#and left for dead with the continentals?

[xo-hugs-n-kisses-ox]

Rumination

Ruminate

(v.) to think deeply about something

After Edward left her, Bella Swan fell apart. Desperate to try and save his eldest daughter, Charlie brings his youngest daughter to Forks to see if she can bring her sister out of her depression.

Now, y/n must try to help her sister find her way back to the light while also trying to navigate her Junior year of high school in the odd town of Forks.

All rights reserved to their original publishers.

Now playing: Long Way From Home by The Lumineers

Chapter One: Forks, Washington

     Moving from Jacksonville, Florida, to the rainiest place in the continental U.S. wasn't an easy adjustment.

     Seeing your sister act like the walking dead was even more trying.

     All of it was because of that boy, who left her when things got hard. Mom only thought of "young love" and said "a little heartbreak builds character!"

     Phil thought Edward was an ass, but that Bella was being a little dramatic about her first heartbreak.

     Charlie and I shared a similar sentiment: Edward Cullen better not come back to Forks. If he does, I'll kill him.

     I'd get away with it, too. Charlie would shut down the investigation because he'd be glad the boy was gone and wouldn't hurt his daughter any more.

     I'd hurt him, especially but not limited to the fact that I wasn't quite sold about Bella falling down the stairs after she ran off. I don't think Edward pushed her, per se, but I don't think they told us the entire truth. Call it a gut feeling, or intuition, or whatever. I don't trust him or his family, aside from the good doctor. He's always seemed the most normal, from what I've heard.

---

     "Bella," I call, knocking on the door to her room. It was quit still, and I was waiting impatiently for her to answer. We had to go to school before we were late and got another day of detention.

     "Bella!" I shout, knocking on the door again. I hear some rustling and watch as the knob turns, only to find my sister with her pajamas on, her hair a mess, and looking like she had been through a hurricane.

     She blinked owlishly at me, almost like she was deciphering who I was.

     I sighed through my nose, trying to be sympathetic to her. I guided her to the bathroom and made her brush her teeth while I untangled her hair. In an attempt to keep it from getting ratty again, I braided it back tightly and wrapped put oils on the ends to try and keep it from frizzing up.

     "Sorry," she told me, staring blankly at the mirror. All the anger in my chest deflated, and for a second, I felt as hollowed out as she looked.

     Hollow, empty, devoid of soul.

     That's how she looked.

     Anger ignited in my chest again, but not at her. At her shitty ex-boyfriend who left her in the woods because he was a coward and couldn't break up with her properly.

     "Don't worry about it," I told Bella, "I'll get Charlie to write a note or something. I guess the driveway was extra icy this morning."

---

     The school day passed without much happening.

     Bella's friend Mike tried to get me to pass something on to her, but I couldn't hear what he said before Jessica pulled him away without a glance at me.

     I thought she was stuck up, but she wasn't a bad person.

     Lunch was subpar again, the cafeteria food being lukewarm at best and cold in the middle of the mashed potatoes.

     "I wonder if Charlie could threaten them into making the food better," I wondered aloud, poking at the food on my plate.

     Bella remained frozen in time, staring at the seat beside me as if she was waiting for someone to appear there.

     I sighed, shaking my head.

     I hummed to myself as I continued to poke and prod at my food u til the bell rang to get back to class.

---

     A few days pass.

     Nothing changes.

     Bella's still depressed and hardly living in the real world. She wakes up screaming from night terrors and Charlie's started to sleep in the couch so he doesn't have to get up from his bed anymore.

     I've started to develop insomnia, I think.

     I don't sleep until the early hours of the morning, since that's usually when Bella stays asleep, too.

     I'm awake from six thirty in the morning until two in the morning.

     My routine consists of waking up, getting dressed and ready for school, then getting Bella up and dressing her. It's about forty minutes allotted to each of us, and then an extra ten to get Bella's lunch ready and packed.

     I go to school with her, go about my monotonous but peaceful day, eat a silent lunch with my sister, finish my day, and go back home.

     When I'm home, I work on anything I didn't finish already. Sometimes I go in for work at the 24/7 diner at the corner of Wheatgrass and 74th, working the night shifts and getting home in time for Bella to stay asleep. I make my lunch from the food I got to take home from the Roy's Diner, I take a scalding hot shower, and I pass out for the four hours before I have to wake up again.

---

     Angela asked me how Bella was.

     She seemed like the only one that truly cared about my sister.

     Jessica was sour because she was ignored. Mike only wanted in her pants and was stringing Jessica along. And Eric was nice, but really only cared about the news paper and Angela.

     "Is she getting any better?" Angela asked me, sitting down beside me at the table I was reading at.

     "Not really." I replied, looking up at her for a minute. "Charlie's about to send her back to Jacksonville."

     "Oh," Angela said, looking sad at the news. "Is there anything I can do for her? I try to invite her out, but she never shows."

     I shrugged, "Not much to do. You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make her drink."

     Angela nodded, her lips thinning for a moment before she got back up.

     She patted my shoulder before she left, and I immersed myself back into my reading.

---

     Working the night shift at Roy's was never boring. We got loads of interesting people here. Charlie called the diner "a drunk's dream." Sure, it was a little sleazy and a lot of greasy food, but it wasn't horrible to be in. If you ignored the obnoxious 70s disco decor.

     A duo of two men were sat in my section, both of them looking like hell.

     "Welcome to Roy's, I’m y/n. What can I get started for you?" I asked, my peppy customer service voice grating on my own nerves so late at night.

     They both had tanned skin in shades of bronze, and long, dark hair. One had it pulled up in braids down his back, the other's hair loose.

     "A Pepsi, please," the first man said, and he looked to the other boy, "Jared, what do you want?"

     Jared ordered a strawberry milkshake.

     "Be right back!" I told them, spinning on my heel and going to get their drinks.

     "How old do you think those guys in your section are?" Chelsea asked as I filled up the drinks. She was staring at the two I had just spoken to, and I shrugged.

     "Dunno, don't really care." I said, "They look grown enough, I guess."

     "Grown enough?" She parroted, laughing, "They all have to be at least twenty!"

      Again, I just shrugged.

     "Ugh, no fun." Chelsea said, rolling her eyes and disappearing into the back to go gossip with the cooks.

     "Here are those drinks," I said, setting them down before each of the boys. "Anything to eat?"

     "I want two number twos with lettuce, tomatoes, unions, and pickles, please, and a large fry." Jared told me, and I wrote it all down quickly. Two double patty burgers and a large fry was a lot to get down, but boys had large stomachs, I guess.

     Sam spoke next, ordering, "A number three with tomatoes and lettuce only, with a number four with everything and a large fry, please."   

     Spicy chicken sandwich with everything on it and a pulled pork sandwich, I wrote, then said, "Be right back, then."

      I handled my other tables until the food was ready, and I had to ask Kass to help me carry it all. When I set the food down, in front of them, they both thanked me and started eating. I grabbed their cups to refill their drinks, and when I was back to the table, most of their food was already gone.

     "You two sure can put food away, wow," I said, setting the drinks down again. Jared had ordered another milkshake, and a water. Sam still got the Pepsi.

     Sam smiled, looking weary but better. Color had returned to his face, and his eyes looked brighter.

     "We're growing boys," Jared joked, and I smiled.

     When they left, after ordering a slice of pie, I got a nice tip and a doodled wolf on the check.

---

     Bella went out with Jessica to see a movie, I think. I wasn't paying a lot of attention when she said it, I had a mountain of homework from physics and not nearly enough time to do all of it.

     Charlie found Bella's wallet and told me to go give it to her, so I went to Port Angeles to find her.

     I saw Jessica first, and she was watching in mute horror as Bella spoke to some strange man on a motorcycle.

     "Bella!" I yelled, people glancing my way as I stormed up to her to snag her by her arm and drag her away.

     For a moment, she looked hopeful, like she was expecting to see someone else.

     "Oh my god, you're stupid!" I yelled, dragging her back to my car. "Do you not think about anything anymore? He could have kidnapped you! He could have done worse!"

     "I just-" she caught herself, flinching, "I thought I knew him."

     "Good lord," I said, swearing at her for her recklessness, "I thought Charlie would have told you about stranger danger, but I guess not! Maybe it's time for a refresh!"

     Jessica trailed behind us as I berated Bella and lectured her over the dangers of strangers and dark alleyways and motorcycles.

     I folded my sister into the passenger seat of my car, ordering Jessica in the back seat.

     "But, uh, what about Bella's car..?" Jessica asked, staring at me.

      "I'll get it tomorrow. I don't trust Bella not to do something else stupid with it now." I huffed, reaching over to buckle Bella's seatbelt and peeling out of the parking lot.

     I dropped Jessica home safely and pulled into the driveway, marching back inside.

     "Your daughter has lost all her sense!" I told Charlie, "Dad, you need to tell her about stranger danger again before she gets herself kidnapped!"

     "Y/n, now wait a minute-" he started, glancing at the door as my sister came stalking in behind me.

     "Bella, you wanna tell me what your sister is talking about?" Charlie asked, and I huffed as she just sighed.

     She explained and got a stern talking to, but I wasn't satisfied.

     I started going everywhere with her, after that.

     When we weren't in classes, I was attached to her hip. Hell, I even started sleeping in her room with her.

     She still kicks.

     But the nightmares become less frequent when we have sleepovers every night.

     I make her take care of herself by doing it for her, forcing her to brush her teeth and wash her face as I do her hair in the mornings and at night, packing a healthy lunch for her, and forcing her to keep up with her studies.

     It's exhausting, but it's better than staying up until I cant anymore, and it's slowly getting me my sister back.

     And then Jacob comes back into the picture

     He and Bella are fixing up some old bikes. I have no interest in them, so I sit with them and listen as they talk.

     Sometimes I draw some still life pictures of them, sitting together and working.

     Sometimes I sleep.

     Sometimes I do my homework like a good student.

     Slowly, I started to trust Jacob with my sister. I started picking up more daytime shifts at Roy's, and I started to relax.

     The nightmares still happen, but they've gone down to about twice a week now.

     Sometimes she only wakes up crying, others it's the screaming again.

     But progress is progress.

---

     "Y/n, I sat a group of three in your section. Booth in the far corner, babe." Makayla told me as I passed the host stand.

     "Thanks, Mak," I said, hurrying to drop off my drinks to some travelers before going to my new table.

     Ryan comes barreling my way to drop some food off, and I spin around him to avoid knocking into him and his tray of food. I get to the booth in the back, seeing some familiar faces.

     "Hey guys," I smile, recognizing two of my favorite customers, "I haven't seen you two in a minute, how've you been?"

     Sam, who I learned later from Charlie, had been the one to find Bella after she was dumped in the woods by Edward. I didn't care if he knew who I was or not, not really, because I knew who he was. I couldn't do much for him, but showing my gratitude for saving my sister through the Family and Friend's discount was enough for me.

     "So busy," Jared complains, pointing an accusing finger at Sam, "He's had me doing chores for days and makes me take more if I don't do my homework! He's like my mom now!"

     Sam rolls his eyes as I laugh, reaching out to flick Jared in the forehead. The two of them have been coming to

     "You're working with me, I'm responsible for you. So sad for you." Sam says dryly, and I shake my head at their antics.

     "Strawberry shake and Pepsi?" I ask them, my eyes tuning towards their new friend.

     He looks rough, almost like Bella did. His long hair is pulled back in a hastily done bun, and his eyes are sharp and attentive. He looks at me oddly, his brows slightly drawn together and his eyes squinting slightly.

     "What can I get for you?" I ask him, an odd feeling rising in my chest as I meet his eyes.

     He's quiet for a moment before he takes a deep breath and orders a water.

     I nod, taking down his drink order and turning towards the kitchen.

     "Ooh, your friends brought someone new!" Chelsea crooned, coming to drape her arms over my shoulders as she watches me fill up the two cups in my hands. I roll my eyes.

     "Chels, why are you always back here when you're supposed to be doing your work?" I ask, dragging her towards the milkshake machine as I fill up Jared's strawberry shake.

     "I'm doing my side work! I got cut early." She says, smacking her gum in my ear. I cringe, reaching back to push her face away from mine.

      "Love that for you, girl, but get your smacking away from my ears, please." I told her, hearing her laugh as I add a cherry to the milkshake and a drizzle of chocolate syrup. She walks off to go finish cutting her lemons and I put all three drinks on the tray to bring them out.

     I set down the drinks and milkshake, turning the tray under my arm as I pull out my note pad to take down their food order.

     "Number three, no unions, large fry, and a chicken sandwich, unions, tomatoes, lettuce, with a large fry." Jared rattles out, and I jot it down quickly. I turn to Sam and notice a distinct lack of his friend beside him.

     "Chicken tenders and a large fry, number two and a basket of onion rings, please," Sam says, adding, "Paul will have the same as me, but without the onion rings and with fried pickles instead."

     I nod, writing it all down.

     "You want me to put a slice of pie in and bring it out later?" I ask, seeing Jared nod enthusiastically.

     "That'd be great, y/n, thanks." I again nod at Sam's words, turning away and hustling to the kitchen to put in their order.

     I service my other tables while the boys' food is being made, bustling around my section. I'm keenly aware of eyes on me, but I figure it's just someone waiting to get my attention so I can give them a refill.

     When their food is ready, I bring it out to Sam and his group.

     I set each of the baskets down before each of the boys, picking up their cups and going to get them refills.

     They each eat quickly, and every time I pass their table, my skin prickles.

     I try to see if it's one of them that needs my attention, but each time I look over, they're all engrossed in their food, or a conversation. Any time I look over, they're in tense conversation. I try and keep my distance so I don't disturb them, but I make sure to keep attentive to their cups and plates.

     I sigh after a while, deciding that I must be making things up. No one seemed to be looking at me.

     They ate quickly and I ran them their check. I was left with a good tip and a smiley face on the paper of the check beside Sam's signature.

---

     When I was finally cut to go home, I took a long shower and collapsed in my bed. When my eyes closed, I saw a picture in my mind's eye.

     Dark eyes framed by thick lashes. My vision slowly panned out, and I saw dark eyebrows. There was a slight wrinkle between them, like the person was frowning. Slowly, my mind put together a strong nose, then high cheekbones, full lips, and a strong jaw. Finally, I saw long, dark hair framing this handsome face.

     Slowly, I put a name to the face I saw in my mind.

     Paul.

     Why I was seeing Sam and Jared's friend, I had no clue. There was no denying that he was attractive, though. His angular face and sharp eyes made him look uninviting, but his sullen demeanor was softened by his full, almost pouty lips and well kept hair. His lack of facial hair made him look younger compared to Jared, who's scruffy chin made him look closer to twenty than to seventeen. The long, silky hair on his head had been messily pulled back, yes, but it served to make him look almost boyish, also.

     I was pulled out of my thoughts when my door creaked open, and I peeled my eyes awake to see Bella standing in the doorway. Wordlessly, I pulled back the blankets around me and scooted over. She shut the door behind her and fell into my bed, sighing as I reaching out to pull the blanket over her shoulders.

     I fell asleep shortly after, Bella's breathing steady almost immediately.

Word Count: 3157

Author's Note:

Hey guys!! This is my first fic ever! Please lmk what you think about it 🥰

Also, I plan to change some things about the story. I'm going on a mix of the books and movies, but I plan to change the timeline a little, change the logistics a bit, and make some of the characters a bit older because I don't like how literally everyone is like 16?? Anyway, I'll probably put out a chapter of all the stuff I change to get some feedback and stuff

All rights go to the original authors and publishers !

[joannasteez]

almost blue (1)

pairing: cody rhodes x black reader warning: explicit descriptions of violence and sexual activity. minors please do not interact. readers eighteen and older interact only please. descriptions of alcohol consumption and the use of deadly weapons. authors note: JOHN WICK AU!!! so excited to share this! i had this sorta kinda in my back pocket for a while, while trying to build up tanks of blood, which you can find to read here. not everything in this is super true to the world of john wick but the most im using as inspo is the aesthetic anyways. also a one off mention of john wick lol. that and some of the names for certain things. italics in the beginning represent flashback perspective music inspo: almost blue by chet baker word count: 4800 tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @theninthwonder @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @southerngirl41 @2-muchsauce @crxssjae

new york. the continental hotel and it's flatiron shape. september 2019. the rain, this soft unsteady pitter patter. a gentle gray coloring the sky. the air cold and biting. the city filling its brim with a sleepless droning. 

and amongst the deathly sort of decadence—gold trim and blood red carpet floors—bath water disturbs till its sloshing to overtake the tub. a messy spill against the floor. his lips working over yours. fingers kneading deep enough into skin that it stains with the print of his touch. nails tender in his hair and your body melting in till the heat of him breaks over your skin. his everything settled into the wisp and charm of your voice as his pleasure becomes whole. too great.

—but his memory tires from old moments like these, a shell of itself as it attempts in vain to restore to it's former glory. has been in a perpetual state of exhaustion for sometime. but this straining is singular. a throbbing at the forefront of his skull. a tight pulling pain at the nape of his neck till it's creeping wild at the tip of his spine. forcing him to grow ill as he works to reminisce. body wistfully undone. and what words do the men of our time say about insanity? to be in a perpetual state of trying, doing, in hopes of something new. and so on he went, flirting with this disaster, this run of nostalgia, so much so that memory has forsaken him, taking these little complexities —the new york rain and the taste of your lips— along with it. 

but cody can handle the load and reload of a glock 26 as fast as he does it well. a deft maneuvering before the barrel raises and he pulls the trigger, the recoil driving sharp. a bullet through the skull and the splattering of blood. whoever meant to kill him, now dead in his wake. 

but what cruelty this is. a traitor to his own body. living with nothing but the means to kill and tattered memory. with him still, only, all of the things left unsaid—

you'd smelt of vanilla. the yearning about his tongue deep and yet to be settled. his lips a shadow as they feathered against yours. his questions overdone with a frightening passion. "where are you ten years from now?" 

your fingers slipped over his skin, as easy as they would over porcelain. a delicate taking over wet soapy muscle till it clawed over his shoulders and against the heat of his cheeks. "somewhere warm and comfortable. retired".

where ever you were, is where he wanted to be. "am i with you?"

a reversion, just barely perceptible, but there all the same. something like fear, like hesitation, pushing against a situational sort of tenderness in your eyes. the warmth slowly but forcibly outdone by the cold. lukewarm. just like the fate of too old bath water. not enough of either extreme. lukewarm. 

"seems more like a question for you to answer".

"answer it anyways".

and he couldn't feel your lips anymore. too much air, too much distance. caution thick. woven about your words. the tones. the inflections. "ten years from now, you'll be somewhere as warm, as comfortable and retired too".

"am i with you?" 

to draw such a long length of need into the air. passions and hopes and dreams. cody knew. it would've been easier to take the sear of a bullet, the ripping tear in of a knife or the crack of something blunt and unforgiving to his skull. those things easier than the down trod of such a silence. your eyes having gained more and more distance. fear peaking soft and brown before the quick slip over of indifference. like you didn't care for his whispered words sounding too much like forever. and recovery from bullets and knives and blunt force was tedious. sewn up skin and the reformation of fine motor skill. but this. the way you suffered him to feel the drift away of your body and the simple, delicate, eager push in of your touch. something in his heart—amongst the lukewarm water—failed. this low dropping into a less lively place. 

new york. the continental hotel and its flatiron shape. june 2024. a peak of the sun amidst more grayish than white clouds against an icy pale blue sky. the air breezy with a teasing smell of rain. like a stray tendril before some great unraveling. the city as sleepless as it's ever been. 

and amongst the deathly sort of decadence—scarlet sage in bloom and the ever present air of readymade violence—cody sips at a short glass of brandy. an edgy spike to his tongue as it settles. everything of the continental he possessed now lost to time and the overwork of his sore tired memory. lost to a bout of corrosion done by words left unsaid. because he did not remember your answer after the persistence of his "am i with you?” all thats left, this great blurring. of words and the finer littler complexities. your lips and your eyes and the soft ways of your touch. and maybe it came to be this way for good reason. using such a burn to his ego to fuel the fire of his rage. revenge for memories unforgettable. around the glass of brandy, his hands feel stronger. less careful in how they hold. caution be damned. he sips again to finish. his finger buttoning his suit jacket, making way from the bar and across the communal space of the hotel. 

warmth at his ear and a twitch in his trigger finger. something like eyes resting over him. watching him.

he continues to a connecting hallway. elevators and mosaic floors. maybe the brandy wasn't the best idea, but neither was coming to such sacredly awful ground. lovers trauma and all that bullshit jazz. 

the fourteenth floor is quiet. his steps carpeted by soft wool. a second twitch in his trigger finger that leads into the sharp driving heat reminiscent of staggering gun recoil. a sweet burning in his arm, the muscles knowing, remembering. but he has nothing of use on him. nothing to snuff out and quiet that vicious call of death. his hotel room styled with a modernistic flare to it's luxury. clean and unadorned. a simple reflection of his own style thankfully, but nothing extravagant to weaponize. he would have to, if needed, to make due. a slim ball point pen, sleek and multifunctional, rests next to a complimentary bottle of wine. "enjoy your stay", in cursive. cody feels the warmth at the tip of his ear again, something greater than a simple bout of paranoia. his fingers slip the pen into his pocket, a reversing in his steps to triple check the locking function of the room doors.

and he shouldn't be so wound up should he? conducting business was, is, has always been forbidden on hotel grounds. 

his fight or flight saying otherwise. breathing over his skin overwhelmingly warm. lingering wearily. intuition always a nagging son of a bitch but never wrong. it's never failed him. 

cody showers, stands amidst the icy rain of too cold water. cody showers, because warm baths terrify something in his body. the possibility of turning stale and lukewarm. too distant and uninviting to be either extreme. like eyes and soft lips he can barely form well enough to reimagine. 

and the bed sheets are welcoming. slipping along his skin with a delicate relief. but still, something feels wrong. a heaviness to the air that precedes this faithful old tryst with life. with death. the ring of his phone working to unburden him suddenly, but for only some seconds. the number blocked. he answers, rushing to fish that ball point pen from his dress pants. sleek and multifunctional in his grip. but the urgency in his maneuvering cuts short with the slip in of something dangerously angelic. memory sore and exhausted no more, but now rushing back to him fervid and unrelenting. a tender charming tone in his ear that disrupts the stalwart build of his resolve. september 2019. june 2024. five years of an almost complete pain. icy feeling wind with the teasing of a torrential down pour. almost there but not quite. the anger and the pain never red enough. the sadness almost blue. 

"the loft in tribeca" you start. cody commits it all to memory. the words, the tones, the inflections. shuffling to rough his pants on. pen in his pocket. phone wedged to his ear as his fingers rip off the casing of a pillow. body easy as it maneuvers to protect his six o'clock, leaning against the wall. his eyes scope along the room. an over examination. waiting. "if you're not dead in the next 30 minutes, meet me there". 

the call drops. 

the slow unlocking click of his hotel room door. his muscles burn with remembrance. eyes sharp. his ears attune. the shells of them warm. cautioned steps approach the entry way of the bedroom but they fail to go unnoticed. thudding against the soft carpet. and if not for the possibility of his demise, cody would laugh. surely this was amateur hour. boots and inconspicuous were no more suited together than suede in the rain. and he'd made that rookie mistake before. back when he was a rookie. but the high table were no idiots, sending rookies to bring his head in, unless they hated him that much and felt he should feel the brunt of that hatred with some disrespect. and disrespect it was. 

cody's breath holds. his head thumping against the wall before he makes a swift crouch to his knees. a gun rounding the corner, and a bullet flying aimed for where his head had knocked in. a simple quick diversion. nothing special or particularly extravagant, but enough to give him seconds to maneuver. and oh this is disrespect in deed. dominik mysterio the source of his current heavy breathed, adrenaline rushing circumstance. cody knuckling the hold of the still upward pointed gun with a punch before another sinks into domink's abdomen. a short grunt breaking from the scrappy, ill-sophisticated, mullet wearing piece of shit. and surely dominik is more of a piece of shit when his heavy boot toughs into cody's jaw. racing for the gun. 

but cody is quick. has felt and faced harsher things. if anything, its more of an irritation he feels than a full measure of pain. it was hard maintaining good skin considering the life he led. he spits against the carpet. iron on his tongue. red staining the clean line designs. he reaches for dominik's leg just before he's in reach of the gun. pulling him near and flipping him over quickly. a rough hand in the silk of domink's mullet as he rains down punches with the other.  cody ill satisfied as he hears the sloppy singing of grunts from the younger mysterio. and as his frustration mounts, swindled by the audacity of the high table, dominik gains an advantage. his hips shifting up to propel cody, his arms lean and tight and trapping over cody's and rolling. 

"you three piece suit, hugo boss wannabe wearing motherfucker", dominik's face bloody and angry. his fists balled and quick as he comes down against cody's face. 

the impression of the pen presses into cody's thigh. memory and dexterity working like a trained muscle. amidst the  barrage of fists, cody reaches for the sleek ball point pen. clicking the tip and rushing it into dominik's side. harsh vicious stabs till the pain takes hold enough for him to hesitate. plunging the inky tip into his neck, where blood flows to gush. breaking up out of his skin. choking on air and the pain of a slow to come death. 

"bulletproof three piece suits asshole", cody roughs out. kicking dominik for satisfaction. 

if you're not dead in the next 30 minutes, meet me there

the loft is the same. unadorned by that uncanny but natural weathering of time and neglect. warm homely autumn inspired tones with splashes of green and hand carved wooden furniture. cody ever the horrendous sucker for hand carved shit. an intimate union of labor and passion. ever the reflection of a once lively relationship. carefully cultivated, ending poorer than a bastard dying with his eyes wide open. because when you go that way, you deserve it. but cody? his passions didn't deserve that violent abrupt end. and yet here he is, creeping past the entrance. a painful stuttering of footfalls as he goes. muscles sore and his skin on fire. 

dominik mysterio was a warm up. a warning even. the call must've went out. a bounty worth enough for people to try him. the train ride to tribeca interestingly violent. a woman with a knife, a man with a gun and another thinking his bare hands were some great unstoppable force. and no, cody did not make quick work of them. not as quickly as he would've liked. but he managed. and at the very least, he'd suffered a slitting cut to his cheek and a laceration to his chest. that piece of shit running the blade right through his tattoo. some maybe secondary bruising and a bad headache. but he's not dead. not like the idiots that tried and failed to kill him. 

the loft, much like the continental hotel, is agreed upon neutral ground. a place for trysts and the sharing of information. or rather, thats what it used to be. now, cody isn't so sure. 

and his limping is pathetically loud. shoes a heavy clack against the floor. makes him bristle annoyed. you stand just behind the kitchen island. wine bottle opened. a glass in hand as you sip. more beautiful than he remembers. soft looking still, your eyes casting over the rim as you sip, undeniably deceptive. 

a gun lays easy on the coffee table sat between two couches. too easy. but his displeasure gets the best of him. he shifts for it quickly. a swift up of his hands positioned about the gun, aiming for your face. 

you knew his whereabouts. so much so that you knew the whereabouts of the people trying to kill him. taking the chance to trust could cost him his life. and cody quite likes his life. 

"you had me scared a little bit". a gentle float of words. a finger dancing along the rim of the wine glass. a daring stare down the barrel of the gun. "i thought you got bested by a second rate mysterio". and when cody doesn't move, captured by pain, caution and the mystique of your presence, your eyes roll. his form fixed and perfected. trigger finger cool, but his heart unsure. "cut the melodrama. put the gun down cody". 

"you knew i was being followed", he clips. jaw tight. 

"i mean...duh...", you give. dry and teasing. finishing your wine. "half of that was me, and lets not be silly", covering the length of distance between your bodies slowly. a stalking patience. a fierce feline approach. "you shot a bullet through the skull of one of thee most important men. finding out don't come cheap when you fuck with the high table". 

"everybody seems to forget I had to bury my father", the barrel of the gun kept high with perfect aim as you near closer. "killing that sack of shit was just me evening the score". 

"i didn't kill your father cody". 

was that sincerity? empathy? a sudden waft in of warmth after years in the cold. it felt unreal. true but unreal. and he was sure it wouldn't last. 

"obviously", cody bites out. 

your forehead nestles against the barrel of the gun. his memory overwrought. his senses in a frenzy. a horrible mixture in his skin of pain and elation. steeped with the fear of having to endure another sudden vanishing. angry that such an endurance was his portion in the first place. 

"so then why is the gun still pointed at me?"

his fixed form eases. your hand slipping the gun from his hold gently. fire over his skin as you touch him for the first time in five years. a deft maneuvering about the cold heavy metal to expose the contents of the magazine. amusement coloring your eyes and spreading over your mouth for a teasing little smile. 

"they're blanks anyways", emptying the magazine as the faux bullets fall to the floor. your hand settling down the gun and its magazine on the coffee table. leaving him in an exasperated awe as you head toward the kitchen. "just wanted to see how thin your patience has worn". 

your chin jutting over to the couch. hands full of medical supplies as you pad over to him softly. his body aching and slow as it rests into the tender leather seating, but moving without delay still. always under the gentle charm of your voice, his being falling under this servile sort of subjection. making him bristle silently within himself. all that time and distance amounting to nothing for his resolve. 

cody surrenders. mind over matter no longer needed. succumbing to the full weight of his pain. hair messy with red droppings of other peoples blood. his muscles sore and the hammering about his skull diligent and taunting. 

"my pain has always been a funny little joke to you". 

you pull the coffee table closer to the wide spread of cody's legs. your own slipping over to straddle the strength of one of his thighs. your body warm and comforting against his skin. an old feeling blooming in his chest. you were doing this on purpose. he's sure of it. to see him waver and yield to the charm of your presence. gentle touch dabbing to rid his cheek of dried blood before you went about cleaning the wound. his fingers itching to form to your body, desperate to push dull nails into your skin again. to form in and caress with the intent to renew his memory. 

your eyes flit to his crotch. "its a lot more than little. give yourself some credit", you muse. applying butterfly stitches. 

the air is thick. forces him to maintain a steady breath. memory overwrought once more. a mighty rushing in that heats him whole. your hands working his button up open. the lax take of your palm to his belly forcing a throb to the crux of his thighs. the closing in of the distance makes for easy intimacy. a registration of the lesser noticeable, more complex things. the prick of your nails telling familiar stories, as they work to rid him of the shirt all together. tender and caring, similar to how they used to be. your eyes roaming and thinly glazed over. he spares a glance at the wine bottle. halfway done. your ministrations functional but indulgent of the moment. of his skin.

a quicksand sort of state of affairs. if he doesn't pull himself together now, he would fall into you. full consumption. and he can't possibly risk his life because he's half hard and overdone with sentiment. 

"how long have you been following me?"

you apply something like a salve after cleaning the nasty chest wound. an anesthetic. how sweet of you. to suddenly take his pain into consideration.

"a few months". 

"why am i not dead?"

your body adjusts a top of him. somehow closer. your knee nearly running into his crotch. "yet", you give. beginning the process of suturing. "the question everyone wants to know is why is cody rhodes not dead yet". breaking shortly to peer over him. a full examination it seems. heat rising in his cheeks. "cause he's no john fuckin wick. so why is he still here". pressure of the needle feeding into his skin. your lip tucking under your teeth in full concentration. "people don't know resilience is the bane of even your own existence. a little meat puppet made to take push pins". 

he scoffs. "this doesn't feel like a compliment if it is". 

you finish off the suture. a hesitant but delicate maneuvering off his thigh to rid of the medical supplies. the heat of you gone in an instant. "its an observation". the uncorking pop of that half drunken wine bottle. a generous crimson pour that you sip at. 

"on what basis exactly?" 

a whipping swing of kitchen cabinet doors. a bottle of brandy and a short glass. for him it seems. and the pained parts of him grow excited at the possibility of a simple taste. anything for a temporary fix. something to numb the burn in his bones. 

"very close encounters".

and no you don't dip into the leather to sit beside him when you return. you assume a much more compromising position. a full straddle of his legs as you gift him his little amber colored remedy. and if at any moment he ever thought he needed it and actually didn't, let this be the moment where that edgy spike to his tongue becomes essential. something to help him as he searches for a secure hold at control. and of course he drinks it all. an easy burning slip against the back of his throat as he feels the heat of you settling back into him. once dormant urges awakening in his fingers. supple thighs lined up over his kevlar woven dress pants. the baggy button up you'd decided was good enough for his visit thin and something like revealing. the other details left to his imagination. and God was that prone to running at any moment. tripping and falling away from him well enough till his crotch became to uncomfortable to bare the perfect fit of his pants. your empty hand returning to where it'd been. roaming tenderly against slow but steady bruising skin. his nose picking up the sweet wine on your breath. the glaze about your eyes. thighs over him, clenching slightly. 

"you were always a little too indulgent with the wine", cody gives. 

your eyes flitting to his crotch again. bulge more prominent. the teasing of your nails inching over past his navel. your throat humming. "and you with me". 

"don't think much of it". an attempt made in vain he thinks. feeling the hard throb of himself as soon as the words leave him. "it tends to happen. adrenaline from almost dying multiple times", his thigh knocking up into yours to grab at your attention. tipsy eyes drifting to the cold blue of his. "now spill. why am i still breathing?"

"because the number isn't high enough yet". another sip of wine before turning to rest it at the table. your hands free to run over the muscle of him. about his shoulders till your thumbs are caressing at his nape and the hard cut of his jaw. and that nearly drives him to insanity. the weight of you resting right where he pulses with life. "i take your head now, i'd be settling. and the game of it all ain't that fun right now anyways. its too amateur hour-ish for me. i wanna battle it out with the adults". 

"im flattered", cody deadpans. 

you smile. thumb soothing over his lip. "as you should be". 

"why else", the pulse about his blood wild. an unadulterated beating that coaxes to life the run off of his imagination. his touch a staggering grip at your jaw. pulling your eyes to him. lowly sat pretty brown eyes with a penchant for doing him inexplicably dirty. but they draw him in all the same. his stomach empty. filled with nothing but the slosh of brandy. cody feeds into the daze of it. the possibility of a buzz. your lips a breath from his. desire on your tongue by way of the sweet smell of wine. "talk".

your hips shift over him. a rut into the fabric. friction to appease the ache, he's sure of it. thin panties and the desperate curl in of your nails. running into his scalp. trying to persuade him with tender touches and the charm of such wanton need. and its working. fuck, itsworking well. had worked some time ago and doing well now just the same. because cody, despite such deadly skill, was not immune to this type of torture. could not battle it with stalwart patience or dapper precision. and as you rut against him again, mind clouded by wine and your own intent, his fingers burn to touch you more. not so simple and plain but disgustingly greedy. his lips smooth against the seam of yours. amber brandy and red wine a near perfect melding together. 

"fuck", you relent. your nose knocking soft into his. laughing with a wry sort of amusement. "it would stroke your ego to a nice little finish if i did say it wouldn't it?"

cody hums. slips his hold till its anchored about your neck. measured in its pressure. his tongue licking to wet his lips. the slight of it forcing a tremble into your body. 

maybe his suffering isn't a lonely one after all. 

you whimper. taking a hard swallow. 

"vindicate me", cody rasps. 

your struggle is apparent. surfaces with a tear that stains your cheek. body undone by the defeat of such an intimate admission. 

"i miss you", fragile and nearly unclear. 

he smiles mirthless against the soft ways of your skin. his nose buried into the dip of your neck. "i don't trust your sentiment".

"it's true cody". 

"she says, after admitting she wants to kill me".

"better me than someone else". your fingers abandoning him to grip into the leather of the couch. a tight take to it that fastens your body into him. your mouth lax as your lips slip over his. the tease of a kiss filled with too much tension to bare. "touch me", you give. a plea and a command all the same. 

his fingers working in swiftly, a firm obedience, cupping your cheeks to steady the wild go of your tongue as it snakes to slip at his. a frail whimper singing from your chest and the return of your sharp nails. digging against his scalp to bring him impossibly closer. nearly suckling his tongue whole as your hips rut at him again. a less cautious shifting as you look for harsher friction. the pain of a murderous sort of labor and the pleasure of touching you again warring over the tenderness of his skin. coaxing him to groan and wince. strong, tired fingers forcing your hips to rock over him. an easy, stable grind along the hard bulge of his cock that leaves you living without the proper brilliance of words. reduced to the struggle of too pleasured moans. 

your teeth prickling and sharp as they snag against his lip. fingers deft, undoing his zipper. the heat of him hard and throbbing dangerous. his headache out done by more pressing matters, hazy and his senses going numb with lust. palms persistent, sinking into supple flesh. and fuck does it feel good. even better when his patience thins. fingers stretching the fabric of your panties till they tear. the slick way of your arousal making for an easier pace. a sweet teasing slip through your slit. his imagination wild and unfettered. even the thought of slipping in to have his full way with you enough to twist the base of his belly. groaning into your mouth.  

fire in his fingers as they pull against the fat of your ass. sweltered skin sweet in his palms. forming with every push and spread and pry that he gives. 

your mouths depart. a hesitant slipping away. breaths heavy. your face hiding in the dip of his neck. your pussy messy. bewitching even as you grind mindless into him. an undulating heat over his skin. "cody", a mantra as it travels to slight the beating of his pulse. 

the tell tale trembling in your body. a breath away from bliss. and he can feel the build in his bones. the return of an ache thats been transformed. throbbing and restless. an urgency he works to relieve. and with it so does your mouth. less desperate to consume him. melting to linger at his lips. breathy and stuttered. 

"right there angel", he gives. a whisper against your lips. corralling the last bits of resolve to break. your hips stuttering but caressing faithful still. coming undone. rutting greedily to grasp at the last bits of pleasure.

and here he finds that charming sort of relief. an unfurling warmth about his skin. snatching your body into him as he strokes against you and throbs, coming undone. release pooling and spurting against the baggy button up you'd worn to tease him with. 

your lips finding his again. needy still. and he accepts without wait. ready and willing. your moaning along his tongue delicate and wispy. reminiscent of a memory once forgotten. new york. september 2019. cody cups your face again. thumbs dusting over the apple of your cheeks. on a mission to stain himself with this moment. sweet red wine mixed with aged brandy. 

she was getting to be a lil too long so i had to break her up! but how do we feel about our little hitman?

[unsoundedcomic]

Whumptober 2024 - 05 - "Sunburn"

Formication was the educated scholar's word for that particular sensation of creepy crawling skin one might experience when unnerved, or rotting from the inside-out. Duane and a school chum had laughed about the word while studying for the Continental grammar and vocabulary portion of Grettaerin's first year exams. They'd then made a game of writing down as many other nearly pornographic words as they could think of, starting with ripple and ending with exacerbation.

Duane looked up. Even six feet below the surface of the sea, through lacey water rippling (nippling, ha!) like gentle boughs over head, the sun appeared too damningly bright. It hurt his eyes in some way. The very small, rational part left of his mind realised that made no sense, as his eyes were now pymarics. Weren't they? How could the sun hurt them?

His skin was very dead, too, and yet still the formication formication formication, ahaha! Insects crawling through him. Maybe they were eating the eyes?

He shifted in the sea. Swarming dark blobs broke and scattered away from his tattered, stolen clothing. Oh! That was fish eating him!

He should leave the water. He should make for those strange trees only a short wade away. They were shadowed. They looked dark and cool. And he knew they were empty because he had stalked through them yesterday looking for someone to eat.

No, no- someone to MEET. Someone to meet and ask for directions. He was surely some place terribly far away from Alderode because he did not know what those strange and spindly trees were with their naked roots plunged into the sea water. Sea water was lethal to plants! He burned to ask someone. The old Materials Master had to be made acquainted with those trees!

Oh, but the old Material's Master plainly burned. If the sun touched his dead flesh again he thought it would alight. There'd be more formication, worse than what the wee fishes did. He would tear the skin off his broken arm, unwind the grey muscle from shattered bone, pick it clean, roar at the sun to leave him be! Did it think he would not strike it if it offended him?

But later. In an hour. Perhaps two, when it began to retreat, bloodied, into the west. If he could but taste that blood. It had seen Alderode today, that sun. It had cast the Temple's shadow across his ghers, and once that shadow threw Elders' Hall into darkness it meant papa was on his way home. What had Leysa made tonight?

Was she there? Among the strange trees? Duane stood sharply, in a startled panic. Aye, beneath the shadows. He saw her there, his Leysa, gesturing for him to join her in a place away from the damnedable sun! In clumsy nightmare slow motion he made for her, lumbering over the shell-strewn sand, cutting noxiously through a cloud of fish and his own oozing putrescence!

Then his head broke the water. The wicked rays lashed his pate like his first Commander's strap, and his ears prickled so he wanted to tear them off like skin tags. With a howl of despair he submerged again, dropping into the shadowed shelter of his cloak and the darkly nibbling fish.

Later. In an hour. Perhaps two.

[casteliacityramen]

[Previous] [PART 2 OF 2]

“I flew around a bit." 

"I overheard some talks about an open gala in Sinnoh and I decided to attend it. I’ll tell you the whole story about what happened later, but...

... Even when I was trying to relax, I couldn't feel comfortable with myself. Like… like wearing clothes that didn’t fit. The longer the night went on, nothing felt right. And I’m not just talking about the disguise.”

“You felt like a caricature of who you used to be.”

“Yeah. I knew I was going to feel awful when the Continental War was done and over with. I knew we were going to be reprimanded, or worse, but…” Rio frowns deeply, trying to gather her tangled thoughts together.

“I didn't think it'd mess me up as bad as this. I didn’t recognize who I was by the end of the night. I’m worried there’s no going back to who I used to be. I miss the version of myself who could go to a gala and not be miserable in the corner. It feels like that part of me died--that optimistic part of me."

“Do you get what I’m talking about?”

Rio waits with bated breath, only for Ray to curtly answer:

"Yes. And no?"

Rio feels her temper quickly flare up as she lets out a frustrated huff, "Whaddya mean by that?"

Ray raises his palms towards her, slowly.

"It's not that I don't understand what you're saying,” Ray turns to her and gives her a faint smile, "I like to think my experiences are changing me for the better. That’s where you and I differ."

“What, that you’re becoming less of who you used to be and more of… whatever this is?”

"A sub-par noodle penchant?" Ray laughed, throwing Rio's words right back at her from earlier that day.

"You know what I mean, Ray," Rio feels her face get hot. "It's as if..."

"... It's as if you're undoing yourself to make up for what you've done," Rio whispers out loud. The sudden conclusion steals her breath. "Ray, you're not doing all this to punish yourself, are you?"

"..."

"Please say no.”

"It may have started out that way, but that's not the case now."

“Ray…” Rio whispered in disbelief, out loud. 

“You may see this as me continuing a dead man’s legacy. But it’s more than that. This place was a gifted to me and came with a wish. I intend to honor that gesture.

Even though we can’t do any of our usual duties, that’s no excuse to stop acting like a shepherd.”

“If your version of helping the commonwealth is to further seat yourself into guilt, I can’t let you follow through with this.”

“You’re still not getting it, It’s not like that."

"Are you sure about that? Because it's all starting to sound like you're doing this as some sort of messed up way of repenting for your sins."

"I'm telling you, it's not like that."

“Ray, there's a moment when memorialization for someone else turns into hurting yourself." 

"Like how you visited your own gravestone in Johto? Do you really see all of your soldiers offering gifts in your memory and call that self harm? Didn't you just say that you're grieving over someone who you used to be? Is it really that wrong? To cling to what's left!?"

"For me, it is."

"We aren't mortal, Ray. This entire conversation we're having? This argument? All of it? This is what happens when we can't move on. We drag everything with us for hundreds, maybe thousands of years whether we like it or not. This is only going to bring you pain in the long run.

I’m sorry I blew up at you earlier today, but I still stand by what I said. You have no right to continue Tai Ishikawa's legacy, even if all of this was a gift.

All of this? Hanging around Ingram's descendants, Ayumi and Jack? Working an ungodly amount of hours for a tiny bit of yen? The past guilt alone will eat you alive."

"I'm aware of what happens to me if I stew in it. I've been here five years longer than you have,” Ray mutters. “Besides, do you think that I don't know how to live with all the pain I've gathered? Do you really think that guilt alone has made me stick it out this far?”

Of course not. But... she can't simply admit that.

She’s seen him on good days, bad days, and worse days. She's seen him scraping by with little money to his name but continuing to honestly run the business with a straight back and taut shoulders.

She shakes her head, unsure of herself. After all, she's borrowing words that Ray used to tell her in the past. She's not used to being on this side of the argument, which begs the question: are they destined to swap places again somewhere, sometime down the future?

"I've seen what guilt does to you, Ray. I sure as shit know what it's doing to me," Rio shakes her head, sighing. "I don't think this is only guilt... But there's more of it than I want to see. I don't need any more reasons to lose sleep at night if I can keep you from hurting yourself."

“Then…

... Are you willing to stop me? Stop all of this if I fly past that line?"

"You're already dangerously close. Some would say that you're already past the line of hurting yourself."

"I'm not."

Rio was hoping for any sense of weakness, any stumble over words, fumble in his convictions, but Ray continued to stare at her. Rio was the first to look away.

"All of this… It helped you?”

"It has. I’d love to have you here."

"Okay."

--

The two sit in comfortable silence. As the sun fades, so too, does the tension between them. With no further words to be exchanged, the rest of the decanter behind the counter is emptied out.

Ray makes a disgusted face with every sip. One of the unfortunate effects of their blessings is the rapid processing of whatever toxins enter their body, like alcohol. If they wanted to get remotely buzzed, they had to drink the stuff that was barely safe for consumption.

Which reminds her...

“I thought I’d get you this as a peace offering.”

“What is this?”

“Got it from the gala I talked about earlier. Wine from out of this dimension. Just like the guests."

“What?”

“Later. But guess what? I actually got drunk.”

“Bullshit. Why'd you make me drink the rest of that decanter? Pour me some.”

“You’re the one with the hands, you pour us some.”

Before Ray could reach behind the counter to grab the glasses once more, they are interrupted by the sound of a squeaky stool and a pained, muffled grunt at the end of the stand.

Jack sits in the seat farthest from them, his eyes never meeting theirs. His mouth opens, but it takes a long time for him to slowly form the words. He shrinks as he whispers:

“I don’t know where else to go.”

It's about time they get ready to open back up, anyway.

[Pinned Post]

[pyxrin]

All In Against the House

Aka: A demigod runs into the Task Force 141 while on an undeciphered quest. Unbeknownst to her, she rapidly becomes the only wildcard able to give them the chance to win as the underdogs they have yet to realize they are.

AN: This is my cod/pjo crossover fic I got an itch for, so I started writing this and couldn't stop lmao. Didn't edit, and didn't play the games. This is also my first full blown fic, expect errors. Also haven't decided how long I want chapters to be, but expect them on the longer side. Enjoy! ^-^

4330 words

Chapter 1: Lucky Hates Mexico, but the People Trying to Kill Her are Worse

Not here either.

Lucky has decided that she doesn't really like Mexico. Las Almas at least. It's dusty and brown, but not brown in the way that movies portray Mexico. It's brown in the rotting wood way. In the hundreds of pounds of dirt that coat her already shabby clothes way. In the grimy windows that are barred by similarly brown rusty bars way. However, she can live with brown. Lucky has been everywhere, continental US at least, so she's used to all kinds of colors.

What she isn't used to is not finding what she's looking for. Or rather who. This is the tenth mostly abandoned building she's searched, and her dad wasn't in any one of them. Lucky doesn't know how much longer she can take it. The anticipation of the mostly silent night, broken by the incessant wind, and the knowledge that there are people with guns is killing her.

With every passing minute, she sweats more cold sweat, her hands shake more, and she is this close to crying. This whole town is terrifying and Lucky can't wait to leave, but she can't leave without her dad. She has no clue why that stupid prophecy led her here in the first place!

Lucky has never been unlucky enough to not find something or someone. Normally she doesn't even have to try, so that must mean that her dad isn't here. As such, she should definitely, totally, leave. The gunshots only work to cement her rapidly forming plan to get the hell out of Dodge.

She yelps as the distant sound echoes and crouches down below the windowsill. Lucky's heart pounds as she feels the adrenaline course through her veins. Everything becomes sharper, and the world becomes clearer. Demigod senses and all. 

She takes a moment to collect her very limited nerves before peeking through the window. The coast is clear. Lucky cracks open the door and pokes her head through. She looks both ways before dashing out, instinctively going left. Lucky doesn't need a plan, she just needs to follow her gut, which has never steered her wrong before. Maybe she can steal a car or something. This is as good a time as any to learn how to drive, yeah?

 Lucky sprints through the alleyways, doing her best to be quiet and stick to the shadows. Even if she has weapons, she's never been good at fighting, especially when it's bronze knuckles vs guns. She sees a couple guys down the alley she just turned down. Big fuckers with big guns. Lucky panics. Sure, they're not monsters, but they're just as scary.

She ducks behind the corner of the building. They didn't see her, but if she doesn't do something soon, they will, and they will try to kill her, and Lucky really really doesn't want them to try to kill her. She will cry. And if they kill her, she won't be able to find and possibly save her dad, and if she can't save her dad, whatever stupid fucking cartel that's coming after him will kill him, and they will both be dead and forgotten by everyone who knew them and doomed to spend eternity in the worst, most boring ass afterlife in Hades, who is probably already mad at Lucky because she fully thought he was gray with blue fire hair. Was the other side of the alleyway always as close as it is now? It feels like no matter how deep a breath she takes, she can't get enough air. Shit. She can't be doing this now! Lucky thought she was getting better! That was the whole reason why she thought she was ready to go on this stupid quest! She can't just freeze up and stop breathing every time she encounters an enemy she can't run away or hide from. Fuck! What was that thing that Chiron taught her? Senses! Focus on her senses!

She tastes saliva and dirt, which is wholly unhelpful. She hears the wind whistling through the city, the pounding of her heart, her labored breathing, small chatter, and the crunch of boots on ground that is steadily getting louder. Wait, louder!? Lucky is fucked. So incredibly fucked. What's next? Lucky feels the chill of the night wind, the sweat on her palms, and the roughness of the wall she's pressed up against. Lucky sees very little, but there is a pretty rock right by her feet, about the size of her hand. 

Wait, a rock!

Lucky picks up the rock, leans around the corner where both men are thankfully distracted and not looking, and chucks the rock as far and as hard as she possibly can. It sails over their heads and crashes into some unseen pile of what sounds like metal cans. The two soldiers whip around and immediately race off to find the source. She hears them say something something soap and something something ghost. Are they giving a ghost a bath? Weird.

She doesn't pay it any more mind as she's too busy slipping by into another side street. She takes a moment to catch her breath, leaning against the wall. Her heart rate finally starts going down. That thing that Chiron taught her actually really helped, even if she totally forgot what it’s called. Lucky was actually able to find and solution to her problem instead of just running away. Maybe she can actually do this whole quest thing, even if there's bumps along the way.

Once back to a relative baseline, Lucky stands back to her full height and glances around for an idea of what to do next. She turns to face back just as the soldiers she thought she properly distracted come around where she came from. They look at her. She looks at them. Lucky takes in a large gulp of air.

“AAAAAAAHHHHH!”

Soap perks up, dropping the body he just took out. The entirety of Las Almas should've been under military control, and that sounded like a girl's scream. What the hell are civvies doing here? Soap doesn't have time or opportunity to worry about whatever war crimes Graves and his men are committing when he and Ghost were minutes away from joining the list of casualties. Hell, it could even be a trap. Who knows what that wanker's thinking?

The girl will have to be one of the many who haunt Soap after he's gone back to his bed and everything's gone quiet. When he can't help but think about the decisions made and the roads not taken. He grabs anything of use from the bodies before moving in the direction of the church. Ghost is waiting.

He doesn't get far before the girl he was seconds away from abandoning comes flying at him considerably faster than he expected her to. She's just a wee thing. Mousey. Or maybe more rabbit-ey with that pink bandana on her head and the edges of the bow bouncing like that. Certainly a civilian currently being chased by close to a dozen Shadows. It's a wonder she isn't dead yet. All of this passes through Soap's brain in an instant, interrupted only by the girl shouting. “RUN, BITCH! RUN!”

It may be the group of Shadows hot on both of their tails now, but he does exactly as she says.

Lucky doesn't know why she trusts Mohawk, but she does, despite all previous experiences giving her a major distrust in any body that upholds the law. She doesn't know where she picked up the extra soldiers either, but it doesn't matter. They just have to find a place to hide. Hopefully their now bad luck will kick in soon.

She follows Mohawk past a lost car and into the alley just by it. She hears the bullets fly by her to hit the car, as well as a small hissing that she ignores. Lucky glances around and gets an idea, and with how she's slowly catching up to her new friend, she can share the plan too. “Boost me! Left wall!” It's a sheer wall, but the building is low enough that she can scramble up there with a boost.

Mohawk doesn't immediately show signs of hearing her, but he does turn on his feet and interlock his fingers, a perfect jumping pad. Lucky continues her sprint, hopping into his hands and leaping to the edge. The soldier doesn't so much as grunt. She pulls herself up and over in an instant. However, she ain't gonna leave him hanging, so she leans over the edge and holds out her hand.

Mohawk looks suspicious, but the sounds of the rapidly approaching other soldiers changes his mind fast. We'll, as far as Lucky can tell. He jumps and grabs onto her hand. “HO-ly shit! What do they feed you?” This bitch is heavy! With a considerable effort, she is able to tug him up enough for him to grab the ledge.

He's just able to get up there when an explosion echoes in the area, followed closely by screams. Lucky steels herself enough for a peek and finds that that car exploded, the fire and debris blocking the area, as well as a few bodies. An event surely caused by misfortune. She cringes and flops back onto the roof. She didn't think that she would enjoy the feel of shitty gravel digging into her back as much as she is, but clearly a near death experience was enough to give her a fresh perspective on the subject. 

She turns her head to Mohawk who looks like he's buffering. She's used to that look. She sees it a lot when people hang out with her. Demigods or not, none are ever really prepared for her, as Dionysus lovingly calls them, ‘batshit crazy, loony tunes ass shenanigans.’ She can only imagine what a mortal would think. Lucky decides that now is as good a time as any for introductions, if only to distract from the sorta magic she just used.

“Hi, I'm Lucky, well, my real name is Lucille, but everyone calls me Lucky! Nice to meet you. Probably would've been better if we weren't getting shot at, but nothing to change that now. Sorry. I talk a lot. At least I’m entertaining! Most of the time; I’ve been told to shut up a whole lot over the past couple years. It kinda sucks, but I understand, not everyone likes listening to a yapper. Actually, I think I’m gonna take their advice now and shut up. Sorry.” Lucky talks even more than normal when nervous,and the more she talks the more likely she is to overshare. Lucky doesn’t want to give away her life story to this stranger, for a multitude of reasons, so being quiet is definitely the best option, despite how she itches to speak and words bubble just below the surface.

Mohawk decides on what to say, for some reason. Introductions aren't that hard, and she knows that he knows English because he did what she said earlier. Her musings are interrupted when he finally huffs. “Steamin’ Jesus, Ahve ne’er bin on a op this weird. Ahm Soap.”

She takes a moment, asks him to repeat what he said. He does, the last part at least, but that doesn’t help at all. Lucky frowns. She... didn't understand a word of what Mohawk said. Like. At all. She's been in life and death situations before, and her ears worked perfectly fine then, and it doesn't feel like she's having a stroke. Aren’t you supposed to smell toast when that happens? Lucky smells nothing but gunpowder, dust, and the burning car. Not that she knows what strokes feel like, or smell like, for that matter. There's only one possibility left. "Did my dyslexia move to my ears?" She asks herself quietly.

He must've heard her because Mohawk bursts out laughing. It makes Lucky jump and her heart rate spike for a moment before she calms. Mostly. She thinks he's much too loud when there are other big ass soldiers on the hunt for them. He's doing like a full-on belly laugh, and Lucky didn't even make a joke! "Ahm Scottish, ye wee lass!" She stares blankly at him for a full minute before she’s able to figure out what the hell he just said. It dawns on her. Lucky’s eyes widen and her mouth drops. She points at him.

“Oooh! You’re Scottish! Fuck!” She exclaims. This is bad. Lucky is very stupid, and even if her dyslexia hasn’t officially migrated to her ears too, yet, the ADHD that comes with the whole demigod thing makes piecing anything that takes more than a modicum of effort incredibly difficult. Wait. what she just said probably sounds really insulting now that she’s thinking about it, and she really doesn’t want to make an enemy of her new friend. “Wait wait wait! I swear I wasn’t trying to insult you or your heritage. I think Europeans are cool! Not that I’ve met all that many, but still! Really it’s my bad because I’m kinda dumb and really bad at words and shit, so it can be hard for me to know what people say sometimes, especially with heavy accents. I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean anything bad! Please don’t try to kill me!” She waves her hands wildly in the hopes of conveying her sincerity.

Lucky’s panicked rambling causes Soap to panic. He just got this girl, and they are in an incredibly dangerous situation; he does not need her freaked out and likely to add to the already very high risk they’re in. He puts his hand over her mouth. She quiets and blinks at him owlishly. “Relax. Ahm Soap.” Lucky finds that his accent isn't as thick this time. Thankfully, she can actually understand him.

After a moment, he removes his hand, but not before staring at her intently to make sure she doesn't restart her tirade. She doesn't. Instead Lucky spouts the first thing that comes to mind. “Like the thing you should never ever drop in the prison showers?” 

Soap sighs heavily and holds his breath to keep his chuckles at bay. It is criminal how good Lucky is at disarming situations “Aye.” She nods with a grim expression. Lucky thinks it's a very unfortunate nickname. Poor guy, he seems like a very nice person, and having a silly nickname is an easy way for people to make fun of someone. She could also see people making fun of his mohawk. 

Lucky figures that this is as good a time as any to ask the important questions. “So what now? Do you have a way out and can I come with?” She prays to her mom that he says yes to both questions. She can’t wait to get out of this fucking city.

“Maybe and aye. Ye were coming with me anyway. No place for a civvie.” He seems to say that last part quietly, but it doesn’t escape Lucky’s ears. She doesn't know what a civvie is, but it feels insulting. Whatever it is, she doesn't want to be it. She can ask him about it later, when they aren't hiding from soldiers who want them dead. 

She peeks over the edge. The coast seems to be clear, and Lucky knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. (Are gift horses prone to biting?) She waves Soap over, who pokes his head over the edge beside her. He jumps down and looks up at her, holding out his arms as if he wants to catch her. As if!

Lucky has fallen down larger heights before, imagine her getting help for going down a building that's barely two stories tall? Insulting. Lucky sticks out her tongue at him and jumps down herself. She lands in a perfect tuck and roll. She didn't have to, but she wanted to show off. Lucky has to impress her new friend. They can be hard to find when it feels like every third person who shows interest in her is actually a monster who wants to eat her or some shit.

She dusts herself off and gestures for Soap to go ahead of her. The flaming car blocks the way they came, so the only way is through the maze of alleyways. Soap walks ahead, murmuring something about a lost bird. Lucky couldn't hear him all that well over the ambient noise. Are all military guys this weird? She kinda hopes she doesn't find out. 

Lucky follows Soap, yapping the whole way. “Y'know if every town in Mexico is like this one, I don't wanna come back, but I kinda have to stay in the country for a while until I find my dad. Or I guess I figure out what my actual quest is. I have the prophecy written on a paper, but I'm not very good at figuring out riddles. I think it means that I'm supposed to find my dad. I hope it does at least. I miss him.”

Soap occasionally replies, but his focus seems to be split between her, finding their way, and talking to the demons in his head. He doesn't tell her to shut up though, which is nice. Lucky does earn herself some very weird looks, which makes sense considering that she's talking about demigod stuff, which she really shouldn't, but it's not like it makes a difference. He won't understand. 

“I feel like we totally should've just stuck to the roofs. They're more fun and it's not like anyone looks up anyways. It's safer. Besides, then I can do some cool flips and shit. I know how to do a back-flip and a front-flip. They honestly weren't that hard to learn, but you have to just fully commit to it-” Soap has gotten really comfortable with just putting a hand over her mouth. Lucky is tempted to lick it in retaliation. Not yet.

She learns the reason he did that when she hears the chatter. Lucky freezes. She hopes that Soap knows what to do. She assumes that he does when he pushes her into the shadows, and the wall that is a foot or so inside them. Normally, the brunette girl isn’t quite so happy to be manhandled, but given that she is in mortal danger, she is more than happy to be pushed around if it makes her safer. He gives her a stern look before slipping away.

Lucky doesn't bother to ignore the sounds of flesh being cut into and the soft splatters of blood on the cobbled street. As long as the blood and gore isn't her blood and gore or the blood and gore of people she cares about, she's okay. She comes around the corner, stepping around the bodies with a little “Excuse me. Sorry. Coming through. Good stab? Yeah, good stab, Soap.” She also ignores the weird look Soap gives her. What? Is he not used to fully grown, and most definitely mostly matured adults being desensitized to viscera? Whatever. “So where are we even going? Are we gonna jack a car or something?”

Soap clears his throat and starts walking again, Lucky picking up the pace to keep up with his long ass legs. “Aye, we probably will. We're meeting up with a mate o' mine at the church over there.” He gestures vaguely in the direction they're going in. 

“You were talking to someone!? Not gonna lie, I kinda thought that you were going crazy or something, not that I would've minded. … Okay, I would've minded a little. I just don't wanna get axe murdered! You know what I mean? Is your friend a ghost?” Lucky asks amongst other things. To his credit, Soap doesn't seem surprised in the slightest, and after a moment of what seems to be intense concentration, he replies.

“...Aye, kind of. How did ye ken that?” He stops walking, turns around, and eyes her up and down. Just a quick glance, but it's more than enough to set Lucky’s nerves of edge. She must've said something to upset him. Lucky hopes it's not to the point that he wants to kill her.

“Sorry! Don't be mad! Before I ran into you I heard some of the soldiers talking about finding some soap and a ghost. Since you're the soap, I figured your friend would be the ghost.” She explains hurriedly. Soap nods and resumes walking. Lucky breathes a sigh of relief. She passed the test. She bounces after him.

 In an unspecified amount of time which could've ranged anywhere from five minutes to 45, Lucky has actually gotten Soap to open up to her a little! He even asked about her deck of cards that she had pulled out during that time to fidget with. She said that it's a gift from her dad and her most prized possession, great for magic tricks too! They’re coming up on the church. She can see it over the roofs of some of the buildings, and they haven't even encountered any more of those bitch ass soldiers who suck at taking out two guys and her. She legally gets to make fun of them because they're not here and can’t hurt her

Maybe the real missing dad, and the object of her quest, were the friends she made along the way. Actually… maybe Lucky doesn't really want Soap to be her dad or missing. Soap would probably be one of her older brothers if anything, the kind that would throw her head first in a pool, then Lucky would flail around uselessly, he would immediately panic and jump in to save her. She would bleach his hair while he sleeps in retaliation.

They resume their journey to the unnamed church to meet with Casper and get the fuck out of this shit town. Maybe she can take them with her? Being at camp has gotten her used to having people around and not having people around for the past few months has been hard. No matter what happens, Lucky will follow Soap.

Lucky almost curses again upon seeing the amount of soldiers just idling about. Waiting for them certainly. “Shadows.” Soap murmurs. Lucky wants to correct him because those are people and that's an edge lord ass name if that's what their group is called. He leads her off to the side, they jump over a white car and over a fence. They slip into a shop where Soap scrounges around for… stuff? Lucky doesn't know, but he finds something he likes. She respects the stealing grind regardless.

Lucky watches his piece the stuff together quickly. That look in his eyes really reminds her of the kid who made her brass knuckles. She taps her fingers on her legs anxiously. Even if her nerves weren't as high as they are, she needs something to do. Not even a minute passes and Soap finishes with his tinkering. Oh she really wants to talk right now, to cut the tension which feels electric. She walks over to the side by the counter, drumming on it.

Soap starts opening the door, and her senses sharpen again. The world slows down, and the glint of a gun flashes in the low light. A gun just past the door Soap is opening. He's going to get shot. Cold fear freezes her core. It isn't like her normal fear, which is jittery and overwhelming. That fear causes her to run for her life. This fear causes her to act. Lucky can't lose anyone else, certainly not someone who she's only just got the chance to know. 

Her body moves before her mind does. Lucky drives forward, ramming her shoulder into Soap's gut. With adrenaline, demigod strength, and her own musculature behind her, she has enough strength to tackle him to the side just as the door bursts open. Lucky feels a pressure in her side as a shot goes off. They both hit the ground with a thud. 

Lucky pushes off of his chest and whirls around, digging her toes into the floor to take out the monster before it can take them out. Before she can change her rings into their bronze knuckles form, another shot rings out and the monster collapses. Her chest heaves, but Lucky knows it isn't over yet. Those gunshots surely alerted the other monsters in the area. 

She stands as Soap does. He claps her back with a quick, “Thanks, lass,” but his gaze is sharp and she hears a muffled voice through his earpiece. Before she knows what's going on, he tugs her into a full sprint. They burst out of the door and Soap throws what he was working on. It explodes and smoke billows out.

Chaos erupts. She can't see shit, but she hears every last shout and firing of a gun. Lucky feels Soap's tight grip on her wrist as he pulls her, her legs are pumping and she keeps pace, her head ducked. 

They leave the smoke, dodging and weaving between any cover they can get to. Lucky's luck keeps bullets away, but they still have to be on their toes. Soap fires back some of his own. Lucky looks to their destination, a truck idling.

A bullet whizzes by her and smacks into the truck just as they get in arm's reach of it. Soap pulls the door open and all but throws Lucky in before jumping in himself, shutting the door as the driver peels out.

Lucky looks up at the incredibly large man, larger than Soap even, from her sprawled out, partially pinned state. Even his side profile is intimidating. This must be Casper. Soap turns around to keep shooting behind them, at the Shadows trying to stop their getaway, and Lucky tries to scramble out from under him, only to hiss in pain. She glances down to see a bloody hole in her side only partially hidden by her large unzipped jacket. 

“Fuck!”

[paganimagevault]

Female Europid Mummy from the Necropolis of Subexi III, Grave M6, Turfan District, Xinjiang. 5th-3rd C. BCE. Source: Baumer, Christoph.The history of Central Asia. Vol.1. The age of the steppe warriors. London : I.B. Tauris, 2012. pg. 218 left DS329.4 .B38 2012. Image via University of Pennsylvania. See maps in the post before this one for a better understanding of the geography discussed.

"Section 26 – The Kingdom of Nearer [i.e. Southern] Jushi 車師前 (Turfan)

1. ‘Nearer Jushi’ 車師前 refers to the kingdom or state centered in the Turfan oasis or, sometimes, to the tribe which controlled it. There can be no question that Nearer Jushi refers here to the Turfan Oasis. See for example: CICA, p. 183, n. 618; also note 1.5 above. For the etymology of the name Turfan see Bailey (1985), pp. 99-100, which is summed up in his sentence: “The name turpana- is then from *druva-pāna- ‘having safe protection’, a name suitable for a walled place.”

“One other oasis town is currently under excavation. At Yarghul (Jiaohe), 10 km (16 miles) [sic – this should read 10 miles (16 km)] west of Turpan, archaeologists have been excavating remains of the old Jushi capital, a long (1,700 m (5,580 ft)) but narrow (200 m (656 ft)) town between two rivers. From the Han period they uncovered vast collective shaft tombs (one was nearly 10 m (33 ft) deep). The bodies had apparently already been removed from these tombs but accompanying them were other pits containing form one to four horse sacrifices, with tens of horses for each of the larger burials.” Mallory and Mair (2000), pp. 165 and 167.

“Some 300 km (186 miles) to the west of Qumul [Hami] lie [mummy] sites in the vicinity of the Turpan oasis that have been assigned to the Ayding Lake (Aidinghu) culture. The lake itself occupies the lowest point in the Turpan region (at 156 m (512 ft) below sea level it is the lowest spot on earth after the Dead Sea). According to accounts of the historical period, this was later the territory of the Gushi, a people who ‘lived in tents, followed the grasses and waters, and had considerable knowledge of agriculture. They owned cattle, horses, camels, sheep and goats. They were proficient with bows and arrows.’ They were also noted for harassing travellers moving northwards along the Silk Road from Krorän, and the territories of the Gushi and the kingdom of Krorän were linked in the account of Zhang Qian, presumably because both were under the control of the Xiongnu. In the years around 60 BC, Gushi fell to the Chinese and was subsequently known as Jushi (a different transcription of the same name).” Mallory and Mair (2000), pp. 143-144.

“History records that in 108 BC Turpan was inhabited by farmers and traders of Indo-European stock who spoke a language belonging to the Tokharian group, an extinct Indo-Persian language [actually more closely related to Celtic languages]. Whoever occupied the oasis commanded the northern trade route and the rich caravans that passed through annually. During the Han Dynasty (206 BC-AD 220) control over the route see-sawed between Xiongnu and Han. Until the fifth century, the capital of this kingdom was Jiaohe.” Bonavia (1988), p. 131.

“Turpan is principally an agricultural oasis, famed for its grape products – seedless white raisins (which are exported internationally) and wines (mostly sweet). It is some 80 metres (260 feet) below sea level, and nearby Aiding Lake, at 154 metres (505 feet) below sea level, is the lowest continental point in the world.” Ibid. p. 137.

“The toponym Turfan is also a variation of Tuharan. Along the routes of Eurasia there are many other place names recorded in various Chinese forms that are actually variations of Tuharan.” Liu (2001), p. 268."

-Notes to The Western Regions according to the Hou Hanshu. Second Edition (Extensively Revised and Expanded). John E. Hill. University of Washington.

[whencyclopedia]

John Paul Jones

John Paul Jones (1747-1792) was a Scottish-born sailor who served in the Continental Navy during the American Revolutionary War (1775-1783). His raid on the English port town of Whitehaven in 1778 and his victory over the HMS Serapis the following year turned him into a war hero and led many to consider him the 'Father of the American Navy'.

Jones began his maritime career at the age of 13, serving aboard various merchant vessels and slave ships. After killing a mutinous sailor in the West Indies, he fled to the British colony of Virginia and joined the Continental Navy when the American Revolution broke out in 1775. He was given command of the USS Ranger, which he used to attack British commercial shipping in the Irish and North Seas. He raided Whitehaven, plotted to kidnap the Earl of Selkirk, and commanded the USS Bonhomme Richard in its grueling, 3-hour naval duel with HMS Serapis. These actions cemented Jones' reputation as one of the best naval commanders in US history. After the war, the Continental Navy was disbanded, leading Jones without prospects. He therefore entered the service of the Russian Empire in 1787 but left in disgrace two years later, after sexual assault allegations against him sparked an international scandal. He died in Paris on 18 July 1792 at the age of 45.

Early Life

On 6 July 1747, John Paul was born at the estate of Arbigland in the county of Kirkcudbrightshire, Scotland – he would not add 'Jones' to his name until he came to America. His father was the head gardener at Arbigland and had seven children, five of whom would survive to adulthood. Though John Paul attended the nearby Kirkbean School, his true education occurred at Carsethorn, the local port. He would spend much of his free time there, breathing in the briny sea air, marveling at the comings and goings of ships, and talking with sailors, learning everything he could about life at sea. Paul could not long resist the call of the sea and, at the age of 13, he obtained an apprenticeship with John Younger, a Scottish merchant and shipowner operating out of the English port town of Whitehaven.

It was not long before John Paul embarked on his first voyage, sailing out of Whitehaven aboard one of Younger's vessels, the Friendship, as a ship's boy. The voyage took Paul across the Americas, stopping first at Barbados before sailing up to the British colony of Virginia. Here, Paul briefly reunited with his older brother, Thomas, who had previously emigrated to Fredericksburg, Virginia. In 1764, upon returning to Whitehaven, Paul was released from his apprenticeship early, because Younger's business had gone bankrupt. He found work aboard a slave ship and spent the next three years transporting human cargo from Guinea to Jamaica. In 1766, the 19-year-old Paul became first mate of the slave ship Two Friends, a lucrative position. However, he gradually grew disillusioned with the slave trade and became disgusted at his own role in perpetuating it. In 1768, he abandoned the Two Friends while it was docked in Kingston, Jamaica, and booked passage on a ship bound for Scotland.

Not long into the voyage, both the ship's captain and first mate died of yellow fever. Since there was no one else on board who knew how to navigate a ship, Paul took charge and guided the vessel safely to Scotland. The ship's grateful owners rewarded Paul with ten percent of the vessel's cargo. Impressed with his nautical skills, they also offered him the captaincy of a merchant brig named John. Paul accepted and captained two voyages to the West Indies. It was during his second voyage, in 1770, that Paul had the ship's carpenter flogged with cat-o'-nine-tails as punishment for neglect of duty. The carpenter died at sea several weeks later. When the John returned to port, Paul was arrested and imprisoned at Kirkcudbright Tolbooth, charged by the dead man's father of having caused his death. Paul maintained that the carpenter's death had been unrelated to the flogging, that it had instead been caused by yellow fever. After producing several witnesses to substantiate this claim, Paul was acquitted, although the incident left a dark stain on his reputation.

In 1772, Paul once again sailed into the West Indies, this time captaining a merchant vessel called Betsy. Toward the end of the voyage, in 1773, the Betsy arrived at Tobago, where several sailors decided to stage a mutiny. Paul responded to the mutineers' demands by running the ringleader through with his sword, killing him. Although Paul would always claim that he had acted out of self-defense, he knew that the public opinion in Tobago would be against him, since the man he had killed had been a local. To evade a trial, he fled to mainland North America, where he added 'Jones' to his name to help conceal his identity. After the death of his brother William, he went to Fredericksburg, Virginia, to settle his affairs and decided to live there himself.

Continue reading...

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Beneath Miles of Stone - Part eighteen - John Wick x Plus Size Fem Reader

Summary: John has been in prison for nine months. He’s content to stay if it means appeasing the high table and keeping peace between the owners of each continental. However, he meets someone who erases that willingness. Peace be dammed.

TW: talk of killing/kill for hire job

Even though she left an extensive note to Michael detailing what happened, she decides to follow it up with a text.

Hey, sorry about the wet marks on the couch and rug.

I’m worried about you. Is leather jacket man always going to come crawling to you when he gets beat up?

I’m a bad roommate.

Nah, you’re just ❤️in ❤️ Also, a letter taped to the fridge? I feel like I’m in the 1800s. Had to read that shit by candlelight to make it really authentic.

She smiles, laughs out loud, then frowns, puts her phone down and rubs her face, attempting to massage some reality back into her brain to replace the vivid delusion she’s been entertaining.

A knock on the door of their hotel room makes her suspicious. After all, John said: “don’t open the door”, “don’t leave the room”, “pick up the phone if it rings”.

But surely not answering the door doesn’t apply if it’s hotel manager on the other end.

Winston’s rich voice is a salve to chafed nerves, and she’s scurrying eagerly to let him in.

“May I come in?” He looks as tired as she feels, even with the kind smile on his face.

He sits in the swivel leather desk chair while she folds her legs up on the bed and listens to what he has to say.

“Do you know what they call him?”

“Who? John?”

Winston nods. “They call him Baba Yaga, the Boogeyman. A terrifying monster. The thing that lurks under your bed, if you will.”

“Why?” She asks this because she knows it’s what he wants her to inquire, what she supposed to say to something like that.

“Once he wants someone dead, whether it be for professional or personal reasons, their fate is sealed. No one he’s hunted has ever lived.”

Spiders ballroom waltz down her spine. “He’s dangerous,” she summarizes.

“He’s lethal. And I’ve never, ever seen him like this.”

She picks the skin on her fingers, which Winston notices and scolds her for. “That can cause bad infections, you know.” He’s not mad, though; still, with a gentle smile, he offers to have a variety of stress balls sent to the room instead.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to accommodate me,” she admits, blood hot on her neck and jaw.

“My dear child, I do not have to do anything. I want to make you as comfortable as possible.”

She blanches a little bit at the term of endearment from him, reminded of a wise old uncle lost at sea, here to give her advice in her time of need.

He drops that topic for now. “It’s not my place to say, but he’s in love with you.”

She’s grateful for his patience as she chokes on this information.

“And while Johnathan is dear to me,” Winston says, leveling her like C4 does to a skyscraper, “It would be irresponsible of me, if I didn’t try to help you get away from this life while you still can.” He pauses for a moment, and in his silence she hears the ending to that trailing sentence: “if you still can.”

“You really think he’s that.. bad?”

Winston gives her a puzzled look. “No, not at all.” He shakes his head. “You misunderstand. I think the opposite. Johnathan has always been truculent, capricious, and implacable, but he has never been capable of being bad . The problem is not what he will do to you, it’s what he will do to protect you. And the hold over him someone could acquire by obtaining you…”

He keeps trailing off, which makes her think that he’s constantly trying not to say something. “Like, kill me?” She clarifies.

“Or worse.”

Oh.

“I just want you to know you have options. It’s very easy to feel stuck.” His contemplative expression denotes that he’s been on the receiving end of that statement once or twice.

“Mr. Scott,” she says, “you’re really, really nice… thank you for being that way.”

“Please,” he holds up a hand, smile gentle, “call me Winston. A friend of Johnathan’s is a friend of mine.”

Once he leaves, she takes a big breath and screams into a pillow a couple times. Then, she engages it in a boxing match it didn’t consent to.

John clears his throat, and the image of her turning around, one hand strangling the pillow and the other raised to hit it, little mouth popped open in an O of surprise, makes him laugh.

“Uh.. the pillow started it.”

The fact that he’s quiet enough to open the door, shut the door, and then get halfway into the room with a cloth bag and a dinner tray balanced in his arms is unsettling. Only because it means he can get away from her too easily as well.

He unloads his arms onto the desk. “I’m sure it did. You want me to kick its ass?”

“Nah, I don’t think we’ll have too many problems with it anymore.” She places the crumpled pillow back in its nesting place on the bed.

“I got turkey sandwiches,” he says, pointing to the tray. He sees the untidy office chair and tilts his head. “Was someone in here?”

She could lie, but he’d see right through it. “Winston came up.”

His smile immediately drops a little, but he doesn’t press the issue . “Com’ere, eat.”

He bought four different bags of chips from the dining hall, three kinds of soda bottles, and two ice cream cakes in styrofoam containers.

The sandwich is delicious, probably because she’s eaten nothing but peanut butter toast and strawberries in the past 24 hours.

“I took our clothes to dry cleaning,” he tells her, “they’ll be done and at the door in the morning.”

She looks up at him, hair mussed and static-y, a big bite of sandwich in her cheek, sleepy bags under her eyes, red puffy robe so pretty on her skin tone - god, the color suits her - shoulder slipping down because she wanted one two sizes too big.

She says something to him after she swallows. Maybe thank you. He’s too busy kissing her to hear the words, slipping his knuckles into her hair to grip the base of her skull.

He’s desperate with tongue and lips, like she’s going to slip through his hands into the floor and fall to the core of the earth. He traps her thighs in his own, grabs the bottom of her chair and drags her closer and tries to pull her into his lap.

Both of them don’t fit in the office chair comfortably, not with the way he wants to hold her, so he picks her up around the waist and takes her to bed.

When will this stop being surprising? The fact that he can just fold her up and cradle her like she’s made of clouds instead of meat and fat and bone.

The entire time, he manages to keep kissing her, too. Like a scene from one of those sickly romance movies she tends to shy away from.

“Were you done eating?” He asks, kissing her cheeks and forehead. The tip of her nose.

She pushes her arms around his neck, pulls him so that she can land a big, wet kiss right on his forehead, and he swears to god she must’ve left an imprint because of the residual feeling; the heat that spreads from her mouth onto his cheeks. His eyes go all soft and melted chocolate for her, big strong shoulders caving and slack. He curls around her like a heated, weighted blanket, covers and shelters her and makes her feel….

There’s a word for it.

Safe.

“John,” she giggles, his adorable little pet - thinking back to a classical childhood cartoon, he grins - the young girl squeezing the life out of her new pet ducky, going on about how she wants to hug him and hold him and hug him and hold him forever because he’s so cute -

“S’your fault,” he murmurs into her ear, inhales her. She smells like his soap. “You taught me how to cuddle.”

She can’t argue with him, and she doesn’t want to.

He overkills the heat and wraps a blanket around them, but she doesn’t mind sweating a bit. Not if it means she gets to stay clinging on him.

He plans to slip his devil fingers under this robe and give her some clit petting stress relief - rub her into a slow, beautiful mess before his mouth replaces his hand and gets a taste of what it’s been salivating for - but her eyes are closing and she’s getting softer and her breath is evening out through her chest. She settles into sleep like walking into one room from the next, determined grip still tight around his robe collar. Eyelashes soft and tickling her cherub cheeks.

He kisses her head, brushes hair out of her face. My human, he thinks, almost absently, like the thought just organically appeared and has been here all along.

Mine.

[velteris]

Frieren timeline

The only timeline available on the wiki isn’t super fleshed out with exact dates and counting backwards etc. So I decided to make my own.

Notes:

1. Spoilers for up to manga ch119 (the most recent at this time)

2. Even if it’s likely just a rough measure (“three hundred years ago”), I’m gonna assume when doing my math that it was exactly 300 years, because otherwise I can’t do most of the math

3. I skip most events that don’t have an exact year, eg Fern and Stark respective being taken in by Heiter and Eisen. I do make some estimates (eg Sein’s birthday, we only know he’s in mid-30s so he can’t have been born any further back than year xx).

4. Standardised year 0 as the year the demon king was defeated

5. Realised about 2/3rds through that I could be writing down chapter citations but at that point it was too late lol sorry

behold!

-3,000: Earliest mentioned date, by Frieren re: dwarf beliefs; most people believed the dead turn to dust, so pre-Goddess. Unclear when Goddess actually starts appearing.

[Emperor Boshaft alive, so is Milliarde, Frieren in village]

-1,000: Frieren becomes Flamme’s apprentice

-950: Flamme passes away*

-510: the last time Frieren fought a demon (quite likely Macht, as in year 80 she says 600 years ago, which would be -520. What’s a decade here and there?)

-420: Frieren restores her golden arm

-422: Aura became one of the seven sages of destruction

-322: the last time Frieren saw another elf, Grandfather Voll starts to protect village

-222: the last time Kraft saw another elf

-120: Fass finds Emperor Boshaft’s alcohol, Gehn starts working on his village’s bridge

-26: Himmel is born

-11?: Hero of the South visits Frieren and dies a year later; tells her she’ll meet Himmel soon**

-10: Hero Party sets out from capital

[Hero Party kills Immortal Bose and pushes back Aura sometime during this period]

-3: Goddess arc (Himmel is 23), Hero Party seals Qual***

0: Demon King defeated, Era Meteors, Macht starts to serve^

2: Denken born

20: Macht is braceleted

28: Continental Magic Association started (at latest), Lernen was first first-class mage

29: Denken came to Auberst with his wife (who died when he was in his twenties); Denken’s wife presumably passed away very soon after

30: last sighting of a Darkness Dragon (per random apothecary); Weis turned to gold and sealed

39: Earliest possible Sein birthday (he would be 40); humanity learns to fly

45: Wirbel born

50: 2nd Era Meteors; Himmel passes away; Aura reappears, demon activity increases in north and baby Wirbel makes promise

61: Stark is born earlier in the year after winter; Fern is born some time after harvest festival but before the last three months of the year

68: Graf Granat’s son dies in war against Aura

69: Sein’s friend Gorilla left

70: Frieren and Fern meet

74: Heiter collapses

75: Stark runs away from Eisen

76: Heiter passes away; Frieren and Fern set out on their journey

76.5: half a year spent looking for blue moonweed

77: Fern turns 16 (after spring, latest autumn)

78: 3+ Months spent at seaside town cleaning beach

79: wintered with Kraft, Stark’s 18th bday (after spring), meet Sein around harvest festival (time is a bit funky since it gets cold and then warm after this?)^^

80: El Dorado arc

81: first chapter after El Dorado. As of ch119, we are here, 31 years after Hero Himmel’s death!

and in the future…

97: Tod’s “curse” will engulf the star?

100: Next meteor shower. Fern and Stark would be 39.

149: Frieren promised to be back at hero’s sword village by this time

1079: Frieren may return to the Continental Mage Association :)

*Assuming she died soon after Frieren’s last shown convo with her where she said “it’s only been 50 years”

**Unclear just when was the Frieren/Hero of the South meeting, so it could technically be anywhere before, but -11 is the most recent it could be

***Frieren says it’s been 80 years in year 77. If she’s being precise then this is the date—but I have doubts as Qual was sealed in the Central Lands, and Hero Party should be well into the Northern Plateau near the goddess monument by this point.

^Technically I think Macht starts to serve a leetle bit before the demon king is defeated, but no time frame given for how long it took Macht and Glück to have those convos

^^To be more precise: they start the year’s winter with Kraft. Then it gets warm, and Stark’s birthday happens. Harvest festivals are usually in autumn, which is when they meet Sein, and then it gets cold enough for the gang to wear their winter gear again, and they spend a winter (or a cold snap?) with Sein. When they get to Auberst they spend an additional two months training with Fern while waiting for the exam to start. But when they finally leave Auberst in ch61, and aren’t wearing their winter clothes anymore, it’s still listed as 29 years post-Himmel death??? There’s a mention of it being because they’re in the volcanic belt… But seriously, year 79 goes on and on. I honestly think the authors just forgot to find a good spot to switch that over lol

[sunlightmurdock]

Safe Zone | 0.8 | Bradley Bradshaw and Jake Seresin x Reader

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

Synopsis: A team of elite naval aviators holding down the fort at the North Island Air Base while they wait for reinforcements after a virus sweeps the continental U.S. - only, it’s been three months and no one has shown up.

Warnings: , death, violence and pretty graphic mentions of all things zombie related, love triangle, smut (18+, minors dni), angst etc. Descriptions of character suicide in the second half of the chapter after Rooster leaves his room

…

On your back on the top bunk, staring at the ceiling tiles, tongue pressed into the inside of your cheek. You squeeze your eyes shut and turn onto your side, pressing your pillow over your ear. All seven of your bunk mates for the upcoming week are men, and five of them snore like they’re some part chainsaw.

Thick heat, no air conditioning, and the bodies of seven men filling the room with a heavy air of sweat. Your hair sticks to your neck, your clothes to your skin, the sheets, kicked off but still too warm against the soles of your feet. You shift, flopping from your right side and onto your back, then onto your left and back again.

A roaring inhaled snore from below you is the final straw.

You sit up halfway, not able fully extend because of the low ceiling. You’re sleeping in your clothes, since there was no way you’d be able to sleep in your underwear with these strangers. Rolling down from the top bunk, finding your feet comes easily when you’re still so far from sleep.

As much as you’ve been irritated by living in such close quarters with Luke and your mother, tonight, you miss them. You miss hearing Luke tossing and turning through the sheet thin wall, hearing your mother’s soft breathing a few feet away.

You’ve still not decided where you’re going when you’re out in the hallway, or even if you’re allowed to be wandering around this building. It doesn’t matter. You’re growing sick of their power anyway. Allowed to go here, allowed to borrow this. It’s bullshit.

Padding along the hallway, being as quiet as you can in the otherwise silent space, you trail your fingertips along the wall.

“Going somewhere?”

Fucking Rooster. You’ve got half a mind to trip him and make a run for it, but as you turn to face him, you realise that that wouldn’t be wise. He’s bleeding. No, he’s not bleeding. But his front is soaked with blood.

Caked into the front of his t-shirt, splattered along the thick length of his neck. His hands are more darkened, muddy red now than they are white.

You wince and take a step away from him. The smell tells you that the blood isn’t his.

“What happened?”

He almost answers you truthfully on instinct. He takes a moment, looking you over, then glances back in the direction of your room. Rooster draws his own conclusion.

“You can’t sleep?” He asks.

“Not in that room.” Not with all those guys. He knows what you mean. The thought occurred to him earlier when he brought you some underwear and noticed them looking at you.

Bradley jerks his head and half turns towards the other end of the hall. “Come on.”

You eye him. He rests his hands on his belt, just in case you get the smart idea of going for his knife. Your choices are limited and increasingly shitty. Either you go with him, or you go back to that room.

You’re curious about this blood situation, and you’re confident that he’ll give you the space that you want. Finally, you nod at him.

His back is less bloodied than his front. Dirty, blood-caked hand prints stain the grey material. Six handprints, almost exactly, if you can ignore the overlap and awkward placements. Either three different dead, or one particularly handsy one.

Rooster unlocks a heavy wood door at the end of the hall and steps back for you to walk in first.

You aren’t sure what you had been expecting of the officer’s rooms, but this seems about right. With how clean they smell, how they carry themselves, bright-eyed and bushy tailed every morning.

It would’ve been a normal staff suite before, but Rooster has turned the singles into a double and made the place its own.

“Make yourself at home. You can sleep if you want, I have to head back out in a sec.” He’s already peeling his shirt over his head and heading for his en-suite before the door has even closed behind you.

You stand by the door and look around. Couch, TV — doesn’t look like it has been used much, but it’s there — books, stereo. Plenty of home comforts. You walk over to his bookshelf and crouch down.

His collection is almost impressive, an ample mix of niche and classic — a lot of fiction, long stories with winding plots. Your favourite.

“You can borrow one, if you want.” Rooster calls to you as the shower turns on in the bathroom. A glance back over your shoulder and you realise that he’s watching you as he leans down to unlace his boots.

“Shouldn’t I have a set-up like this? — Y’know, now that I’m helping you boys with your dirty work.” It’s half playful, just teasing him for the nice things that he has managed to collect.

“Maybe someday if you’re lucky.” Rooster shoots you an arrogant wink and straightens up to unbuckle his belt. It’s easier to assess the damage now that he’s standing up straight and shirtless.

None of the blood was his, he’s fine. But there’s a lot of it. Rooster lets you stare at him, amused by you trying to piece together the clues like a little detective.

“There was a breach, south wall down by the hangars. Dead just — fucking wandered in.” He shakes his head and looks down at the dried blood on his hands. Your brows knit together seriously. He seems less fazed.

You turn to face him and stand up. “How many were there?”

He shrugs his shoulders, pants unzipped and hanging open, exposing the waistband of his boxers. “I dunno, eight? — I need to get this crap off me. Make yourself comfy, I’ll be right back.”

He pushes the bathroom door to, but doesn’t close it completely. You can faintly hear him shuffling out of the rest of his clothes and pulling back the shower curtain.

Eight. He’s so calm about it.

You think back to that first night. The first time that you saw one of them, and realized what was happening. The damage that just one of those things managed to do. Eight of them, just wandering onto base. If they hadn’t been intercepted in time —

Turning, you sit at the foot of Rooster’s bed. At least he told you. Jake wouldn’t have. Jake didn’t even tell you about the quarantine.

It’s a few minutes before he returns. Still wet and wearing just his boxers now, he swings the door open and heads straight for his closest, rubbing at his wet curls with a towel.

“I’m gonna be out until morning, it’s seriously fine if you wanted to crash here.” He tells you casually. Rinsed clean and the massacre he just walked away from already forgotten. Squinting, you crane your neck to watch him.

“Has this happened before?”

He grabs a new pair of pants and steps into them, glancing back at you. “What? — A breach?”

“Yeah.”

“Couple of times in the first few days. Nothing that we can’t handle.”

That’s hard to believe. You remember those first days — you know that they’ll haunt your dreams for the rest of your life. Nothing about the world now is about it just being ‘handled’. “You looked pretty banged up after.”

He pulls a t-shirt over his head. “Yeah, one of them managed to trip me. Coyote handled it. S’all good.”

He turns back to you and fingers through his curls messily, disrupting the pattern and smoothing them back. You eye him. Bradley knows that you don’t trust him, and he gets it — but you trust him more than you trust those strangers back in that room, and that’s enough.

“I promise,” There’s no need for promises. He sees the immediate doubt cross your face from the minute he speaks. “We found the weak spot, we dealt with it, no one got hurt.”

In the days since you let Rooster kiss you by the front gate, there hasn’t been a single moment where you would have let him do it again. He isn’t stupid, he knows this.

But, as he steps between your legs and tips your chin back, you let him. It should feel invasive, him being this close and towering over you, your chin level with his navel. He’s calm and soft as he looks down at you, index finger stroking tenderly along the underside of your chin.

“Get some sleep — I’ll knock before I come back later.” Then, as he leans down and presses his lips to your forehead, you let him again.

You let him leave. You let yourself go through his book collection and pick out a short story anthology, settling into his bed — which is by far the comfiest thing that has graced your skin in months, and reading under the warm glow of the lamp beside his bed. You let yourself fall asleep between his grey sheets.

Rooster’s supposed to be dealing with bodies. The only reprieve he was allowed was because of the contamination risk. The results of Mrs. Hewitt’s autopsy has everyone kind of on edge.

Through the quiet night, the sound is hauntingly clear, echoingly loud. It cuts through the chill of the night and sends a completely separate shiver down your spine. Rain pouring against the window by Rooster’s bed and a soft pillow supporting your neck for the first time in months, you don’t even hear it.

It disappears into the night as quickly as it came, silence chasing after its echo. Rooster does. He knows immediately that someone’s dead. It’s a single shot, purposeful.

The sound was nothing other than a gunshot. Too loud, too intentional. Radio static and instructions to switch to channel six confirm his suspicions. Channel six is for officers only, any lower ensigns caught listening in can be stripped of their privileges.

Rooster is asked for specifically. Jake and Javy are already there — they were the closest to the scene after their shift near the supply hall. It’s Admiral Caine.

His office at the end of the hall, the light still on, the building silent.

Jake stalks along the hallway, brows furrowed in concentration. Javy’s with him, both of their guns raised. It’s too quiet. No sign of a struggle, no one running from the crime scene, no obvious danger. It’s as they grow closer that a small voice in the back of Jake’s head tells him what has happened. He glances back towards the end of the hallway, where Rooster is keeping watch.

Admiral Caine’s door is closed. The glass pane is illuminated by the soft lamp inside. It’s not out of the ordinary. Admiral Caine is always up late working, checking for comms from Europe, speaking to other bases. Waiting for reinforcements.

Jake knows that the admiral is dead before he even touches the door handle. He’s ahead, in front of Javy. He turns the gold handle and creaks the door open slightly.

“Holy shit!” Javy exclaims, stumbling back from the door, hitting the wall to his left. He presses a hand over his mouth. Rooster spins at the end of the hallway, going for his gun, hesitating as he finds that Jake doesn't appear to be scared in the slightest.

Jake stares right ahead. The blood. Brain matter. His superior officer slumped back in the leather office chair, the gun on the floor beside his open palm. He closes the door slowly and turns back towards Rooster at the far end of the hall.

“What’s going on? — Is he okay?”

Leanne. Admiral Caine’s wife of forty years. Standing just around the corner, blocked by Rooster. With no idea that the love of her life just blew his brains out in his office. Rooster’s head turns, he meets her gaze and it all becomes obvious.

Her lips quirk up into a smile, head shaking. Complete disbelief, “No — he… no, this is a mistake. Chester wouldn’t— Chester?”

Rooster catches her, tucking an arm around her middle as she tries to rush past him. The second that her body meets the resistance of his arm, she collapses, no longer struggling. Jake winces at the sound of her wailing.

“Dad?”

Admiral Caine’s daughter, Ally. She’s grown now, her kids are here with her. Rooster isn’t going to be able to keep them all out, and they really shouldn’t see this. Jake leaves the body for a moment, flicking the safety back onto his gun and turning around to get rid of them.

He slips his radio from his belt, “I’m gonna need a couple of guys from C team to escort some people back to the family wing. Now.”

The wailing is going to draw attention and that’s the last thing they need. The people around here are already restless, growing irritated with the authority. If they get word of this, they’ll think that there is room to push back.

“Mrs. Caine, you need to be quiet.” Rooster hushes, grabbing her by her biceps and setting her back on her feet. “I understand that—“

“You have no idea!” She lifts her palm and strikes his cheek. The diamond on her ring is turned around from the struggle, the force of the smack drives it’s ridges into Rooster’s cheek and drags forwards. Blood gushes from the fresh cut onto her hand before she even has a chance to pull away.

“Fuck!” Rooster winces, momentarily letting her go to press a hand to his stinging cheek.

“I want to see him!” She screeches.

Jake has always been good in situations of emergency. It’s probably because the part of his brain that tells him he should be afraid for his life has been switched off for a couple of years now. He doesn’t ever panic. Not before, not now. His face is downright stoic as he reaches them.

The volunteers from C Team are already rushing over. A bunch of kids, really. Barely even Navy when this shit went down. Jake doesn’t have time to care about that now.

“Get them back to their room, then forget that you were here. Keep this to yourselves, if I find out you fuckin’ told anyone, you’ll wish you hadn’t. Someone get me Cyclone. Move!” Jake barks orders, squaring his broad shoulders, narrowing those sharp green eyes at them. They spring into action without daring to ask for more information.

Caine’s family struggle, they beg to see Chester, but they ultimately are led away. The only thought on Jake’s mind is how loud their fucking screaming is and the panic that it’s going to cause. Rooster wipes the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand and sighs, “How bad is it?”

“He blew his fucking head off, shit for brains.” Jake bites back. He rolls his eyes and turns back towards the office. “Get a truck or something. We should get rid of the body before someone sees this mess.”

Rooster’s brows furrow slightly. He doesn’t have time to argue about Jake being Jake — because ultimately, he’s correct. If someone sees this, there’s going to be trouble. He shakes his head and heads for the door.

Getting rid of the man responsible for their success doesn’t seem right.

The nighttime chill feels especially stark tonight, the sea air nipping at Rooster’s bare arms. He can still hear Mrs. Cain faintly wailing. She was probably right to hit him. He doesn’t understand. He probably never will. He’ll never get to spend forty years with the person he loves, share a future with them like they had. Nothing to grieve over.

He can’t even fathom what the world might be like forty years from now. If there’ll be anyone here at all. Cain clearly didn’t think that tomorrow was worth living for, and he hadn’t even lost anyone yet.

Thoughts that heavy are for another time, Rooster doesn’t have time to wallow about this. He grabs a pick up and brings it around to the officer’s building. Jake and Javy load the admiral’s body into the truck bed and cover it with a tarp.

“Cyclone said bury him outside the wall and then head to his office.”

Jake sits on the back of the pick-up for the drive. Whichever way this news breaks, it’s going to be a shitshow. Jake sighs softly and cracks his neck from side to side. The next few days just got a lot harder.

Rooster wipes the sweat from his brow as they stare at the disturbed ground, knowing that you’re going to have questions upon questions for him when he gets back covered in dirt this time. He could probably slip in without waking you, but he said that he would knock.

“I don’t get it,” Javy sighs softly. He shakes his head as he stares at the shallow grave, the sun starting to rise over his shoulder. “Why now? — Why not three months ago.

Jake rolls his eyes. “‘Cause he realised that no one’s fucking coming, Javy. This is it.”

…

Tags: @momc95 @shawnsblue @thedroneranger @cherrycola27 @zbeez-outlet @harper1666 @abaker74 @xhangmanlover @bl6o6dy @alliethedaydreamer @xoxabs88xox @cowboybarbie @shanimallina87 @ohtobeleah @top-gun-rooster @blue-aconite @laracrofted @bioodforbiood

[fandomnerd9602]

Hunting Ghosts

Sam Carpenter x Wick!Reader

For @tokufighter

Sometimes the past comes back to haunt you when you least expect it. For you and the Carpenter sisters it was a mixed bag. On one hand, they had to deal with the serial killer known as Ghostface. For you it was the festering wounds that the Continental Hotel had brought on. You find yourself loading up on guns and any assortment of gadgets you needed to combat the dollar store slasher villain. You holster the P30L pistol and pack your grandfather’s tactical rifle into a duffle bag. The attachment that Winston mentioned was a secondary shotgun barrel retrofitted for dragon’s breath incendiary rounds.

You snuck out, having Sam and Tara in the safe confines of the Continental Hotel. You even took Sam’s cellphone that way whoever this Ghostface was, they would be hunting you and not them. You made your way down Times Square, walking around just waiting for a call from the killer. On the cue the phone rings. The caller ID reads Charon. You pick it up, “tell me the girls are safe” “Oh we’re safe.” Sam answers back. “Where are you?” “I’m ending this. Today. I won’t let you or Tara get injured again” “This one’s different. I can’t lose you too. You come back right now. You hear me?!” Sam begs you.

“I will…when Ghostface is six feet under” you hang up. Another call rings, you pick it up without even looking at the caller ID. “Sam, baby, I’m sorry I-” “Oh I’m sure you are” the slimy voice of Ghostface answers back. You stop dead in your tracks. “you look snazzy in that suit. I’m sure if you weren’t with Sam, Quinn would’ve gobbled you up in an instant.” “I might’ve let her. She was smoking hot till you gutted her like a fish” you retort, “of course Sam wouldn’t have minded sharing” “Tempting that would’ve been. Honestly that outfit is missing something…”

“Yeah what?” you say, your instincts kicking in at that moment. “It’s not stained red!” the voice shouts from behind you. You duck and weave, narrowly missing the blade of Ghostface. You counteract the next swing of the blade and stab your own blade through the assailant’s arm. A shriek that sounded feminine in form rings out from the mask. You knew who it was in the moment. “Hello Quinn” you smirk. You hear a growl under the mask. You give your assailant the finger and run off into the crowd. You can feel her give chase. Your mind runs wild - if Quinn is under the mask, who is her partner in this? There’s more than one, as always.

You run into an abandoned building, Ghostface is hot on your tail. You run up the staircase of the complex, you can practically hear the boots of the killer right behind you. You reach the top of the staircase and roll into a shooting stance. You fire off several shots which ricochet off the robes of the killer. “It’s amazing what you can buy on eBay” Quinn retorts “Someone sold out the tactical tech.“ you huff. She drives her knife towards you. Quickly rolling again, you pull out your own bowie knife and swipe at her, landing a few jabs at her left knee and elbow.

She screams before driving a knife into your right calf. You grit your teeth to muffle any scream. “Funny” she retorts, “I always was hoping you’d stab me. Over and over again” She gets real close, removing her mask. She licks your face, a sign of mockery, or maybe that was just her sex positive attitude leaking through. She slips her mask back on and readies the knife over your heart. “We’re in the endgame now” Quinn whispers, readying to run you through with the knife. “You know what I love about a franchise’s endgame?” you smirk as your hand reaches into your duffle. “What?”

“It always ends in fireworks” BLAM! You fire off the dragon’s breath attachment. Quinn’s robes catch fire and ignite. She screams, trying her best to dampen the flames. BLAM! BLAM! Two shots ring out, bouncing off her robes. The masked Quinn slams into the railing and tumbles down the staircase. And with that, she disappears. “Chasing ghosts, kid?” A gruff voice rings over you. “More like being hunted by them” you respond as a hand reaches down to help you to your feet. “Apparently one’s helping me now” You get pulled up to your feet by John Wick, who offers you a weary smile and a hug. “It’s good seeing you again” he says, rubbing your shoulders reassuringly.

“Good seeing you’re still kicking, Dad” you respond, “I thought you died in a duel in Paris with Caine” “It’s the city of love, not death” Wick responds. “let’s go” Your dad guides you out to a jet black Mustang. Sam jumps out with her own shotgun a second later. “I thought i lost you for a second” Sam runs up and hugs you. “Wicks are hard to kill” you retort. “And even easier at resurrecting” John finishes as he shakes your girlfriend’s hand. “Come on” Sam smirks “lets kill a ghost”

[utilitycaster]

It could be true that Ludinus survived the Calamity, but I think he is as old as he appears to be, which is to say, perhaps 650 or so. And if that’s the truth, this might be his story.

He was born in Molaesmyr - the only real city in the region, and quite honestly, the only one of size on the continent. There are scattered communities on the coast. It is unclear if the Kryn have begun to rebuild in the shadow of Ghor Dranas and if they are, who would think to look there? Perhaps there are dwarves who survived under the mountains and have rebuilt, but elves and dwarves do not always communicate much. The humans and halflings of western Wynandir are surviving as best they can. This is Wildemount, circa 200 PD.

The forest around him had burned for over a century. Molaesmyr is an oasis of greenery and civilization surrounded by ash that is only just beginning to regrow.

His parents remember a time when great workings of magic were common. He hears stories of the times before the Calamity clear in the memories of older elves, a shining time before the end. This is a motley crew of survivors and their children in Molaesmyr, some of whom had been on the terrestrial cities for whatever reason when Aeor fell and had survived the remainder of the devastation by whatever means they had. Some could remember escaping Avalir, as children, on skyships that left for anywhere but the lost continent of Domunas. Some had always lived surface-side, in cities that don’t exist anymore. Some believe themselves to be the only survivors of those cities.

They say Zemniaz crashed some ways to the south, and Draconia even further. Cross-continental communication is rare, but rumor is that Cael Morrow is gone. Nothing has been heard from Tal’Dorei. Only Vasselheim stands, of the cities his parents recognize from their youth.

In Molaesmyr, the elves worship Corellon and Sehanine. The oldest clerics can perhaps be persuaded to speak of a time when they met these gods - when they walked Exandria like anyone else. Some saw them in battle, to the east, massive, fighting against their betrayer counterparts.

But the gods aren’t here anymore. They can only reach them in dreams, in indirect signs achieved through ritual and prayer. There is a hesitance in the ceremonies young Ludinus Da’leth attends. Something missing, or something that never had to be done before. It feels slow, as if it’s pushing through an impossibly thick barrier. There is a sadness that surrounds the older clerics that makes services an awkward affair, and once he’s old enough, he stops going.

Ludinus doesn’t want to be a cleric. He studies the arcane, or what’s left of it. So many secrets have been lost. One of his teachers mutters that they wish they’d paid more attention, that they didn’t know half the spells of Exandria could now only be found in their ancient, battered spellbook.

The world around him ended not long before he was born. That’s what Ludinus knows, most of all. He was born into a dead world scarred by the gods, and his city is what they’ve managed to make of the scraps that were left.

Centuries pass. Human culture begins to rebuild. Marquesian sailors and the Ki’Nau people of the western coast of Wildemount form a seafaring society and a loose chain of allied cities forms. Two human nations arise, one in the southern valleys and one out of the ruins of Zemniaz. They fight and form, however disjointedly, an Empire to the south.

When Ludinus is in the prime of his life, the world ends again. Well, not the whole world, but the part where he is, which is what matters.

The child refugees of the floating cities, now in their old age, die in the poisonous haze. Molaesmyr falls in days. He is shocked at how surprised he feels, because he has always known, before he knew anything else, that what takes centuries to build can disappear in a fraction of that time. No one can step in to save Molaesmyr. No one can fight for it. There is no god coming in battle like the clerics have recounted.

He sees the power vacuum created after what the Empire calls the Eve of Crimson Midnight, and he steps into it. Power is a tool, after all, and he needs to amass it. The Empire is a modern creation, no mageocracy, and the kings will accept anything he tells them if they believe it’s for the good of their expansion. Whatever information he needs becomes a matter of national security, and elves live a long time. Long enough to find the answer, when the texts from Vasselheim are unveiled.

Maybe the smaller moon did speak to him. It’s possible that red storms gave him nightmares, and that he fled the purple-gray mist nearly laughing hysterically, that his dreams had been right but the color was wrong before he learned the truth.

Or he might have never dreamt of Ruidus. He might have just read a missive from Vasselheim, that something was broken into, and perhaps worthy of mention to other important political powers, and despite growing up in its shadow, did not know the history he was about to retrace.

[spinningwebsandtales]

Imagine Caine Protecting You From Fellow Assassins

Caine X FemReader

Rating: T+

Warnings: Blood, violence, teasing, mentions of drinking

Word Count: 831

Footsteps echoed through the alleyway, rain slicking the concrete below your feet as the city’s lights left a haze across the building walls. It had been a job, supposed to be quick and easy, but whenever it came to inside jobs, it always went sideways fast. Now your target’s well trained and well armed guards gave chase. It didn’t matter their employer laid dead, blood staining the floors, it was a matter of honor and pride. And only your corpse could bring that. Caine had warned you against taking the job, but with a marker involved with your blood staining the insides you weren’t at the liberty to say no. Darting down another alley they passed by thinking you had continued straight. It wouldn’t fool them for long but it at least was giving you a moment to catch your breath.

You searched frantically for any other escape, even a fire escape would be nice but the cold bite of steel kissing your neck had you sucking in a breath. You braced for the end, waiting for that blade to open your throat to spill your life essence in the dirty puddles at your feet.

“I told you not to take this job.”

The familiar voice had you melting in relief as the cane sword was removed.

“Caine,” you hissed. “You scared me.”

“That was the point,” he said matter-of-factly before sheathing the blade.

“They had a marker on me,” you growled. “I couldn’t say no.”

“You can always say no,” he argued. “We all have a choice in this life.”

“Spoken like a man that doesn’t have a marker against him.”

“I’m not dumb enough to make that kind of promise, no matter the situation.”

You snarled pointing the pistol that was close to empty to his head, “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“Sure,” he shrugged once again unsheathing his blade at the sound of the men running towards your hiding spot. “How’s saving your neck sound?”

“Amazing,” you retorted.

His blade a blur of movement, striking true every time as you used whatever ammunition left to give him back up. Your lungs burned from all the running and fast movements, but your adrenaline kept you going as you didn’t want your time to end here. Caine always seemed to know where he was needed most at all times, despite being blind. He kept up smoothly with his bigger opponent. Quick slashes had the bigger man falling to his knees before Caine finished him off with one twist of his wrist, painting the side of the brick building with a spray of blood. Wiping off his blade, he grabbed onto your wrist as he lead you away. He could hear backup racing towards your location and he didn’t much feel like sticking around.

“Why are you leading me?! You’re blind!”

“I know where I’m going,” he retorted harshly.

A few moments later you clocked your head on a hanging ladder. The hit making your head spin before Caine was once more dragging you towards the next alleyway.

“Hey don’t blame me,” he grinned. “I’m the blind one here.”

“You did that on purpose,” you touched at the tender knot already welling up on your forehead.

“Ever heard the term blind leading the blind?”

“Since when am I the blind one in this situation,” you shoved at him.

“Since you can’t see fire escape ladders right in front of your face,” Caine chuckled tugging you closer into his side.”

“This is absolutely ridiculous,” you complained.

“Keep up,” Caine shouted, racing forward faster with you in tow. His speed surprised you as he used the end of his cane sword sheath to guide him through the alley, but he always seemed to know where the low hanging ladder rungs were as you tried to keep up dodging and tripping over your own feet. You were starting to get lost with all the turns Caine were taking you both down until the streets started to become more familiar. It didn’t take you long to recognize some buildings on the streets laying ahead. The Continental was close and instead of fighting men who were just doing their jobs, Caine had made the decision to whisk you away to the place where no business could touch the protected grounds.

“You’re a genius Caine,” you panted.

“Tell me that more often,” he smirked, “and I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Deal you wonderful man,” you laughed.

Once inside did Caine finally put away his weapon and straighten his suit coat.

“Try to keep out of trouble,” he said while turning away.

You cleared your throat, gaining the dark haired man’s attention.

“How about I buy you a drink before you go Caine?”

“Deal,” he paused, “then I’ll buy you one.” He offered out his arm once more but this time for a more leisurely walk to the bar below.

“Deal,” you replied taking his arm and leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Lead the way!”

[frangipanilove]

LC6M187; “Lincoln Continental”or “Lucifer/Christ”?

Shane's "22" Necklace Revisited

This is a post that's been years in the making. In fact, the themes around Shane, Beth and the Venus/Lucifer/Morningstar symbolism were among the first that caught my interest when I got into TD. I could relate it all to Beth in a general sense, but I always wanted something more tangible. Sure, Lucifer means Light Bringer, and we can easily tie that to Beth. But it's also very surface level. I needed something deeper, something more like a smoking gun, and the other day, I think I found it.

The other day I was rewatching scenes from season 1 in preparation of this post, about the XH6-S781 licence plate, when I suddenly saw a familiar licence plate in a scene I hadn't been aware of, and everything clicked into place.

The LC6M187 licence plate on Shane’s Jeep Wrangler, from 1x3 Tell It To The Frogs.

It's the same as the one we see in on the car 5x2, the one Carol and Daryl use to chase after Officer Lichari's Dodge Magnum. I've written a couple of posts on that here and here. My hypothesis is that the LC in LC6M187 stands for Lincoln Continental, which is a nod to the car Daryl and Beth hid in in 4x12 Still.

LC6M187 is the licence plate on the car that directly lead Daryl and Carol to Noah, and by extension to Beth, in 5x6 Consumed.

We see it for the very first time in 1x3 Tell It To The Frogs, on Shane's black Jeep Wrangler, and we see it along with Carol's yellow Jeep Cherokee and T-Dog's Dodge Van. I talked about the Dodge Van with the XH6-S781 licence plate here, and I'll probably do a separate post on the symbolism around the yellow Jeep Cherokee soon-ish (I did talk about it some here).

At the campsite we see Carol's yellow Jeep Cherokee, T-Dog’s Dodge Van and Shane’s black Jeep Wrangler

One thing that’s abundantly clear, is that the overarching theme of 1x3 TITTF is "death" and "resurrection". More specifically, it's about Merle’s “death” and Rick’s “resurrection”. Rick, believed by his family to be dead, "resurrects" and reunites with his loved ones.

Merle, on the other hand, “disappears”, and isn’t seen again until season 3, when he “resurrects” as one of the Governor's henchmen (except for a brief appearance in Daryl's hallucination in Chupacabra). Death and resurrection are two sides to the same story, you can’t have "resurrection" without “death".

I’m not the first to point out the parallels between Merle and Beth, and I believe the LC6M187 license plate further confirmed these parallels, since we specifically see Daryl learn about Merle’s fate as we see the license plate in the shot very clearly. The story being told around the car is one of death and resurrection.

We actually first see the license plate as Daryl returns to camp after a hunt, calls for his brother and learns that he’s been left behind on a rooftop in Atlanta, exposed to the elements and to walkers. However, Rick intends to go back for him, along with Glenn and T-Dog.

Daryl joins in.

And of course, when they get there, Merle's “just gone”.

This reminds us of what many of us believe went down after 5x8 Coda. We don't know the details, but many of us theorize that for some reason, they had to leave Beth behind (and like I’ve mentioned, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was in the back of Officer Lichari’s Dodge Magnum), with the intention of going back for her, only when they did, they found she was “just gone”.

Let’s talk about Shane for a minute. In this old post I wrote about Shane’s 22 necklace, and in it I promised to write more on the Beth/Shane entanglement...

...and then I just never did. In my early days of being in TD, while I was still figuring out the Sirius symbolism, I did see a lot of symbolical entanglement between Shane and Beth, though I couldn’t quite articulate what it meant. I caught a lot of Morningstar references, references to Christ as the Morningstar, as well as references to Morningstar as a representation of the Devil. I read up the astronomy of the ancient Greeks, who identified Venus/the Morningstar as Phosphorous and Eosphorous, meaning the Light Bringer (Venus is a planet, not two stars as they believed).

Then when seson 4 rolled around, TPTB placed Beth in the center of the Sirius symbolism, which we saw particularly with the white one-eyed dog from Alone. As Sirius is also a Morningstar, I hypothesized that the Venus/Morningstar symbolism and the Sirius symbolism were synonomous. I still believe that.

After Slabtown, we all got obsessed with the "Get Well Soon" clock and how to interpret it.

I knew I believed one of the interpretations of the Slabtown clock involved Shane, because depending on how you read the numbers, the 10 minute marker and the 2 hour marker is the same, meaning you could use 10 and 2 interchangeably. I theorized that the clock therefore could point to episodes 2x2, 2x10, 10x2 and 10x10 (also read this post). You could for exemple argue that it pointed to episode 2x2 Bloodletting, which was when Beth first appeared on the show. But it was also a number linked to Shane, through his necklace.

Later, I also realized that the Slabtown clock could be pointing to episode 10x11 (if you read 10 - one one), which was called Morningstar, and that was a bit of a lightbulb moment; the number 22 is tied to the Morningstar reference in Revelation 22:16.

Isn’t it fascinating how the number of the verse also corresponds with Shane’s necklace?

But Morningstar has also traditionally been a reference to the Devil. That’s an interesting duality, which is perfect for TWDU, and it is something that helps explain the symbolical entanglement between Beth and Shane.

So, Lucifer is in the Bible used as one of the names of Christ, it means "light bringer". It has also been used, especially in literature, as a name for the Devil, Lucifer Morningstar. There’s an interesting duality in the name Lucifer, one iteration referring to Christ, the other referring to the Devil, and it was in that duality I picked up on the symbolism entanglement between Shane and Beth.

They had the same symbolism around them, but in Beth’s case, it was Christ symbolism, in Shane’s case it was the symbolism of the Devil. Where the LC on the LC6M187 license plate on Shane’s black Jeep Wrangler indicates he’s a Prince of Darkness, the same LC on the licence plates seen on other cars points to the resurrection sybolism of the Lincoln Continental from Still, it refers to the resurrection symbolism of a Christ figure, the properties of the Light Bringer. Light and darkness. You can’t have resurrection without death, they’re two sides to the same story.

Beth’s a Sirius figure, she’s associated with fire. We watched her light a fire in Still, she lit a stack of cash on fire to burn down the moonshine shack, she’s associated with yellow, as in her yellow polo, and Yellow Jacket Creek. Shane’s black Jeep Wrangler indicates darkness.

To say that Beth is a Light Bringer is nothing new at this point, it's been abundantly clear since 4x12 Still.

But keep in mind what happened immediately before the scene where she lit the fire:

We see Beth and Daryl "resurrect" from the trunk of the Lincoln Continental (LC) after having escaped death by walker horde the night before. And when we see her start the fire in the next scene, she does so by using the side mirror and a shard of glass from the headlights of the Lincoln Continental. Actual hardware from the car that saved their lives, the car that's been referenced by all the LC licence plates. It's a car that's tied to resurrection, and Beth immeditately establishes herself as Lucifer, the Light Bringer, using tools provided by the car, to light a fire. This is textbook Lucifer Morningstar symbolism.

And this is where an alternative way of interpreting the LC6M187 licence plate reveals itself.

Because remember what I said about the duality in that Lucifer refers to both Christ and the Devil? Could the LC, in addition to being a reference to the Lincoln Continental, also be a reference to Lucifer and Christ?

Could it be, that in the case of the Lincoln Continental from Still, the LC means Lucifer as Christ, marking Beth as the Light Bringer, the Morningstar in its Christ iteration?

As the seasons went by, I came to realize that the entanglement between Beth and Shane in reality was entanglement between Rick and Shane. Rick is the original Christ figure, the original Sirius figure, the original Morningstar. And the reason it comes across as though Beth’s tangled up in all of that, is because she’s so heavily paralleled with Rick. Whatever resurrection symbolism we've seen around Rick, we've also seen around her. And we've watched Rick "resurect" twice now, so...

We really saw this quite clearly in Slabtown, where Dawn, a Morningstar reference, was Shane to Beth’s Rick. Like Shane, she was a cop, her name indicates Morningstar symbolism, and she’s the reason Beth “died”, like Shane was the last one to see Rick before he "died" at the hospital.

Notice the scissors sticking out from Dawn's shoulder. That's another interesting exemple of the entanglement between Shane and Beth. As a weapon of choice when attemting to assert yourself in confrontation with someone carrying a gun, a tiny pair of scissors would probably be my last choice. Why did TPTB do Beth so dirty?

Because symbolism.

We all remember Beth sacrificing herself for Noah in Slabtown, right? He was injured, and much slower than her. He wasn't going to make it without her intenvening. And she did. But in doing so, she ended up trapped, while Noah escaped.

In 2x3, Shane was in a similar situation. Carl had been shot, he needed medicine, and Shane and Otis went out to find it. Inevitably, they ran into a walker horde, and Shane sacrificed Otis so he himself could get away. As he returned to the farm alone, he knew he had fundamentally changed. We get a scene where he shaves his hair off, and transforms into something Devil-like before our eyes. He went "full Shane", as became the meme around the fandom. It means he surrendered to and embraced the Devil side of his Lucifer properties.

And, I want to address the fact that what we see in 2x3, of Shane shooting Otis in the foot, effectively sacrificing him, was entirely told through flashbacks. Meaning, the actual events happened in the previous episode, which was…. Yep. 2x2. Another representation of the 22/Lucifer/Morningstar symbolism and the duality it entails. I’m side-eying that heavily.

We see Shane holding the clippers in his hand in this pic. The 22 necklace is also visible. There's a parallel to Beth here, hiding the scissors up her cast:

Her unconventional choice of weapon to bring to a gunfight is only sufficiently explained through symbolism. Clippers and scissors are tools used for similar tasks. Beth used them after sacrificing herself for Noah (for the second time, no less), Shane used them after having sacrificed Otis.

We also get this representation of the 22/Lucifer/Morningstar symbolism on the trunk of one of the Grady cars in 5x8 Coda, proving the symbolism around Shane's necklace extends beyond Shane himself. And again, remember this was introduced all the way back in season 1. The symbolism goes back to the very beginning.

We've also seen the 22/Lucifer/Morningstar symbolism several other times over the years, such as in 10x13 What We Become, which I've talked about here. Here we see a “22” next to a "11" or a "one one", as we remember from Noah's T-shirt.

Returning to the LC6M187 licence plate for a moment. In season 2 we see yet another one of these license plates on a Ford Mustang, in the exact same shade of yellow as Carols Jeep Cherokee and Beth’s yellow polo.

It’s the car where they end up leaving supplies and a note to Sophia, hoping she’ll return. She didn’t, but if she had managed to return to the Mustang with the supplies, they would have found her and she would have survived. The car provided an opportunity for survival had she managed to return to it. The symbolism of the license plate is still, as in 1x3 TITTF, one of death and resurrection.

The next time we see this license plate is in 3x15, when Merle sacrifices himself so that Michonne and TF can live. Remember we literally became aware of the LC6M187 license plate in 1x3 TITTF, as Daryl learned about Merle being left behind in Atlanta, and when they went looking for him, he was "just gone". Presumed dead, except he wasn't. He “resurrected” in season 3. It’s fitting that it also is a car with this particular license plate that takes him to his sacrificial death. Death and resurrection. Merle did something very Christ-like in his final moments. He sacrificed himself for his brother's new family.

The next time we see a representation of the symbolism of the LC6M187 license plate is in 4x12 Still. We see Beth and Daryl survive a walker horde by hiding in the trunk of a car, a Lincoln Continental. The LC6M187 licence plate itself doesn’t appear in this scene, but my hypothesis is that the LC of the license plates are direct references to this particular Lincoln Continental, and that it was established as resurrection symbolism all the way back in 1x3 TITTF, under showrunner Frank Darabont.

Then, we come across it again in 5x2 Strangers.

Carol is having second thoughts on just about anything. Daryl catches her attempting to leave in a car they discovered earlier that day. This one had a battery charger(!) in the trunk(!). And a very familiar license plate, LC6M187.

Remember, at this point, Beth is “just gone”. Then, suddenly a car with a white cross drives by. Daryl recognizes it as similar to the car that took Beth in 4x13 Alone. They follow the car to Atlanta.

The car they follow is actually Officer Licari’s Dodge Magnum. It is potentially the actual car Beth was left in after Coda. And interestingly, we see here both the XH6-S781 license plate and the LC6M187 license plate in the same scene for the first time since 1x3 TITTF. And Beth is right in the center of the symbolism, in a way that is impossible to disregard! That seems significant to me.

To my knowledge, we don’t ever see the LC6M187 license plate again, but we've had some references to it, such as from the season finale of season 1 of TWDDD. We see Carol in a blue Ford Mustang, with a license plate with the numbers 502, which obviously points to TWD 5x2, the exact episode when we last see the LC6M187 license plate. And when we last see it, it is when Daryl and Carol are following Officer Lichari’s Dodge Magnum to Atlanta. I’ve written about it here and here.

It’s interesting that we’ve had a few mustangs on the show, and it's interesting that they're all tied up in the symbolism around Beth.

But there was also another Mustang, one I haven't mentioned yet, Lucille's green(e) Ford Mustang from 10x22 Here’s Negan. The 22nd episode of season 10... it’s almost like it was foreshadowed by the Slabtown clock… Feel free to side-eye that, I know I do...

Yup, Negan’s wife Lucille drove a green Ford Mustang, and we did get a great look at the license plate

I’m not going to pretend I’ve got everything figured out in regards to these licence plates. I can offer suggestions and explain how I interpret them, but anybody's is guess is as good as mine.

But Lucille’s Mustang almost has got to be involved in the things I've discussed in this post. First, the names Lucifer and Lucille are closely related, they both refer to "light", in that they're both names that are derived from the Latin word for for light, "lux".

“Lucille" is derived from "Lucy/Lucia", patroness saint of the blind.

Again, Beth is right in the center of this symbolism:

Does the LC of the LC6M187 licence plate stand for Lucifer/Christ, essentially describing the duality of the symbolism that’s tied to both the Christ/Light Bringer and the Devil? Is it a metaphor for the duality of "death and resurrection", of light and darkness?

Rick as the Christ figure, Shane as the Devil.

Beth as the Christ figure, Dawn as the Devil?

On the license plate of Lucille's green Ford Mustang, we first see an X. It likely means “cross”, or Christ, or "resurrection"… or it could mean Roman Numeral 10, as in the season in which this episode occurred?

Then a "V"…

...which incidently is the 22nd letter of the alphabet. That's quite the coincidence, isn't it? In the 22nd episode of season 10... we see a "V" for Venus which is the 22nd letter of the alphabet? "V" for Venus, Morningstar, the 22nd letter, and seen on Shane's necklace? Remember that the Bible verse with the Morningstar reference was 22:16.

Then you see the “11”. Obviously, one interpretation is that it’s a reference to the “one one” on Noah’s t-shirt, or to episode 10x11 (10 - one one) Morningstar. Another could be that 1+1=2, and it refers to the second letter of the alphabet, B... for Beth?

Then there's the "44". Is it a reference to the comic book issue that revolves around Andrea, the Beth proxy, being shot? Or is it a representation of Daryl Dixon, in that D is the fourth letter in the alphabet, so that 44 = DD?

I can't say for sure, and I'm open to sugestions.

[pagetreader]

@honorhearted // Plotted AU

The embers that wafted from the fire nearby were dim and lifeless, just like nearly everything that surrounded her there in the New Windsor encampment. With a needle in one hand and a torn uniform in the other, Peggy found herself terribly lost in the recess of her thoughts, recalling all the wretched events that had led her here.

Two Springs prior, she had been blissfully happy in the arms of the man she thought she could spend the rest of her life with only to be left behind, used as a chess piece in his elaborate game.

She'd watched that same man hang only months ago, though she could still envision it as if it were still happening before her eyes, his body writhing at the end of a noose, the sounds of sputtering and choked gasps from behind his face covering as he struggled for air he could not obtain until finally he'd been mercifully aided in the snap of his neck.

Then there was Arnold, the man she'd been tasked with turning for the sake of her love. She'd succeeded, but what had she gained from it? Arnold had been quickly killed, amounting her work to naught. It mattered not, for her love was now dead and she'd been left with the seed of a traitor in her womb. She'd considered alternate routes, teas made from herbs that were said to rid her of any evident shame, but she'd had a friend who had bled so copiously that it'd killed her.

Fear kept her from that weighty decision and ultimately she'd been forced to seek protection from the most unlikely of places: Major Benjamin Tallmadge. Her own words still rang in her head.

You're my only chance at salvation now, Major. I'm entirely at your mercy, but remember that you were an accessory in Andre's demise and the one that pulled the trigger that ended Arnold. Because of you, I am alone in this world.

Peggy was well aware that her words had not been entirely true. Her choices had led her here. She could hardly regret all she'd tried to do in the name of love, and yet it was hard to believe as she sat here in a run-down goods stall with women of less reputable means, smudged with soot and covered in dingy rags for garments.

Meanwhile, her belly had swelled with the evidence of her transgressions. Though vows were exchanged and she was now a Tallmadge by name and security, those in the Continental Army knew whose child she truly carried. The harsh whispers and veiled insults had not gone unnoticed. In their eyes, she was still a Tory and the ex-lover of a despised traitor who rotted at the bottom of the river. 

Her melancholy had prevented her from realizing that Ben had even approached her there, hearing the hushed gossip about her from the women behind her cease as they resumed their own duties. Pretending not to notice them, Peggy continued her mending work. 

“Surely you have plenty of work to occupy you, Major. I doubt General Washington would be pleased to see you partaking in idle chatter with the camp's ‘traitorous little tart', wife or otherwise.” 

‘Traitorous little tart’, a moniker the women there had oh-so cleverly coined. 

[80siconic]

CHAPTER I - EYE FOR AN EYE.

content warning(s): mentions of abuse.

chapter one

"an eye for an eye, a life for a life. i'll see you in hell, on the other side."

eye for an eye by rina sawayama.

January, 2022

ANIKA DUPONT had enough of her parents. That much was obvious. There wasn't one final straw. It was all a final straw. Anika was a trophy. A prize to be looked at. Valerie Dupont cursed at her whenever she didn't do anything right. All Anika did was please them which of course, wasn't enough. Maurice Dupont couldn't have given a shit about Anika's mental health. It was like this since she was a child. Anika didn't have a childhood. She didn't have a normal one anyway. As Anika Dupont grew up, she slowly realized that her parents were liars and cheats. They abused her emotionally and mentally until she was nothing but a bug under their shoe. A piece of glass they could break whenever they wanted to. Anika was strong enough not to cry. No matter how much she wanted to. To her parents, sadness was a weakness. There wasn't time for sadness in the Dupont family according to Valerie and Maurice.

Anika Dupont needed a plan. She had a plan to expose them. Anika wanted to expose them to everyone in Paris. Most importantly, those at the High Table. They had the High Table thinking they were decent people. They lied to get on the High Tables good side. Yes, the High Table was probably just as crooked, but they could kill her parents if they wanted to. They could put an Excommunicado on their heads and they'd be done for. The best part was, Anika would be left alone. She was the victim. Valerie and Maurice had betrayed her and she'd prove that to the High Table too. Anika Dupont would make the Dupont's name great again. Without the complete and utter lies. Her parents had dirtied their good name, and she needed to make it clean.

Anika needed to contact the Marquis de Gramont. Anika knew he worked under the High Table. She knew that he was an assassin for the High Table previously. This was before he earned his rightful place as the Marquis. The Marquis had always been well known in the assassin business. She had heard that his childhood wasn't exactly the best (it was nice that they had something in common) and Anika didn't know much about his parents. All she knew now was that they were dead and had been for a long time. Anika needed his help to take down her parents. There was no way she could do it without help. Plus, seeing as he worked for the High Table, he proved to be a wonderful asset.

Anika knew him to be quite the brutal killer. He knew what he was doing. He knew how to do his job very well. The only problem was, she didn't know how to reach him. The only thing she needed to figure out was how to get in contact with him. Part of her wanted to find out from her parents, but then she thought of something else. The Harbinger. Anika knew Harbinger worked for the Marquis. The best part was that she knew how to get in contact with him. If she could get in contact with The Harbinger, she could get in contact with the Marquis.

This Continental in Paris was lavish, and in simple words, fancy. Anika didn't feel like she belonged. First off, she wasn't an assassin. Second, they knew she was the Dupont's daughter. But she wasn't in danger here. If anything, she was welcomed there. It still put her on edge though. As she approached the concierge, Anika stuck her hand in her dark red coat pocket and pulled out a gold coin. It wasn't just the usual gold coin you handed out as payment. It was specifically for The Harbinger. The coin had two shot guns in the form of an X, with a knife in the middle of them. Anika had snuck into her father's office and unlocked his desk drawer for it. He had enough. He wasn't going to miss one. "Bonjour."

Placing it on the marble counter, the concierge looked up at Anika with a simple eyebrow raise as she took a glance at the coin. "Bonjour. Welcome to the Paris Continental. How may I help you today?"

Anika cleared her throat, sliding the coin closer to the woman. She gave the woman a blank look as she answered. "Is he in?"

The concierge slid the coin off the counter with a curt nod. "Oui, Mademoiselle Dupont. Let me take you to his office."

The woman walked out from behind the counter and Anika followed behind her. Her heels clicked on the marble floor as she kept in time with the concierge's footsteps. The walk seemed to go on forever. The elevator stopped at the bottom floor of the Continental. In the basement to be more specific. The floor was dark and dingy. Anika realized it was somewhat creepy too. As the woman led her to a door, she turned to face Anika. "I must warn you, he's a man of few words. He might not give you the answers you want."

Anika cleared her throat. She nodded towards the door. "I understand. I don't need many answers. Just one."

The woman sighed and nodded. As she opened the door, she held it open for Anika. "Anika Dupont for you, sir."

Anika heard his deep voice from the room. "Let her in, please."

She nodded, looking back at Anika. "Please, go on in."

Anika slowly walked into the room and approached the man. She had never seen his face before, but he didn't look intimidating, per say. Just very, very wise with age. There was a large scar on the left side of his face, his hair was completely gray. And he was missing his ring finger. Interesting. Anika heard the door shut behind her. The Harbinger gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk. "You can sit."

Anika quickly took a seat in front of his desk and crossed her one leg over the other. She got straight to the point. "Do you still work for the Marquis?"

The Harbinger moved forward in his seat, putting his arms on the table. "Last I checked, yes."

Anika sat up straight with a small nod. "I need to meet with him. I know he's a busy man and I know he probably wouldn't want to meet with someone like me—"

Anika paused as The Harbinger held up his hand. He spoke after her. "You are a Dupont, Anika. Of course, he wouldn't want to meet with somebody like you."

Anika scoffed. "I am nothing like my family. My parents are awful people, and they aren't as perfect as everyone sees them. I'm sure you know this. They've used me for their own gain. I am a mascot for my parents. They used the innocence of my youth to show everybody of the world how "perfect" of a family we are. I noticed it too late, but I still noticed it and I'm done. They don't even see me as a daughter. All they see me as is a pawn in their game. You can tell him that."

The Harbinger just looked at her. He studied her for a few moments. He could sense real anger when he heard it. She was one angry woman. "What do you need, Miss Dupont?"

"I need to speak to him. I need his help to expose my parents for who they are. I've had enough of being under their thumb." Anika sighed angrily. "I don't know how to get in contact with him, so I thought I'd go to you. It's easier to meet with you than it is to meet with him."

The Harbinger nodded. "I see." He thought for a moment. "I'll see what I can do. I can't promise you anything, but I know that he despises your parents. He'd want to see them ruined." The Harbinger tapped the table a few times before speaking again. "I'll contact you in a few days with an update."

Anika was relived. She gave him a small smile. "Merci. Thank you."

Anika stood up from her seat and as she turned to leave, The Harbinger spoke. "If you ever need my help with this, I'll gladly oblige. You're not the only one who hates your parents."

Anika put her hand on the door handle and walked out. After she closed the door behind her, she smiled to herself as she walked to the elevators. This was going perfectly so far.

___________

                THE days went by slowly as Anika Dupont waited for a call or a message from The Harbinger. Anything. She was getting impatient with how long it was taking but she told herself she'd get something soon. The voice of her mother echoed in the hallways as she called for Anika. "There's a letter for you down here, Anika! Come open it before I open it for you."

Anika sneered at the voice of her mother, but she made her way downstairs as quickly as possible. Anika approached her mother who held the letter out for her. As she was about to take it, her mother yanked it away. "Who is this from?"

Anika had been deceiving her mother for as long as she could remember. She knew she could act as innocent as she wanted to. Anika shrugged. "I'm not sure, mother. It could be from anyone."

Valerie Dupont held the letter back to her and Anika took it. "Fine."

"Thank you, mother." Anika took the letter and she turned to leave. Anika ripped the letter open with her nail as she walked up the stairs, quickly wanting to read the contents inside of it. As she made it to the door of her room, she unfolded the letter and started reading.

Miss. Dupont.

He'll meet with you. In an hour. At The Louvre. Don't be late. He isn't fond of tardiness.

Good luck.

Sincerely, The Harbinger.

Anika looked up from the letter and quickly entered her room. She was in comfy sweats and she was going to The Louvre to meet the Marquis. She wasn't going to be dressed the way she was now. Anika just hoped her parents wouldn't question her too much before she left. The outfit she wore wasn't extravagant. It was just a simple white turtleneck and plain black pants. It was wintertime in Paris, and she didn't feel like freezing.

Anika stuffed the letter in her dark red jacket pocket as she put it over her arm. She couldn't hear her parents, but she wasn't afraid of them anymore. She was a 26-year-old woman, and she could do what she pleased. She wasn't going to be jailed by them any longer. Anika walked downstairs, towards the front door as she put on her coat, gloves and scarf. Including her shoes. Anika left the house and told her driver to bring the car around without warning her parents. He obliged and left.

Anika looked out the window as the car drove on the road. Paris was quite beautiful during the winter with all the snow. It felt like a complete fairy tale for her. For years, Valerie Dupont said the snow was ugly, but Anika thought the opposite. It was lovely. The last time Anika visited the Louvre was the month before for a charity auction with her parents. Another event where they could show her off which meant she didn't have a chance to look around. She was at her mother and father's side all night. Speaking of which, it was the first time she laid eyes the Marquis de Gramont. She couldn't talk to him, of course, but she knew who he was. He was the star of the show with his outrages but dazzling sparkling suit.

The car stopped in front of the entrance of the Louvre. The museum was closed which was why it was the perfect meeting place. This was the Marquis. If he wanted to have the Louvre to himself for the day, he could. Anika looked at the driver. "Je ne devrais pas être plus d'une heure. Sortez déjeuner en attendant, si vous le souhaitez. Je suis sûr que je n'aurai pas besoin d'un chauffeur d'escapade." (I shouldn't be more than an hour. Go out for lunch in the meantime, if you'd like. I'm sure I won't need a getaway driver.)

The driver gave her a nod. "Merci, Mademoiselle."

Anika sent him a small smile as she stepped out of the car. She heard the car drive away behind her as she walked towards the entrance of the museum. There were guards in gray suits standing in front of the door, with pins on their lapels. These were pins that the Marquis' bodyguards all had, including him. Her blonde hair blew in her face as she walked towards them. She really needed to get a haircut. Before she could get a word in, one of the guards held up his hand for which she stopped. "I'm sorry but the Louvre is closed today, miss."

Anika breathed out through her nose, quite amused. "I'm here to meet with the Marquis de Gramont. He's expecting me and I know for a fact that he doesn't like when people are late. I'm sure you don't want me to tell him that you were the only who made me late, do you? I even have a letter from the Harbinger if you need more proof of my words." She raised a brow.

The guard looked at her with a blank look on his face. He was about to open his mouth to speak before someone else spoke up behind her. "Is there a problem here?"

Anika turned around and it was yet another guard. This one looked more important with the way he held himself though. "I'm Anika Dupont. Your guard here won't let me in."

"My apologies, Mademoiselle." He surprisingly gave her a small smile. "I'm the Marquis Second-In-Command. He is expecting you." Chidi looked over at the guard behind her with a frown, his voice harsh. "Move out of the way."

The guard nodded. "Sorry, sir. I didn't know." The guard opened the door for her. Chidi stepped in front first and walked inside.

Anika smiled at the guard. "Thank you."

Anika followed beside the Second-In-Command as he led her to the Marquis. Anika couldn't help but look around at the beauty in front of her. The paintings were grand, and she immediately fell in love with the place. The museum was wide with windows where you could see outside. The natural light made it even more beautiful in a way. As they turned a corner, Anika spotted who she'd been wanting to see for the past couple of days in all his glory. He sat on a couch, exuding with power and riches. His stark black suit completely popped more with the white couch he was sitting on. The Marquis studied the painting in front of him and what really stood out to her was the ring on his finger.

Anika prepared herself to be completely shooed off when she got there. A woman wanting to get revenge on her parents and wanting his help seemed like something he'd be used to. He'd probably be over it by now. Anika wasn't nervous. She was anything but nervous. She was excited instead. Letting in a small breath, Anika and Chidi had stopped in front of him. It was completely silent for a moment before he spoke with such ease without looking at her.

His accent hit her ears. He didn't seem too happy about her presence. "I never really paid attention to the details of a painting when I was younger. In fact, I simply didn't care much for them. Now, as I'm older, I realize how simply foolish that was. Paintings hold many details. They show how an artist was feeling at the time of the creation. I know it sounds silly but it's true." For the first time, the Marquis looked at her. "What do you think?'

Anika looked at him for a few seconds with curiosity before looking at the painting in front of her. She turned to get a better look at it, facing towards it. "It's colourful, but there are some dark parts to it. Is there an emotion that is between both happy and sad? I'd say that's what this painting looks like. But then again, I've never been much of an art expert."

The Marquis hummed. "No. Neither have I." He titled his head as he looked at her with curiosity as she gazed at the painting. "How can I help you, Mademoiselle Dupont?"

Anika turned around to face him. "Harbinger didn't tell you?"

He almost chuckled at her question. "I would prefer to hear it from you." The Marquis gazed at her with curiosity. He nodded at the spot beside him. "Sit, please."

Anika slowly walked towards the couch and sat beside him. Anika couldn't help but watch him encase he did anything she didn't like. He scooted over more so she had space. "I assume you're familiar with my parents?"

The Marquis nodded, glaring at the painting in front of him. Of course, he knew her parents. He hated them with everything he had. "Of course, I am." He scoffed with anger. "How could I not be?"

Anika turned her head to look at him with her brow raised in question. "What do you mean?"

The Marquis thought for a minute before answering her. "Your parents have tried to take my spot as Marquis many, many times. Way too many times. They almost succeeded once too." He looked at Anika and her blonde hair and noticed how perfect it was. Anika Dupont was a respectful woman, he could tell. He could also tell that she was nothing like her family. The Harbinger was correct. "My Harbinger tells me you're different from your parents. How is that, exactly?"

Anika sighed, shaking her head. "It's a long story."

The Marquis tilted his head to the side. "We have time. Tell me."

Anika looked towards him. That wasn't a question and more of a demand. Anika looked back at the painting in front of her with a scoff. "Ever since I was younger, they've only ever saw me as one thing. Someone they could shape and mold to the epitome of perfection. I wasn't even a human to them. I was more of something they could show off to prove how perfect they were when we are anything but that. Essentially, they've used me for their own gain. Treated me like I was nothing. Between the emotional and physical abuse, I couldn't do it anymore." She now glared at the painting in front of her. "I can't do it anymore."

The Marquis studied her as she looked towards him. "I have had enough of being used by them. It ends here and now. You're going to help me."

The Marquis looked at her once more and snapped his fingers. The guards cleared away quickly, walking away from the two of them. Anika looked around as they left. He really said jump, and they said how high. He leaned forward with his hands folded in front of him. He looked up at the painting as he addressed her. "Hm, I understand your frustration. Would you like to know something?"

Anika nodded as she stared at him. The Marquis smirked at her which surprised her. That was probably as close to a smile as she'd ever get from him. He looked pleased, in a way? Which was a good thing. At least he wasn't angry at her boldness. The Marquis chuckled quietly and shook his head. "Most people beg on their knees for my help, but you demand it instead. I like that very much."

Anika smirked at him. "Well, I am not most people."

The Marquis hummed. "What would you like me to do for you, Mademoiselle?"

"I need you to help me make the plan. To expose them. They even fooled the High Table into thinking they are good and decent people." Anika's voice turned into anger. "I want the world to know about what they did to me. And when the world finds out, I am going to kill them. And I will make the Dupont family name into something better. Into something people can look up to for help. I will erase everything that my parents have done. Then, their names will be forgotten."

The Marquis applauded her for that. She seemed like a strong woman and her cause sounded very convincing. Anika Dupont knew what she wanted, and he liked that. A lot. "I'll help you. I despise your parents just like you do. Where exactly would you like to start?"

Anika cleared her throat. "I'll still play the dutiful and loving daughter that they want me to be." As much as she hated doing so, she'd do it for the cause. "I can spy on them and bring as many updates to you as I can. I wish to expose everything. You're a powerful man, Marquis. I know this too be true. Everybody is afraid of you, and you seem like you would know how to plan something like this."

"If I have the right information to do so. Yes." He thought for a moment. "I have people who will help us. The Harbinger for one. He already said he would do anything he could." The Marquis had one question on his mind. "When do you plan on doing this?"

"There is a New Years Eve party we plan every year. Usually everybody is there." The Dupont's like to show off. A lot. "And I mean everybody. Even members of the High Table will be there. So, we'll do it there. It is always broadcasted every year because they like to boast. It would be perfect." Anika sighed.

The Marquis nodded in agreement. She seemed to have everything figured out. "I will keep in contact with you, Mademoiselle Dupont. I will have Harbinger send you letters because if they come front me, people will get interested. They'll stick their nose in business that doesn't concern them. That isn't something you or I want." Anika knew what that meant. It probably meant he'd have to kill people if they found out. For him and her. And no one could do anything about it. "We'll meet at the end of every week. Say, Friday's? How much are you involved in what your parents do?"

"Everything. They drag me to every meeting. To every function. Trust me, they still need me to be as perfect as always." Anika clenched her jaw.

"How long has this happened for, Mademoiselle Dupont? From what age?" The Marquis looked at her with interest. He wanted to know everything that has happened, he wanted to know everything about her. Everything.

"No younger then 9. Maybe 10." Anika lowered her brows in sadness. "They have taken everything that I have ever loved and they've taken advantage of me. Sometimes I hate how naive and innocent I was but I'm done with that now. I am not going to be the perfect little girl anymore. I'm going rouge."

The Marquis was excited. The definition of the word. He could tell she was going to be powerful. And maybe he could be powerful along side her. They'd be unstoppable. "I am glad you came to me with this, and not anyone else. I'm very glad we want the same thing."

Anika's phone rung and it echoed through the empty museum. "It's my mother." Anika bit her lip, answering the phone as she stood up from the couch. "Oui?"

"Où es-tu, Anika?" (Where are you, Anika?) Valerie Dupont demanded an answer from the other side.

Anika looked at the Marquis who could obviously hear her mother. The harshness coming from the woman's voice made him angry, annoyed. He stood up beside her. He held out his hand, gesturing to the phone, whispering. "Give it to me."

Anika rapidly shook her head, no. She had to respond before her mother got even more upset. Anika felt a hand on her arm. The Marquis looked at her with a blank stare. His voice still quiet. "Trust me."

Anika looked at him and to the phone at her ear and back to him. She held the phone out for him and he took it from her, placing it to his ear. "Bonjour."

There was a pause on the other side. "Qui est-ce?" (Who is this?)

The Marquis cleared his throat. He put a hand on his hip, standing up straight. "Le Marquis de Gramont, madame. Je suis désolé de vous avoir enlevé votre fille ce soir, Madame. Je l'ai simplement invitée à déjeuner. Nous appellerons son chauffeur pour qu'il vienne la chercher. Encore une fois, je m'excuse." (The Marquis de Gramont, ma'am. I am sorry to have taken your daughter away from you this evening. I simply invited her out for lunch. We shall call her driver to pick her up. Again, I apologize.)

This seemed to have stunned her mother. The Marquis taking her daughter out to lunch? Valerie Dupont didn't expect this. "Erm, C'est bien, Marquis. Merci de me l'avoir dit. Et dis à ma fille que je l'attends quand elle rentrera à la maison. Merci. Et s'il vous plaît, ne vous excusez pas. Si c'était quelqu'un d'autre, je ne l'aurais pas permis mais je peux faire une exception." (That is alright, Marquis. Thank you for letting me know. And tell my daughter I will be expecting her when she gets home. Thank you. And please, do not apologize. If it was anyone else, I would not have allowed it but I can make an exception.)

The Marquis almost scoffed but held back. "Bien sûr. Au revoir, Madame." (Of course. Goodbye, Madame.)

He hung up the phone and handed it back to her. Anika took it and looked at it for a moment before looking at the Marquis. "Thank you. I'm sure she would have wrung my neck if it wasn't for you." She paused for a moment. "I really must go. My mother gets impatient if I am late. Like you, in a way. But more frightening."

The Marquis gave her a small smile. "Nonsense. The sound of shock in your mother's voice was pleasing to hear. Let me put my number in your phone, yes?"

"Oh, uh, sure." Anika handed him her phone with a small smile.

After a few moments of typing in this number, he handed it back to her. "Until next week, Anika. I will have Chidi escort you out of the building." He held out his hand. "I look forward to seeing you again."

Anika took his hand and shook it. He then placed a small kiss on the back of her hand. The action made her cheeks hot. "Should I message you with information?"

The Marquis thought for a few moments. "We will wait until the end of the week. If you need anything at all, contact me immediately. I've put Harbinger in your contacts as well. For emergency circumstances."

Anika nodded and gave him a smile. As Chidi approached her, he gestured for her to go first. Anika nodded her head as a goodbye to the Marquis. Chidi walked towards his boss who was looking at the painting with his hands on his hips. "Make sure she gets in her car safely, yes? And I want you to watch her house. I don't trust her parents and I would like to make sure she stays safe. Keep an eye for anything curious. Especially if it seems that a hand has been laid on her. I will kill them myself if I have to."

Chidi raised a brow at his boss. "Have you become attached already?"

The Marquis sighed with the shake of his head. "She's a good woman. Very smart. She's interesting to me." He looked at Anika as she waited for his Second-In-Command. "Go. Her mother gets more angry by the minute she isn't home on time."

Chidi gave him a nod. "Of course, sir." He then turned around and walked towards Anika. "Come on, little lady. Let's get you back to your driver."

"Thank you." Anika smiled at him. "You don't have to walk me out."

"He wants to make sure you get out safe. Frankly, so do I." They approached the exit of the Louvre. Chidi opened the door for her as she walked outside. "Hey, blondie?"

Anika chuckled with amusement, and she turned around on her heel to look at him. "Oui?"

Chidi sent her a curt nod. "Stay safe, alright? I hope you get home alright."

Anika smiled once again. "Thank you. Bye, Chidi."

Anika chuckled again as she turned around to walk to her car. She entered the back seat. She put her seatbelt on and smiled at her driver. "Did you have a good lunch?"

"Oui, madam. Is there anywhere else you would like to go?"

Anika shook her head. "Non. Just straight home, s'il vous plait."

As the car drove away, Anika watched as the Louvre got out of her sight. She smiled to herself. It was all going according to plan. Soon enough, her parents would be dead, and she was happy about it. She was just glad she had the Marquis on her side.

next chapter...