doorframe. The two of them turned to see Aragon in the doorway, smiling. Cathy greeted her, then slid out of the room to get ready.

“Miss Aragon,” Joan said. “You look so pretty!”

Aragon laughed lightly, gazing down at the suit she was wearing. “Thank you, Joan. You look beautiful.”

“Oh—thank you.” Joan blushed. “Although I don’t, not really, but thank you anyway.”

A small frown twitched momentarily on Aragon’s lips before she wiped it off. “I just wanted to come and check on you. How are you feeling? You look like you didn’t sleep at all.”

Even with foundation and blush on her face, the dark bags shadowed under Joan’s eyes were still visible. It was worrying, but what came out of Joan’s mouth next was even worse.

“Oh, yeah,” She said. “I was just a little nervous. But I’m okay. Trust me, I’ve stayed awake longer. When I was fifteen, I was having these awful nightmares and got so scared of them that I stopped sleeping. Whenever I would start to nod off, I put this cross that my mother would—heat up—” She faltered for a moment, wincing at something that didn’t have to do with the current story, but hurried to continue, “—and uhh, I would heat it up and press it to my skin until the pain woke me up.” And then she rolled her sweat pants up enough to reveal an old, cross-shaped blister on her thigh.

Aragon shuddered, staring at it in horror before it was concealed again. It was awful that nightmares could push a child to such an extreme, but she had to give Joan some props for her bravery to burn pain into the body that betrayed her by daring to be tired. But that didn’t erase how sickening it was.

“Oh, Joan—”

“Oh dear,” Joan frowned at her, cutting her off. “You’re getting that funny look on your face again. The one you and Miss Anne and Miss Cathy make when you get all concerned.” She tilted her head, then gently touched Aragon’s hand. “It’s okay, Miss Aragon, trust me. If I’m willingly telling you about it, then it’s not that bad.”

That didn’t comfort Aragon at all because it meant that Joan had gone through things even worse than burning herself to avoid nightmares.

But Aragon nodded, not wanting to stress the girl out by prodding her, especially right before a major performance.

“Alright,” She said in a half sigh.

Joan gave her a wry smile.

“Well, you better get into your costume,” Aragon said, standing up.

“Oh!” Joan jumped to her feet. “R-right!”

Aragon smiled at her. “When you’re done, come down to the wings to get your mic set up. And break a leg! You’ll do great, honey!”

Joan nodded and turned to her first costume once Aragon left the room: a long brown skirt with flowers on it, a cream shirt, and a blue jean jacket. She wore her primary costume, a blue checkered skirt and a lighter blue cardigan with an azure undershirt, underneath it for quick change reasons. After putting everything on, she was about to walk out when she paused and looked at herself in the mirror.

She...did look pretty.

Except for—

“Sorry, mama,” Joan whispered, taking off her cross necklace and setting it aside on the makeup table.

The backstage was a mess when she stepped down the staircase leading up to the dressing rooms. Joan felt like she’d been flung into a war movie with the amount of running around and screaming that was going on around her, and she could already feel beads of sweat forming on her forehead in the hot, thick air of the wings. Footsteps trampled heavily, as people fretted over costumes, over makeup, over props…

Over the fact that the theater freak was playing the lead role.

And over the fact that one of their actors was lying on the ground, writhing and wailing in agony so loud that the early birds already filing into the house could probably hear.

“What’s going on?! What happened?!” The sound director squawked, flapping over. She was done up in way too much makeup and jewelry for someone who wasn’t going to be seen by the audience. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH HIM?!”

“I-I don’t know!” A stagehand cried. “He-he fell and—”

“Oh god—” Another said in a gag. “That is bad.”

“Kinda cool,” Commented her friend, earning her an elbow to the ribs. “Ouch! Unnecessary!”

The actor on the floor howled.

“This is a catastrophe,” A techie muttered to the far left, the boy shaking with visible distress, running a hand through his newly greasy locks. His eyebrows were drawn in considerably more than usual, and he looked like he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. A girl at his side looked remarkably similar in her emotional state but didn’t move from her place of wrapping a mic around Cleves.

The whole cast was crowded together, in various stages of mentally prepared, gawking down at someone that Joan couldn’t see. There was still an hour until the show began, but in theater, an hour was essentially five minutes if you were stressed out enough. And clearly, everyone was. Maggie and Kitty didn’t stand far apart, despite Kitty’s current position of being fretted over by two technicians, who were trying very hard not to look over at the current commotion. Russel and Luke, the Kurt and Ram, looked like the epitome of the American jock stereotype- white shirts with varsity jackets slung over them, jeans too baggy and hair too messy for the current decade. Cleves looked as calm as she always was, seeming out of place considering the hectic nature of the environment, and Anne was the only actor who didn’t look nervous about performing with Joan or about what was going on. In fact, she gave her a small, warm smile that Joan couldn’t help but return.

But then the injured actor cried out again, and she snapped back into awareness.

She stepped towards the crowd. Several people saw her coming and cleared off quickly. One stagehand that was even younger than her nearly fainted at the sight of her. She brushed the arm of a background actor, and he shuddered so badly she genuinely thought she had hurt him.

Oh. She realized grimly. They don’t just think I’m a freak. She frowned. They think I’m a monster. They’re SCARED of me.

Anger boiled up inside of her for a moment, but she stamped it down. She didn’t love that burbling feeling of vengeance rising within her. She just wanted to hug them, all of them, and tell them not to be scared, that she wasn’t scary at all, not anymore—not ever. She wanted to be their friends. Because this performance was going to be the birth of New Joan, Ordinary Joan, Loved Joan, and everyone was going to be begging on their knees to be her best friend by the end of it.

That thought made her absolutely giddy, and she nearly did a happy dance but managed to stop herself. Doing such a thing wouldn’t be appropriate at the moment, especially when she was gazing down at a moaning, groaning, broken-looking young man.

He was lying at the bottom of the Stairs of Death, as they’re called, sprawled in a position that looked extremely uncomfortable. But not as uncomfortable as the angle his right arm is bent into. With a wince, Joan realized it looked slightly similar to how her arm had looked when she got pushed down the staircase at school.

It was Mike, the man who played both JD’s dad and the principal—and was the only actor they had who knew those parts since it never occurred to anyone that even minor parts may need understudies.

“Fuck!” Cried the sound director. “What happened?!”

“I think he fell,” Observed Cleves calmly.

Mike groaned as if to prove that theory.

“Oh, you bumbling idiot!” The sound director snapped at the poor man.

“Hey!” Joan barked. “Don’t be mean! It’s not his fault!”

Everyone looked at her in surprise, including Mike, who halted his process of squirming miserably to blink up at her. Even she was a little shocked. Wasn’t she supposed to hate these people?

“It definitely is his fault,” The sound director hissed. “Or is it yours? Did YOU do this?”

Well, she definitely hated her, that’s for sure.

“I bet she did,” Maggie said helpfully, and Kitty nodded in agreement at her side.

And she absolutely hated those two.

“No, I didn’t!” Joan said, wounded. “I don’t hurt people!”

“Yeah, I can vouch for her, Rachel,” Anne spoke up. “She wasn’t anywhere near the steps when Mike fell.”

Rachel narrowed her eyes at Joan, not really believing Anne’s words. “Well,” She dropped the accusations for the moment. “What do we do?”

“Call 999.” Anne said.

“No!” Rachel yelped. “We can’t! We don’t have an understudy for him!”

“So you expect him to perform with a broken arm?” Anne struck back. “Look at him! He can’t even sit up!”

Joan peered closer at Mike’s arm and noticed that it was at an abnormal position slightly above the shoulder. He wasn’t moving it at all, either, like all connection to the rest of the body had been cut off...or displaced.

“It’s not broken,” She said. “It’s dislocated.”

All eyes turned to her again. She quickly went on, pointing at the injured arm, “Look at the way he’s moving. His arm should be moving like that, too, but it isn’t even twitching. Plus, it’s not swollen and bruising. And listen to his screams—he’s in a lot of pain. Broken bones burn, but they wouldn’t cause that much distress.” She looked around at all of them, then said again, “It’s dislocated. And I know how to fix it.”

Mike looked ill at the thought of her touching him, and she barely managed to keep herself from giving him an injured look. Everyone else, however, weren’t spared from it when they noisily began to get suspicious and skeptical of her information.

“How do you know that?” Asked one stagehand with a bowl haircut.

“I’ve had my arm broken and dislocated before,” Joan answered, remembering the time a bully shoved her against the wall hard enough to jar her left arm out of its socket when she was fourteen. “And I was able to help myself. I know what to do.”

“Why should we trust you?” Said another stagehand warily, eyeing Joan as if she thought she was going to rip Mike’s arm off and beat him with it.

“What other choice do you have?” Joan said. “Unless you’d like to go one without a father for JD and a coach.”

Somehow, to all of them, that alternative seemed even worse than her tearing off an innocent man’s limb and pummeling him with it. Mike realized this, too, and didn’t look very happy about it, giving them all an injured look.

“You’re right,” A guitarist from the pit said. “We should probably trust her.”

“What?” Kitty said sharply. “Are you alright?”

“Of course,” The guitarist said, giving Kitty a weird look. She tipped her head towards Joan. “We should let her try, right? And if she fails, well, that’ll give us more of a reason to despise her.”

Joan kind of wished she had left that part out, but appreciated the trust nonetheless.

“Yes,” She said, deciding to appeal to their hatred and fear for just a moment. “If I make him worse, you can—you can hate me all you’d like. Better yet: I’ll quit. How does that sound?”

That seemed like a dream come true to several of the younger cast members and techies, but a nightmare to Anne, who gave Joan a wide-eyed look and shook her head at her. Joan smiled gently and lightly touched her shoulder, then approached Mike. He tried to wiggle away when she crouched down next to him.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” She whispered to him, and he looked up into her bright silver eyes. He must have seen something in her because he nodded a moment later and stopped moving. “Thank you.” She paused. “Okay, well—slight change to what I said. This WILL hurt, but it’ll make you better, I promise.”

Mike went even paler but just nodded again. Joan thanked him again, then gently took hold of his arm, wracking her memory to remember how she had relocated her arm. That was the time, she recalled, that she realized that she had to start nursing her own wounds because nobody else was going to do it for her.

What am I doing? She thought. I’m the problem, not the solution.

But then she looked down at Mike’s pained eyes and saw herself in the deep shade of blue—hurt and wanting help. So, she took a deep breath and pushed upwards.

Mike let out a yelp of shock and pain, jerked, and then stopped. Joan pulled her hands back quickly so he could see his normal-looking shoulder. He tried to move it, wincing when it bent at his muscles’ command, then gave her a look of surprise and awe. She smiled at him.

“All done!” She beamed, then turned her head to the crowd around her. “See? I did it!”

Nobody gave her a hug or cheered for her success, but she did get several appraising and approved looks, which was good enough for her.

“It’s probably gonna hurt for a few weeks,” She said to Mike. “Definitely take painkillers before the show, and don’t do anything crazy with it if you don’t have to.”

Mike nodded. “Th...thank you, Joan.” He said.

Something blissful fluttered inside her stomach. Someone said her name! In a way that wasn’t disgusted or full of hatred!!

“Good work, kiddo,” Anne praised Joan when she returned to her side. “You’re amazing.”

Joan blushed. “Thanks.”

She was SO going to have friends now. These people have seen that she’s not dangerous! Well, unless you consider unnatural psychic powers as dangerous, but that can just be a perk to being her friend! She can move things with her MIND!! Maybe even do more things. Maybe she could help people.

She glanced down at her hands and wondered about all the amazing things she could do with her powers. She could help major constructions by lifting heavy objects without breaking a sweat. She could save people from burning buildings by levitating them when they fall. She may even be able to cure cancer and end world hunger!! Of course, telekinesis couldn’t do that, but maybe she had other abilities that could.

She could be a hero.

And then Kitty’s gazed snapped over to her, and Joan didn’t feel like a hero at all. Just a worm trapped beneath the talons of a hawk. She instinctively shifted uncomfortably, tugging on her skirt to distract herself. Even after helping a man with his dislocated shoulder, Kitty and Maggie still looked at her as if she had just murdered their parents in front of them.

“Joan, you look…” Kitty trailed off with a sneer, still staring at Joan’s slightly pudgy legs and the thigh highs that concealed them.

“Great.” Anne cut in, glaring at her cousin in some sort of warning. “She looks great.”

“Not the word I would have used,” Kitty muttered, and Maggie giggled obnoxiously at her side.

Joan grit her teeth, but her flash of anger jolted away with a stagehand shoved the notebook she needed for the opening number into her hands silently. He glanced up at her for just a moment, then wrinkled his nose and scurried off to help someone else.

Joan felt more and more uncomfortable as she was prepared for the show. A few crew members, ones that still thought she was repulsive even after helping Mike, hadn’t wanted to touch her to put her mic on, so Cathy did it when she came down, apologizing to Joan softly for how stupid people were being. Joan, however, was too focused on all the stares she was getting. Out of the corner of her eyes, she swore she could see the director’s jaw drop when he saw her for the first time. He, at the very least, blinked twice at the sight of Joan, and the girl felt a small ounce of victory from that resolution. Of course, that good feeling was immediately washed away when the reality of the situation set in.

In less than five minutes, she was going to be performing in front of hundreds of people, some of which probably knew her and hated her, having not studied the script or the blocking/choreography with the intention of playing the character she was about to parade around as. And then, if that wasn’t enough, she had to have fake sex on stage with another woman and probably kiss her and attempt to have some sort of chemistry with her despite her girlfriend also being in the production. And, most importantly, her mother wasn’t there to support her through it all.

Holy fuck. Joan was going to die.

The stage lights soon dimmed, and she could hear Aragon’s voice over the intercom, reminding people to switch off their mobile devices. Joan wished that she heard Aragon say that a fire had started in the building so she wouldn’t have to step on stage, but no such luck. She felt someone nudge her forward onto the darkened stage as soon as the audience quietened, and Joan sucked a breath in. This was it.

“Break a leg!” Anne whispered somewhere from the darkness of the wings.

Joan took one more big breath.

And then she walked on stage.

She could barely feel her legs as she walked, as though she was working on autopilot.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name,” Joan murmured to herself, far too quietly for the mic to pick up (she didn’t even think it was on yet), “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven.” She stood in the position she had seen Jane stand in so many times before. “Amen.”

There was no turning back now, was there? She was in this for the long run. She was really doing this. As everyone else settled into position, she prepared herself to recite the lines she knew so well but never imagined she would be speaking.

“September 1st, 1989. Dear diary...”

As the music kicked in, the stage lights flickered on, nearly blinding her. She suddenly much preferred her nice, dark pit, but the bright light blocked out her vision of most of the audience, which she was so very thankful for. She couldn’t hear a single snicker or a mumble of disapproval, her voice didn’t crack, and she stood in the correct position.

Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as she thought.

The beginning of ‘Beautiful’ passed like a dream, though she struggled to contain her giddiness as stage fright slowly melted away, and she fully got into her role. It was a lot different being part of the ensemble, actually hearing lines being spoken directly in her face, than being in the pit where she just vaguely watched and frantically played music. It was only when she had to speak to confront Kitty that she felt her nerves kick in.

Because Kitty was looking at her like she wanted to fucking kill her.

Kitty, like Cleves and Anne, was dressed in a preppy, rich girl outfit from the ’80s, looking like an absolute vision in yellow. And she was glaring at Joan as though the other was wearing a trash bag, and Joan wasn’t wholly convinced it was a character choice.

So much for McNamara being the slightly good Heather.

Something about the look in Kitty’s eyes, though, was different than her usual leer. This seemed...personal. Even when Kitty was saying compliments to Joan’s character, there was an edge of spite that hadn’t been there before Joan had switched roles.

Joan’s musing was cut short by Cleves’ voice and Kitty’s hand brushing over her chest.

“And you know, this could be beautiful.” Cleves sang in her traditional deep bellow, a sardonic hint in her voice that only a few seemed to catch.

Kitty’s hand on Joan’s chest trailed across her body as Cleves sang, putting a cold emphasis on every time she said “beautiful”, as though pointing out to Joan that she was speaking something far from the truth. Joan barely had time to register this before she croaked out her line and was ushered backstage for her quick change.

Joan’s protective shroud—the skirt and cream shirt and coat—was ripped off of her before she had a chance to shrug it off. Her hair was brushed painfully into a more pristine style and more makeup was applied roughly before being shoved back onstage so hard she nearly fell flat on her face. She regained her balance, luckily not being seen by the locker set pieces, and waited.

What was with Kitty? Was she cranky because Jane didn’t get to perform with her?

Joan ended up being absorbed in conspiracies internally the whole time she was on stage, unwillingly. She spoke her lines with conviction, and her singing didn’t falter, but she was still thinking. Even during the finale of the opening number, where she had to hold what she knew was the Note of Death, she still had these thoughts in her mind. She barely even had time to gauge the audience’s reaction to her costume change or see if they realized who she was before the song ended and the dialogue began. Joan zoned out for most of it, reciting the lines she knew, until-

“Are we going to have a problem?” Cleves’ bold statement cut through the silence. Joan realized this was the start of the second number, and she swallowed thickly when she saw a menacing smirk stretch on Kitty’s lips. Her behavior the whole time had been off, and this was a song in which the entire aim was to push Joan around and show a display of power.

Cleves continued, saying her lines, which were laced with spite and malice towards a teenage girl who was just trying to save the show they’d worked so hard on. Joan didn’t have to do much other than accept the mild shoves off of the three Heathers; Cleves grinning, Anne smiling apologetically, and Kitty pushing Joan so hard she was sure there would be bruises. The blonde could not wait for the song to end, and as soon as she heard the roaring applause, she wanted so badly to make a run for it and escape the abuse but knew she had to stay. She had to prove that she was worthy of being there.

That she was just as good as them, if not better.

“You shouldn’t have bowed down to the swatch dogs and the diet coke heads. They’re going to crush that girl.” A deep, honey-slicked voice broke through after the applause died down.

Joan turned reluctantly and saw Cathy sitting on the part of the set made to be a staircase in her character’s trademarked trench coat, looking through her fringe at her. Some of the anxiety eased its process of clawing up Joan’s insides when she saw a warm, comforting look flicker in Cathy’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as she thought after all. Cathy was there with her, and even with her face twisted into one of cunning and deception, Joan felt much more comfortable with her nearby.

And then, something happened.

“I didn’t catch your name,” She said further in the first scene with Cathy.

“I didn’t throw it.” Cathy retorted smoothly, and Joan could see why Anne was so in love with her.

Joan giggled giddily, tugging on her sleeves in a way she thinks a girl would react to such a comment, and was surprised to hear the audience erupt into coos and awws. She blinked at them in delight.

They thought...she was cute.

Nobody ever thought she was cute, certainly not hundreds of people watching her on a stage.

Happiness welled up from within her. She could feel her doubt starting to melt away even more.

They liked her.

Joan couldn’t lie. Seeing Cathy fake fight two men in slow motion was something she was prepared for but didn’t expect it to be as amazing as it was. Joan wasn’t really paying attention to the scenes that didn’t concern her, conserving her efforts for when she was needed, but…damn. Cathy didn’t have to go off that hard, but she did anyway.

As Joan sang and maneuvered around the stage in the way she’d seen Jane do countless times before, she could barely even look at Cathy as she had to touch the woman. She attempted to keep her touches brief, but she really wanted the audience to like her, so she committed to the role of a lovestruck teenage girl. She had to remind herself that it was just the choreography, that it was just a stupid, kinda boring song, that Anne definitely wouldn’t think she was stealing her girlfriend.

Most of the beginning parts passed by in a blur. Whenever Joan was rarely offstage, she was wiping sweat off of her face as best as she could without ruining her makeup, taking quick sips of water, and attempting to catch whatever breath she could. When she was onstage, she spoke with as much effort as she could, and whenever Cathy was with her, she always felt her voice rise with more power and conviction. It was noticeable, she realized when she caught glimpses of the impressed audience through the blinding glare of the stage lights.

Big Fun soon came along, and Joan danced with more energy than she ever had in her entire life. She was so wrapped up in singing and laughing and smiling that she didn’t even worry about the possibility that there may have been poison in the shot glass she had to drink from (there wasn’t, but you never know). She had never felt so free before, so young and careless and happy.

This—this was what freedom was like.

She never wanted it to end. She could perform Big Fun for a hundred years and not be tired of how bouncy and crude she got to be. But alas, the party scene soon came to a close, and her anxiety made itself known again deep in the pit of her stomach.

Dead Girl Walking was about as awkward as she expected. She stammered over her lines for the first time, but managed to keep her singing voice steady enough to not completely crack beneath the sudden surge of stress and embarrassment, and was suddenly glad her mother didn’t come because she surely wouldn’t have liked seeing her up there straddling another woman.

Cathy was gentle like she promised, and Joan was so very relieved. But still, she wasn’t sure how she felt about losing her first kiss to another female who was already taken by someone and quite a bit older than her.

But it was over now! It was okay! Dead Girl Walking was over, and Joan didn’t throw up all over Cathy from the anxiety. Although she really, really felt like she was going to near the end, but not anymore!! In fact, she felt pretty damn proud of herself.

Me Inside Of Me and Blue came and went without a problem, although Joan swore Kitty was a lot meaner than her character was meant to be during Blue. The younger girl looked at her as if she actually wanted her to get sexually harassed by a group of guys, which made Joan give her an appalled look. She forgot about that too, though, and moved on. She shouldn’t think so much about someone who hated her guts.

Our Love Is God was frighteningly beautiful. Joan wasn’t expecting her and Cathy’s voices to go so well together, but she found herself being entranced to their harmony. The audience was into it, too. Joan swore she could hear them cooing in awe.

Joan couldn’t help but squeal in glee when she got offstage for intermission. She was so wrapped up in celebrating her current success that she almost forgot to rehydrate until Cathy pushed a water bottle into her hand with a laugh.

“I know you’re happy, sweetie,” She said, “but you need to drink some water.”

“Water!” Joan yelped. “Right! Got it!” She quickly got to guzzling down the contents of the bottle.

“Not that fast—!!”

Joan and Cathy both giggled. Out of the corner of her eye, Joan noticed Maggie roll her eyes, but Kitty continued to just stare at her with a weird look in her eye. When Maggie saw that Joan had noticed, she nudged her friend and they both bustled off further into the backstage area. Joan shrugged it off.

“Hey, Joan,” Said a voice Joan didn’t recognize. “You’re, um, doing really good!”

Joan turned around and saw three stagehands standing there looking sheepish. She blinked at them.

“Oh- thank you!” She smiled at them, and they all seemed surprised that she did. Then, they smiled back.

“Yeah, your vocal range?” Another piped up. “It puts Seymour to SHAME!”

Joan blushed. “Don’t say that! She’s really good!”

“But not as good as you!” The third said. “How did you get cast as the backup understudy? YOU should be in the all-star cast. YOU should be the main Veronica Sawyer.”

Joan felt dizzy from the flattery. She knew these three were trying to win her over with compliments because they were ashamed of their treatment of her, but she didn’t really care. She craved it. She wanted their uplifting words so badly that she didn’t even care if they apologized or not.

“Thank you,” She said again modestly. “Really. That means so much to me.”

They grin at her brightly. One looked over his shoulder when a name was called.

“Oh, gotta run,” He said. “Come on, guys. Break a leg for act two, Joan! Can’t wait to hear you sing again!”

“Did you see that?!” Joan cried to Cathy once they were gone, shaking her co-star. “Did you? They were praising me! They said I was better than Jane! ME!!”

“I’m so happy for you, sweetheart!” Cathy said. “I’m sure Anne is, too.”

“Where is Anne?” Joan asked. She turned to a stagehand. “Hey, do you know where Anne is? I haven’t seen her at all during intermission.”

The stagehand looked a tad uncomfortable, but not because of Joan’s presence. He fidgeted for a moment, then said, “There was...an incident. Anne had to be thrown out. Her understudy is finishing up the show.”

Cathy and Joan’s eyes widened.

“What?” Joan said.

“Thrown out?!” Cathy shrilled at the same time. “What did she do?!”

( “I should have known,” Aragon snarled, dragging the green-clad woman out the back door. “I should have known you were with Jane!”

“No!” Anne cried, struggling fiercely. “Catalina, you don’t understand! There’s a-!!”

“I don’t want to hear it!” Aragon roared. She shoved open the door and threw Anne to the ground. The bright moonlight illuminated her horrified facial features. “You are SICK, Anne Boleyn! You and Jane Seymour and your little weasel of a cousin! I knew you were going to try and ruin this for Joan! Well, I’m not going to let you. I hope the rats eat you out here!”

“No, Catalina, wait!!”

But it was too late. Aragon slammed the door shut and promptly locked it. Anne slammed on it and yelled as loud as she could, but nobody opened up. Every other entrance was locked and guarded by someone, too.

Anne sunk to the cold asphalt, tried not to cry, and prayed to God that she hadn’t actually seen Jane Seymour and her boyfriend up in the rafters with a bucket of something poised over the stage.)

“I don’t know,” The stagehand said with a useless shrug of his shoulders. “I just heard them screaming. Catalina seemed really mad about something.”

“Goddamnit, Anne,” Cathy muttered, then caught the anxious look on Joan’s face. She gently touched her shoulder. “It’s okay, sweetie. It’ll be just fine. I’ll give Anne a very stern talking to tonight.”

Joan nodded, even cracking a small smile.

It wasn’t long before act two began and Joan had to enter again. She nearly burst into tears when the audience cheered and clapped when she stepped into view and she tried very hard not to beam at all of them.

They liked her. They really, really liked her!

My Dead Gay Son had Joan giggling throughout its entirety. At the same time, as she sang along and danced to the silly lyrics, a part of her wished her mother was like the dads in the song. She wished that she was as open-minded and accepting and less overzealous.

She wished she was there.

Bernadette would have been so proud of her, she just knows it. She would have been proud of her vocal range during Seventeen and funny, but on-point dancing in Shine A Light and rebellious voice when she yelled at Maggie after that song, which felt AMAZING, by the way. Especially when she actually saw the girl reel back slightly at her venom-flecked words. And then, there was the scene that sent Joan on cloud nine.

“No! Stop!!” Joan yelled, darting across the stage and barreling into Kitty with enough force to actually send her sprawling to the ground. Watching the younger girl squirm on her side like a flipped-over turtle wasn’t something that Joan had always wanted to see until that moment.

“Suicide is supposed to be a private thing!” Kitty whined in a woebegone voice, but her eyes reflected great hatred for Joan. Definitely not a good acting choice in Joan’s opinion- the front row was gonna notice that and be confused.

“Throwing your life away to be another statistic in the USA Today is probably the least private thing I can think of,” Joan rattled off perfectly.

“But what about Heather? And Ram and Kurt?” Kitty replied.

“If everyone jumped off a bridge, young lady, would you?”

“Probably,” Kitty mumbled, and then gave Joan a fierce look that said, “But not without pushing you off first.”

“If you were happy every day of your life, you wouldn’t be human. You’d be a gameshow host.” Joan told her, letting her gaze slide off of her. There was something very satisfying about the look of powerless fury on Kitty's face, and she soon realized it was because Kitty couldn’t do anything to her onstage. She couldn’t harm Joan, or else she would ruin the show and be hated, too.

Kitty spits the fake pills (which were really just TicTacs) into her hands. Joan was sure she was grinding her teeth when she said, “Thanks for coming after me.”

And then they had to hug. Which was supremely awkward. And Kitty dug her claw-like manicured nails into Joan’s back, but Joan got to discreetly pull some of her hair, so it was okay. And it still didn’t ruin Joan’s good mood that lingered for the remainder of the show.

She was amazing. She was talented. She was a star.

The audience liked her, Cathy and Aragon and Anne liked her, some of the crew were even starting to like her, too.

Never before had Joan heard so many people cheering. Cheering for her.

When the lights came back on after the final number and cast members went out one by one for curtain call, the audience screamed and clapped so loudly. The background characters went first, then the parent characters, then the teachers, then the Heathers, followed by JD, and finally, it was Joan’s turn.

She went out rather timidly at first, instinctively being way too modest, but then the audience shrieked, and she lurched into a gleeful run.

She stood beside Cathy on the apron and Cathy gestured grandly to her, which made the audience scream again. Joan almost crumpled to her knees and thanked THEM when she bowed, but she managed to remain on her feet. She smiled at everyone watching, finally able to see them with the lights dimmed, and she hadn’t realized how many people there really were. And they all adored her performance. They were even on their feet cheering! For her! She got a standing ovation!!

She squealed and leaped into Cathy’s arms, who laughed and twirled her around happily.

“You did amazing, sweetheart!!” Cathy cried over the ending music. The others were dancing behind them blissfully. Joan started to dance a little, too, kicking her feet and swaying once she was released. Cathy laughed and brushed her cheek affectionately. “Look at you. You little bundle of energy.”

Joan giggled, blushing harder. “Thank you, Cathy.”

They clasped their hands together and did a final bow. The audience howled, and Joan smiled wider than she ever had in her entire life, for once not gripped by the fingers of anxiety that were usually wrung so tightly around her throat. She was free.

And then there was a hushed bark from above, a clatter of metal and creaking of rope, and the doors to the booth burst open just in time for Aragon and the other crew members to step out and watch as a bucket of blood dumped out right over Joan’s head.

Silence.

One by one, the clapping stopped, the cheering died off, and the smiles fell until the only sound was the creak of the rope the bucket was attached to and the splattering of blood on the floor. Nobody moved, nobody breathed, nobody spoke a word.

But then Joan began to tremble.

And then cry.

And then scream.

She screamed a horrible, nightmare-haunting scream that reverberated throughout the auditorium and jammed itself into the ears of the audience and cast alike. She brought up her shaking hands to hug her blood-soaked body tightly, continuing to shriek and keen as she did so. Blood was covering her entire frame, sliding down her face and mingling with tears, soaking into her hair, washing her blue costume an awful shade of purple-red. She screamed and screamed and screamed, staring helplessly out at the audience. There, she saw a young boy clutching onto his mother and father with fear in his eyes. She saw a group of teenage boys, but none of them were laughing like their normal punk demeanor would imply they would do. She saw two girls clinging to each other, shaking. She saw another girl with her phone poised on her bloodied body. She saw Aragon among the crowd, staring up at her with a terrified expression, a hand clamped over her mouth. And Joan stared back at her—back at all of them—and sobbed, soaked to the bone by blood and misery and humiliation.

And then the video of Joan in the showers, completely naked, bleeding all over herself, crying in confusion flickered on the background sike. And people started laughing. Not everyone, but several cast members, Kitty and Maggie being the loudest, and dozens of other cruel audience members.

“WHAT THE HELL?!” Cathy roared in outrage. She was the first to snap out of her frightened trance and began to twist around, looking for the culprit. “WHO DID THIS?!”

She found them in the wings: Jane Seymour and Henry Tudor, limbs entwined, cackling, disgustingly gleeful expressions on their faces.

“JA—!!” Cathy went to scream at them, went to call attention to who had done such a thing, went to attack them both, but she was cut off by a creaking from up above and something heavy and hard slamming into her head.

The metal bucket fell first, and then Cathy, whose legs crumpled horribly inward beneath the weight of her body. She collapsed into an awkward sprawled position, and Joan darted down to her side in an instant, crying out her name. Joan shook the woman vigorously, begging her to wake up, but Cathy didn’t budge. A moment later, Joan sat back rigidly because her hands were covered in blood so dark it looked black. Blood that wasn’t there before.

There was a gash on the top of Cathy’s head, a crack in her skull, and some of her brains were pouring out onto the stage.

Joan noticed this, along with a flash of fragmented white bone, but, this time, she did not scream. Or cry out. Or whimper.

Instead, she sat there, staring levelly at Cathy’s ruined head with both hands laid flat on the trench coat that was slightly spattered with blood from the bucket. She was still crying, but something was different. A steely glint had entered her eyes and there was a strange, off tightness to the way she was sitting now.

There was no ripple or twitch that went over her face or any other real indication that there was anything wrong. It had just suddenly stopped weeping and gone very, very still.

Sometimes people did crazy things when they were worked up. There was always some dumb high school student who would think it was a good idea to threaten a bigger, much tougher upperclassmen just to show everyone how masculine he was or some poor sucker that got cocky enough to hit on that hourglass-figured woman in the tiny dress, only to find out that she was happily married to someone named Biff, who had biceps the size of small dogs and also happened to be standing right behind them.

That was normal. That was just people for you. Everyone had seen or heard of all of that and more.

But sometimes, you’d get the individual who had something else wrong with them. Something deep inside that was there way before even a bout of stubbornness flicked on their brain. They’d look perfectly normal because whatever was wrong with them, it was the sort of break that you could patch up with metaphorical glue and hide from the world as long as you had the presence of mind to do so. Then the anger or misery or pain melted that glue away and split the break wide open and let all those bad things that were locked away come boiling out like pus from an abscess.

And, out of nowhere, that same calm, smiley person who you were just talking to about the Red Sox-Yankees game could suddenly be pressing your head into the bar with their elbow in your throat, eyes alight with hysterical rage, all because you’d done something as small as accidentally scoot your drink a little too far in their direction.

And right now, somewhere behind those horrifyingly blank silver eyes and that tight frown, the bucket of blood and Cathy’s cracked open head had made those last strands of glue stretch out and break, like the little filament in a light bulb fraying and making that final ping! sound before it snapped and burned the bulb out.

There was something very, very wrong with Joan Meutas.

And she was a walking nightmare that nobody had seen coming.

An uncomfortable silence had descended on the audience and cast. They had all sensed it, too, that weird light that had turned on behind the blood-soaked girl’s eyes like the tiny, silvery start of a fire, flickering silently in the corner of a room.

Joan stood very, very slowly as if she were underwater, or her muscles were buckled into place. Her movements weren’t right- they were too twitchy and abrupt like a robot with rusted limbs. And her eyes—god, her eyes... They were wider than humanly possible.

She stood, dripping with blood, tears still streaming down her cheeks, and stared out at the audience. What they didn’t know was that she was sending her powers through the theater, locking every possible exit securely from the outside to ensure that none of them got out—especially those who were on the stage with her.

Her head jerked to the side, and a giant gash was opened up in the wall. The people shrieked in fright, and those who were suddenly lifted into the air screamed even louder. Judgment was nigh, and Joan was reading their souls. Those who were worthy of life, like the children and anyone who didn’t laugh at her, were thrown out of the hole in the wall. But everyone else, the girl still recording her, the boy who she could see had knocked up his girlfriend and dumped her once he found out, the man in the second row who had been in a hit-and-run, everyone onstage, even if they had been nice to her that day, were locked inside. She closed the hole, not caring if families had been separated (like the mother who wailed for her husband and the baby that she forced him to have, which both had been thrown out), switched a spotlight on her to a dark shade of crimson, and prepared for purification.

Starting with the ringleaders of her torture.

Kitty and Maggie screamed as an invisible force dragged them up to the front of the stage and made them kneel before the crowd.

“Please, please stop, Joan!” Kitty whimpered.

“We’re sorry!” Maggie added fearfully.

Joan didn’t answer them. She didn’t even look at them, rather stared at the very edge of the stage with her impossibly wide eyes and those wretched sick lights flickering behind them, and that alone was enough to tell Kitty and Maggie that they were getting no mercy. But still, they begged.

“We’re sorry!” Kitty said, now sobbing. “We’re so, so, so sorry! Please don’t hurt us!”

“We’ll do anything!!” Maggie wheedled.

Joan glanced at her, then Kitty, and then Kitty’s hands began to raise against her will. Joan looked back down at the floor as Kitty started to squeal in fright and cry harder.

“What are you doing to her?!” Maggie cried.

“Please, please stop!!” Kitty howled at the same time. Her manicured yellow nails rested against her belly and pressed inwards, guided along by inhuman telekinetic strength. “Stop, stop, stop— no!!!”

With a sickening squelch, Kitty’s fingers breached her flesh and sunk knuckle-deep into her stomach. She threw her head back and screeched in pain, which became more and more gargled as her nails cut the gash open wider.

“Mummy! Daddy!” She suddenly sobbed to the audience, blood pouring out of her mouth. “Help me, daddy! Mummy, please!”

Joan stiffened, and Kitty’s hands froze their process of emaciating. Kitty took a deep, sharp breath that was thick with blood, coughed a few times, then looked up at Joan, whimpering. Joan looked down at her, too, and it was only when she turned to look at the frozen video of her naked on the sike that Kitty truly realized all she had done to this girl.

“I’m sorry,” Kitty whispered.

Joan stared at her for a long time, then closed her eyes, and Kitty ripped out her small intestines.

The audience shrieked. Horror rolled off of them in waves that crashed against the stage like a restless ocean during a thunderstorm. The tide of their terror mingled with Kitty’s blood, which was spilling out all over the apron as she fervently pulled out all her organs and showed everyone what she was truly like on the inside.

Joan didn’t wait to watch her finish. She turned to Maggie with a wry expression and made her lift her hands to her mouth. Maggie shook her head and whimpered, her eyes becoming round holes of horror as she reached inside, grabbed her tongue, and pulled it out.

Her body fell before Kitty’s did. It tumbled limply off the stage while she was still gagging and gargling; Joan was leaving her to choke to death—to suffer before she finally died.

Suddenly, from behind, Cleves lunged forward with her fists raised, screaming in fury. Joan didn’t even look at her as she wrenched an overhead pipe loose from up above and plunged it into her chest, pinning her to the ground.

Several actors began to scatter. The pipe flew around and jammed itself through the spot that connected the victim’s jaw to her neck. It went all the way through and left her nearly decapitated, spasming wildly on the ground before death overcame her and she stilled. A moment later, the pipe spun and sailed straight through a man’s stomach.

By this point, pandemonium has erupted throughout the entire theater. Everyone was running around screaming, panicking, crying. They’re trampling over each other like caged cattle—and they very well may have been, because they were all going to burn like the filthy cows they all were.

Sparks shot out from wires and spotlights overhead. Fragments of tech equipment exploded everywhere and tongues of fire curled outward hungrily, roaring like angry dragons. Kitty finally teetered off of the stage, dead and very, very empty. The curtains went up in flames. A chunk of a spotlight slammed into a man’s face and killed him instantly.

Fire. Everywhere. The destruction was instantaneous.

Joan stood amid the havoc as flames billowed out across the theater, consuming everything in its path. A few daring plumes attempted to wrap around her and devour her flesh, but it didn’t get very close before she pushed it away. It sizzled and hissed at her in a disgruntled manner, then sprinted off in another direction, giving up. Joan huffed in through her nose and then breathed in the acrid scent of burning flesh and smoke, but she willed herself not to cough. She would not show any sign of weakness, even to the lack of air around her.

And then, there was a scream.

“JOAN!!!!”

Joan jolted and stared out at the crowd in horror. There, she found Aragon, bleeding and bruised from being trampled, struggling forward. Towards her.

Aragon was coming to her.

Joan watched with wide eyes as Aragon pushed through screaming people and burning people and dead people, through wreckage and flames, just to get to her.

Aragon stepped into a pool of Maggie’s blood and reached out a hand, which was speckled with burns from flying ashes and sparks. Joan stepped back, her foot squelching under what she thinks is Kitty’s kidney, but Aragon persisted, reaching out further, even if it meant pressing up against the pools of blood and organs on the stage. After a moment of resistance, realizing that she wouldn’t be hurt, Joan crouched on her weak knees and took Aragon’s hand.

“Please,” Aragon whispered, squeezing tightly. “Please stop.”

Joan looked into her eyes and, despite the things she’s just done, still saw so much love inside of Aragon. Love she has for her. Love she wanted to shower her with. Love that could always be hers if she just stopped.

Joan smiled tightly, painfully, lifted Aragon in the air, and threw her outside through a weak part of the wall. She’ll be burned and may have a few broken or at least cracked bones, but she’ll be alive. Joan patched up the hole her body made and then turned to the rest of her victims.

The girl who had recorded her when she got dumped with blood stumbled to the ground, her limbs turning crisp and black. Behind her, several people were screaming as their hair and clothing caught fire. Someone howled in pain from within a larger portion of the fire. A few people that were so charred that their gender couldn’t even be determined lay half in, half out of the flames, gasping as dark smoke filled their lungs. Dozens more were already dead in various stages of burning. And Joan watched them all in silence before turning and walking through the flames engulfed in the backstage, slipping out the back door.

The moon was high in the sky, glowing nearly as bright as the inferno that was the theater. Joan avoided the police and firefighters she could hear from the front by using the back alley and exiting out onto a dark, abandoned street.

She could start to feel the burns she got from the fire more and more as she staggered home. Each step brought starbursts of agony sparking through her flesh, flashing bright colors behind her eyelids. She tried not to keep her eyes closed for too long.

Up ahead, a fancy red car pulled around the corner. The headlights glared against her, causing the blood drenching her body to glimmer like melted rubies. She narrowed her eyes. The car sped up, and she could soon see Jane and Henry through the windshield.

“Fucking run her over, Henry!” Jane was screeching like a madwoman.

Henry pressed on the gas. Joan stopped in the middle of the street and stared at him. The car began to wobble treacherously. Henry grunted in pain.

“Henry? What the fuck?” Jane cried. A moment later, she watched as her boyfriend’s head imploded and showered her face in blood, flesh, bones, and brains. She screamed.

Joan tilted her head slightly, catching the car before it could crash. She ripped Jane out of the car and threw her to the asphalt.

“You fucking monster!” Jane yelled. “You’re a fucking pig! What have you done?!”

Joan squinted at her, then jarred free any sharp objects she could locate on the car. They floated nearby, trained on Joan’s back.

“What have you done?” Jane whispered again, this time with growing terror in her voice. “TELL ME!! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?! Wh...where is Kitty?”

The impromptu knives pierced Jane’s flesh. Jane let out a gargled scream, blood splattering from her lips. Joan watched her silently, then began walking away.

“Joan!” Jane cried, feeling her guts leaking out from several different holes. “Joan, don’t you fucking leave me here!”

Joan kept walking, deaf to her words.

“Joan!” Jane yelled again, this time with a voice that was thick with tears. “Joan, p-please, don’t leave me! I don’t want to die! Please, I’m sorry! Please don’t let me die!”

Joan doesn’t stop.

“Joan?! JOAN!!!”

———

The house was deserted, lit only by moonlight filtering in through the windows and a few flickering candles. Joan trudged up the staircase, dripping blood as she went, and careened into the bathroom. She hauled her aching body over the edge, still in her Veronica Sawyer costume, and collapsed into the bathtub before it was even full with an inch of water. She remained curled up in a ball until it became too deep for her head to stay above the surface comfortably and she had to stretch out. She watched as the water around her turned a reddish-pink color with glazed, hollow grey eyes.

The tears came fast. She cried silently, not making a peep, not even shuddering. Her shoulders didn’t even shake. She just laid back in the tub and stared up at the dark ceiling, weeping in the dark bathroom.

She wasn’t sure how much time passed after that, but she eventually heard the creak of the old floorboards in the hallway. A moment later, her mother appeared, illuminated by musty shafts of moonlight from the small bathroom window.

“Mama,” Joan croaked. Her voice was so weak.

Bernadette approached slowly, but her fear of being attacked diminished when she realized that Joan was in no condition to attack anyone. She just lay there in the tub, shivering and crying, surrounded by bloody water. Tears streamed down her ashen face, which was still drenched in coagulated streams of blood. There were yellow-brown, painful-looking burns spattered on her shoulders, neck, and upper back.

She looked utterly pathetic.

Bernadette crouched beside the bathtub. Joan strained her burned neck to look at her.

“What happened at the—” The pitiful thing couldn’t even form a complete, coherent sentence. Her voice died off halfway through and didn’t come back.

“The Lord says thou shalt not suffer,” Bernadette said.

“They called me—monster—mama,” Joan said with great difficulty, but even then her sentence was choppy and missing words that had been so mumbled that they were indescribable. She was so disorientated and out of it that she looked close to near unconsciousness.

And then she noticed the bloody water she was submerged in.

It was like a switch being flipped. Only then did Joan seem to realize what had been and still was coating her body. She let out a strangled, high-pitch whimper and looked helplessly up at her mother.

“P-please t-tell me what h-h-happened,” She begged, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks.

“You were weak, Joan.” Bernadette said, plucking away a bloody lock of hair that had been glued to her daughter’s face. “I told you your sin would find you.”

“I can’t remem—remember.” Joan squeaked out.

But she could, clear as day could she remember killing all those people. She was just too dazed to firmly grasp the situation.

“H-h-help me.” She begged. “Mama—help me.”

Bernadette looked down at her for a long time, studying her bloody child, then said, “Let’s pray.” She cupped Joan’s wet face. “Say it with me: lay me down to sleep.”

“L-lay me—lay me d-d-down to—sleep,” Joan choked out.

“And pray the Lord,” Bernadette said.

“A-and pray—the Lord—my s-soul—” Joan struggled. “My soul—to kee—” The rest of the word was gargled when she was shoved roughly under the bloody bathwater.

Joan’s reaction was instant. She began to squirm and struggle, splashing water out everywhere, but she was much too weak and small and frail to fight her mother, who held her down firmly. But still, she screamed and she cried and she swallowed down bloody water until she couldn’t anymore.

Joan’s thin little body began to still in the tub, but her mind still flickered. Blackness was glazing over her head, tugging her into a peaceful void, and she leaned into its serene coldness. But not without breaking the window and sending a jagged piece of glass straight into her mother’s throat.

———

After watching the theater go up in flames and losing Cathy, Anne didn’t think the day could get any worse. But then she drove to the Meutas house and found the mother with her neck cut open wide and the daughter submerged in a bathtub full of bloody water and things turned to hell.

Anne lurched forward with a cry of shock, pulling Joan out of the tub. She pressed her ear against the girl’s chest and barely heard the flutter of a heartbeat. What she could hear, though, was the sloshing of water inside of lungs.

“God, please do NOT let her die,” Anne muttered, her nails digging into Joan’s forearms. “Please don’t let her die.”

She released her vice grip, and jewels of blood drops bloom from the contact area. That’s the least of her concerns, though.

Her fingers move to pinch shut Joan’s nose and open her mouth. Remembering very vague lessons of revival, Anne began to give the tiny girl CPR.

The first attempt did not work.

“If you die- if you abandon me too- I WON’T forgive you! You hear me? I won’t!”

Joan’s features remain horribly pale.

Anne is shaking all over. The thought of this little girl dying is utterly terrifying.

She tried again, forcing air into Joan’s lungs and pressing on her chest.

Nothing.

Joan doesn’t stir.

“Please, Joan, please just breathe. Please come back, I-I need you!”

Once more.

Nothing.

Tears are gathering in Anne’s eyes.

“Breathe, damnit! Don’t you dare die on me! Do you hear me? Listen to me, young lady! JOAN!!!”

Anne’s fists come down on Joan’s stomach, and water is spit up into her face.

Anne fell backward, clawing at her eyes as if she thought she had been sprayed with acid. In front of her, she can hear horrid coughing and wheezing, but also breathing. Joan was breathing and alive.

Alive and very, very shaken.

“MAMA!!!”

Joan threw herself at her mother’s corpse before she had even fully recovered from her coughing fit. She smothered her face against her mother’s chest, and it came back red with fresh blood when she pulled away.

“Why?!” She shrieked at Anne. “Why did you bring me back?!”

“You were going to die!” Anne said.

“Maybe I WANTED to die! Have you ever thought about that?!” Joan held tighter to her mother, weeping. “Why couldn’t you just leave me alone? N-none of this would have happened...”

“I—” Anne faltered. “I’m sorry.”

Joan’s body shuddered and she grit her teeth. An unseen force coiled around Anne’s body and suspended her in the air tightly. It felt as if the atmosphere was crushing her.

“Look what you turned me into.” Joan whispered.

“P-please don’t hurt me,” Anne begged.

“Why not?” Joan asked, a pained smile tugging on her bloody lips. Tears start to roll down her cheeks again. “I’ve been hurt my whole life.”

Anne stared at her in horror, realizing it was true. The girl before her had been hurt more than she ever had been in her entire twenty-seven years of life.

How has Joan lived with so much pain inflicted on her tiny little body?

Joan bent over her mother and whimpered against her bloody shirt. She kept nuzzling into her chest, keening softly, and then looking up at her mother’s face, as if she was hoping her affection and presence would wake her up. When it didn’t work, she tried again and again and again, and it was the saddest thing Anne had ever seen in her entire life.

“I killed my mama,” Joan whispered. “I want her back...”

It was awful to see a child bound to such a witch of a woman. Anne knew this lady had hurt Joan severely, and yet Joan still loved her.

A crack suddenly zigzagged through the wall. Anne managed to jerk her head around to see several other cobwebs of crevices splinter through the walls around them. The earth began to shake without stopping, a continuous tremor that jarred Anne’s teeth in her head and made her feel as though the floor was about to drop out from under all of them.

“Joan!” Anne cried. “We need to leave!”

“No,” Joan held firmly to her mother’s corpse, curling against it loyally. “I’m not leaving.”

“Joan, please!” Anne begged. “I can’t lose you, too!”

That made Joan look up.

For just a moment, Anne felt a glimmer of hope when Joan sat up slightly, but then she looked back down at the corpse and the costume she was still wearing and crumpled right back into a fetal position. Anne then realized that she didn’t just want to stay with her dead mother—she was immobilized by pain and grief and trauma.

Joan wanted to die.

And there was nothing Anne could do to stop her.

“Goodbye, Miss Anne,” Joan whispered, smiling weakly up at her. She was curled into a tiny ball under her mother’s arm with her head on her chest. The tears running down her cheeks didn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon. “I’m glad—I got to know you.”

And then, Anne is thrown out through the wall by a psionic blast.

She tumbled, rolled, spun through the air in a deathly freefall before she’s caught again and gently set on the grass. She bolted up instantly and watched through her tears as the house was swallowed by the earth, devouring the walls and the floors and the furniture and that awful crucifix Anne had seen in the kitchen until there was nothing left to mourn.

Joan Meutas was dead, and no amount of praying would bring her back.

———————————————————

“What’s mama doing?” The auburn-haired six-year-old asked, peeking out from the backseat. Her red-headed toddler sister burbled in curiosity at her side. “Where ARE we?”

“Just...a place, Mary,” Aragon answered, gripping the steering wheel tightly. She tried to take deep breaths, but she still began to scratch at the pale burn scar that wrapped around her upper back and shoulders- a constant reminder of that night. She could feel tears start to prick in her eyes like hot needles. She didn’t know how Anne was out there.

It’s been five years since the West End Massacre, and Anne and Aragon alike were still both reeling. One hundred and twenty-seven people had died that night by the wrath of a tortured child. And, after a long time away from London, they finally decided to visit the grave of that child.

“JOAN MEUTAS BURNS IN HELL” was scrawled across the tombstone in bright red spray paint. Anne read it over and over and over again, her nose twitching with disgust. She can feel her body shaking and she tried her best to stamp down her nerves. She’s thirty-two, goddamnit, and it was five years ago. So why was she still clinging to the memories of a girl she knew for six days?

She set down the bouquet of white roses at the grave and stepped back. Standing on the property of the old Meutas house felt wrong like Bernadette Meutas might claw her way out of the dirt and pull her down to hell. She shivered, then bowed her head, trying to pray, but prayers only made her feel sick nowadays.

“Damnit,” She sighed, rubbing her face slowly. When she looked up again, she saw something in the nearby trees...a raven with patchy plumage that reflected rainbows across the black feathers in the sunlight. It tipped its head at her, cawed once, then flew off in a flurry of sparkling ebony.

“I have daughters now,” Anne whispered. “If you care. Probably not, but...” She kicked a pebble. “Their names are Mary and Elizabeth. They’re wonderful. I love them with all my heart.” She paused, her voice softening. “I miss you.”

A tear rolled down her cheek. And then another. And then another.

“Catalina does, too.”

Another beat of silence. Anne sniffled, trying to wipe away any more tears, but they just kept coming.

“I’m sorry we didn’t visit you. You must be so lonely.”

Silence. In her head, Anne begged, Please. Please say something. Move something. Show me that you’re still there.

“I miss you,” She whispered again.

When she got no reply of any kind, she hiccuped. Which built into a whimper. Which built into a sob.

Anne began to sob, sinking to her knees. She dug her fingers into the gravel and rubble surrounding the vandalized tombstone, relishing the feeling of flint and rocks scraping against her skin. She shivered and shuddered, unable to calm herself because waves upon waves of bottled-up grief and guilt were slamming against her at max force. All she could do was kneel there and cry and cry and cry until she couldn’t cry anymore and just gasped pathetically.

“You were amazing, Joan, I hope you know that.” Anne choked out. “You truly were a blessing. And I am so honored I got to meet you, you wonderful, sweet girl.”

She sniffled and wiped her stinging eyes. She tried her best to smile as if the girl were actually there with her.

“I have to go now,” She said. “Goodbye, Joan.”

“Mummy’s coming back!” Mary yipped excitedly from inside the car as Anne walked back over.

“Mama bwought fweind!” Elizabeth babbled.

Aragon tensed. Anne froze. And they both whipped around to the tombstone and the squishy parrot toy that hadn’t been there before.

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marithlizard · 4 years ago

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Thoughts on RWBY v8c1, “Divide”

Summary: Much as expected! Top-notch animation and imagery, terrifying plot, sloppy writing.

(I am just going to have to accept that RWBY no longer cares if details make sense, or are strictly in character, as long as they lead to Something Cool. Which is frustrating! I’ve never been particularly a fan of most of the big story franchises for precisely that reason - I want a canon text that holds up to my obsessively analytic fangirl scrutiny.)

(Yes OKAY I know, they sent a dog through the mail way back in v2 and that should’ve been a clue, but the plot holes didn’t get big enough to actually annoy me until v5-v6. And I still love my favorite characters so I’m going to have to suck it up. Onward to the episode!)

CINDER BACKSTORY ALERT

Oh, now that's a lovely transition, present-day Cinder’s nails scratching in time with past-Cinder’s scrubbing of the floor.

Damn it, Neo, you should not be here. You're not evil enough for this crowd no matter how many people you may have killed. And you know it, from that look of fear. Roman would be yelling at you to run.

Did they - are those the murderwhale's gills? Turned into landing pads for small airships? And those are teeth. Salem's throne room/bridge is in its mouth. So cool.

Credit? No, you don't get credit, Neo. That's not how this works.

Oh, no. No, Emerald, don't - yeah.

I love the weird biomagical-Grimm technology Salem uses. It pulsates. Of course it pulsates.

"Without you I am nothing". I still don't think Cinder is delivering that line sincerely, not one bit. She just knows the situation.

And Salem just shoos them away with a little wave of her fingers, go away minion-flies. There are only two players in the entire world as far as she's concerned. Only two people, really. Humanity 2.0 doesn't count.

Oscar and Ozpin in a freezing little collection of hovels. Probably still the same quarry or mine they fell into. Oh YAY reunion approximately 1000% sooner than anyone was predicting! But...Oscar doesn't actually look relieved to see Ruby.

Yeah, he hasn't told them about Oz being back.

So they've joined forces with the Huntresses, excellent. And May Marigold on top of things as dispatcher!

AWWWW Nora didn't bowl him over. Hopefully it's not just that she has no exuberance in her, and she has actually picked up the clear signals that he doesn't like it.

Wanting to talk it out with Ozpin first is a good reason. Not done talking? You haven't even started. But...it's going to make the others mad all over again, and this time they'll be mad at you, Oscar.

Ozpin has had only two lines so far, but there's a different quality to his voice now. I think they changed up the sound effect but it's more than that. Oz used to always sound at least a bit smug and very self-assured. Every trace of that is just...gone. And Oscar himself is sounding very Oz-like, with the “every choice I’ve made has been the wrong one” angst. I’m starting to really worry we will lose Ozpin this volume. :(

Qrow and Robyn's arrest hasn't been publicized. But their pictures are gone from the wanted mug shots. Arrested or dead seem obvious conclusions - I guess they're too afraid of the second to make any guesses.

Ironwood's rationale last season for stopping the Mantle evacuations was that they were going to raise Atlas so there wasn't time. But that no longer applies, Atlas can't be raised without Penny. So he's just decided their lives aren't worth spending resources on. Which makes me wonder what's happened to the Mantle residents who have already been evacuated. Being warehoused somewhere in poor conditions with no one having a clue what to do with them? We probably won't find out. It's not the kind of detail RWBY is good at following up on, unfortunately.

Huh. I see the logic of the crater being warm and centralized...but when Salem attacks Atlas they're going to be directly underneath.

Ouch, that photograph and broken luggage are effective. I may have complaints about the writing but RWBY's storyboarders and animators do a stellar job.

Speaking of which, apparently we really ARE handwaving physics and major engineering projects so that Amity can be launched with Pietro's knowhow and a roll of duct tape. The only requirement is to push the equivalent of the big green button on a computer.

AND Ruby wants to go ahead with telling the world about Salem? Despite it having been acknowledged last volume that there would be global chaos and Grimm invasions? Ironwood's plan to "lend forces" after the fact was hopelessly inadequate and would have killed millions. Now there's no plan for aid at all.

ARGH - hm. Well. I guess I do see Ruby's point about feeling obligated to warn everyone Salem's army is on the move. But what defense can anyone else in the world mount? Atlas is the only place with a real army anyway. And the Beacon footage already triggered waves of despair and Grimm, I don't think Lionheart was lying about that. Ruby's plan just means people will die sooner. I'm with Yang, they should help Mantle and concentrate on fighting Salem here and now.

...wait,is Yang rebelling? Just like that? Is it v6c2 all over again with even less buildup? Ooh, no, because Ruby's not alone. It's a genuine party split.

Oh god, someone explain to Penny that she must stay out of Salem's clutches at all costs. That's a frightening level of naivete. In fact, they should be getting Penny the fuck out of Atlas and as far away as possible.

RNBWP and YJOR, Rainbow-P and, er, hm, the fandom will doubtless come up with a better name than "Orgy". An interesting breakdown. I'm just glad they were able to do it peacefully. (Although Nora sounds salty in the extreme and Ren looks betrayed.)

I'm just going to assume Pietro disabled the tracking on their scrolls, and that James can't find them using this phone call.

Oh, Ironwood. That is...not remotely convincing. But you think of her as a little kid still, one who was always eager to please before.

He's got a valid point from his chess-game perspective, it's true. If Salem gets all four relics, Remnant really is doomed. (He doesn't know about the summoning-gods clause, but even without that she could reshape the planet). But raising Atlas to keep it safe while she rains down destruction on the rest of the world is not a viable plan either morally or strategically.

Annd we cut to the Ace Ops without hearing Ruby's answer. Ace Ops looking variously depressed, impassive, and pissed off.

..er. Clover IS dead, right? Must be, or he'd be covered in IVs and monitors, but that we're standing in a medical facility next to Winter getting treatment makes it seem ambiguous. That's pretty cruel to the FairGame shippers, c'mon, they've suffered enough.

I wish I hadn't learned about the robot arm, because it would've been a nicely shocking reveal. It's not Pietro's work, James. Pietro left you and you'll be reminded of that every time you clench your inferiorly-made fingers.

Oof, Winter is tied to Ironwood by his sincere gratitude, as well as duty and loyalty. That bond is going to be tested further.

Okay the Councilors are acting like idiots. Martial law is a terrible idea 99% of the time. But when you have an massive Grimm army, a flying murderwhale and the queen of evil on your doorstep might be a reasonable time to contemplate the 1%.

did you - did you just kill a councillor

please tell me that was a warning shot

Harriet and Winter both have "my boss is going round the twist fast, oh shit" looks on their faces. And they exchanged a glance there.

And we end with the scene from the trailer of Salem ordering a flying monkey-bloodhound to fetch Oscar. She's talking to the lamp - I wonder if Jinn can hear? Probably not, it was definitely implied she was waking up from sleep in v6c2.

New opening! I've already commented on the dramatic title card of the others "turning their backs" on Ruby. Ooh, Clover's shadow is going to hang long over this season, apparently! And - whoa, THAT'S an unexpected juxtaposition of characters.

Are they going to team up? Is Harriet going to break Qrow out of prison, yell at him to stop being a lump and avenge Clover? Definite teamup for him and Robyn, unsurprising but good. (I don't think romance is in the cards for Qrow this volume, it'll be wall-to-wall doom, but for the record anyone who can give this man a happy ending is okay by me.)

It's just not looking good for Oscar and Oz at all. :(

Whitley and Willow in the credits! Yes please, they both have so much potential to grow out of Jacques' shadow.

Watts, you smug little fucker. Smug tall fucker. You know what I mean. Oh no - he’s going to hijack Ruby’s broadcast from Amity. It’ll be like Beacon but worse. That’s such a horrible idea that it is now my official prediction.

Interesting use of mirrors here.

That little glance between Yang and Ruby suggests they won't truly come to enmity, thank goodness.

I wonder if there's something significant in the relative positioning of Emerald and Mercury. Is he going to rise higher in Salem's ranks while she and Neo are reluctant, and possibly team up to escape?

"Some lives will end much too soon,some evil will never ever die" YES THANK YOU CASEY AND JEFF WE GET IT

Oh MY. RWBY falling into deep water just like Cinder, with golden sparkles that sure do make it seem a lot like the buried GoL pool of creation. The staff floating above out of reach. Is this hinting at an unwelcome transformation of some kind?

Scribbly outlines of weapons and Grimm and Penny, her colors changing. "HAPPY EVER AFTER" being crossed out and replaced by "HAPPY NEVER AGAIN".

hello yes I'm scared for the entire team, you can stop any time now.

#rwby #rwby spoilers #rwby v8 spoilers #rwby volume 8

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ginnyzero · 5 years ago

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Writing Breathable Moments; What/Why

I’ve mentioned “breathable/ma/quiet” moments in the past and how the Dawn Warrior has very little of them and the Lone Prospect is chock full of them. But I don’t believe I’ve ever explained what that means.

So, what are “breathable/ma/quiet” moments? Is it anything like breathable cotton?

No. Not really.

Breathable moments in your manuscript are moments of rest for the reader. In the Japanese, this is called “ma.” Miyazaki explains these moments as being extra. They are the rests between action. It’s the backgrounds, the sighs, the little moments in time between beats in the story that convey time, space and who the character is.

Not everyone is a fan of these types of moments. They feel that the ‘breathing’ room in the story slows it down and delays the action. That these scenes have no purpose and need to be cut out entirely. This is a very Western and very modern contemporary type of thinking where everything is about speed and the bottom line and cutting things “to the bone.”

Books of all types have been reduced to pulp fiction penny dreadfuls rather than Dumas or Dickens who were paid by the word and so they really bloated their works to get more money. Then there is the High Fantasy Tolkien approach where the breathable space in the story is Tolkien either giving backstory like in the Ents or describing massive amounts of scenery. Or, there is the Brian Jacques approach where breathable moments are describing epic feasts and putting in funny songs.

Whether or not you find these moments of rest important really depends on your style of writing. How much do you care about character and relationship development? How much do you care about relaying the background and history of your world? How important is describing the setting of your story? Is there something going on in the culture of your people that’s important enough to show it rather than to summarize it?

Because breathable moments, the quiet moments are about showing the intimate details of your characters, your setting, and your world building. Depending on what your goal is for your story is going to necessitate whether or not you have these breathable moments in your work.

Tolkien was trying to write a history. He wasn’t telling an adventure tale. He was relaying/translating a historical document. It was important to him to tell the history of the world, of the Ents, and to expound upon the landscapes. Whereas, his contemporary, Lewis was writing an allegory for children about the Christian life. To him, the story was more important than the details and history of the world. So much so, that he only included tiny bits of history that were important in the Lion, Witch, and the Wardrobe. It was only later in other books that we found out more about, say Jadis, and where she came from.

Are you a Tolkien or are you a Lewis?

Both types of storytelling are valid! It’s up to you as an author to decide how fast you want the action beats to proceed. Your story can be tight and fast and like an action movie in words. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Or your story can still be tight but punctuated with moments for viewers to relax. This could be more drama or art house or well, Spirited Away. Bang. Pause. Bang. Long Breathe. Bang. Bang. Pause. Bang. Bang. Bang. End. Or, the plot of your story can be conveyed with mostly breathable moments leading up to the final action. This is more maybe an adventure story or a thriller story type of set up. Maybe even horror.

Let me use different Urban Fantasy writers as examples. Kim Harrison and Patty Briggs have very little breathing room in their books. Patty Briggs writes books at about 110K words and Kim Harrison’s Hollow Series clocked in between 150K and 165K words. Kim Harrison usually put her biggest breathing moments at end of the book. Patty has a bad habit of even turning dates into major action sequences and cuts off any breathing before it really begins. Breathing room is more like a punch line. Most urban fantasy writers including Seanan Maguire, Faith Hunter, Jennifer Estep and Cassie Alexander all fall into the category (plus a few others I’ve read.) We are told these characters have friends and hobbies and lives outside of their job, but we’re never really given a chance to see them do more than ‘finger their shell collection.’ (I think that’s a Cat Adams example.) We “know” the characters, but at the same time, we don’t because we’re never given that breathing space where they aren’t about to be pushed off the edge of a volcano all the time. It’s all quips and punches but no long walks on the beach and banter with their friends.

Jim Butcher puts a moderate amount of breathing room in his books. Whether or not this is a good thing is debatable. Harry Dresden’s investigations don’t always involve a lot of explosions right off the bat. He is a private eye and this does involve some tedious things like “talking to people.” Harry isn’t completely without friends. He just tends to avoid them for months at a time until he’s got three days to save the world and then suddenly he needs them again. But at least we know that Harry walks his dog and spends time playing DnD with the Werewolves. Because we see it. Laurell K. Hamilton also has a moderate amount of breathing room in her books. Most of it is taken up with sex! Rachel Caine is also a good example. Occasionally, she drives her car real fast, manages to get a tan, and goes shopping.

The urban fantasy/dark fantasy writer with the most breathing room that I’ve read is Anne Bishop. Anne Bishop makes the characters and their relationships the heart of her story and the plot is moved forward more by what the characters do rather than outside forces acting whether the characters like it or not. For instance, in the Others series, the main character runs away and the villains are trying to reclaim her. She is learning how to live life as a normal person and hold down a job interacting with species that are in no way human. And these non-human creatures (who can look human) do everything they can to protect her and that is the story. So, there are long stretches of the book that is her learning her limits and how to do things like drive a golf cart. The characters and the culture is what makes the story enthralling. (And, yeah, you don’t want her to go back to the villains either. You’re rooting for her to remain free.)

You as a reader or writer have to decide what category you fit into. I’m more of a Jim Butcher/Anne Bishop preference type of reader/writer. I liked Kim Harrison well enough because there was enough words put into the book that I could sink my teeth into the world even if there wasn’t a lot of quiet moments. It was the fact the character never seemed to learn anything and became super special important that put me off The Hollows Series.

Now, back to my own books. In the Dawn Series, there isn’t a lot of breathable moments. I have Roxana and Marcellus go on a date. There is some teasing all around and at the end I have a wedding because there has to be a wedding. (Is it Roxana and Marcellus? I’m not telling you!) But honestly, the book goes from one action beat to the next with very little pause. It’s not a history. It’s an adventure story about a Princess trying to evade her curse. It doesn’t need a lot of history or explaining or paragraphs of ogling the scenery. None of that is important.

On the other hand, Tales of the Heaven’s Heathens MC, while not a history, I’m trying to write about a culture. It’s a mix of biker culture and in this case werewolf culture. I created a werewolf society that lives within the veil hiding from the greater human society. They don’t necessarily think like humans or act like humans completely. I want to show this instead of telling it. The characters also take jobs, security jobs, and they can either step aside and let things happen or they can take action doing something about it. The books are very character driven in this aspect.

For instance, in the upcoming book, I have a chapter or so where Savannah takes Gideon shopping. Now, I could just say that Gideon hates clothes shopping and be done with it. But Jasper is “special” and they don’t have department stores, so Savannah is being nice and taking him to where he needs to go to buy clothes. But that’s still not the point of the scene, the point of the scene is to compare and contrast Savannah and Gideon and their werewolf states of mind. I want to show the difference in how they’re handling being attracted to each other and resisting it. It’s part of the romance aspect of the book.

But for many people, many writers that type of scene would be redundant and be edited out because it has nothing to do with the main story of smugglers invading the Heathen’s territory. I agree. It doesn’t have much to do with that at all, except getting Gideon to look like a villain in leather pants.

Sometimes a girl just needs a boy to be in leather pants.

To me, the meat of the story in Heathen’s isn’t the explosions. It’s not the gun fights or car chases. It’s the people. It’s the families. It’s showing the relationships and how they work together for the good of the pack while still managing to have disagreements. (And it’s not as easy to write as you’d think because I’m going against years of ingrained prejudices about emotional labor. And I’m not a werewolf, I’m a human. I have to reorient my thoughts.)

It's also set in a future where the world has been reshaped by a war. The town they live in was built after the war to very specific codes. Eventually, we'll go to a huge city and I'll describe that too. That's breathable moments.

There are lots of readers (and publishers and agents) that really love books that are 100% action all of the time. They want books that are plot driven where the character is an afterthought rather than the instigator of the action. Which is fine. I get it. At the same time, there are those readers who like authors like Butcher and Bishop who put more ‘breathing’ space into their works. I think there is plenty of room for both.

#writing advice #writing tips #breathable moments #writing tumblr #writer tumblr #writrblr

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365daysofsasuhina · 5 years ago

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[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day One Hundred Ninety-Four: A Label You Hate ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata ] [ SasuHina, vulgarity ] [ Verse: A Light Amongst Shadows ] [ AO3 Link ]

He tries not to let it bother him.

In truth, when it comes to himself, Sasuke couldn’t care less what people think of him, what they call him, what they blame him for. He made peace with his own decisions as he made them. Even after all was said and done, there’s little he regrets. And that which he does, he knows there was no avoiding. The confrontation with Itachi was almost destined: he had no means to know Itachi’s truth, and therefore reasons to rescind his vow of vengeance upon his brother.

His actions after leaving Konoha - joining Orochimaru, aiding Obito, trying to wipe the Kage slate clean - have been questioned and scrutinized since they came to light. But though they weren’t the best path, Sasuke also knows it was one he had to walk.

And it’s not like he’s not attempting to make amends. True, he’d planned to travel, watch the world be reborn, and see what changes he himself could make with his new power. But in the end...he came back. Itachi’s return, his niece and nephew, and Shisui’s revelation of life all but solidified his intentions: if this is where his family is to be, then...he’ll be here too.

He hasn’t fully come to trust and feel comfortable in his birth village yet. Those responsible for the Uchiha massacre are all either dead, or stripped of power. And they, in truth, were the true roots of evil in Konoha.

...but he knows there are more.

There will always be more.

But, for now...Konoha is home once again. It’s where his brother’s family and his cousin remain. And though Sasuke has plans to help reshape Konoha from the inside alongside Itachi’s ANBU, he knows that will be a long road he’ll likely have to walk for the rest of his life. But he’s patient.

...but if anything happens to those he has left - if Konoha lifts a hand against them - he won’t hesitate to remove it. And then burn the rest to the ground. He’s paid far too much into this place to tolerate anything further against them. The Uchiha have more than paid their dues. Should anyone attempt to take anything else...Sasuke will not stand for it.

But it hasn’t all been easy. His agemates are still wary, even his team...which he can’t blame them for. The village as a whole - even after Itachi’s pardon by Kakashi - still mostly glower at any who dare to wear the Uchiha fan and flame.

When it comes to anyone giving him lip, Sasuke just brushes it off. Everyone knows he’s far too powerful to actually stand up against...but that doesn’t mean they don’t risk trying to push his boundaries just shy of his breaking point. He could swat them like flies...but he won’t. Words can’t hurt him. Little petty actions, either. The only thing he’d make a fuss over is anyone doing the same to his family.

...and they do.

Itachi - for reasons Sasuke feels he only partially understands - is rarely out in public. He’s either at home in the manor with his family, or at work. The younger brother assumes it’s to avoid the jeering and muttering, but he also figures Itachi cares little for anyone’s opinion. After all...he spent nearly a decade being hated by nearly everyone. Surely by now he’s numb to it.

But what truly pisses Sasuke off more than anything...are the accusations people throw at his brother.

Namely one label in particular: traitor.

Oh, how it boils his blood…! By now, everyone knows the story - the one Kakashi told when pardoning Itachi in the first place. The truth behind the massacre, Itachi’s mission, and the reasons behind his actions. Everyone knows he’s not really a traitor. Everything - even his death - was for the good of this thankless, petty village! Even now he serves them in the shadows within ANBU as he did before the fall of his clan.

So why…?! Why do they still regard him so? He only did what he was told - what their precious Konoha dictated to him, a boy with the world on his shoulders at thirteen. Manipulated not only by Konoha’s Kage and council, but the shadowy leader of Akatsuki. Sasuke knows more than anyone that the gentle boy Itachi had been wanted anything but such violence...but he had been led to believe it was the only way.

Sasuke can’t help but wonder if some kind of shame makes his brother hide as he does. Shame at falling for the tricks of those older than him. Shame at taking a route that may not have been as necessary as he’d been made to believe. Shame at having that truth exposed.

But his wife is right...if they are to truly clear the slate within Konoha, the Uchiha’s truth must be brought to light. If for no one else...then for the sake of their children. The past cannot be allowed to be repeated.

Or forgotten.

Itachi’s begged Sasuke not to lose his temper for his sake. But Sasuke now lives for one thing, and one thing only...and that is his family. The few shreds of it he has left.

But given Itachi’s insistence...he has no one to vent his frustrations to.

Well...almost no one.

“I just don’t get it,” he seethes one afternoon. “These people are so ungrateful…! If it wasn’t for Itachi and his sacrifices, there would have been civil war! So many more people would have died! And with Konoha weakened from the inside, it would be all too easy for the other lands to start yet another war trying to claim Hi no Kuni with it vulnerable!”

Across from him, brows wilted in a mix of concern and sympathy, Hinata just...sits and listens. The pair are currently seated at an outdoor table out front of a small cafe. Their blooming friendship - born out of things like the Hyūga and Uchiha alliance, and the rest of team seven making them third and fourth wheels - means that she’s one of, if not the only, person beyond his family he feels he can truly talk to.

“Bunch of ungrateful pricks,” he scowls, head held in a hand as he leans on the table with an elbow. “And Itachi just...takes it! Doesn’t say a word, lift a finger!”

“Well…” Hinata offers softly. “Neither do you, when it comes to people insulting you.”

“That’s because I actually was a bit of a bastard for a while,” Sasuke mutters. “And I’m not afraid of them. But Itachi...his choices weren’t like mine. All of them - all of them - were selfless. It just…!”

Giving a soft smile of understanding, Hinata reaches across the table and rests a hand atop Sasuke’s. His uncovered eye flickers to it, but he doesn’t move to pull away. “...I think it’s very telling about you that you feel so strongly for your brother this way. You want justice and fair treatment for him. That’s a v-very noble thing. But...I think Itachi has a point. Reacting and fighting back won’t change many - if any - minds. The only thing it would l-likely do is make them resent him all the more. Call him reactionary, unstable, violent...if he says he can handle it, then I believe him.”

“He shouldn’t have to…”

“I know...I certainly don’t agree with it. But at the same time...you have to pick and choose your battles. If something serious were to happen, I’m sure Itachi would act. Until then...he knows his limits, and he’ll keep to them.”

Sasuke heaves a curt sigh. “...sometimes I wish we could leave.”

“...you do?”

“I do.” Rather than move his hand still covered by Hinata’s, he shifts his posture and gestures with the other. “...this village hasn’t really been home for a long time. Just...a place to be. The only thing keeping me here is my family. And honestly…? If I could convince them to leave, I would. Take them somewhere where they wouldn’t have to suffer this abuse. Any of them. Even Shisui gets it, and he didn’t do a damn thing wrong! And Itachi’s wife, their kids…” Teeth grit in a snarl. “They don’t deserve this.”

“...and you do?”

...he has no retort for that.

“I think...the best thing you can do is keep leading by example. Be the bigger person. Where people sling mud, stay your hand. Where people curse your name, hold your tongue. Prove that you’re not what they think you are. It might not convince everyone...but I’m sure some will, in time, come to realize who you all r-really are.”

Rather than reply, Sasuke just sighs, form wilting a hair.

“...after all...I think you’re all good people. True, you’ve made some poor decisions...but in a lot of ways, you didn’t have any choice. And you did what you felt you had to for the g-greater good. Life is full of difficult choices. And no one makes the right ones all the time. Not even those everyone praises. You’re trying to better yourself, and your village, and this world. That is what matters. The only opinion you should worry about is your own. And I’m sure Itachi feels the same. Someday...things will get better. I’m sure of it.”

“...I hope so.”

Giving him a warm smile, the pair lapse into a quiet pause...and then Hinata realizes she’s still holding his hand. Going a bit pink, she carefully retrieves it. “S...sorry.”

“...nothing to apologize for, Hyūga.”

“Will you ever start calling me Hinata?”

“...one of these days,” he assures her, biting back a smile at her pout. “...but hey...thanks for listening. I know I bitch a lot. But I guess no one else wants to hear it.”

“I understand. And I’m glad you t-trust me enough to talk to me,” Hinata assures him gently.

“Right now, you’re about the only friend I’ve got.”

That...takes her by surprise.

Realizing he’s maybe said a bit too much, he glances aside, the tips of his ears pink. “...anyway...I should probably let you go. You’re a busy woman these days, right?”

“Well...yes,” she admits. “But...I’ve always got time for you, Sasuke-kun.”

“...same goes for you.” Refusing to let her pay her tab, he watches her get up and leave, not yet feeling like rising himself. A long sigh escapes his nose. He always feels so much...calmer after talking with her. She’s a good listener...reminds him a bit of Itachi’s wife. Must be why they’re such good friends.

Maybe she’s right...maybe he takes this all too seriously. But anger was his guiding emotion for so long...letting go of it isn’t so easy. And what better way to vent it than in defense of his family?

...he’ll try to rein it in. See if it makes a difference in how...irritated he gets at times. It’ll still likely piss him off - he can’t just not hate people badmouthing his family. But he’ll try to be a bit more like his brother.

He can’t help but hope she’s right.

.oOo.

Welp, more random ALAS stuff! Sasuke and Hinata having a little chit chat regarding Konoha's continued poor treatment of the Uchiha. That's a major factor in the post-699 arc of ALAS...but it goes far beyond some glaring and insult muttering. So HInata's advice, sadly, won't cut it for everyone...some are just a little too hateful. And a little too dangerous. But we've got a lil fluff amidst the angst! So maybe it's not quite so bad, lol - cute lil awkward beans! Anyway, it's late, so I'ma go call it a night. Thanks for reading!

#sasuhina #uchiha sasuke #hyūga hinata #vulgarity //#a light amongst shadows [ canon verse ]#365daysofsasuhina

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talesfromtheindigoghost · 6 years ago

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Good Intentions

I never remember how I get here. Not at first, at least.

It’s always the same, yet it feels like it’s the first time this has ever happened.

It’s heaven. Maybe. If you took any little kid out of sunday school and asked them what heaven looks like this is probably going to be about it. You would probably get an even better idea if you handed that same kid a package of crayons and a blank piece of paper and asked them to show you.

An enormous land of clouds, existing right in the middle of an unbelievably vast blue sky. The sun shines in the distance, brightly, yet softly. It’s a warm, secure kind of light. Golden rays of god’s love illuminates a land of angels and goodness. Honestly, even with the way I feel about everything, it’s breathtaking.

Nature, in its most mysterious form.

Until you spot the clearly man made gate made of shimmering golds and silvers, spun into the gaudiest, flimsiest fences you’ve ever seen. Next to it, and far more disappointing, is the small booth labeled “ENTRANCE TO HEAVEN” in even more unnecessary, self-congratulating dazzle.

The light sings, filling the air with its musical splendor only for it to resonate uncomfortably along the hollow metal structures and decorations.

It’s alarming how familiar it is, despite it being the greatest single mystery man can never solve without a dire commitment.

The man in the booth and I meet eyes as I approached the booth. I can’t tell for sure, but he gives me a look that immediately tells me we’ve met before and that it wasn’t a good experience.

“Hey Peter.” I don’t know why I said it, but it feels right and it comes out of me with all the casual ease of greeting the guy that works at your post office. I’m sure of it now. He recoils at first, but then catches himself and stays firm.

“SAINT Peter. Saint.” He corrects me. I’m not sure why, I KNOW why, but I don’t quite know why, but I grin like an asshole. I nod, of course, of course. “Lucky I was Catholic, huh?” The proud agent of heaven, grand and noble arbiter of whether or not you get through the obnoxious gates, adjusted his blue polo shirt and vest and pulled a small walkie talkie from the pocket of his khaki cargo shorts.

He brings it to his cheek and lets it press against it for half a moment, he gives me the kind of glare you always get any time a retail worker has to call their boss. We both know it was inevitable but it’s still such a hassle. “It’s different for everyone. This is what you know.” Saint Peter exhales the words out like a tired sigh, one moment of freedom before they have to pretend to be a perfect professional.

I already knew that, I thought, but it felt like I learned it for the first time.

The small toy chirped as he pressed down the button.

“He’s here. Yes, HIM.” We locked eyes as I heard static crackle from the speaker. “Yes, again. Yes, the same way.” I wiggle my eyebrows as I jokingly adjust the noose around my neck. “He was turned away, as I SAID- ” we both catch him getting angry, I shake my head. “- mentioned. Mentioned in my previous memo.” it chirps a final time as he lets go of the button.

We’re both waiting for a response, but I can tell he’s sweating. We both know this is a tense situation. I can already tell by the look of future regret on his face, the strained exhale and closed eyes, what his boss had to say.

That’s alright, I told myself. I knew this was a strong possibility.

“Sorry.” I can tell the guy means it by the way his shoulders slump and the word seems to weigh a ton. He hooked the walkie talkie back onto his pocket and sighed. “The boss says you’re not allowed in and you know why.” I should be pretty pissed off, but I gave him a pretty tired smile and waved it off.

“It’s alright, I get it. I’m not gonna shoot the messenger.” Watching him relax a little after I said that made me feel a bit better about the situation. I hold the dangling rope for a moment so it doesn’t hang as I lean over the desk and spot a mini-fridge right by the corner of the booth.

He shoots me a grin and bends down to take something out of it, a single cold can of cherry cola that tings quietly as he sets it in front of me. I popped it open and took a grateful sip as he opened his own can of ginger ale.

“It’s different for everyone.” He said again, but much sadder this time. I closed my eyes and took another sip. The pleasant taste turned sour as the crisp chill of cold bubbles was replaced by the warm, flat taste of some kind of beer I’ve never cared to get too familiar with.

I opened my eyes to find that the radiant clouds of comfort were now the toxic miasmas of suffering. The gentle music dancing in the air distorted into an unease that vibrated through your very soul and rattled you from the inside out.

I spot a red, handsome young man sitting on a stool next to the kind of podium you see at the entrances of fancy restaurants of night clubs. The pretty jerk with the incredibly important job of checking a list of names to see if you’re on it and who would never let you forget how socially important his job is. I knew he was smug incarnate before he even opened his mouth.

I double check the can in my hand and see it’s the same cans I remember seeing littering the whole place after any given sleazy party. I take another sip out of sheer spite as I approach the guy in front of a shattered portion of an old brick wall, blocked off by a single velvet rope suspended between two poles made of flesh and stone, much like the wall itself.

He locks eyes with me, pulling a rose gold encased smartphone from the pocket of his trendy suit with one hand and raising a finger with the other as if I’m too stupid to understand the concept of someone needing a moment to make a phone call as they’re already making the call.

He gives me a silent expression of “Well? Don’t you see I’m calling?” along with a headshake before he looks down and notices the can in my head and curls his lip in disgusting. I take another sip, just to appreciate the disgusted look he gives me.

It tastes like blood.

“Yes, sir? He’s here, just like you said.” He smiles brightly and his voice has that same forced kind of asskissing tone the smile does. “Right like always, sir! You truly are smarter than God!” He shoots me another dirty look, as if he’s daring me to say something about his obvious brown nosing. I scoff and raise my hands in that universal gesture of “I didn’t say anything.”

He lowers the phone and cocks his head towards me. “Do you know why they sent you down?” I loosen the rope around my neck. “No idea.” He starts to say something but then realizes I’m messing with him. I can tell he’s pretty pissed off that I got him with that, even just for a moment as he gives me a venomous smile.

“Yes, same as last time. No, I’ll tell him, but we both know he’s not going to be happy about that.” I laugh a pretty snotty laugh, slipping the rope off of my neck and casually tossing it towards the red punk just hard enough to gently slap across his face as it went over his shoulder.

“Yes, sir. I will let him know.” He says the words through clenched teeth and annoyance, the call comes to an abrupt end. I catch a brief glimpse of an older, more powerful looking man in a much finer suit leaning from behind the open door just beyond the broken wall. He disappears the moment he notices I’ve seen him.

I take another tip. It tastes like blood.

It’s alarming how familiar this is.

The pretty little twerp squirms in place, acutely aware that he’s been left alone out here with an awkward message to give. “Boss says you’re not allowed in yet. He doesn’t know how this is all going to play out just yet, so grats, you get some more time to mope about it.” There’s something about the way he says it all that tells me that me showing up here just ruined his chances of a promotion anytime soon.

“Whatever.”

I look down at the can again and shake it just enough to see how much is really left in there. By the sound and feel of it, just about a quarter full of whatever it was at this point. Without even thinking about it I suddenly found myself throwing the can at the foot of the podium hard enough to splash all along it and most of the man’s pant leg.

I turned around, closing my eyes before he has the chance to say or do anything in response.

I wake up in my bed a moment later as if I had simply caught myself daydreaming, the tang of blood and the cloying aftertaste of off-brand cherry cola reminds me what I was just doing.

As far as I can tell I’m alive and well, save for being intensely hungry.

I look across my bedroom and notice my corpse hanging from one of the rafters along the ceiling. I watch his arms swinging weak as his dead, white eyes weep thick tears of tar like blood.

This reminds me that everything was real, as it always has been.

My heart beats faster in fear, an indescribable sensation of terror and anxiety that can only be felt by seeing your own dead body. The kind of unknowable horror that can only be experienced by watching as your dead body twists and distorts into something less than human. Its fingers turning into claws of splintered bone and tar, its jaw turning into a maw of blades that clatter in grostque threats.

To watch as its flesh blackens and corrupts before your very eyes.

I stand helpless as its newly reshaped feet plant firmly onto the ground, allowing it to tear the noose from its neck and let out a deep, vibrating noise from its rumbling body in a feral hunger.

I should be terrified of the monster in front of me, the monster threatening to put an end to this story for good.

I can’t think straight. My heart beats even faster as he begins to awkwardly lumber towards me, each step seeming to teach it to walk better, faster and with more purpose.

It occurs to me that I should run but something seems to be stopping me.

I’m so hungry.

#horror #short story #cw: suicide mention #cw: death #cw: body horror #body horror

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stereksecretsanta · 6 years ago

Text

Merry Christmas, @Rebekahdarian93!

Read on AO3

*****

This Awkward Love

Derek hates parties. He doesn't like crowds or having to smile for complete strangers. He particularly hates the Hale Pack's Annual Christmas party because his parents will inevitably use it to try and set him up with their friends' children or people from allied packs. They've even done it when he wasn't single, though really the less said about the year he brought Kate Argent to the party, the better.

If it had been any other party, he might have been able to find a way out of attending—like suddenly visiting another country or drinking just enough wolfsbane-laced alcohol to send him to the hospital without risking his life—but the annual Hale Christmas party in Beacon Hills was a big deal and his parents would literally drag him here, IV bag and all, if he didn't voluntarily attend.

They know how bad he is at talking to people outside of their pack. He is the embodiment of awkward and this, right here, is a prime example. There's a gorgeous guy hanging out near the buffet table—young and skinny with large brown eyes, delicately thin hands, and a smile full of mischief—and Derek's instincts are screaming at him to go talk to the guy, that he might be The One, Derek's mate, the absolute love of his life, but his feet are rooted to the floor and all he can do is stare.

Another man approaches Derek's possibly-mate and grabs his arm. Derek has to fight down the urge to bare his teeth in challenge. He's not a jealous guy but he has the strangest urge to throw the man across the room for getting too close to his maybe-mate.

"Stiles," the man hisses, voice low, frown firmly in place, "what did you do? That werewolf looks like he's about to murder you."

Derek's eyes narrow. Who's threatening his potential mate, Stiles? He glances around but no one is looking at Stiles with more than a fleeting glance. The other attendees seem happy, for the most part. He doesn't scent any overt aggression.

"You promised you weren't going to do anything," the man says in a bit of a whine. "You promised."

Stiles places his hand on his chest and gapes at his friend with mock-affront. The move seems practiced in its theatricality. "Why, Scott, the very insinuation that I would start any kind of mischief is just absurd. I am the picture of innocence."

"Stiles..." Scott's tone is long-suffering, suggesting that Stiles and mischief are well-acquainted.

Stiles sighs and rolls his eyes. "Fine. But I haven't done anything." Scott raises an eyebrow and Stiles adds, "Yet. I swear, I haven't even talked to creeper-wolf over there." He jerks his thumb in Derek's direction.

Derek blinks. He looks behind him. There's a bare wall and a small scattering of people, none of whom are facing this way.

"And I haven't seen Peter yet, so really, what could I possibly have done?"

Stiles knows Peter? He could be referring to a different Peter—it's certainly a common enough name—but what are the chances of him meaning anyone other than Uncle Peter at a Hale function? How does Stiles know Peter? Why haven't they crossed paths before?

"Do you need me to get your dad? One of the Alphas?" Scott whispers.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "You do realize that's Alpha Hale's son, right? Derek Hale."

Shit! Shit. He's the creepy murder werewolf. He needs to look away. Anywhere else. Ceiling? No, lights are too bright. Floor? Now he looks pathetic. There! The Christmas tree. He can stare at the tree and it's like he's admiring it instead of trying too hard to not creep out his mate. Maybe mate. Probably most definitely mate.

"Hey, there's Cora. Cora!" Stiles raises his voice a little to catch Cora's attention. "Cora, come over here for a sec."

He risks a glance at his sister. She's got a glass of cider on one hand. She walks up to them with a familiar, "Yo! What's up, Stiles?"

Does everyone in his family know Stiles? This could be bad for him. Gods, if Stiles knows Laura there will be no end to the embarrassing stories.

"Did I do something to piss off your brother?" Stiles asks. He sounds more amused than concerned. "He's glaring some serious daggers my way."

"I didn't know you two had even met," Cora says. Which is true. They haven't. Until now, but that really doesn't count if he hasn't actually said a word to Stiles. Or come within three feet of him.

"We haven't," Stiles agrees. "Did Peter say something? I feel like this could be one of Peter's pranks, in which case my revenge will be swift and glorious."

"Not that I've heard and Peter usually tells me his evil plans." There's a slight pause where none of them speak and Derek stares very hard at a snowflake ornament on the tree so he doesn't look at Stiles.

"I think he's planning to murder the tree now," Stiles says. His amusement is obvious.

Cora sighs. "Derek, what are you being all pissy about?"

He frowns and scuffs his foot against the carpet. "I'm not being pissy," he mutters back.

"Did you swallow a lemon?" Stiles snorts. "Seriously, why are you mad at Stiles?"

He huffs and rolls his eyes to the ceiling. "I'm not mad."

"Then what are you doing?"

He considers hiding in the woods until the party's over but the only direction his body wants to move is closer to Stiles.

"Do I need to get Laura?" Cora threatens.

His cheeks flame red at the very suggestion. "Ithinkhe'smymate," he says, all in one breath.

He dares a glance over. Cora is frowning at him. Next to her, Stiles is watching him, bemused. Scott keeps looking back and forth between Stiles and Derek like he's waiting for a fight to break out.

Cora raises an eyebrow when she notices him looking. "I'm sorry, try again. Maybe in English this time."

He sighs. He's never going to hear the end of this. Ever. Laura is going to put the story on his tombstone. "I think," he says slowly, "he's my mate."

Someone tackles Derek from behind, sending him stumbling. He barely avoids falling on his face. "What the hell?" He turns to find Laura standing there with an insane grin.

"Who's your mate?" Laura asks, voice full of excitement. She even bounces a little.

"He is," Cora says, pointing at Stiles, who looks very confused.

"I'm what?" Stiles asks.

"Going to meet my brother," Cora answers. She grabs Stiles by the arm at the same time as Laura grabs Derek's arm. They're both dragged across the room to meet in the middle. "Stiles, meet my brother, Derek. He wants to make babies with you."

Laura gives Derek an extra push toward Stiles. He shoots Laura a quick glare and then rubs the back of his head. He's not sure his face can get redder but he's about to find out. "Um, hi." He can't quite bring himself to look straight at Stiles. He doesn't want to come off as creepy. Again.

"Hi," Stiles says, voice thick with humor. "I'm Stiles. I require at least one proper date before there's any attempt at making babies. Which, given we're both guys, babies are highly unlikely to occur but I'm willing to put in the effort." He holds out his hand. His smile is absolutely blinding. Cora and Laura can both hear the way it makes Derek's heart skip a beat.

Derek stares at the appendage. This is it, the turning point of his life. If he takes Stiles's hand, it will confirm what his instincts already know. If he doesn't.... Well, that's not really an option.

He takes Stiles's hand in his. Electricity courses through his body, setting his nerves alight. In the space of an instant, he's broken apart and remade anew, his very being reshaped to include Stiles. He can feel Stiles's presence. Stiles is his personal North Star, a guiding light that pulls Derek home. Stiles's scent is so thick, Derek can taste it—electricity and midnight rain and freshly turned earth.

"Oh," Stiles says after a minute. His eyes are wide as saucers. He hasn't let go of Derek's hand.

Cora claps them both on the shoulder, startling them into letting go. "Well, my work here is done. You kids have a lovely time and don't start humping at the party, Mom will kill you."

Oh, gods, his parents are going to be insufferable. They'll announce it over the loudspeakers and pull him and Stiles up on stage. He has to get out of here. At least finding his mate will make a good excuse. They can't fault him for wanting to spend time strengthening the bond with his mate.

"Dinner?" Derek blurts.

Stiles blinks and his face shifts back to that amused grin he had before. "It's a thing I enjoy, yeah."

"We should..." Derek swallows. "Do you want to? Now?"

There's something soft in the way Stiles looks at him. Almost fond, growing fonder. "You mean, would I like to have dinner with you?"

"Yes." Derek nods. "That."

Stiles moves to Derek's side and wraps his arm around Derek's elbow. "I'd love to. For future reference, I love diners and curly fries are the food of the gods."

Derek nods, far more solemn than the situation calls for but he wants to do everything he can to please his mate. "I can do curly fries."

#Rebekahdarian93 #stereksanta14 #*fic18 #*gifts18

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 7 years ago

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Safe with me (11)

Summary: When an unknown threat enters your life, protection is offered at the highest level. As Bucky Barnes comes into your life, the game changes, and you realise falling for the man tasked with keeping you safe is the last thing you expected.

Characters: Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. References to sex, and fleeting descriptions (lets call it SFW, 16+). Probably fake government processes. Descriptions of stalking.

A/N: Bucky sucks at communication. Steve is pissed off. Things take a turn for the creepy. Here is the thing. When you ride a roller coaster, you climb and climb before you reach the top of that first hill, where you pause before plunging into the insanity of that first drop. This chapter brings us to the top of that hill.

Tags for this story are CLOSED Link here for posting schedule

SAFE WITH ME MASTERLIST PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Previously...

The night is still a deep velvety black, the lights of Manhattan clear in the distance.

The apartment is silent. You lay in a pile of soft blankets, behind the closed door to the bedroom, a smile on your face as you sleep.

Bucky stands on his balcony, staring wide-eyed at the skyline. Shaking hands grip the railing, his knuckles standing white against the black iron.

“What did I just do?”

His terrified whisper is lost in the wind, as the briny scent of the East River swirls around him.

*****

Dreams are always sweeter when they're fed with beautiful thoughts in those hazy moments before sleep takes hold. The mind clings to the last traces of happiness, reshaping them into something new, something nice. Something to hold onto.

Sleep seldom comes easy, but this night is different. Blissful exhaustion and absolute safety are an effective combination, and they ease you into the deepest sleep you can remember. The dreams are full of muted colors and pleasant flickers of memory, bottomless blue eyes and the quirk of a lopsided grin. It seems a shame to wake, until you remember this dream is solid and real, in the shape of the extraordinary man sleeping beside you.

Drowsy fingers reach for him, searching across the massive bed, before meeting the disappointment of cool fabric and empty air. Humming to yourself, you keep your eyes closed, tucking your face to your shoulder, breathing deep. Bucky's scent is soaked into your skin, the blazing heat of his touch branded across your body, the heavy feel of him a phantom ache between your legs. Every gentle nip of his teeth, every slick slide of his tongue, every delicate press of his lips, all of it is there.

Understanding blossoms in your chest, heart-stopping in the clarity is brings.

This is a man who has literally walked through smoke and fire for you. Opened his home and his heart, fought for your trust and earned it tenfold. He's freely given you the most important pieces of who he is, and it seems only fitting that you hand him your heart in return.

The fact is simple. Inevitable, really. Bucky Barnes is tangled up in your soul, an impossible knot that you have no desire to ever unravel.

For the first time in forever, the world finally makes a little more sense.

Rolling to the edge of the bed, you snag one his many pillows, hugging it tight. An errant thought pops into your head, as you bury you face in the soft feathers, stifling the laugh that bubbles up. It's been two full days since you gave him one of your grudgingly agreed compliments, the first time you've missed payment since your original wager. After last night, you feel a playful desire to come up with the dirtiest, filthiest, most sinfully extravagant comment possible, because the thought of Bucky blushing, from his neck all the way down to his...well, let's just say that image does things to you.

Well. No time like the present to start.

Crawling naked from the warm safety of the comforter, you pick up his fuzzy blue blanket and wrap it around your shoulders, the plush velvet rubbing invitingly against your skin. It's so perfectly reminiscent of his soft lips mapping every contour of your body mere hours earlier, it sends a happy shiver down your spine.

Slowly cracking the bedroom door, you find the wall to the balcony wide open, early morning air whirling through the dark living room. Bucky stands outside, a silhouette facing the fading twinkle of city lights. Dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt, his head is bowed low, both hands resting heavily on the railing.

Goosebumps crawl up your legs when you step outside, the cold air licking at your toes. Tiptoeing up behind him, you curve an arm around him and lay a hand over his heart, resting your head against his broad back. He doesn't turn, doesn't say a word, but you feel him tense at the touch.

Snuggling closer, your voice is muffled against the wrinkled t-shirt.

"Are you okay?"

He grips the rail tighter, and you hear a faint whine as the iron bends under the unforgiving pressure of bright silver fingers. A long minute passes, before you hear his hoarse voice.

"I'm fine," he answers quietly, his body motionless beneath your hand. "It's too early to be up, why don't you go back to bed."

Stroking your fingers down the hard plane of his chest, you press a kiss between his shoulder blades.

"Will you come with me?"

He remains perplexingly still, every muscle of his body locked in place. It drags a memory to the surface, of him the first day you met, his rigid posture, sharp and coiled, waiting to snap.

"No," he says tightly. "I need to get back to the city."

Beneath your palm, you feel the rapid beat of his heart, but something is missing. It takes you a moment to place it.

The rise and fall of his chest is disturbingly absent – because he's holding his breath.

Falling still, you dig your nails into his chest.

"Hey. What's the matter? Did something happen?"

The faintest hiss of a sigh reaches your ears, as he turns to meet your eyes.

He regards you for a moment, his face oddly expressionless, a blank canvas offering nothing for interpretation. Before you can ask again, he gently extricates himself from your arms and walks back to the living room, leaving you alone on the balcony. Your stomach twists when you watch him drop to the furthest edge of the sofa, hurriedly yanking on his boots.

"Bucky, what the hell's going on? We agreed, no more secrets. If something's happened, then tell me. Now."

But he remains silent, clearly avoiding your eyes while he moves mechanically through the apartment, slipping his phone in one pocket, his keys in the other. His leather jacket lays in a crumpled heap on the floor, and he carefully shakes it out, before shrugging into it, adjusting the collar, smoothing the sleeves. When he finally stops fidgeting, he stares down at the floor in front of you. It takes a full minute, before he slowly raises his eyes to meet your eyes. Jaw clenched tight, his arms are rigid at his sides, fingers tapping lightly together.

When you take a single step forward, he takes a single step back.

"Look, about last night. I'm sorry I let things get out of control. That was my fault."

There are hundreds of thousands of words in the English language and your career is based on your ability to string them together and tell stories. You understand metaphors and similes, context and subtext, the history behind hundreds of obsolete words. But when Bucky speaks, handing you seventeen of the most fundamental words in your vocabulary, his meaning seems so perfectly impossible, you can only find one response.

"What?"

"I'm sorry," he repeats, his voice clinical, detached. "It was beyond unprofessional. I never should have allowed that to happen."

Less than three days ago, you stood on a darkened dance floor, feeling your entire world tilt in a new direction. Unexpectedly, it shifts once more and the floor gives way beneath your icy toes.

"Wait, I don't – Bucky, I don't understand. What do you mean allowed it to happen? I said – I told you, I said I was in, I was in this with you. I thought that – I thought you were too."

He offers nothing in response. His expression remains shuttered, fingers still tapping together.

"I should have been clear, that was unfair. I'm sorry. I was frustrated, I let things escalate, took advantage of the situation – "

"What the fucking hell do you mean, you took advantage of the situation?"

"Just that you were upset, and I was frustrated that you wanted to leave, and I wasn't trying – "

"Was this part of your game plan for getting me to stay put then? Just fuck me into submission?"

Bitter betrayal fuels the question, and he steps back at the harsh words. The blank mask slips, and you glimpse the wild panic in his eyes, before he repositions it once more.

"No, Jesus Christ, that was never - "

"Is this the strategy Fury approved when you signed up for the job? Whenever she gets too mouthy, just dick her down and she'll fall in line?"

"I had no fucking idea – "

"Christ, how lucky could you possibly get? Getting paid to keep a girl stashed at your place, an easy access fuck whenever you needed it. You're such a fucking planner Bucky."

"Stop it, that's not fair - "

"Did you just say I'm not being fair?"

"I'm saying you know god damn well that's not what I – "

"Do I really? Help me out Bucky, what exactly is it that I'm supposed to know? Because I thought I knew you. I thought I could trust you, and right now that looks like the stupidest decision I've ever made."

"I'm sorry, but you have to understand this compromises things, I can't do my job if we're –"

"Maybe you could have thought about that before I got on my knees and sucked your fucking dick, Bucky!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't – "

"Stop fucking saying you're sorry!"

"I never meant for this to happen - "

And there it is.

You visibly flinch when the confession spills out. Each syllable is a metaphorical slap across your face, sending you reeling backward. The idea that you were something unintended, something he never wanted, something he regrets, is enough to make your vision fade to black around the edges.

Bucky blanches when he sees you curl into yourself at his words, and he swallows the rest of his sentence. In the space of a few minutes, your entire world has exploded, and this time it hurts so much more than bombs and blood and bruises.

The lump in your throat rises fast, and you swallow hard, once, twice, three times, before it dissolves enough to let you speak.

You will not beg.

You will not plead.

You will not cry.

Your heart may be shattered at his feet, but your pride is still intact.

Tipping your chin up, you shout her name.

"FRIDAY!"

"I'm here," comes the soft Irish lilt, a warm echo through the cold room.

"Can you please contact Captain Rogers and ask him to come get me?"

"No, FRIDAY, wait -" Bucky interrupts, raising both hands in protest.

"I'm sorry Sergeant Barnes, but Captain Rogers is listed as her safety contact. If she wants him to collect her, I'm required to make the request."

The room goes deathly silent once more. Bucky stands stiffly before you, his face bone white under the dark beard.

"Just go," you say tonelessly. "You're obviously desperate to get away from this mistake, so just fucking go. I'll be gone when you get back."

He chews on his lip, bites down so hard you see the skin split red between his teeth.

Bucky takes a single step forward. You take a single step back.

"I'm sorry," he whispers one last time, his voice utterly wrecked. Perhaps he really does mean it.

But you just don't care.

Turning away from him, you stare through the open wall, into the coming morning. The sky is just beginning to change, the dawning sun revealing a wall of lead grey clouds on the horizon.

Perfect. How ironically perfect.

When you hear the quiet click of the door closing behind him, shaking knees buckle as you sink to the floor in a mess of dark blue velvet. The lump in your throat returns, and this time?

You let yourself drown.

*****

Steve drives his motorcycle exactly like Bucky. Except he doesn't wear a helmet. And he speeds like a demon. And for someone who films safety videos for school children, he doesn't seem to obey any traffic laws.

He follows the same patterns, back-tracking through a complicated mix of side-streets, weaving through tight traffic lanes, cutting through deserted alleyways. His leather jacket is a deep chocolate brown and buttery soft beneath your hands, but wrapping your arms around Steve feels awkwardly intimate. Settling for a demure grip on his teeny tiny waist, you try your damndest to forget your last bike ride, the smell of Bucky's jacket, the shift and play of muscle beneath your fingers.

Right. Like those memories are leaving anytime soon.

When he rumbles to a stop behind your apartment, Steve jumps from the bike and extends a helpful arm. He waits quietly while you struggle with the chin strap, before finally jerking the helmet free. Rubbing the pressure lines from your forehead, you glare at your feet for a moment. Speech is impossible, the words failing as you shake your head in frustration and move to sidestep him.

He blocks your path, catching your elbow and forcing you to look up. Staring at a point over his shoulder, you ignore the wordless request until he finally breaks the tension.

"Do you want to talk?"

Steve Rogers is a good man. You know he would be a patient, considerate listener, probably filled to the brim with thoughtful Captain-y wisdom. You think he'd probably even take your side in this whole thing. But you won't ask. Steve is still Bucky's best friend first, and putting him in the middle isn't fair.

"Not even a little. But thank you."

He seems to hesitate before his next move, but then he's folding you in a giant bear hug. His embrace is warm and comforting, and it makes the misery feel a little more bearable when you squeeze him tight.

*****

Has a lifetime passed, since the last time you walked through the front doors of your office?

Normally you shy away from such melodramatic statements, but life feels so profoundly different, it must be true. The last time you were here was a timeframe that can only be described as 'before'. Before dances, before bombs. Before sex. Before love? Before everything got so damn complicated.

Steve stands silently beside you as the elevator rises, his eyes tracking the floor numbers as they flash by.

"Thank you, Steve."

He glances down at your whisper, giving you a friendly smile and a quick hug. "It's no problem."

When the elevator dings open, you come face-to-face with Jack, who's bouncing anxiously on the balls of his feet. He looks unsure if he should be annoyed or relieved, so he settles for a strange blend of the two.

"About bloody fucking time. Was traffic that bad from the Tower?"

It occurs to you in that moment, that Jack has no idea Bucky's place in Brooklyn exists. He must have been told Bucky moved you into the Tower, rather than leaving you in your apartment. Heartbreak scratches at your brain, angrily suggesting you should let that secret go, but you dismiss it immediately. Bucky's rejection was crushing, but it doesn't change the way you feel.

His secret is important. You will keep it.

"Sorry, I got a late start this morning."

"Obviously." Jack's eyes flit up to the bandage on your forehead, slightly abashed at his snappy tone. "Are you sure you're okay? Did you go to the hospital?"

Giving him a patient smile, you shake your head. "Don't nag, I'm fine. Just a small cut. Head wounds bleed like a motherfucker."

"Yeah, I've heard they do that," Jack says grimly. "Okay. If you're absolutely sure you're fine, take my office for the interview, Richardson's in there."

"Great, thanks." Glancing over to Steve, you quietly clear your throat. "I'll be done in an hour, we can go then."

"Take your time, I'll be here," Steve promises.

Jack looks between the two of you, his eyes narrowing at the exchange. Giving him what you hope is a peppy smile, you turn away, heading toward his office.

The moment you're out of earshot, he rounds on Steve.

"What the fuck's going on? Where's Barnes?"

Steve is no idiot. He knows Jack already warned Bucky to keep his emotions at bay. He'll go nuclear if he discovers any trace of what's happened, so Steve heads him off, bending his response into a plausible half-truth.

"Well, so, you know we have images of the perp? Bucky asked to take point on investigating the lead. Thought it was best given his background. We're bringing in new protection from SHIELD tomorrow, to trail her. Should be fine, may even work better. Besides, you know those two – they never really got along anyway."

Steve recognizes the accuracy of his lie the moment he utters the words. They will indeed need to find someone new to take Bucky's place. He can just imagine how that conversation with Bucky will go.

Jack regards him with something close to suspicion. Steve was never a great liar, but he manages to keep his poker face in place.

"Fine, as long as he's still involved to finish this. He's the one who agreed to take the case, he doesn't get to ghost out because he can't get along with her. I warned him in the beginning. Unless there's something else?"

Internally screaming at his idiot best friend, Steve gives him a bland smile and a tight promise.

"No, there's nothing else. He'll finish it."

*****

Rolling your shoulders back, you settle into the chair opposite Senator Mark Richardson of Pennsylvania. He leans forward in his chair, a nervous smile lighting up his face, his dark eyes sparkling. With only a few years under his belt, he's still a newcomer to national politics, but his enthusiasm is a refreshing change of pace from the self-important, arrogant asswipes you typically interview.

Responding with an encouraging smile, you set your phone to record, placing it carefully on the table. Flipping open your notebook, you skim through the pages until you find the right section. Taking a deep breath, you begin.

-----

REPORTER: "Good morning Senator, thanks for sitting down with me."

SENATOR: "Thanks for having me. Glad we could finally do this."

REPORTER: "Me too. So, we're talking today about the role you stepped into, with a focus on your views around past and present terrorist threats. Please also be aware, everything you say is on the record, unless you clarify in advance."

SENATOR: "Understood, thank you. Fire away!"

REPORTER: "Alright, here we go. Before you were elected, you filled this role as an interim representative for the state of Pennsylvania, following former Senator Stern's arrest. Talk to me about that first day on the job – what did you already know and what were you told?"

SENATOR: "Well, there were stories making the rounds long before I arrived. At the time, it all seemed so speculative, gossip and whispers –

– your skin whispers over the satiny smooth sheets when Bucky pulls your legs toward him. He drags his beard along your thigh, the sharp bristles scratching up the smooth skin, lips trailing a wet path –

What fresh fucking hell is this? One simple word triggers a burst of images. Blinking rapidly, you focus harder, forcing yourself to pay attention to the Senator's voice, swallowing down the lump that seems to be rising yet again.

REPORTER: "Did you have any reason to believe the conspiracy extended further than Stern?"

SENATOR: "It was a major concern. There were aggressively thorough investigations conducted into the background of every person who worked in the Pennsylvania State Senate for the last 30 years, from the Majority Leaders down to the janitorial staff, but it appears Stern really was working outside the lines. We've now instituted a massive list of warning triggers that can flag potential concerns for all new hires, so we can catch – "

– his breath catches when he pushes forward, his chest flush against your back. His skin is blisteringly hot, and you hear him panting in your ear, a soft grunt with every roll of his hips –

Gritting your teeth, you shift slightly in your chair. This is ridiculous. Absolutely fucking ridiculous.

REPORTER: "Experts theorize that the – that hidden cells could still exist, particularly in government or the upper echelons of global corporations. Based on everything you've learned, what's your opinion on the current theory that Hydra are still active?"

SENATOR: "It's probable. Sleeper cells are notoriously difficult to root out, but we know Hydra's foothold was severely damaged after Washington DC. Support from partners like the Avengers have played a critical role in keeping the threat at bay, but Hydra were everywhere, they had a hand in everything –"

– curling your hand behind his neck, bringing his face closer. He nuzzles his nose against yours, and you rub your thumb over his soft lips, your breath hitching when he sucks it into his mouth, teeth biting gently. His eyes are open, pools of black staring into yours, and you hear a low hum rumbling deep in his chest –

The low whine slips from your throat, and you attempt to cover with a cough. Your internal voice sneers in disgust, a mental flogging you definitely deserve. You're a god damn professional, you are fucking better than this. Stop this shit, right fucking now.

REPORTER: "How have – um, sorry. What is – what would you say to your constituents, to alleviate lingering fears that we could ever have a repeat of Washington DC?"

SENATOR: "Well, first off, I'd say we need to stay vigilant. Keep our eyes open to every possibility, no matter what we may believe. Sometimes the truth is buried so deep –"

– he buries his face deeper into your neck, his breath coming hot and harsh against your skin, and with your lips touching his ear, you whisper for him –

Stop, stop, stop.

– You can let go Bucky, I've got you.

Godfuckingdammitalltohell.

Fuck you Bucky Barnes. Fuck you so much.

Scrubbing your hand over your eyes, you shake your head in frustration, willing the images to disappear. Reaching a trembling hand to your phone, you turn off the audio record.

"Senator, I need to apologize. These past few days have been – difficult. I think it's affected me more than I realized."

His eyes drift to the white bandage on your forehead, and his face softens. He pats your hand reassuringly.

"Please don't apologize. I heard you were involved that night. I know they haven't identified anyone yet, but I'll be damned if it doesn't feel the late 1990s again. 'Course Hydra didn't want anything then, just enjoyed the chaos. Thankfully though, they don't have the scale or the network or the assets they had before. Why don't we reschedule when you're feeling better?"

Nodding gratefully at his kindness, you give him a weak smile.

You don't know it then, but something about his comment will come back to haunt you, in the days that follow.

*****

Steve doesn't even try to conceal his footsteps. He's in a mood, the same one that set his blood boiling when his phone rang at dawn.

Stupid god damn fucking idiot, he seethes internally, grinding his teeth as he pounds down the halls. Searching room after room, the stream of furious curses grows progressively louder and more colorful with every step.

Banging open the door to the library, he skids to a stop.

Bucky stands facing the clear wall of windows, hands stuffed in his pockets as he stares across the miles of dreary city blocks. He must've heard Steve tearing through the Tower, but chose to ignore it, even though he knew god damn well what was coming for him.

Righteous indignation surging through his veins, Steve stomps toward him, kicking a chair out of his way as he walks. Shoulders slumping at the sound, Bucky heaves a sigh before slowly turning to face him, defiance written in every line of his face.

Growling in fury, Steve cocks his arm back and smashes a patriotic fist right in Bucky's face.

Skin splits beneath his knuckles, the warmth of blood instantly slicking his skin when Bucky's lip busts open. Steve feels a mix of irritation and grudging respect for his stupid god damn fucking idiot best friend, because Bucky doesn't even try to stop him, doesn't try to block the hit. He takes it full on, and the force of Steve's fist knocks him flat on his ass.

Breathing heavily Steve stares down, making sure Bucky fully appreciates his Captain America heartily disapproves face.

"You're a stupid god damn fucking idiot."

Bucky just nods in agreement, rubbing his jaw ruefully as he looks up from the floor. He runs his tongue over his busted lip and licks away the blood, keeping his expression carefully composed, a blank slate Steve's seen a thousand times before. Shaking his head in exasperation, he reaches down and grips Bucky's hand, hauling him back to his feet.

"Move your ass. We gotta get her someone new."

*****

Down a shadowy street on the northern edge of the Bronx, lies a dilapidated blue house.

The front yard is barren, littered with garbage cans and patches of scrubby grass. The screen-door's been busted for months, but that's fine, he rarely uses it. Instead, he squeezes through the narrow walkway alongside the house, slinking around the edge to his backdoor.

There's a dingy lightbulb illuminating the back steps, it's low, buzzy crackle an eerie soundtrack to the sounds from next door. The wild snapping and snarling of his neighbor's dogs raises the hair on his neck, as they tear into whatever small creature found its unfortunate fate within the confines of their chain link fence.

Inside the small, stuffy kitchen, he sits at a battered dining table, smoothing his hands absentmindedly over the nicks and divots, years of little blemishes gouged into the worn wood.

Neat stacks of newspaper stand in front of him, three tall piles perfectly equal in height. A silver tray balances on the top of the middle stack, holding three unopened pairs of latex gloves, a razor-sharp scalpel, and a shiny pair of tweezers.

His eyes are shut tight.

She stands before him, the beauty of her face clear in his mind. Her lips are curving up, a secret smile tugging at the corners. Her deep blue dress clings perfectly to every curve, soft and lovely.

He takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly, calming his mind. His fantasies of her have become something more, something beyond the physical. Real life, he wants a real life with her. He wants to walk in the park with her, hold her in his arms, make her tremble under his hands –

The image flickers and fades. He's trying, he's trying so fucking hard, but he can't keep it under control. Her smile was real, he saw it that night, but his fantasies are not strong enough to pretend he was the reason and that kills him.

His head twitches violently, muscle spasms rocking down both arms and he unconsciously rakes his fingers across the table with a desperate groan, embedding tiny splinters of wood under his fingernails. He chokes back a quiet sob when his vision expands, panoramic in the heartbreak it brings him. It doesn't matter how many times he tries to imagine it away, he knows what he saw.

The way her eyes caressed the Soldier's face. The way her hand lingered on his arm. The perfect smile she reserved just for him.

It's all wrong, why can't she see it?

Oh god, he's losing her. He can't live like this.

Helpless despair sparks hot, furious tears, rolling like drips of fire down his face.

Fuck him, this Soldier, the one who has everything. He has Hydra's gifts, the world at his feet, the fear of men the world over, and the love of this woman, of his woman. Everything, everything, everything, the Soldier has it all, and he has nothing.

He takes a steadying breath, forcing himself to calm down, wiping away tears with the back of his hand.

Soon though, soon it can end. The Soldier's days are numbered, they promised him, and then she'll be free. Then she'll be his.

Outside his backdoor, there comes the sudden tinkle of breaking glass.

His light goes black, the tiny backyard drenched in darkness. He hears two high yips, and the dogs fall blessedly silent as well. A suffocating silence blankets the kitchen, broken only by the wild thump of his heartbeat as it slams into his chest again and again and again.

His ears prick when he hears the soft scrape, expensive shoes tapping on broken pavement, and the sound hits – two sharp raps echoing like gunfire.

Sweat breaks in a line across his forehead, plastering the fine strands of brown hair to his skin. He swallows hard, once, twice, three times, before slowly pushing away from the table. Stepping carefully to his backdoor, he peers through the peephole, feeling a shudder skate across his skin when he sees what lies behind the flimsy plywood.

Shaking fingers fumble with the chain lock, the rusted metal links grating against the catch, until he finally pops it free and opens the door.

A tall man stands casually before him, dressed in a crisply tailored suit, hands folded behind his back. Without a word, he pushes his way into the small kitchen, his shoes clicking on the peeling linoleum floor. He observes the drab furnishings with contempt, his lip curling into a sneer when he turns to face the trembling man.

Digging into his jacket pocket, he pulls out a small blue pill bottle, the contents rattling softly when he sets it on the table. His voice is polished and refined, the cadence and accent an unexpected sound, here in this dirty, broken corner of the Bronx.

"Time for one last mission."

*****

Next Chapter

*****

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