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walkerwords · 4 years ago

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“The Savior Sessions” Part 26 of 33 - Negan x GN!Reader

IMAGE CREDIT: AMC

SERIES MASTERLIST

Summary: Sickness is spreading in Alexandria, the reader searches for their lost love, and Negan meets the silent enemy.

Word Count: 4433

Warning: Swearing, Mentions of Blood

Song I Wrote To: “In This Shirt” by The Irrepressibles

Note: I am getting really excited about the final few parts of this! However, we have a bit to go! All official dialog is property of AMC and Skybound.

-----

Negan really hated Beta and he hadn’t said more than three words since they crossed paths.

After crossing into the Whisperer’s territory, Beta had fallen upon Negan quickly, disarming and blindfolding him. Negan wasn’t sure if the giant man was going to kill him, so he kept talking in hopes that the Beta would take him to the Alpha to decide his fate.

“Look, man, I have spent the last eight fuckin’ years locked up by your enemy,” Negan said. “I want them dead as much as you do, hell, probably even more. Their old leader fucked me up good once upon a time ago and I haven’t been in a very forgiving mindset since. You take me to your Alpha and I will spill every goddamn secret I know about those fuckers and beyond.”

“Too much noise,” Beta snarled at him.

“Right, you people are all about the whole vow of silence thing,” Negan said in a mock whisper. “I get it, it’s freaky as shit, but I get it.”

“I should just slit your throat and be done with it,” said Beta.

“Been there, done that,” Negan said. “It didn’t stick.” Even behind the blindfold Negan figured Beta was reaching for the knives on his belt. He wouldn’t blame him if he did want to kill him.

Negan had only been back in “I am Negan” mode for all of twelve hours and he had already started to hate himself for it. However, he had a job to do and this was the first step in doing so.

“The Alpha will decide your fate,” Beta said as the Whisperers who had hold of Negan pushed him forward.

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Negan said. Beta whirled on him, ripping down the blindfold and Negan cringed at the sight of the man in the mask. Beta then shoved the cloth into Negan’s mouth tightly.

“Stop talking,” Beta ordered. Negan glared back at him and it was then that he could see what you must have seen as Beta stood above you with his hand on your throat. The thought of that, the thought of that monster’s hand on the person he loved, kept Negan on his feet and walking forward. He knew that you wanted to kill Beta, but Negan was starting to think that if you didn’t do it soon, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself.

Beta dragged him through the woods and when they came across the main camp, Negan relaxed further, slipped on a cocky smile, and started to plan.

-------

You and Carol were walking through the woods, both of you scanning for your respective targets.

You knew that she was looking for the horde and you didn’t care. All you wanted was to find Negan and if walking aimlessly around offered you some sort of clue, then you were going to do it. Daryl had tried to accompany her that morning, but you had stepped in and offered to go instead. Daryl was clearly worried about her, but you knew that she didn’t want comfort, she just wanted to work and find Alpha.

You were more than willing to give that to her.

That morning as you were getting ready to head out, you had stumbled across one of your emergency packs. You had begun to stash them around the house in case you had to leave suddenly with Negan. All three were accounted for which told you that he hadn’t even bothered to find one before he left. This only proved your theory that something was wrong and that he didn’t just leave.

On top of everything else, Aaron was now in contact with one of Alpha’s people. They called her Gamma and you didn’t like that he was speaking to her. If you had it your way, Gamma would be bleeding at your feet and not playing “frenemy”.

“I can see your wheels turning,” Carol said as you walked beside her. Your sword was swinging on your hip as her bow was level in her hand.

“I don’t think they’ve stopped since the world ended,” you said with a sigh. Carol nodded in agreement. “Can we be honest with each other, Peletier?” you asked.

“Always,” Carol said, snorting as you used her last name, something you always did when you first met her.

“I think we both know that we’re out here for different reasons,” you said.

“You always were the smart one,” Carol said. She then stopped walking and turned to you. “Are you going to tell me to back down?”

“I won’t tell you to stop hunting Alpha as long as you don’t stop me from taking out Beta.”

“He’s in your crosshairs, huh?” she said, continuing to walk.

“I don’t know why he’s gotten under my skin, Carol. I do know that that motherfucker is going to die by my hand even if I have to bite his damn jugular out.”

“Okay, Rick,” Carol said with a knowing look.

“Michonne told you that story too?”

“I think everyone’s heard it,” Carol said.

“I miss him so much,” you sighed as you climbed over a fallen tree.

“What do you think he’d do if he was here?” Carol asked.

“I think he would have shot Alpha the second she showed up at Hilltop.”

“I agree,” Carol said. “I feel like we’re running around with our heads cut off without him in this war.”

“Maybe we can learn something from the past. We won the last war, I don’t know why this one would be any different.”

“Negan wasn't evil,” Carol said. This stunned you for a moment and Carol caught onto it. “Surprised to hear me defend him?”

“A bit,” you admitted.

“You remember my husband?”

“Ed?” you asked. “How could I forget?” Carol’s dead husband was an abusive asshole that deserved what he got. You remembered how Shane was ready to throttle him and you were willing to help. Lori was the one to calm the both of you down before you murdered him. However, you knew that Shane had always been right about him.

“My husband didn’t care about me or our daughter. Ed was a horrible human being who preyed on the weak. Alpha is the same way. She doesn’t care who she hurts and she is willing to kill women, children, and anyone to get what she wants. Negan...he had a code. I don’t know if that makes up for all the things he did, but in my book, he’s a better person than Ed or Alpha.”

“I wish more people shared those thoughts,” you said.

“I can tell that you love him,” she said. “I can see it on your face and in your eyes. He’s...I guess he’s your sanctuary.”

“Is it wrong that I feel guilty for that?”

“For loving him?” she asked and you nodded. “No, (Y/N), it’s not wrong. I also want you to know that it's okay, no matter who it is.”

“Ezekiel said the same thing,” you said. Carol smiled at that. You didn’t know exactly what had happened between her and the King, but you knew they weren’t speaking as much and you figured they weren’t even together at all.

It wasn’t odd when parents broke up after the death of a child. You had seen it enough when you were a teacher. Carol was strong, but you did worry about Ezekiel.

“What’s your opinion on him, Carol?” you asked after a moment.

“On Negan?” she asked and you nodded. “Well, I am never going to forgive him for Glenn or Abraham, but I see that he’s changed. I know that he cared about Carl, and in his own way, respected Rick. I also know that he would never lay his hand on a child or a woman and if it came down to it, he would die for Judith. I think that regardless of what he’s done, at least we know he knows how to be a good man even if he hasn’t always been one.”

Nodding, you tried to keep your emotions in check, but the tears came quickly. You hunched over, feeling a loss and Carol grabbed you into her arms.

“I have no doubt he will come home to you,” she whispered. “Do not lose faith, my friend.”

“I need him,” you choked out.

“I know, honey,” Carol said. “I know.”

—————-

You broke off from Carol not that long after her words of comfort.

Needing to be alone, you began the trek towards Hilltop. You weren’t exactly sure what you were looking for, but perhaps if you saw it you would know. Carol had mentioned that she wasn’t just looking for Alpha, but the horde as well. Daryl had seen it when Alpha had taken him to the cliff edge. The Whisperers had the largest weapon you could ever imagine and if they decided to use it, you weren’t sure many would survive.

However, you had your own weapon. That is if you could find him. Thinking back to the first day that you had spoken to Negan in his cell, Michonne had said that Alexandria could use him. Not just for a mental punching bag, but because he had run a community unchallenged for years. The Sanctuary, while it was a symbol of hate for Alexandria and the others, it was still proof that some people were born to be in power. Negan was the best shot you had at getting into Beta’s head. The only problem was that Negan may not want to help, not when he had come so far to become a better man.

“And now I’m the one wanting to make him relive that past life,” you muttered as you moved through the trees.

“Talking to yourself? Never a good sign,” a voice said. You recognized it immediately, turning towards the young woman who stepped around a tree. Enid leaned against the trunk, her knife on her hip and a large button-up around her shoulders. You recognized it as one of Alden’s shirts.

“I think a little insanity is healthy,” you offered, causing Enid to smile a bit. “How are you?” you asked.

“I’m getting there,” she admitted. You hadn’t spoken to her much since the fair. Here and there you would check-in, but you had been caught in Negan for months. That guilty feeling returned. “What are you doing out here?” she asked.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you said.

“I needed to get out before Alden wrapped me in plastic wrap.”

“He’s become a helicopter boyfriend?” you guessed, continuing to walk. Enid fell into step next to you.

“That’s a nice way of putting it,” she grumbled.

“Alden is just worried about you,” you said. “Rosita and Gabriel are doing the same with Siddiq.”

“Is he doing okay?”

“He’s been distracted with his daughter and I think that’s helping. Rosita says that he isn’t sleeping though,” you said.

“Neither am I,” Enid said. “I can’t get the look of Tara’s face out of my head. Seeing her die and then what they did with her body…” You reached out and took her hand in yours.

“I am so sorry you had to see that,” you said.

“I’ve seen people die before, but that… that wasn’t human, (Y/N),” Enid said. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep without the nightmares.”

“I wish I could do something to help you,” you said.

“You are, you’re talking to me and you’re still looking for the Whisperers,” she said. “That’s why you’re out here, right?” You paused, trying not to fully lie.

“Right,” you said, but Enid could see right through it.

“Or are you looking for Negan?”

“Can’t I do both?” you asked. Enid shrugged. Negan was a rough subject with Enid. He had killed Glenn who had become like a father to Enid in some ways. He had taken care of her when she didn’t think anyone wanted her around. When he was taken away from her, Enid had taken over as caretaker for Maggie and you knew that Negan wasn’t winning any popularity contests with the young woman.

“How do you know he’s actually changed?” Enid asked, surprising you.

“Everyone keeps asking me that,” you said with a sigh. “I don’t think it’s something I can just explain. It’s something you have to see.”

“Why do you think he’s changed?” Enid asked.

“Because he had to and because he wanted to,” you said without a second of hesitation. “Negan wasn’t always who we met all those years ago.”

“I wonder what changed.”

“His wife died and the world ended,” you said. “Some people are built for this kind of world, others have to adapt and change with it in order to survive.”

“So, you’re saying that the end of the world turned him into a killer?”

“It’s turned us all into killers, Enid,” you reminded her. Enid was quiet for a moment before she continued.

“Alden once told me a story about him,” she began. “Alden wasn’t always with Negan, he usually just stayed at the outposts, but one day Negan went to visit. They all went out in search of people or supplies and they found a small family. It was a husband, his wife, and their two teenagers. Twins, I think. Alden thought that Negan was going to recruit the man to be a Savior and take care of the teens and the wife.”

“Did he?” you asked. Enid shook her head.

“Alden said that Negan...switched when he noticed something. It wasn’t until he got closer that he saw what Negan did. The wife was covered in bruises, the kids too. These weren’t the normal ones you would get from running from Walkers either.”

“He was beating them,” you concluded.

“Negan gave the man one chance to admit what he had done. I guess the husband drew a gun on his family, threatening to kill them. Negan ordered Alden and some other Saviors to grab the kids and keep them safe as he dealt with the parents. The wife began to beg Negan for help and that’s when Negan tackled the husband, knocking him out cold.”

“Did he kill him?”

“He didn’t have to,” Enid said. “The son of a bitch had gotten bit and was going to turn and then turn his family. Some sort of sick ‘together forever’ type thing. Negan got the family into the Sanctuary and kept them safe. The mom died about a year later from a respiratory infection.”

“And the twins?”

“Alden doesn’t know. They were around fifteen or so. Maybe they left, maybe Negan got them set up somewhere else, I don’t know. I just know their names: Adam and Olivia. I like to think they made it and they’re out there somewhere.”

“Why did Alden tell you this?”

“I think he was trying to convince me that not everything the Saviors did was bad,” she said. “I think he’s still worried that I see him as an enemy, but I never did. At least not since he helped us win the war.”

“I wish I could say the same about my own Savior,” you sighed.

“Can’t you?” she asked.

“Enid, we both know that Negan and Alden are two very different people with very different situations,” you said.

“True, but that doesn’t mean Negan hasn’t done his fair share of good. Daryl told me about Judith, all the times he’s saved her. Maybe he’s not lost after all.”

“You sound like Carl,” you complimented. Enid gave you a small smile at that.

“I know that he would be completely on board with you and Negan,” she said. “I also know that he would be by your side right now looking for him.”

“Negan wouldn’t have left if Carl was still here,” you said.

“Why are you so sure that he left?”

“Are you suggesting somebody kidnapped my boyfriend?” you asked, raising your brows.

“Stranger things have happened,” she offered.

“Your wisdom is very… Greene,” you said.

“Well, Maggie did help me see this world differently. I think we could all use a little Rhee/Greene wisdom right now.”

“If you find some,” you said. “Pass it along alright?”

“You got it,” Enid said. Bumping her shoulder with your own, you took a deep breath.

“I can’t imagine what she would think about me right now, En,” you said. “I can’t imagine the betrayal she would feel.”

“(Y/N), listen to me,” Enid said. “We spend too much time thinking about what others would think instead of just being in the moment with the people around us. I lost my best friends to Alpha and I lost a piece of myself, but I still have Alden. I still have that person who loves me unconditionally. I think that is more important right now.”

“I can’t stop the guilt,” you whispered.

“(Y/N), you’ve lost too much to feel guilty for loving someone,” she said. Enid then continued on, letting you absorb her words. The sheer fact that Enid was saying these things to you made you even more confused. It began to make you wonder if your friends were actually coming around to the idea of Negan being a part of the community or if they were just worried for your sanity.

If you were being honest with yourself, you didn’t know which was worse.

--------

When you returned to Alexandria, you found that Siddiq and Dante were being overwhelmed.

“What’s going on?” you asked as you walked into Rosita’s house.

“I don’t know,” Siddiq said, “it looks like some kind of bug is going around.”

“Are you feelin’ okay, Doc?” you asked, reaching to feel his forehead, but he swatted your hand away.

“I’m fine, but Ro is on bed rest for the time being. I’ve been trying to get her to sleep, but Coco is keepin’ her up as usual.”

“I will talk to her,” you said. “Go check on the rest of your patients before Dante passes out from exhaustion.”

“Will do,” he said.

“Hey, where’s Daryl? I didn’t see him when I came in,” you said.

“I think he went out after Carol,” Siddiq said. With a roll of your eyes, you nodded. Of course, he did.

As Siddiq went to go check on the others, you headed into Rosita’s room. “Alright, Ma’am, gimme the kid, I need baby time,” you said, reaching for the little girl. Rosita handed her to you without a question, sinking back into her pillows.

She did look pale and tired and you knew that she knew she should be resting. However, she was trying to be supermom. You respected that, but you also needed your friend to sleep. Sitting down in the armchair by the bed, you held Coco close to your chest, gently rubbing her back.

“Find him?” Rosita asked.

“Not yet,” you whispered, resting your eyes. “I did run into Enid, though.”

“Is she doing any better than Siddiq?” she asked.

“Not really,” you said. “She’s having nightmares.”

“So is he,” Rosita sighed. “I’m worried about him.”

“I know, I am too,” you said. Siddiq was always the voice of reason. He reminded you a lot of Herschel. It was no wonder that Carl saw the kindness in him as soon as he met him.

“(Y/N), about Negan,” Rosita began, but you shook your head.

“I can’t right now,” you said. “People have been giving their opinion on him since we got home from the fair and even more so now that he’s gone. I just need to sit here and hold your girl so you can get better. Please.”

“Okay,” Rosita whispered, curling into her side so she always had eyes on Coco.

“Rest, mama,” you said. “You need it and I got her.”

“Thanks,” Rosita whispered as her eyes fell closed.

“Any time, Ro,” you said as he pressed a kiss to Coco’s forehead and settled into the chair, propping your feet up on the bed. It didn’t take long for you to relax and for the little Espinosa to fall asleep. As you set there, you focused on the small breaths of the baby and wished for a miracle.

---------

From gravedigger to pig hunter, Negan was not having a good day.

He was especially missing you and following the skins around all day was starting to give him a headache. The only thing that was keeping him going was a trinket that was tucked into his pocket. It was something he had taken from your house the last time he had been there. It was a small marble that you kept on the mantle of your fireplace. You had told him that you had found it the first time you visited the Kingdom. It was black and white which reminded him of you and him.

He wondered if you had even noticed it was missing. Though, he figured that you were beyond pissed right now and a missing marble wouldn’t exactly mean much. Rubbing his thumb over the smooth token, he continued to follow the asshole in front of him.

He and Beta were butting heads at every chance they got. He knew that the bastard didn’t like him, but he didn’t really give a shit. He wasn’t there to make friends with him. He just wanted the damn Alpha. However, that was proving to be a bit of a problem.

Beta was testing him and he hated every second of it. Beta, however, seemed to be enjoying himself as he tortured, tested, and talked down to Negan. The latter had been around assholes his entire life and while Beta was a dick, when it came to being scary, he didn’t even touch Rick Grimes. Although, at least Rick would actually talk to him.

“I just don’t see the point in all of this,” Negan said as Beta led him through the dark woods. Beta just continued to ignore him. Negan had been playing Whisperer custodian all day and he was tired of it. Now, Beta had him wandering through the dark for some reason and Negan was already annoyed.

“Clearly,” Negan continued, “we are not jivin'. And, you know, to be honest with you, I totally understand the position you're in. You gotta be, like, the tough guy and keep everybody in line. I mean, hell, you know, I had guys just like you to keep my shit tight. Alright, maybe not just like you.”

Beta’s jaw clenched, but Negan went on. “Uh, hell, if I had some monster your size, things would've turned out different. For one, I wouldn’t be lacking as much Vitamin D.” Beta didn’t get the joke. “Look, whether you like me or not, I will be joinin' this team, so maybe we should find a way to get along, you know, and stop pissin' on each other's boots.”

“You will never be one of us,” Beta sneered, getting into Negan’s face. “You’re too loud, too weak, too full of ego.”

“Some people like my damn ego,” Negan offered.

“You are a waste, and Alpha will see it.”

“So, cards on the table, then? Cool. I dig that. See, I'm not here for you. I am here for Alpha. So, you go ahead, and you throw your little tests at me and you scowl and throw me on the ground like a five-and-dime Frankenstein. I don't give a shit,” Negan shot back. “See, big man, I ain't goin' anywhere.” Beta stopped walking and properly faced his antagonizer.

“Finally, something we can both agree on. You won't be going anywhere,” Beta said as the growls of Walkers echoed around them. The Dead stumbled towards them and Negan, who was weaponless, only got more pissed.

“Wait a minute. Did you just make a Goddamn joke? I would be impressed if I wasn't so pissed off right now,” he said. Beta then shoved him back towards the Walkers as he faded into the shadows, leaving Negan to the Dead. With a grunt, Negan turned to face his rotting enemies. “Oh, you have got to be shittin' me.”

------

Negan was covered in blood and the smell of rotting flesh, but he was alive.

And he was pissed.

Negan had fought for years. He knew how to kill in all sorts of ways and he knew how to kill Walkers. However, being thrown into that small herd with nothing but his bare fists had nearly killed him. The only thing that kept him going was you.

He thought back to the training sessions, you, Lydia, and he had done in the living room of your home. The hand-to-hand and weapons training was important, but then there was what Lydia had brought to the table. The number one thing that her mother had taught her was how to improvise in a dire situation. Anything could be a weapon and only you were the one capable of getting yourself away from death.

Negan had ducked and pushed his way through the Walkers, dodging their teeth and hands the best he could. When he spotted the fallen branch on the ground, he had laughed and picked it up. It wasn’t Lucille, but it would do. As he faced down the Walkers in front of him, he grinned.

“Lydia, give me strength,” he whispered as he swung.

Now, as every Walker was in pieces and he was drenched in blood, he strutted back into camp. Just as Beta was explaining to Alpha that Negan was dead, he made his appearance.

“I'm ready for my Goddamn skin suit!” he announced as he walked between Whisperers, the branch on his shoulder. “You best bring that extra-long tape measure on account of my humongous balls.” He spotted Alpha immediately. She was looking at him with curiosity and as much as he hated to admit it, Lydia had had that same look when she first met him.

Approaching the Alpha, he dropped the makeshift weapon and dropped to his knee in front of her. Alpha looked at him as if he was prey, but he didn’t back down.

“Hi, I'm Negan,” he said with a cocky grin. “We haven't formally met, but I sure as hell know who you are. And whether my reputation precedes me or not, I'm all in.” Alpha reached out and pulled a piece of flesh off his shoulder. “Whatever you want, whatever I got, it's yours.”

Alpha leaned forward then and placed a finger on her lips. “Shh,” she said and Negan just grinned back, knowing he had cast the line, all she had to do was bite.

TAGS: @lucillethings @cameronsails @stark-dreams @amaroho @thanossexual @yes-sir-hotchner @boom-bunny @delusionalteenagewhispers @scootankle @ritajammer21 @writteriguess @tea-atfive @jennydehavilland @waspyyy @yespleasejayhalstead @hoemadegrace @writingdeadangel @huffledor-able541 @pulplorrd @felicisimor

#the walking dead #twd #twd imagines #negan x you #negan x reader #negan x y/n #twd fanfic #walkerwords #savior sessions #the walking dead fanfiction #Negan

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xpao-bearx · 4 years ago

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《Original post here》

Part 2 HERE

SUMMARY: [Supernatural TWD AU] In which Negan is a kinky incubus, Rick Grimes is your secret guardian angel, and Daryl Dixon is a gruff monster/demon hunter. Three drastically different men who can only agree on one thing: making you theirs.

PAIRINGS: Reader x Negan, Reader x Rick Grimes, Reader x Daryl Dixon (Polyamorous Ships)

RATING: Mature/18+/Romance & Smut. Please be prepared and do NOT report.

NOTE: This is actually my first time ever writing an xReader story series as well as writing on Tumblr (I usually only write on Wattpad). As such, it probs won't be perfect though I would SERIOUSLY appreciate your *respectful* feedback and support!

I understand writing xReader content can get a lil tricky, so please just keep in mind that not everything Y/N says or does would be something that you'd do IRL or even approve of. Also, sometimes I may not help but put a teeny bit of myself in Y/N...

Lastly, I recently got back into the TWD fandom after a looong ass time and I'm taking a while re-watching the whole show. So I apologize in advance if my portrayal of any of the characters are rusty or I may not remember too much of the events from the show, but I promise to do my very best and hope y'all enjoy~!! \(^o^)/

DEDICATED TO: The wonderful @blccdyknuckles and @negans-attagirl 💖

"Heavenly Sins"

Part 1

The sounds of laughter and easygoing chatter filled your ears as you walked closer to the church, a light breeze blowing through your F/C floral dress and the sun blinding your eyes. It was Sunday, most residents of the small town of Alexandria having gathered for mass.

It was a day like any other; peaceful and happy, children giggling and chasing each other around as their parents socialized outside before church could start.

Your heels clacking rhythmically on the pavement, you were just about to enter the building before a familiar voice called out.

"Y/N!"

Spinning, a huge smile instantly reached your ears as you saw none other than Carl Grimes waving enthusiastically at you as he jumped out of a car. From the driver's seat, his father soon followed as he stepped out.

Rick Grimes--dedicated sheriff of this fine town. His usual uniform forgone, instead replaced with a casual navy coloured suit. His baby blues met your E/C, flashing you a bright smile of his own that rivalled the sun itself.

Carl was running towards you now, and once in front he gave you a big hug.

"Settle down, cowboy! It's as if you haven't seen me in forever." You chuckled, ruffling Carl's hair affectionately.

"That's 'cause it did feel like forever." Carl pouted, eventually letting go as he looked up at you.

Before you can reply, Rick patted Carl's head and greeted you. "Hey, Y/N. How are things?" He asked in that endearing Southern accent of his.

"Just fine." You nodded, grinning before you couldn't help but let your gaze wander around a bit. "No Judith?"

It was then that Rick's smile faltered, but just barely. You nearly didn't catch it. "No. She's with her mom."

Rick was divorced from his ex-wife, Lori, after he discovered her cheating on him with his also now ex-bestfriend Shane Walsh. After the divorce, Shane and Lori quickly moved to the neighbouring community of Woodbury together and agreed on joint custody of the kids.

It really made your blood boil; you've interacted with Lori only a few times before so you didn't really have much of an opinion on her...that is, until, you learned what had happened between her and Rick. You knew it wasn't any of your business, but you cared about Rick a lot and he sure as hell didn't deserve to get cheated on.

"Oh." Was all you could say, quite stupidly. Your cheeks reddened, mentally slapping yourself before clearing your throat. "Will I see her in the daycare tomorrow, though?" You were a daycare teacher and even though you loved all of the kids, Judith was your favourite. She was simply such a sweetheart.

Rick nodded, his smile softening. "You got it."

You couldn't continue the conversation as the bells rang, making you jump out of your skin. Carl, noticing this, laughed which made you playfully roll your eyes before slinging an arm around him as all of you went inside.

♡♡♡

You took your place near the back of the church with Carl and Rick. Once everyone was settled and done singing, the service began and Father Gabriel stood on top of the podium. A few minutes into his sermon, the interruption of a motorcycle revving loudly outside sliced through the air. Gabriel flinched in surprise, and it was obvious he was desperately trying to keep his cool. Finally, when it was silent again, you found yourself biting back a smile knowing all too well who had caused the ruckus.

It seems Rick knew, too, judging from how his jaw clenched and his hands turned into tight fists.

The doors were thrown open, making Gabriel flinch once more and some of the congregation turning in the pews to look. But poor Gabriel quickly fumbled with his Bible, raising his voice just a tad to regain their attention.

There was a low whistle accompanying the approaching footsteps, but the congregation did their damn hardest to ignore the latest visitor.

"Damn... I assumed the church would be a lot more welcoming than this." A husky voice whispered, and you at last couldn't hold back as a smile broke through.

"Negan." You whispered back, turning slightly in your seat to see he has taken the spot behind you. His leather clad arms lackadaisically resting on your chair, the musky scent of his cologne invading your senses oh so wonderfully. "Fancy seeing you here."

"What? Is it really that surprising, darlin'?" He grinned, presenting a row of perfectly straight white teeth. "I go to church."

"Not all the time." You pointed out.

"Ah..." He chuckled softly, hazel eyes twinkling. "That's 'cause Father Creepy McGee over there is just that. Creepy. As. Shit."

You bit the inside of your cheeks, suppressing your laughter. True, Gabriel did have his moments, but he wasn't that bad. That didn't change the fact that Negan knew exactly how to tickle your funny bone, though.

He was new to Alexandria. It was a lovely town, but since it was relatively small not a lot of people want to move here not unless it was families looking for their children to grow up in a safe environment. Which was why it was quite a shock to find out that a single man like Negan chose this destination, and even more so when he took everyone aback with his infamous pottymouth and rather inappropriate charisma.

He had moved just a couple of houses down from yours, and you made it your mission to befriend him. Right from the get-go, he had piqued your interest and curiousity. He was different from everyone else--even possessing an air of mystery about him--and that definitely intrigued you. And also, perhaps you were just too nice and didn't want him to feel outcasted. Although, that didn't seem like an issue to him at all.

"Want one?" You were brought back to reality when you saw Negan's hand outstretched with a pack of cigarettes.

"Dude, we're in church." You reprimanded, frowning.

Negan didn't say anything, only cocking a brow and still with that same shit-eating grin. You sighed, finally giving in as you swiftly grabbed one and stashed it away in your purse for later.

"Y/N." You turned to the left, Rick's icy gaze piercing you. "Pay attention."

"R-Right. Sorry..." You mumbled sheepishly.

Carl, who was sitting in the middle of you and Rick, had dozed off. Rick nudged him, but the brunette only groaned softly and snuggled into Rick's chest. Defeated, the sheriff sighed and was just about to listen again to Gabriel before Negan cut in.

"Rick!" Negan purposely raised his voice, knowing it would get a rise out of the other man. "Didn't even see ya there. Howdy, cowboy!"

Rick grimaced, and it looked like he was just going to ignore Negan though he knew that if he did that then Negan would just irritate him even further. "Good to see you, Negan." He forced himself to say.

"Only you can say that while giving me such a deadly side eye, Grimes." Negan snickered. "How have you been? How's the wife?"

Rick flushed, his fists in a tight ball again and it looked like his nails would be digging into his skin. You abruptly swung into action, placing a hand on Rick's own.

"Rick..." You said gently. "It's okay. Calm down."

Rick did, his shoulders drooping as if a heavy weight had been lifted. He can barely pay any attention to Gabriel now, then you suddenly stood up and grabbed Negan's arm.

"We need to talk. Now."

"What, we going for a quickie?" Negan smirked, but that soon faded when he saw your serious expression. He sighed dramatically, reaching his full height as he towered over you before following you out.

At this point, you didn't care if people saw what transpired or would even start gossiping. No one, not even Negan, was allowed to harass Rick. He has helped you through so much shit--more than you'd like to admit--and you at least owed him this much.

Once outside, next to where Negan parked his motorcycle, you exploded. "What the fuck is with you?! You leave Rick alone, or I swear to fucking Christ I will--"

"Woah, woah, woah! Hold your horses, missy!" Negan guffawed, his hands up in mock surrender. "I mean, I like 'em feisty, but goddamn! Watch your fucking language."

"Tch. You're one to talk."

"Did you just scoff at me?" He raised his brows, putting his hands in his pockets as he slowly drew closer to you. A devilish grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, tilting his head slightly. "No one's ever fucking scoffed at me and didn't regret it soon after."

You frowned, letting out a huff as you met his gaze challengingly. "As if you'd do anything to me."

He was silent for several moments before chuckling, leaning back against his motorcycle. "You're right. I have too much of a soft spot for ya." He pulled out a cigarette, lighting it then taking a drag. He drew his head upwards, puffing out the smoke. "Whaddya say we just forgive and forget? I truly am sorry. You can even tell Rick that I am metaphorically down on my goddamn knees begging for forgiveness~"

"I'm not forgiving or forgetting anything until you actually face Rick and apologize yourself." You muttered. And without another word, you spun on your heel and strutted back inside the church with your head held high.

Negan's intent stare lingered where your ass had just been, taking another long drag and letting out a small laugh to himself.

His eyes suddenly glowed a crimson red, a smirk playing on his lips.

Oh, he really did pick a GREAT one.

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schleierkauz · 4 years ago

Text

Q&A Highlights

Ok so bad news first: My questions were ignored. Cornelia did not clarify any of our death-related theories. Maybe next time.

There was A Lot of other stuff, though so... Enjoy!

- The stream starts with everyone wishing us a happy women’s day! Usually women in Erfurt (where the bookstore people are) get flowers but not today because... you know. Cornelia says America is starting to go back to normal, meanwhile Germany... :| Anyway. Don’t look over here.

- Cornelia says she probably won’t get the vaccine anytime soon because she’s just chilling on her farm anyway and people who have to be out in public/are vulnerable should get it first

- Question: When will Cornelia visit Germany again? In response to this, she gives us some exclusive news, not official yet, heard it here first: She’s gonna move to Italy! Apparently she bought an olive farm there which is cheaper, better for the environment (her current farm will be sold to some people who want to turn it into an organic farm) and obviously closer to Germany so she’ll be here more often. :)

- The 4th Reckless book will be released in English at some point this autumn

- There’s no definite release date for TCoR because she’s busy with Dragonrider but she hopes she’ll have finished writing it by the end of this year

- If she’s still alive after all that to work on Reckless 5, it’ll be the last book of the series... probably. She’s also working on a bunch of smaller projects with her artists in residence

- Question: What are Cornelia’s favorite stories by Jane Austen, the Brontë sister and Shakespeare? She’s not a huge fan of Austen or Brontë because she finds all those repressed emotions too exhausting to read about. With Shakespeare on the other hand she struggles to name a favorite because there’s so much greatness to choose from (she does name MacBeth and Romeo and Juliet though)

- The Black Prince’s legacy in the Reckless timeline may play a role in the next Reckless book or it might evolve into a whole other story. Either way, she’s thinking about it 👀

- Someone asks about Reckless characters and Cornelia says that Kami’en and the Dark Fairy felt very familiar to her from the start in that she always knew who they were as people. She’s not sure why that is. She thinks the Dark Fairy represents many aspects of womanhood, like the ancient forgotten Goddess. Same with Fox, who embodies different sides of that.

- If Cornelia had to date a man from the Mirrorworld, Kami’en would interest her

- Rainer Strecker randomly joins the chat to say hi and everyone is delighted

- Cornelia’s favorite book series is still Lord of the Rings

- Question: Why has the Black Prince never found his true love? Cornelia says she’s not sure that’s true - maybe he did found true love at some point and then lost it again? ‘...and they lived happily ever after’ isn’t a guaranteed outcome after all. Since he’s such a passionate man, she’s pretty sure he’s had at least one big lovestory at this point. She hasn’t asked him about that yet but hopes she’ll find out when she continues writing his story.

- Jumping off that question, Cornelia says she respects her characters’ privacy and lets them keep their secrets until the time comes to ask about them, just as she would with real people.

- Someone asks if Cornelia has ever written herself into a story and she says a part of her is in all her characters. Except the villains because she hates them. She feels closest to Fox because she also always wished she could shapeshift

- The bookstore lady jumps in and asks about Meggie, is she similar to how Cornelia was as a child? Cornelia says yes, especially because she also had a very close relationship with her father and they would bond over books. However, she always envisioned Meggie with dark hair and as a different kind of girl than she was. (Ok sidenote from me on that, I wonder what she means by ‘dark hair’? Because Meggie is explicitly blond, so like... dark blond? Or did we just unlock brunette Meggie in 2021? Cornelia-)

- Continuing the conversation, Cornelia says she doesn’t consider herself the creator of any of the characters in her stories, she feels like she met them and wrote about him but she would never say something like ‘I invented Dustfinger’ because that’s absurd. How would that even work. That’s disrespectful. No.

- Some characters pretty much demand to be written about and are very impatient (like Jacob), others are more shy and elusive and take effort to understand (like Will or Dustfinger)

- There probably won’t be another book like The Labyrinth of the Faun because it was created under such unbelievable circumstances. Cornelia does enjoy writing film scripts, though, like she did for the Wild Chicks recently

- Question: How does Cornelia come up with character names? She has a bunch of encyclopedias and when she knows where a story takes place she checks if there are any artists from there whose names she can steal. She always wants names to have meaning and to paint a picture of whatever character it belongs to. However, she says that sometimes the vibe of a name is a tricky thing: When she wrote The Thief Lord (which takes place in Italy), she thought ‘Mosca’ was the perfect name for a big strong boy. However when the time came to translate the story into Italian, the Italians told her that ‘Mosca’ sounds like the name of a tiny little fly. Oh well.

- Cornelia says a lot of readers have written to her about The Thief Lord because at one point Victor (the detective) calls Mosca (who is black) a “Mohrenkopf”. Context: ‘Mohrenkopf’ is a German slur towards black people and also an outdated name for this goddamn marshmallow cookie:

Fuck this cookie.

- Cornelia says yeah, Victor is being racist in that moment but that doesn’t mean that she, the author, is racist. Similarly, she used the term ‘Indians’ in Reckless and a lot of readers were upset which she did not anticipate. To her it’s a positive word since she admires ‘Indians’ so deeply and finds terms like ‘Native/Indigenous Americans’ very complicated. She wonders how much longer she’ll be allowed to say ‘Black Prince’

- She thinks it’s right to be vigilant about bigotry but simply searching for problematic words is dangerous because context matters

- Bookstore lady brings up Pippi Longstocking and how the N-word has been removed from modern copies (think Pippi’s father). She think’s it’s wrong because the original text is part of the cultural heritage and shouldn’t be hidden from children but instead explained.

- Cornelia says that in America she sees the hurt that’s connected to that word but she doesn’t think it’s right to simply remove the slur and expect everything to be fine. After all, the text in which it was used is still the same so any harmful ideas would still be in there and that needs to be discussed. Simply whitewashing things doesn’t make them any less racist.

- Cornelia brings up a visual example: The Asterix comics. She always liked them but the fact that the only black character is drawn as a racist caricature is harmful and wrong. It’s time to listen when black people express how hurtful depictions like that can be. Many white people never noticed racism growing up because it never affected them and that’s why it’s important to learn

- The ‘from rags to riches’ American dream was usually reserved for white people and Cornelia thinks a lot of (white) people are waking up to that fact. The way black people are still being criminalized and the way prisons use inmates for cheap labor is horrible and like a modern kind of slavery

- The bookstore people try to say something but Cornelia is not done: We Europeans are not off the hook either because the sins and wounds of colonialism are still felt around the world, not to mention the way other countries are still exploited today. Our wealth rests on the shoulders of poorer nations. Many doors are opening and it’s difficult to step through but we have to do it and admit to the things we may have been blind to due to privilege.

- The three of them agree on that and go back to reading questions

- Question: What are Cornelia’s tips for young authors? She advises to never start writing a story on a computer, always get a notebook and collect ideas & pictures for your story. Don’t rush things. If you have more than one story, give each story its own book and feed whichever one is hungry. It’s important to follow the idea where it leads, if you use cliches your readers will recognize them. And then it just takes time and passion. And trust in your own unique voice. She paraphrases a quote by Robert Louis Stevenson who once said no one cares about stories or characters or whatever, people read books to see the world through the goggles the author puts on them. I’m sure he said it prettier, I’m paraphrasing the paraphrase.

- That said, Cornelia thinks authors who say things like “I’m writing to express my innermost turbulences” are kinda dumb. She thinks it’s important to write about the things that happen everywhere else and around yourself and to try to find voices for others, not just yourself. Just like how carpenters build furniture for everyone else, a writer should use words to build things for others, whether it’s a window or door or a hiding place.

- Speaking of notebooks, as most of us probably know Cornelia has a lot of those and occasionally publishes them on her website. She says she’d love to let people look through them in person, maybe at the new farm in Germany (Cornelia sure does love farms)

- Speaking of writing things on paper, all three of them stress that everyone should write more letters because one day they’ll be old letters and curious people will want to read them, just as we like to read old documents now.

- Last question: How come both the Inkworld and the Mirrorworld feature a character called Bastard? Cornelia thinks that’s a good question and she should probably think about that. (Am I stupid? Are they talking about Basta? I’m confused)

...And with that, the livestream ends. They’ll get back together to do this again two months from now, until then: I’m going tf to sleep

#its 4am fuck me this took SO LONG-#cornelia funke #info #reckless #inkheart #man this was a long one #a lot to unpack here #thanks cornelia i have more questions now hdfhkjghd #i googled way more slurs than i had planned for today ngl #i really really hope i managed to accurately translate especially that part of the conversation #honestly i cringed a bit hearing them talk about it #but it is an important discussion i suppose #also @ the people who actually read my tags:#thank you for the good luck wishes for my interview today!! it went really well!#i was vibrating the entire time bc its been so long since i talked to a stranger #but i got the job :) so all is well

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the-darklings · 5 years ago

Text

—𝒘𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒆;

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

word count: 13.2k+

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

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

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

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

He remembers sunshine.

He remembers the sea breeze.

He remembers laughter. Unsure but carefree; happy.

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

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

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

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

You, in his home.

You, smiling and happy.

You, sleepy and comfortable and open.

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

But on more than just the wine.

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

Oh, but the sight of you.

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

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

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

That would have been the final straw.

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

Because now…

“How long has it been?”

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

“Twenty minutes, sir.”

Sir.

Not boss.

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

Only twenty minutes though.

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

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

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

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

He just needs you to come back out already.

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

Time stretches; slow and sluggish.

Twenty minutes become forty and then fifty.

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

The ground beneath his feet trembles.

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

Underground.

The tunnels.

Explosions.

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

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

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

No.

You dream of sunshine.

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

But it doesn’t hurt.

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

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

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

“Why are you crying, viper?”

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

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

“There is no shame in being alone.”

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

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

A weak breath escapes you.

Why is it so hard to breathe?

“To you.”

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

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

and

then

you

fall.

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

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

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

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

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

Fingers suddenly latch onto your own and you jolt.

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

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

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

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

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

The tunnels.

The Lovers.

The male—Lucien—setting the explosions off.

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

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

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

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

You understand the addition for what it is.

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

“The Lovers?”

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

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

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

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

Your heart squeezes.

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

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

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

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

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

“How?” comes your fragile whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps we are all more than that.

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

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

The world slips into a comfortable, infinite dark again.

When you awake next, Ares is gone.

But someone else is beside you.

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

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

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

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

I have never seen him look so afraid before.

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

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

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

“Hey, grumpy.”

His breath hitches slightly before he relaxes his shoulders.

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

Your fingers settle on top of his.

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

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

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

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

“How did they get away?”

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

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

“I—”

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

His mother.

His mother all over again.

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

You remember every word of his story.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sure.”

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

“What is it?”

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

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

Right up until that moment, you never have.

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

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

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

He blinks, caught off guard.

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

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

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

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

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

Because it’s true.

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

But that’s not the reality you live in.

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

And what you feel for Santino—

You’re not sure when you fade away again.

The next four days are a slog.

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

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

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

It makes you feel antsy but you rest.

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

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

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

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

You can still hear it in your dreams though.

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

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

But there is something else.

A shift.

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

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

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

But not this time.

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

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

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

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

You can’t—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s going on, Santi?”

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

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

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

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

“Promise?”

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

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

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

Both presents from you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The doorbell rings just after 1am.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“John.”

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

That focused calm almost reminds him—

Of you.

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

“Santino.”

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

She’s a friend.

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

“May I come in?”

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

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

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

“Grazie.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hunted, hurt. All because of him.

“No, (Name) is fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have a very happy life, John.”

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

“Thank you.”

Another pause follows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it also only confirms what John has been dreading.

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

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

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

John stares at him, his eyebrows furrowing.

“What?”

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

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

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

But the fierceness in his eyes…

Since when does Santino D’Antonio care—

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

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

But Santino’s words are sinking in and—

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

“No, but this is.”

The Marker slides closer towards him.

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

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

“Take it back.”

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

“Take it back?” he repeats sharply.

A slight nod. “Take it back.”

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

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

He knows. He knows this but—

“Find someone else.”

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

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

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

John exhales, his head dipping downwards.

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

How much has changed between you and Santino?

Are you—

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

Helen.

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

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

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

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

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

Helen wants him to find happiness again.

So even if it’s you.

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

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

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

John stares at it.

I’m respecting your decision to stay retired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he turns and walks away without a backwards glance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The world around him promptly explodes into flames.

“Charon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lucky.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

No answer.

And then—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cool metal settles inside your palm, your body rigid.

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

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

No paralysers. Not with the Lovers still around.

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

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

“What are you doing here Hector?”

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

“Sightseeing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyebrows lift, and you regard him coolly.

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

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

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

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

“Don’t tell Hector.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fucking nerve of this prick.

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

Hector watches the little show, a shade amused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Assuming you could.”

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

“You would be dead before you reached me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which makes you wonder only one thing.

“Are you here to kill me, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That gives you a pause.

“Handling what better?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You force breath into your lungs. Slow and steady.

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

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

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

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

“V, wait!”

“Don’t.”

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

“He did it for you.”

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

“For me? For me?”

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

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

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

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

He did it to keep you safe.

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

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

You brush past them both without a word.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did you do?”

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

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

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

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

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

Now it’s ash.

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

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

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

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

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

Ever the businessman. Ever the need for more control.

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

“You think this is about power.”

“Isn’t everything with you?”

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

But those words hit something deep, you can tell.

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

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

You stare at him blankly, uncomprehending.

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

“No,” you choke out.

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

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

For a very long time, you did.

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

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

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

Six hours.

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

All those days of pain and torture and—

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

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

You stare at his tie, confused and speechless.

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

Because he’s important to you.

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

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

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

Your eyes find his and you search his expression for—

You’re not sure what, exactly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or—

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

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

You jerk away from his touch.

“She’s your sister!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiles at you; an empty, distant thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes burn as you stare at each other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then we’re done here.”

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

His stare is frantic, desolate.

“Amore—”

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

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

I will never abandon you.

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

There is nothing left to say.

. . .

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

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

see you next time!!

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

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d-n-battle · 4 years ago

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You know... it’s not so much that I hate Naruhina and Sasusaku...

It’s more like I just really don’t get how anyone can really like these pairings?? Like I really just don’t understand the appeal???

Like did I really watch the same series as all you Naruhina and Sasusaku shippers????

Y’all: aaawww look at all of these Naruto and Hinata scenes, he clearly loves her sooo much <3 <3 <3🥰😍😌

Me: bitch where????😂😂😂

(Literally, I could make the exact same joke about Sasusaku)

Like, is it just me, or are these two ships literally just about the girls’ feelings???

I mean I’d be totally fine with these two couples, if they didn’t put this emphasis on the girls, and completely ignore the guys...

I mean ok - serious time now - can the Sasusaku shippers and Naruhina shippers show me any evidence from the anime (or manga if you’re a reader) of Naruto and Sasuke returning Hinata and Sakura’s feelings respectively???

Again, I want to reiterate that this is a genuine request, I’m not trying to poke fun with this one. I’m just genuinely curious as to what you guys can dig up. (But also, side note - please refrain from using the films or Boruto as I haven’t watched them yet. I honestly don’t think I’m even gonna watch Boruto, cause I’m not a big fan of like spin off series, so yeah...But anything from the 720 anime episodes, or any of the manga chapters is fine.)

Anyway, back to my point.

Relationships are about two or more people coming together because they recognise that they have romantic feelings towards each other.

Which is exactly why I, like I’ve said already, don’t understand how Naruhina and Sasusaku are supposed to work???

Like yeah, Sakura and Hinata both like/love Sasuke and Naruto.

But when have Sasuka and Naruto expressed that they like them back in that way???

I mean as a whole the show was never even about romance, sure there were hints at possible relationships throughout, but that was never the point of the show.

I mean I feel like this all harkens back to some points I’ve already seen made by other people, but like why is romance necessary in this situation???

.....siiiiiigh.....😒

Because what else are female characters for??? If not to fawn over the male character then really what are they for??? I mean it’s not like they’re meant to represent real life people just like the male characters right??? It’s not like they’re meant to actually have well fleshed out characters with goals that don’t revolve around getting the guy of their dreams to notice them right??? Nooo, of course not, don’t be ridiculous....

I am seriously just soooo done with this bullshit. Like I’ll be the first to admit that Hinata and Sakura are not my favourite characters, but I mean it’s not like that’s really their fault now is it??? I mean they honestly both had a lot of potential. Like, seriously, soooooo much potential. I’m being completely honest here, I was well and truly so disappointed by how these two girls’ character potential was squandered 😔😔😔

And all for the sake of fullfilling their ‘true’ purpose in the show....

And don’t even try to give me the excuse that because Naruto is a shounen anime aimed at a primarily male audience, female characters can’t be feutured as anything besides the love interst. Like what kind of shit is that - so guys can’t even enjoy female characters unless they’re lusting after the male characters they like to insert themselves into???? I mean if you really think that then you must really hate guys.

Like I’m sorry but that just makes men sound like shit. It makes them sound like they only view women as people who belong to them, and are only relevant when it comes to how they are connected to men.

Women are their own goddamm people!!! They don’t exist solely to appease men!!!

As I woman, I have had to put up with this shit for years, and I am so done with it. If guys get to have characters that represent them in almost every piece of media out there, then why don’t women get to have the same treatment??? We make up a whole half of the entire goddamn population!!!

Honeslty, a bitch is soooooo mad about this 😡😡😡(thag bitch being me of course)

And what I’m also super mad about is that these two relationships imply that the guys feelings are completely irrelevant. Like I’m sorry but no amount of Sakura liking/loving Sasuke makes it okay for her to end up with him - if he doesn’t feel anywhere near the same amount of love or appreciation for her. And the same can be applied to Hinata and Naruto.

This outcome also forces everyone to just completely ignore/forget the fact that Naruto and Sasuke are completely unready to be in a relationship with anyone.

Like, yeah I’m gonna admit here that I am indeed a Narusasu shipper, but I’ll also admit that I dead ass don’t think they’d even be ready for a relationship with each other.

I mean the war and everything else just completely messed them both up, so they would both probably need some time to heal. And knowing those two, it would most likely take quite a while before they’re anywhere near healed enough to date - let alone fucking marry - anyone.

And, also (so that I’m not accused of favouritism towards the boys) - what about Sakura and Himata and the shit that they themselves experienced??? I mean Hinata had to watch her cousin die in front of her - that’s gotta mess you up. And Sakura was a medic - there’s no imagining the shit she must have seen.

War messes people up for a long time, and bassed off of what I’ve heard of Boruto - the timeline implies that these two couples got married and had kids pretty soon after the war.

That. Does. Not. Add. Up. Sis!!!!!

Honestly, the series should have just had what I like to call an ‘open ending’. This is where pretty much everything is left (you guessed it) out in the open. By everything I mean like the final relationships and stuff like the minutiae of the story. Unless, your story is a romance story in which case the romance is the most important thing, but as we’ve established- this is not the case with Naruto.

If you don’t explicitly state that characters X and Y are married with 2.5 kids, everyone who would dislike that as an outcome is free to think that they didn’t.

Like seriously, the whole point of using the line “and they lived happily ever after”, is so that you can leave the ending open to the interpretation of the audience. That’s why I’ve never liked being told how they lived happily ever after.

Because, ultimately everyone has different ideas of what happy looks like.

Some people want to get married because that’s what would make them happy, and for some marriage would achieve the opposite. It’s the same case with having children. Or what job you wanna have.

I mean really, there is soooo many different ideas of what happy looks like.

So why limit yourself and more importantly your audience/readers????

I mean think about it like this. The purpose of a main character is basically to give us a point of view of the story through which we can be influenced. That’s why a lot of the time they don’t really have distinct personality traits - so that the reader can project their own onto them. That way the reader/audience member is able to immerse themselves in the story. We are allowed to image that the main character is us. That’s why we get angry when they do something we don’t like, our first thought is - “well, I wouldn’t have done that...”. So image how disconnected you would feel, from a character who makes a big decision that you don’t agree with. Like say, getting married, when you yourself can’t imagine yourself getting married??? Or say, getting married to someone who you yourself wouldn’t want to get married to???

I think that’s the real issues in case of Naruhina and Sasusake. The majority of us - who are clearly of sound minds - would not want to marry Hinata, Sakura, or even Naruto and Sasuke. Most likely because their characters often times feel like caricatures of people, instead of real life people. They feel somehow unfinished, and so we have a harder time seing the bigger picture, and how these big decisions they have made are supposed to make sense.

Okay, I feel like I’ve rambled enough. I leave you with this -

I don’t mean to offend anyone with this post, and so I hope I haven’t/didn’t/won’t. I’m truly just stating my opinion here. If you don’t agree with anything I’ve said here, please do let me know; I’ll always appreciate constructive criticism.

I will always love Naruto. But in order to truly love something you have to also recognise it as flawed. And this was simply me pointing out some of the things which I perceive as flaws of the show/manga.

Please, don’t think of this post, or any others which I might make in the future, as hate posts. As I’ve said, I do love the show/manga - but that doesn’t make me unwilling to crique it.

Alrighty, this is where I actually end the rant.

Thanks for coming y’all,

Love,

Danny

#boy this took a while #almost as long as it’s taking me to re-watch Naruto #this really isn’t an anti post #please dont hate me #sasusaku #naruhina #sasunarusasu #I really do love this show ya know???

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cherrycoveredpythia · 5 years ago

Text

Extended thoughts on Brave the Tempest

2017’s Ride the Storm closed out the four-book arc that also included Hunt the Moon, Tempt the Stars, and Reap the Wind. In these books, Cassie battled Ares and his minions while drawing closer to Pritkin and eventually hunting him through time and space. She learns more about her abilities while trying to save his life, and also becomes a reluctant power player in supernatural (and inter-dimensional) politics. Without her faithful companion by her side, she becomes more confident in her own powers and resourcefulness. Of course, she’s still Cassie, so all her discoveries and victories are slapdash and hard-won. But they are still victories. She’s a daughter of Chaos, give her a break.

Brave the Tempest focuses on Cassie’s political duties and her complicated feelings about being a leader and a “hero”. She’s now slain two gods (with help), but that doesn’t result in easy respect from the witches or the vampires. The witches see her as a tool of the Silver Circle, while the vampires see her as an extension of Mircea. They are all so wrong.

Cassie has to demonstrate her full strength to convince these factions to cooperate with her. It works, but nothing is ever simple. In the long run, who will love her and who will fear her?

She’s becoming more like her mother every day.

Overall feelings

There are some amazing, joyful moments here. Please understand that I adore these books and characters, so I say this with love…

… but the book felt disjointed to me. We buzz back and forth from the witches to the vampires to the demons, and then go to Faerie and Victorian England. We get emotional scenes with Mircea, Pritkin, Marco, Rhea, and Rico. Augustine brings home a kidnapped fae. Tami needs to hire some staff but no one will take the job. Fred is a spy. Cassie is exhausted. I felt kind of exhausted too.

Important plotlines: Cassie’s growing pains with her powers, the political trouble with the witches and vampires, and the imminent invasion of Faerie. And then there was the timeline rupture. The rupture was terrifying and the fight with Jo in Victorian London was a full-on horror show. Cassie learned more about Pythian spells and then linked up her powers with Pritkin through the Lover’s Knot spell. She’ll probably need these tools for the coming showdown. She and Pritkin are even more powerful together than they are apart. And they are both forces for good. But will everyone see them that way?

I think Karen is just laying out all the pieces for the next arc. It’s a little messy right now, but it will all fit together soon. I’m glad that Shatter the Earth is coming in December. If I had to wait another two years for the next book, I would be upset.

Favorite moments

Pritkin flirting and Cassie retaliating during S’mores night. Especially the marshmallow at the end. Goddamn.

The Dickening.

Everything related to Saffy and Vi, and seeing Saffy and Rhea becoming friends. I think she is a great influence on Rhea.

Pritkin and Cassie’s meeting with Adra. I high-key love Adra. He’s a really interesting foil for Caedmon, who leads their alliance with the “heavenly” planes. Caedmon is manic and charming, while Adra is pleasant and even-keeled. Except when he forgets to animate his glamourie. I reallllllly want to know what Adra looks like under there, but I figure he’s a Lovecraftian monster that would drive us insane.

Adra shading Pritkin for never attending demon council meetings like other “heirs apparent.”

Cassie nonchalantly offering to bring Adra to the vampire council.

Gertie nonchalantly easing Pritkin out of the room and shifting him to the depot.

Cassie borrowing Pritkin’s powers to suck the energy out of Jo.

Big events and revelations

Pritkin is not shy and neither is Cassie. I thought we would get some pussy-footing about their relationship, but we DID NOT. Pritkin came on strong and Cassie reciprocated. I wish I had a chance to read Siren’s Song first. They had some time to let the tension build and I *do* love a slow burn… torture me, baby!

Ancient Horrors! Children of Tiamat/Tethys! Pritkin is 1/16th divine! Kind of a watered-down Ancient Horror, if you will. Minus the tentacles.

Lover’s Knot

Fucking Jonathan

Invasion of Faerie needs to happen ASAP

Jo is more dangerous as a ghost because ghosts can absorb infinite power. (Can we turn Billy Joe into a super soldier???)

MIRCEA THE BOLD!

Cassie agreed to go find Elena because she’s afraid that Mircea will do it himself. And she doesn’t want to kill him.

Fred is a spy working for MARLOWE! And I guess his master power is camouflaging his aura.

Rico is from Napoli (this explains a lot, because I was confused when he said putanas instead of putane. Dialect!)

NEW PYTHIAN SPELLS: Shards and Chimera!

Young Agnes is a real bitch.

The pros

I said this in a separate post, but I’ll say it here too. Cassie and Pritkin are back together and their relationship is so healthy and mutually supportive that it makes my heart ache. This is real #relationshipgoals. They are confidants and protectors and cheerleaders for each other. They don’t keep secrets or manipulate or gaslight. We need more of this sci-fi/fantasy and romance. There are too many dark, brooding male love interests who are borderline abusive. (Ahem, Mircea.)

MORE LGBT REPRESENTATION!

The emergence of Mircea the Bold. I like Mircea as a character, but not as a love interest for Cassie. I’m happy to see him going through this transformation. He’s becoming more open and genuine. He’s not going to win Cassie’s affections, but I do think that he’s going to redeem himself in Dory’s eyes.

GERTIE IS BACK! And *not* as a roadblock. She’s a powerful woman who helps other women, and I am all. about. that. mood.

The cons

TOO. MUCH. RECAP. Especially recap that broke up highly emotional moments. I don’t care if you are trying to explain things for new readers. Fuck ‘em. Anyone who buys a book, discovers it is part 1000 of an ongoing series, and tries to read it anyways… is a psychopath.

Too many plot-lines

I miss Rosier.

We all knew that something was up with Fred, but I don’t think that his revelation as a spy got as much weight and screen-time as it deserved.

I feel like the “wrap-up” with Jonathan felt rushed. He’s supposed to be terrifying but I’m like “meh, whatever, Jonathan, small fry compared to Apollo and Ares.” But I think she’ll get back to it in greater depth in the next book, so I can deal.

Can we PLEASE have some consistency about Agnes’s age? We see her as a teenager in late 19th-century London, for god’s sake. She must have been *at least* 130 years old when she died, and that’s being charitable. Previously, Cassie has said that Agnes was about 80. Lies.

The questions

1. My BIGGEST question. Cassie is changing. Not just maturing, but changing on a metaphysical level. The coldness, the hunger… I’m frightened for her. It’s not withdrawal from the Tears of Apollo and it’s not normal exhaustion. I have some theories.

Her divine side is becoming stronger and she’s beginning to require life energy in the same way that her human side needs food, water, and sleep. Why is this happening now? Maybe the Tears of Apollo are part of the equation, albeit indirectly. She’s been using more and more Pythian power thanks to the potion, and perhaps that has awakened her divine side more strongly. This is a little worrisome because she may have to feed on a regular basis to stay functional. Can she get all the energy she needs from incubus sex or from the Lover’s Knot? What are the moral considerations here?

Less likely, but she might really be pregnant. I’m not a huge fan of this idea, but Rosier does mention in Reap the Wind or Ride the Storm that the incubus-child feeds on the life energy of the mother as it grows. That’s why his attempts at procreation failed until he impregnated Morgaine, who was part royal fae and part divine. If this is the case, Cassie might be having life-energy cravings instead of food cravings. Or maybe this is the divine/demon/fey version of morning sickness? Pritkin, please start using birth control.

2. What happened with Pritkin in Siren’s Song? Does Jonas know his true identity now?

3. So who is Pritkin’s divine great-great grandmother? Any speculation?

4. Cassie begins to wonder if any of the gods might be open to diplomacy. This must go somewhere. And it’s true, there are a number of gods in the pantheon who are traditionally friendlier towards humans than others. Athena is the first that comes to mind. There’s also the mythic trope of the Trickster/Fire-Bringer who helps humanity: Prometheus, Anansi, etc. And there’s Loki, who doesn’t so much love humans as he loves to trouble the other gods.

MVPs

Ok, Cassie is the real MVP, as always. But barring her, I’m awarding this prize to the no-nonsense, sisterly duo of our hearts: Gertie and Hilde. They are officious and annoying, but that’s because they tell you what you don’t want to hear, and they are RIGHT. They are so right.

#btt spoilers #brave the tempest #my disorganized thoughts #please feel free to disagree and discuss #cassie palmer #karen chance

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tarithenurse · 6 years ago

Text

On my mind, in my soul - 12

Prompt: Anon was kind with “Highway to Hell” by AC/DC (shown in blockquotes as usual), Asgard, the throne. Pairing: Loki x Burglar!reader. Content: Swearing as usual, references to lemon and sugared lemon (nothing detailed this time), a truckload of feels, and a pinch of...recklesness? A/N: I know my writing is very slow at the moment and you may all blame my BA for that. I hope this chapter ended up as good as I claim and if you do like it PLS reblog <3

Is it madness?

A golden glow manages to worm its way past your heavy eyelids, reminding you of a world outside of the cocoon you’ve snuggled into. A nest of soft sheets and cool limbs, a gentle breath fanning your shoulder in a slow but steady rhythm.

Blinking against the morning sun, you take in the serenity that are the ruins from the night: parts of the pretty dress are scattered in a path to the bed and the golden horns are dangling from the canopy above, gleaming playfully at you until you see the warped reflection of you and Loki who’s practically wrapped around you.

Craning the neck only brings a sliver of the god’s face and pale upper body into view. Time to be sneaky. There’s no way you want to wake him up already. He needs the rest…and honestly, you want this moment to last. All too soon this dream of a morning will be shattered in some nasty way that probably involves guards and a prison cell…if lucky. So you twist slowly, careful not to jostle Loki too much with the series of wriggles it takes before you finally lie chest to chest with him.

If someone would have told you this is where you’d end before you’d stolen the tiger’s eye pendant…the would have sounded like liars. Or at least you’d have made sure to let them know how crazy there were. Crazy indeed. Of course stealing from a god could have consequences! It just wasn’t supposed to have included falling for the freaking guy.

How could you not have? Chiseled features hides one of his best assets: the highly intelligent mind that enjoyes challenging you and holds immense knowledge on any subject you could possibly fathom even a fraction of. Combining that with a personality which you don’t even have the vocabulary to fully describe and a body tha–

“You’re staring, my queen.” Loki’s voice is raw and sweet, still heavy with sleep.

“Still got your eyes closed so how’d y’know?”

When they open, there’s only a tiny hint of crimson at the edges to contrast the turquoise. Perfect and cold like ice to some, it’s hard to understand how warm his gaze is. Loki isn’t one person with neatly defined traits. No. He’s a living, breathing, goddamn paradox.

“My eyes are open now,” he smiles, “and you’re still staring.”

“A cat may look at a king.”

Living easy, living free Season ticket on a one-way ride

Dark brows wrinkle as he ponders the meaning of the idiom, and you can see the moment he realises what it means. “There are some laws here that we will have to abide by.” The smile’s gone, the joy too.

“What’s gonna happen to you?” If you’d wanted to sound brave, well, that’s not what you managed to pull off as the question’s reduced to a meek whisper.

Soft lips seek out your forehead and mouth. It’s not a real answer. Less so the answer you actually want because you can taste the desperation on his tongue as both of you try to commit the other to memory in the hopes of stretching this glorious morning into infinity.

It’s to the sound of the birds and rustle of silk sheets that Loki makes love to you. Sweet and tender. Toe-curling bliss rolling through your body like waves onto a dry beach until the second orgasm pulls the god along in the surf, your name spilling from his lips in a broken whisper.

We belong…

… Loki’s PoV …

He had never intended for things to go the way they did. [Y/N]’s feistiness had drawn him in, her wit and skills had dazzled him…and none of it was enough to explain why Loki had found himself falling for this woman. The many excuses he’d thought up during the long days as he tried to distract himself from her memory were, in the end, bullshit. And the curses he’d been prepared to spit in the woman’s face after yet another lonely night haunted by her scent with nothing but his mind and hands to quench the burning desire? No…Loki’s intellect and foresight had not saved him from this fate.

I love her.

The knowledge isn’t new. He’s known for quite some time although the god has done anything to avoid both thinking and saying it. Nearly losing her was just the latest push in the same direction, down a path that inevitably will break [Y/N]’s heart because that’s all this cruel semi-Asgardian can offer. It’s selfish of him to covet her heart.

A broken heart is better than a dead heart, he’d thought as he chose to repay his debt the only way he could. But it hadn’t worked as intended, and while [Y/N] could ask him anything of him, Odin would be the one to deem it possible or not. One night. The request had been Loki’s even though he knew the price would be high. At least Thor had pleaded his case or the All-Father surely would have denied it without a second’s hesitation.

One night…and then what? What seemed like a great idea once has turned into a sweet nightmare which Loki has to distract himself from by doting on the Midgardian woman in the hopes that she might understand how much she has come to mean to him.

I could just tell her? They bathe together, barely speaking a word because no words will be enough anyways. He dresses [Y/N] in dark blue and silver, hoping to spare the pain it would be to see her in Loki’s own colours because there’s no way anymore that she will ever be his in this world or another…not even now as she willingly gives herself to him. Not give. No, this time the god is the one who has prayed for and received nothing short of a miracle. But the sweet satisfaction has come too late, on the very cusp of judgement.

Breakfast is brought to them, brimming with the best delicacies Asgard can offer. It’s with a feigned smile and unnatural cheerfulness that Loki speaks of his childhood when he was causing mischief in the great halls of Valhalla and more often than not pinning the suspicions on Thor. Time and time again, an honest laugh is coaxed from [Y/N] only to be snuffed prematurely as reality catches up with the game of pretence.

Their time together is brought to an end by the arrival of a dozen guards preceding Odin and Thor. Heavy manacles and chains are wrapped around Loki despite the oath he’s given. Upon [Y/N]’s life, the prison would neither struggle nor attempt to escape. His distaste of the safety measures are not for himself (he wouldn’t trust himself either), but for the pain in her eyes that never waver from him once. Thor’s by her side, a heavy hand upon the comparatively narrow shoulder as though to comfort her or keep the woman in place.

“Wait!” They’ve already marched Loki to the door when he hears her cry.

Someone must have accepted the plea, because next moment the taste of [Y/N] is on his lips once more, mingling with traces of salt.

Don't need reason, don't need rhyme Ain't nothing I would rather do

… Reader’s PoV …

Just like that.

You can only surmise Loki’s being brought back to the prison, but it has been more than obvious that this time there’ll be no visits. Even though the guards and Odin left now without as much as a word to explain, you can’t risk sneaking after them because Thor’s hovering around in the room that suddenly seems cold and barren. Maybe you should be comforted by his presence. At least it’s keeping you from doing some pretty stupid things that could make Loki’s situation worse. Glancing over at the blond meat-wall of a guy, you don’t feel any better.

“Lady [Y/N],” he offers lamely, an apologetic smile on his lips that does nothing to hide the pity, “do not fret…my father has not decided on the verdict yet.”

“What are the odds?” You can hear it yourself, how hollow your voice is.

Falling onto a chair, which groans under the sudden strain, even Thor seems to be at a loss for anything optimistic. “There’s a strain in the relationship between my brother and father.” No shitting. “Over the years, my word has come to way less and less. In fact…” He pins you to the ground where you stand with electric-blue eyes. “In fact you may be the best hope there is for him.”

Then we’re fucked. The odd wording of the thought makes you hesitate. It’s his freedom or worse on the line. Not yours. A year ago, there’d have been no “we” and you’d never have ended up this close to anyone, instead stayed detached enough to simply walk away without a second thought. It had been a simpler life. A lonely life. Well this is gonna be fucking lonely anyways unless I do something.

“Tell me how the justice system works here.”

Nobody's gonna mess me around Hey Satan, paid my dues

…

For three days, you and Loki are kept separate and the news on his wellbeing are close to non-existent. It’s fairly clear, how badly Thor wants to speak with you, tell you something to bring comfort. Maybe the king has made him swear to keep quiet in that respect but at least the prince compensates by giving you a crash course on Asgardian courtroom etiquette which turns out to be surprisingly simple (and prone to flaws).

Odin’s the judge. There’s no jury, save for anyone the old ruler might call upon as a sort of council. And the executioner? Anyone he points to.

At first, you make the mistake of thinking it’ll make things simpler because the way of addressing Odin as judge will be no different from the manners required when addressing him as a king, but the next second you realize that you’ll be talking to a man who’s used to complete obedience and that for all his rumoured wisdom…he will most likely be biased. This is his son. Adopted, sure, but a son nonetheless and Odin’s not forgiving towards the mistakes of his children.

Anything I say can and will – fuck! Poking at the smoldering wood in the fireplace, it seems to you like there’s no way out unless you and everyone else are willing to sweet-talk the King until his ears are dripping with honey. Loki chose to return despite the banishment, and it had been clear from the beginning that the consequences would be harsh if that were ever to happen. Idiotic god. The poker releases an eruption of sparks. Fucking, grudge-holding, semi-sadistic stepdad. At least Odin’s kind to you, treating you tenderly on the rare occasions you are together to the surprise of even Thor.

The shadows from the poker dance and dive blackly against the surrounding stones while you ponder the obvious. Why? You’re a freaking human, Midgardian, an outsider in whom the king isn’t supposed to show any particular favours or interest…except he does.

Ignoring the clatter and angry flares from the hastily discarded poker, you push to your feet and grab the nearest cloak to throw around your shoulders. Soft and dark green, it allows you to blend into the shadows as you leave the room in search of answers and limits.

I'm on the highway to hell Highway to hell

…

Considering that Asgard and the royal castle are supposed to be more or less impenetrable there sure are a lot of guards. But guards are people and people are, well, simple. Thankfully, the Asgardians don’t prove to be anymore complicated than those at home, in fact, none of the motionless figures clad in golden armour even bother to ask what you’re doing out of bed as you hurry quietly down the halls in search of set of double doors taller than a house.

When you find the entrance to the throne room, you walk by as if perfectly disinterested and only come to a halt once you’re past the corner and into a stretch of the hallway with no one in sight. Could work.

Only a few minutes have passed before the guards rush past where you’re crouched in the shadows, the catalyst a strange wail which they automatically attribute to the unusual shape in the darkness further on which they don’t know what belongs to yet, just that it’s not supposed to be there. Attention solely on the possible threat, neither guard notices the green flurry of movement that dashes away.

Why in the freaking universe do they not event big doors that don’t weigh a shit ton?! At least you only need a narrow gap to slip inside the room, back against the door to make sure it closes without a sound. A few embers in the braziers in the wall sconces cast an unnatural glow like puddles of faded heat which hardly is enough to navigate by, so you send an unspoken excuse to the designer of the castle who thought far enough to allow the natural light from outside shimmer in through impossible arches at the very top of the walls, each showing a sliver of star-spangled night sky. The room is warped in shadows and splotches of cold light to create a scene from an old photograph with the imposing throne at the far heart of it all. No longer golden but silvery it looks even bigger now and should hold your interest better than it does, but your eyes are glued to the object stretching from armrest to armrest.

It does seem too good to be true even as you finally stand before the seat. Tentatively, you reach out to brush the fingertips along the metal shaft. It’s real. Gripping the spear firmly, there’s no immediate reaction other than a shiver from the nerves you suddenly find ablaze with worry and exhilaration. Lighter than it appears, the weapon slides soundlessly through the night air as you wield Gungnir for the first time.

Probably last time too, you accept as you finally take a seat with the spear in hand. Before you are two sets of eyes belonging to predators and your only consolation is that rather than attack you, both wolves lift their heads to the ceiling and howl.

And I'm going down All the way

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jeremy-heresy · 5 years ago

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My Reactions to WhatCulture Wrestling’s “20 INSANE Vince McMahon Stories Leaked By Secret WWE Source”

https://youtu.be/cFF6SrJEgDE

youtube

If you haven’t come across this video, grab a drink, relax in a comfy chair, and get ready to spit that drink all over your screen, because some of these stories in this video are truly terrible.

All set? Good! Let’s begin starting with 20! And warning, this about to be a loooong post.

#20. This makes me feel bad for the writers who do produce some good storylines and writing that get ignored because it doesn’t appeal to good ol’ Vince. Furthermore, it’s utter nonsense that it’s whatever Vince wants that goes. Like, should Vince have some say? Sure, he’s the owner of the company. But it shouldn’t just be up to him, because God knows he doesn’t have the viewer’s interests in mind when he’s approving a majority of the stuff that gets put on TV.

#19. Why am I not surprised that the B.S. Wild Card rule came about in such a fashion? It’s been a disaster since it was put into place and just prevents the unfeatured superstars on each roster from actually being used. For example, Finn Balor and Shinsuke Nakamura were originally scheduled to be on a recent SmackDown Live, but it was bumped to being the dark match so that we could see more of Shane McMahon (the subject of a post that I need to make in the future).

#18. Again, feel a little bad for the creative team when they pitch something that may actually be good. Vince’s grasp over the group, as we all know, is making the product worse, and if the old bellend actually took a moment to consider the ideas thrown at him, maybe we’d get some quality television.

#17. Of course, another aspect that Vince totally ruins! I know the brand split is coming to an end (thanks ya damned Wild Card rule), but how are we honestly supposed to believe that the brands are different if so much stuff is so similar? I’m sure I’m preaching to the choir with such a question, but nevertheless. It makes matches like RAW vs SmackDown elimination matches at Survivor Series utterly pointless.

#16. To absolutely no one’s surprise, Vinny doesn’t watch NXT. Y’know what? That’s probably for the best; let Trips continue to oversee and put on excellent shows with the NXT brand(s). Otherwise, if Vinny Mac were to get his hands on this, we’d watch NXT and NXT UK, two of the few saving graces WWE has at this point, burn down in front of our very eyes.

#15. “VKM? Unaware? Who woulda thought, eh?” asked no one ever. I get it, he’s busy running a billion-dollar company, having meetings, working out, etc., but he can’t spare five minutes to check out what’s going on in the world today? Not even the wresting world that he wants to dominate? FFS, man! Hopefully the start of AEW TV will change that once they develop more and more of a following.

#14. I was actually unaware of this bit of information, and now that I know this I gotta say, much respect to Dana Brooke. I know I was negative about her when she first debuted on RAW, but this changes this. She deserves praise for putting in the hard work to become the best women’s wrestler she can be, but clearly Vince is the biggest roadblock to her showcasing her new skills.

#13. Not a big surprise. That’s all I’m going to say.

#12. The New Age Outlaws reunion? Probably not, but I would be fine with watching Road Dogg go to AEW. I’m sure he could do some incredible work behind the scenes in the promotion that he wouldn’t be able to do in WWE.

#11. So Vince loses interest easily... there’s a word for that, what is it again? Oh that’s right:

#10. I’d love to see an absolute list of the people who are trying to get out of Dodge right now. The talent are unhappy and they have a right to be, as should the writers. Is the money really worth the frustration? Only time can tell.

#9. To quote Kanye West to repeat another point I made, “NO ONE MAN SHOULD HAVE ALL THAT POWER!” Things could have been much more solid for both brands if they had stuck with something and not changed it on the whims of a senile old man who finds humor in jokes for children.

#8. YOU’RE GODDAMN RIGHT HE IS! To no one’s surprise, the best thing on RAW every week is the brain child of Bray Wyatt, and this confirms for me that the Eater of Worlds and host of Firefly Fun House is a locker room leader.

#7. I honestly don’t know how to react to this one. Certainly weird, but I just... Why is she their boss? I know she’s Ultimate Warrior’s wife but like... ugh, moving on.

#6. New-found respect to Michael Cole who has probably had Vince barking B.S. in his ear for over a decade now. How the hell do you expect your commentators to do a quality job when you’re degrading them as their doing the job? It’s nonsense. Give them the points they need to make and let them go, they should be able to call the match just fine without the criticism.

#5. Bless you Sami for making this work.... BUT, if this is Vince talking through Sami Zayn, maybe you should use your power for good and make the proper changes! I know that ruins the point of Sami’s gimmick, but we all know what the real problem is, and it isn’t the WWE Universe (least not on a weekly basis).

#4. Bless you Neville/PAC for verbally bashing Vince on your way out of the company. He deserved so much better, as do many of the talented men and women still there. However, I’m glad he’s kicking ass in Dragon Gate and being the bastard we all know and... love? Hate? Tolerate?

#3. Of course the man behind little red carts, mannequin torture, and pooper scoopers is behind Ucey Hot. This feud could have been amazing, and I was looking forward to it at the beginning. But now it’s a mess because Vince has the humor of a 10 year old.

#2. This, by far, is the most disgusting of these 20 stories. Surprising? Absolutely not. Horrendous? You bet your ass! The man left Mexico to work for your company and this is how you treat him? He didn’t have to work for you, he coulda gone anywhere else! This is also evidence of Vince not watching NXT but I’m sure you, the reader, already could’ve guessed that.

And last but certainly not least, #1. Once again, to no one’s surprise but everyone’s displeasure. It’s a shame that this is the case because we all know how much of a good job Trips can do if he took control. But it’s very likely that Vinny Mac truly will die at his desk at WWE HQ before he ever lets anyone take control of his company, even if it means he’s ruining it in the process.

#wwe #wwe raw #whatculture wrestling #andrade cien almas #vince mcmahon #jon moxley #road dogg #wwe creative #triple h #nxt #nxt takeover #some bullshit #if you made it this far thank you for your time

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thempoetry · 5 years ago

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“There Are More Beautiful Things Than Beyoncé” by Morgan Parker

This book had been years coming in my collection. Its name rang out inside me when I felt its titular sentiment — that the popular worship of Beyoncé is overblown — and whenever I thought of it, I felt a spark of solidarity.

Of course, this is not a book about Beyoncé — and in fact, this is not even a book that is very critical of Beyoncé. Instead, Beyoncé acts as a literary device throughout — a mouthpiece, an amulet, a proto-idea that shapeshifts to meet Parker’s endless need to talk, sing and moan about race, class, democracy, depression, music and drugs. It’s a brilliant move.

I’d like to start more broadly by commenting on Morgan Parker, because she strikes me as an outsider among insiders. In my head, Parker is of the generation of contemporary poets that includes Danez Smith, Franny Choi, Ocean Vuong etc. … she’s decorated with a Pushcart, she co-curates a reading series, she performs with Angel Nafis as part of The Other Black Girl Collective. Her poetic career is bedazzlingly active — so why don’t we talk about her more?

By which I mean: there seems to be a kind of halo around young poets like Ocean Vuong, who — and I say this with admittedly limited experience of his work — turn the harrowing vine-tangle of identity into a kind of rhapsodic experience: a thing worth looking at because it is beautiful. (Here is an example, from Vuong’s “Tell Me Something Good”:

Snow on your lips like a salted

cut, you leap between your deaths, black as a god’s periods. Your arms cleaving little wounds

in the wind. You are something made… )

There’s no arguing that Vuong’s poem is beautiful; my issue is with how the beauty is used. Vuong’s poem here seems an extension of the (frankly depressing and oppressive) idea that “foreigners” can make their stories worthy through pathos, pity and craft — i.e., hard work and relatability. If the sentiment sounds familiar, just tune into the way mainstream conservatives these days talk about immigrants: I don’t have a problem with immigrants writ large, I just prefer immigrants who work hard, keep their heads down, are pleasant to my children, are generally agreeable…

Anyway, it’s not fair for me to pass such a blanket judgement over Ocean Vuong’s work, and that’s for another review. But insofar as Morgan Parker is concerned, she parses the work and space of otherness in an entirely different manner. Similar to Claudia Rankine of Don’t Let Me Be Lonely, her argument is this: I won’t “fix” myself for you. I won’t try to make myself beautiful. I will tell the (magical, insatiable) truth as it is, and you will have to try to keep up. Because I am too tired to bow down, to construct something for you, to micro-manage. Parker’s poems are for haters of micro-management; they offer big gestures in small bottles.

Consider the opening lines of the opening poem, “All They Want Is My Money My Pussy My Blood”:

I am free with the following conditions.

Give it up gimme gimme.

Okay so I’m Black in America right and I walk into a bar.

With this bold opening, Parker’s commitments are clear: she will demand things of the reader (“give it up gimme gimme”) and she will clearly demarcate what commands her attention and respect (“I’m Black in America right”). And with this begins what I can only describe as a chimeric collection, more warm-blooded fantasy animal than diorama; more occult message written in glitter than typeset monolith. She scrounges from jazz, RnB and pop to fill her pauses. She is unrelentingly new instead of subtle. I like it:

I am a dreamer with empty hands and I like the chill. I will not be attending the party tonight, because I am microwaving multiple Lean Cuisines and watching Wife Swap… (“Another Another Autumn in New York”)

—and the sincerity of her materials shine through. (To continue this silly dogfight I’ve set up, compare the above with Vuong: “Air of whiskey and crushed / Oreos.” Parker’s allusion to pop culture delights; Vuong’s seems like an add-on, a sprinkling of something inappropriate on top).

But wherefore is the source of all this magic? I would say in what Sun Ra called “liquidity.” For example: Parker was best when R and I read her aloud on a grassy slope on Belle Isle in Detroit. There we were, in a historically Black city, in what I can only describe as a “public paradise.” Ducks waddled by and folks of all stripes strolled in front of us beside a small man-made lake. As we read Parker aloud, we laughed with her and from within her work — as though her words gave us the ability to access our inner performers, delivering punchlines (“I don’t know / when I got so punk rock”) and casting personal spells (“I breathe / dried honeysuckle / and hope”). We felt for her. And we wanted to continue feeling for her. All things told I had a moment of genuine orality with her work — a glimpse of what poetry must have felt like when it was shared, sung and social by default. This is a book that radiates the energy of the collective, that asks you to recognize it — and does not over-demonstrate.

So, in this false dichotomy, one might pose:

LIQUIDITY: ORALITY, SOCIALITY, LONG STANZAS SHORT LINES

against

SOLIDITY: WRITTEN, INWARDNESS, SMALL FORMAL STANZAS LONG LINES

In the former, you have the world of most popular songs, particularly jazz; in the latter, you have sculpture and “high art.” Perhaps this is why Ocean Vuong’s work has garnered him endless praise and attention, and most of us look askance at Morgan Parker’s messiness, silliness and genuine emotional bravery. She rambles, yes, but her rambling challenges the very idea of boundaries — of “discipline” as a set of limits, of borders we set for ourselves, however beautiful.

Finally, I will say this, as it’s becoming a theme in my reviews. Parker’s poetry feels affectively liberated. She is funny as well as ashamed. Take, for instance, this amazing section of “RoboBeyoncé”:

The reason I was built is to outlast some terribly feminine sickness that is delivered to the blood through kale salad and pity and men with straight-haired girlfriends […] Nothing aches in here It’s a quiet, calculated shame

Part of the power in these lines is the fact that despite the sprawling, messy energy of Parker’s poems, formally they are incredibly demanding due to their short lines. Parker does not give herself the liberty of overusing the form that has, frankly, become a meme among young poets — the poem composed of long couplets, like Vuong’s poem above — and instead prefers her poems one long connective muscle. The result is propulsive and exciting, like watching a figure skater do tight turns on the ice. She is insightful but also — I dare say it — entertaining. But in the wry, dark way that comedians have that communicates, “Look, I don’t care if you don’t like me. Most of the time, I don’t like me either.”

Which is not to say that Parker’s work is perfect — like the aforementioned figure skater, she does often fall short of her ambitions and can write poems that don’t hold together — often using the couplet form above. I think her work is best when it acknowledges its liquid merits, and doesn’t try to stand with too much air around it.

Overall: 9/10 for sheer spillage of fantasy radioactive plasma

Read If You: -Think it’s lame that Beyoncé talks so much about her “rock” -Miss the energy of cities like Detroit -Have friends you want to read with and you are all getting tired of the bone-dry landscape of contemporary poetry which is really just about “passing” politics and making pain beautiful and omg what if pain is NOT beautiful what if it is just pain motherfuckers what if leaving the party is political too goddamn

Further Reading

Don’t Let Me Be Lonely by Claudia Rankine -- deep classic, prepared the soil for Parker

BONUS: Things To Do In Life That Are Not Poetry

Inspired by Morgan Parker, try:

1. Starting a flashy project then abandoning it on purpose 2. Making a cocktail after a song by a Black American musician 3. Getting in a tub of ice cold water and listening to Kendrick Lamar’s DAMN. while doing one’s nails without shivering

Feverish and anything but lonely, Michu

P.S. A last thought while in the shower. Morgan Parker’s poetry is relentlessly self-aware. But I think what we mean when we say “self-aware” is actually not “being aware of the self” but “being aware of everything but the self” -- i.e. seeing one’s pronouncements as part of a larger (in Parker’s case historical) context. When Parker sits down to multiple Lean Cuisines and Wife Swap, the irony she projects comes from a deep rootedness in the idea that this is a thing that people do: skip parties to self-indulge in everyday, consumerist ways that our higher selves disapprove of. It’s not that her sentiment or self-report is inauthentic, but rather that it is aromantic -- it doesn’t presume that her experience hits on some prized singularness about being human. And I like that; I find it smart and honest at the same time, which is a rare combination -- not just in poets, but in people.

#poetry review #morgan parker #poetry #lit #review

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truxblooded · 6 years ago

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ℂ𝕠𝕞𝕞𝕚𝕤𝕤𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝔾𝕦𝕚𝕕𝕖𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕖𝕤 𝕒𝕟𝕕 ℝ𝕦𝕝𝕖𝕤:

🎊🎉Welcome one and all!🎊🎉

To quote a great, but semi crazy psychopathic Clown Prince of Crime: “If you’re good at something never do it for free.” And thus I have opened commissions for the first time, ever!

Like most of you have I work a full-time job, but thanks to the shit economy and “promises” *blatant lies* not being fulfilled from the Annoying Orange in the Oval Office to help out all of us average joes just trying to make ends meet, and now the uncertainty of my job still being there after a far larger grocery chain bought out the one I work for *sobs* I am trying to earn a little more extra income by doing what I have loved to do for the last fifteen plus years of my life (I’m 32) - writing and entertaining many with my writing.

Here is where you will find all of the details for commissions!

ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ᴅᴏ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ:

I write the gambit of varying categories; fluff, smut, angst, action/adventure, horror, Sci-Fi, fantasy, A/B/O, etc. Although I have quite a few hard no’s.

I will absolutely not write anything containing:

explicit drug use/abuse

domestic violence in graphic nature

child abuse

rape/non-con

super hardcore BDSM and unsafe BDSM practices (ignoring safe words, zero aftercare)

humiliation/dégradation

overtly graphic over the top ridiculous and otherwise impossible pornography that defies the laws of physics and actual human biology

anything coming close to or resembling 50 Shades of Grey (because let’s be realistic if Christian Grey wasn’t a hot rich white dude, that would have been an entire season’s worth of Criminal Minds episodes)

scat

extreme underage (one or both participants are under the age of 16 years old)

If you are under the age of 18 years of age, please do not commission me for a fic that contains explicit sexual content. Under US law, I would be charged with providing pornographic material to a minor, which (for me) would result in prison time and filing as a sex offender. For my safety and yours, if you are under 18 years of age, please do not request smut. If you request smut and you are under the age of 18 years old but are up front about it, I will negotiate a better fic that involves fluff or angst. If you lie, however, and I find out that you are under the age of 18 and commissioned a smut fic, I will refund you the money and block you. Simple as that. Do NOT do this, kiddos, please.

Please do not put me in a position where I have to restrict my commissions or give it up all together because you can’t get over the actual FUCKING LAW when it comes to 18+ allowances.

I will negotiate on briefly mentioning or gleaning over something if it pertains to a background bit to give explanation to the story/series/one-shot/drabble plot, but please be respectful of what I will and will not write, as I will be respectful to your commission requests in return.

I write for:

Marvel Comics/the MCU

X-Men/Deadpool (mentioning these as for now I still don’t consider them canon to the MCU until I see them with the title card)

DC Comics/DCEU

Batman (Nolan-verse)

Gotham

The Flash (season one and two eras)

Supernatural

Smallville

The Crow (universe mythology)

Criminal Minds

Star Wars

The Lord of the Rings/The Hobbit (book and movie verses)

the Assassin’s Creed video games (bear in mind I have only played up to Unity and am hustling to catch up to Odyssey)

the Fallout video game series (I’ve only played 3 and New Vegas)

Mass Effect video game series (excluding Andromeda)

and Riverdale (I’ve only watched season one)

You’re also more than welcome to ask about whether or not I write for something, just in case I do have some or just enough knowledge of the said show/movie/comic/book in question for me to possibly consider taking the asked commission.

ᴘʀɪᴄɪɴɢ:

Drabbles will run at $3 USD for every 500 hundred words

One-Shots will run at $5 USD per piece || 3K max word count

Series - depending on the length of the requested amount of parts, negotiations can be made - will run at $10 USD

RP Character Sheet Creation will run at $3-$5 USD depending on the amount of depth and detail you want put into the spread

I also offer my services as a beta-reader! Depending on the size of what you would like me to beta for you, or if it’s an ongoing series, we can take a seat at the negotiations table and come about to an arrangement on payment!

I Accept payments through buying me a Ko-Fi ☕ || PayPal || Venmo

If I go above word count (aka, if I write more than what you paid for), you are under no obligation to pay me for the more writing. You should not be penalized by giving me more money just because I have a shitty time keeping to word limits. If you want to pay me for the extra work, that is more than okay, but understand you are under NO obligation to do so. I will not expect it either.

ᴛɪᴘᴘɪɴɢ ɪs ɴᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴄɪᴛʏ ɪɴ ᴄʜɪɴᴀ:

I kid! I kid! I just stupidly love that goddamn saying so much it’s not even funny... in fact it’s Dad Joke level so #sorrynotsorry. Anywho! If you like what I throw out there for free enjoyment and just good ‘ol story telling entertainment, and would like to leave me a tip, you can do so by buying me a Ko-Fi ☕

Once your transaction has gone through, contact me on either tumblr or my email: [email protected] - I check both frequently- and either tell me your information (what name you put on Ko-Fi, or what email will show up in my Pay-Pal and or Venmo) or send a screencap of your transaction. Once I have verified your information, we can discuss what you want for your prompt.

You will then have three ways to receive your fic once it is finished.

I can post it here on Tumblr, tagging you in it of course.

If you do not want to have this fic published on tumblr, let me know and I will send you a private Google Doc link so only you and those you choose to share this with can enjoy it, or I will send it to your email.

You can also request to have it published on both, but your name not be mentioned. I will then say it is an anonymous commission and privately link you to the fic once it is posted so you have that confirmation.

You can also request to have it published on my AO3 account! Or you can also request to have all three options!

You are more than welcome to ask for an update on how the work is progressing. Please allow up to two weeks for your fic, if there is an issue I will notify you. If I need more time, again, I will notify you. I do work full time and train full time as an avid 1/2 marathon runner during the beginning of every year, so please bear with me if I notify you on the more time issue.

And that children, about does it.

I hope and cross my fingers I crossed every possible little detail, if you have questions you are more than welcomed to message me privately or send an ask to my box, or contact me through email @ [email protected] 📩

TOOᗪᒪEᔕ ᗰY ᑭOOᗪᒪEᔕ!!

#commission guidelines and rules #Commissions Are Now OPEN!!#beta-reader for hire #writer for hire #writer storyteller myth maker

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cromulentbookreview · 6 years ago

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Weaponized Jaws

Or: Seafire by Natalie C. Parker!

Action on the seas featuring badass female protagonists? Yeah, I’m definitely going to read that. Very little needed in the way of convincing me to read this book.

Seafire had been advertised before as Fury Road meets Wonder Woman meets the ocean, which makes sense. Though with much less Wonder Woman and way more of Kevin Costner's Waterworld.

Alright, children, gather around while I explain to you what Waterworld was.

Yeah, Waterworld. Not a video game, it was a movie starring Kevin Costner, the world’s only American-accented Robin Hood (hey, I like that movie, Alan Rickman was a treasure and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise). Waterworld came out in 1995 and was massive flop, now a bit of a cult-classic. I remember 1995, somewhat vaguely. God I’m an Old now, aren’t I?

I’ll never be as cool as Steve Buscemi, though.

For those of you who enjoy both Fury Road and Waterworld, then you’ll definitely like Seafire. I love anything that takes place on the ocean - a side effect of my strange Dudes on Boats fixation that I’ve mentioned previously (my apologies to For a Muse of Fire, . Sea stories are kind of my thing. So is post-apocalyptic YA fiction. So this book ticked all the “I need entertainment and want to forget the news exists right now” boxes and worked out perfectly.

Caledonia Styx lives in Crapsack Waterworld, a post-apocalyptic flooded version of our world (referenced occasionally as the “old world”, flooded/destroyed as a result of some unknown calamity). Caledonia has the misfortune to live in an area controlled by Aric Athair, a vicious warlord and sir-not-appearing-in-this-book (since Seafire is the first in a planned trilogy, I’m sure we’ll meet him eventually). Anyway, Athair controls his war boys, called Bullets, by drugging them with something called Silt, made from some sort of weird hybrid poppy-flower-thing. Life in Athair’s territory sucks, so Caledonia’s mom, Rhona, and a bunch of other families have gotten together on the Styx family’s ship, the Ghost, to break through Athair’s blockade and head off to freedom elsewhere.

Unfortunately, the night the Ghost intends to escape, Caledonia and her best friend Pisces (they’re really big on the names from Greco Roman mythology in crapsack Waterworld) are sent ashore to gather some last minute supplies. Caledonia comes across a bullet called Lir, who asks for her help. It’s all bullshit, though - the second Caledonia gives away the location of the Ghost, Lir and his fellow bullets attack, slaughtering Caledonia and Pisces’s families and sinking the Ghost.

Pisces didn’t witness Lir’s treachery, though, and Caledonia, feeling responsible for the deaths of all those onboard the Ghost, keeps that bit where she gave away the position of the ship to herself. That makes sense, considering how guilty it feels, but later, as Caledonia refers to Pisces as her “sister”, the fact that she kept this bit of intel under wraps does become a tad annoying. Especially when Caledonia refuses, multiple times, to clarify why it is she does’t trust Bullets. She’s just like “nope, can’t trust Bullets” instead of “no, that one time I trusted a Bullet, he slaughtered our families.”

Anyway!

Four years after the deaths of their families, Caledonia and Pisces have raised and repaired the Ghost, renaming it the Mors Navis.

(Language nerd sidebar: Mors Navis, by the way, is Latin for Death Ship. Thank you Google translate! No thanks to my 10+ years of German education. Why couldn’t I have picked a Latin language? Noo, I had to go with the Germanics. Mors Navis does sound way more menacing than Totenschiff. Eat it, B. Traven).

Over those four years, Caledonia, acting as captain, and Pisces, her first mate, have collected a crew composed entirely of girls and women, all of whom have no love for Aric Athair and his Bullet army. Caledonia and her crew basically go around the Bullet seas, making life hell for Athair’s people. During one such mission, Pisces is wounded and then captured, only to be rescued and returned to the Mors Navis by a Bullet who claims he wants to escape. Caledonia, who has literally zero reasons to trust Bullets, doesn’t trust him. Pisces points out, reasonably, that he saved her life when he could have left her to die. But Caledonia simply repeats her mantra of “no trusting Bullets” while refusing to elaborate.

Until the Bullet lets it slip that Donnally and Ares, Caledonia and Pisces’s brothers, respectively, survived the massacre on board the Ghost and were pressed into Athair’s drug-addled Bullet army. He knows what ship Donnally and Ares are on, and the route it takes to bring in conscripts (read: children stolen from their families, drugged, and forced into Athair’s army, refusal to comply met with extreme violence, in the usual fashion of a murderous tyrant).

Suddenly, Caledonia has reason to question her strict “don’t trust Bullets” policy. But it’s one of those Meek’s Cutoff situations: the Bullet could be a lying sack of shit and leading the Mors Navis into a trap. Or he could be telling the truth, leading Caledonia and Pisces to their long-lost brothers. What to do?

Well, it’d be a pretty short book if they just shot the Bullet, dumped his body in the ocean and moved on, wouldn’t it?

It took me a little longer to read Seafire than I intended - I’m a slow reader anyway, but while I was reading Seafire, I was also binging on Scott Lynch’s Gentleman Bastard series (which are fantastic by the way - highly recommend the audiobooks, Michael Page is an amazing audiobook narrator) so my focus may have been just a wee bit divided. My biggest complaint is now we have yet another seafaring heroine with red hair. How come all the seafaring heroines have to have red hair? Also, it’s funny you should bring up red hair, because in the world of the Gentleman Bastards, bad things happen to girls with red hair. Seriously, how come all the fiery heroine types have to have red hair? I mean, it’s not like I’m jealous or anything. I mean, it’s not like I should have been born with red hair, but no, it ended up a dull, boring blonde, and hair dye is expensive and smells terrible...

Uhm.

I mean.

Seriously, though, red hair is a rare thing - if Caledonia’s father had dark hair and her mother had red hair, the most likely outcome would be a bunch of kids with...dark hair. Though if her father did have a recessive red-hair gene, then it’s entirely possible for him to have produced red-headed children... So I guess it’s possible.

Not that I’m annoyed that my hair didn’t turn out red. Even though it should have, goddamn it! I know those recessive genes are in there somewhere!

Stupid lousy blonde hair grumble grumble grumble...

Ok, back to Seafire - it is definitely a highly enjoyable book, lots of nonstop action, but not a lot of resolution because it’s the first in an intended series. I highly recommend breezing through the book in one go, rather than endlessly picking it up and then putting it down in order to find out whether or not Locke and Jean finally kiss (they don’t).

But yes, jealousy over fictional characters’ red hair aside, the only major complaint I have about Seafire rests with a single line. The thing about reading ARCs, which I think I’ve mentioned before but, again, nobody reads these, so I might as well: ARCs are not finished copies. The final copy of Seafire might not even feature this line, so it seems silly to complain about it, but complaining is fun so I’ll do it anyway.

So the secondary-boss villain, Lir, Caledonia’s sworn enemy as he killed her whole goddamn family, is described as having a “long face with a jaw that looked sharp enough to be a weapon of its own.”

From that line onward I found I was unable to focus on anything except how a man’s jaw could be sharp enough to constitute a weapon. It’s a question that’s been driving me to distraction for weeks now. Is Lir’s jawline sharp enough that it comes to a point, like a knife? What would that look like on a three-dimensional human person? How would one wield their weaponized jaws? Like a battering ram? Or would you just like, wave your head around like a sword? Does this mean his chin comes to a point, too? That one line of the galley proof of Seafire has caused me more consternation than anything else in the book - and this is a book that features lots of violence. Lots and lots of it. And here I am contemplating a man with a weaponized jawbone.

I mean, of the whole book it’s one line and it doesn’t even matter but...but...gah, I can’t help but picture a guy with knives for a jaw.

RECOMMENDED FOR: Fans of badass female protagonists kicking ass on the high seas, fans of YA lit who also happen to be fans of Kevin Costner’s Waterworld.

NOT RECOMMENDED FOR: Anyone who takes physical descriptions of fictional far too literally.

RELEASE DATE: August 28, 2018

RATING: 4/5

ANTICIPATION LEVEL FOR SEQUEL: Lhotse

OBLIGATORY STYX REFERENCE:

#seafire #natalie c parker #ya fiction #ya action/adventure #young adult fiction #review #badass female characters #sea stories #post apocalyptic #caledonia styx #mors navis #seafire trilogy

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toonstarterz · 7 years ago

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BECAUSE I’M NOT POPULAR, I’LL READ WATAMOTE: CHAPTER #122

I’m gonna keep this introduction short since there’s so much to unpack and I’m dying to get to the good stuff.

It’s Tomoko’s third year, and any worries you might have had about Tomoko’s new life being too “normal” and “boring” were thankfully all for naught. This chapter reminds us that while circumstances may change, Tomoko is still an awkward little weirdo, and if her new classmates are any indication, her third year is going to be one wild ride.

Chapter 122: Because I’m Not Popular, I’ll Become a Third Year

The wording here is suspect as the narrator is definitely referring to Tomoko’s social circle than just Tomoko exclusively. It’s one of those changes that seems minor at first glance, but means more for long-time readers of the series. It’s sort of an “official’’ statement on how the series as evolved from being single-protagonist oriented to becoming an ensemble cast. And frankly, our side characters have earned it.

Damn, Tomoko can actually pass for being almost, kinda attractive here.

One thing that I’ve always liked about Yuri (in addition to everything else about her character) is that she’s very emotional underneath her comparatively stoic demeanor. We’ve seen before that Yuri cares very deeply about the things that are important to her, but struggles to openly express it. The fact that she has to physically calm her nerves is a testament to how much she values her new set of loner friends.

About time we got their full names, and fitting ones if I’m not mistaken (feel free to correct me if I am). From my understanding, “Tanaka” is a surname with very plain connotations, which matches quite well with the average-like Mako.

Then there’s “Masaki”, which is supposedly a very boyish name for a girl, but it’s written very femininely. It’s so perfect for Yoshida, that I can’t help but wonder if her parents predicted the future or something.

They say this smile sustained the lives of impoverished children for generations.

As I said previously, Yuri is strongly emotional even if it doesn’t show on her face. When her expression is physically visible, it’s a good indicator that she must be bursting with emotion. In other words, that tiny smile equates to jubilant fireworks.

Hey, Komiyama. It’s been a while. I’m glad Nico Tanigawa made the decision to put her in Tomoko’s class, as I imagine that the reason we don’t see much of Komiyama lately is because it’s difficult to include her in Tomoko’s social circle without someone like Yuu or Akari to bridge the gap between them. Maybe now they’ll be able to clear up any lingering bad blood between them.

I am somewhat surprised by how 'meh’ Komiyama’s reaction is. If this were one of the early chapters, I’d imagine she’d react more negatively to being in Tomoko’s class. What does this say about their current relationship? Probably that they’re still frenemies, but have actively stopped trying to antagonize each other. Looking back, it was usually Tomoko would cast the first stone, leading Komiyama to retaliate. But now that Tomoko has stopped this, Komiyama sees no interest in interacting with her more than needed. Let’s see if they can keep this up...

Quickly fanbase, time to connect names to faces!

Minami, your cuteness rating just dropped a peg.

The relationship, whatever it may be, between Minami and Yuri has always seemed uncertain, if not somewhat rocky for obvious reasons. But I think that with this moment, it’s safe to assume that Yuri and Minami honestly don’t like each other. I wouldn’t call it a personal vendetta, but by calling Yuri “that girl’, Minami makes it clear that she doesn’t view Yuri highly if she only calls Yuri by her name when Mako’s around.

Of course, Yuri and Minami aren’t about to get into a brawl like Tomoko and Komiyama might. They’re too respectable for something like that. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if we get some passive aggressive jabs between them now that they’ll be “fighting” for Mako’s attention.

This is a quality of Minami that makes me dislike and begrudgingly admire her.

It’s been established that Minami has quite a lot of friends. Not surprising as a hardcore extrovert like her likely finds it easy making connections. We can see this in action, where when faced with the dilemma of having no one to talk to, Minami easily walks up to a classmate and invites herself into their group, with no hesitation whatsoever. She must be a blast at parties.

But at the same time, she quickly dismissed the fact that Mako is in her class, meaning that she requires more than one person to satisfy her social comfort zone. I’m not saying she doesn’t care about her friends–her insensitivity seems inconsequential to her high extrovertism. It’s more that she requires a high degree of social interaction whereas Yuri doesn’t need nearly as much to feel that same degree of satisfaction.

Don’t worry, I know this is a mistranslation.

I do like this little exchange between Heroin-chan and Yoshida, because it gives a bit of insight into their friendship. Heroin-chan actually has to tell Yoshida to come hang out with her, as if expecting that the latter wouldn’t bother unless prompted. But she says it not out of annoyance, but in an endearing way. It’s pretty cool to see that Yoshida has friends whom she’ll actually tolerant teasing from. It’ll probably take all year before Tomoko can do that.

Apparently Eyeless-chan is a slacker, huh?.

Side note: these panels are really busy. Must be the cherry blossom petals.

I do wonder just what Tomoko was hoping for regarding whom of her friends/acquaintances would be in her new class. You’d think that after making her new friends, she’d be glad to be with them for their third year. But judging on her reaction, having so many people she already knows was not her desire. As for why, I think it may have to do with balance. A loner-type like Tomoko would probably prefer to have one or two people see can connect with in her class. But having so many people is probably overloading her capacity for social interaction.

Having Komi-something there likely doesn’t help either.

It’s going to be interesting to see just how Itou will fit into this story. She does seem very bland and boring at first glance, but then again, so did Yuri. You could even say that Itou is to Komiyama what Yuri is to Tomoko. Maybe she’ll surprise us.

Nemoto’s dark side truly is the scariest thing about this series.

I’ll be frank, I’m not entirely sure what’s going on in Nemoto’s head when she said this line. It could be a variety of things, but at the very least, she already knows that Tomoko did the same thing to her, so playing the innocent card seems to suggest some distaste for Tomoko. If I had to guess, Nemoto looks as if she’s bothered by Tomoko trying to pass off as “normal”, so she called her out in order to reveal her weird side. I don’t believe she’s doing this out of malice, though, but more on that later.

I saw the punchline for this coming an ocean away…

...Doesn’t make it any less spectacular.

Yeah, it’s no secret by now that Ucchi’s desperate for some Tomoko stalkin' lovin’. The only question was when Ucchi would finally accept the truth.

That moment when Ucchi gave her meat was the realization, but this breakdown is the acceptance. All those other times, Ucchi could easily talk her way out of any accusation about her attraction to Tomoko. But as of late, Ucchi has been increasingly public about her growing affection. Sure, Ucchi could’ve stayed silent if her friends egged her on about it. But I’d be hardpressed to see how Ucchi could possibly deny her friend-crush on Tomoko when throwing a tantrum for everybody to see.

Looks like Emoji 2.0 is going to be an official side character. Heh.

At first, I was pretty bummed that Ucchi wasn’t going to be in Tomoko’s class anymore. But in trying to look at the bright side, I think this situation has a lot of potential(-san). By keeping Ucchi away, all of her stalking–yes, it will continue–is going to look even more ridiculous since she’ll actually have to put some real effort into it. This subplot would likely just go through the motions if they were in the same class, but a decision like this could finally lead to the climax of Ucchi’s crush.

I can see it now: Tomoko starts acting all friendly with Emoji 2.0, Ucchi spots them together, Ucchi loses her goddamn mind.

Long time, no see, Hatsushiba. I certainly wasn’t expecting to see him again, but I can dig it. If you recall, Komiyama kind of thinks that Tomoko has a crush on this guy. If the mangaka decides to reopen that can of worms, it’s sure to be a riot.

I guess we needed a quick reminder that Tomoko doesn’t go to an all-girls school.

C’mon, Yuri. Don’t be so kuudere.

Yeah, Mako’s probably exaggerating when she said it was Yuri’s dream. Although, from Yuri’s smile earlier, I wouldn’t put it pass Mako to interpret her friend’s simple yet meaningful desire into something much more grandiose. Perhaps for Mako, a dream is a dream, no matter how small.

Battle of the ellipses.

Did Tomoko seriously not know Ogino was going to be her homeroom teacher until this very second? Guess for all of her development, her obliviousness is something she still has to work on. (If this is actually plausible in a Japanese high school, please correct me, so that I don’t make an ignorant ass of myself).

I’m curious as to how Tomoko thinks that having her “friends” around will protect her from Ogino’s meddling. Maybe it’s because if she gets embarrassed, the fallout won’t be so bad if everyone already knows what to expect from her? Is it because her friends will back her up when Ogino throws her for a loop. Maybe the class has some kind of camaraderie because they know what a pain Ogino can be? Could be a bit of all of that, but after reading the rest of this chapter, Ogino will likely be the least of her worries.

Well damn. Nemoto ain’t pulling back this year.

My first instinct was to take this as a provocation. But looking over it again, I realized she’s kind of taking a jab at herself for also being a normal girl. Nemoto has always been a bit of an enigma. Her perspective on Tomoko has been fuzzy ever since Tomoko found out her secret. I originally thought Nemoto’s occasional rudeness was from a minor superiority complex. But now I think that Nemoto is kind of projecting herself onto Tomoko. As if Tomoko’s decision to be “normal” reflects the soreness Nemoto feels about her own self-imposed normalcy.

First things first, Nice to officially meet you Katou. Your role as Class Mom will be severely tested.

I actually don’t think Nemoto’s gotten more snappish necessarily. It’s very possible she’s always had a ruder personality and she’s just really good at hiding it. But because Tomoko knows a side of her that nobody else does, Nemoto might be more comfortable letting her edginess show in front of her.

Having her real interests in parentheses has always been a favorite visual gag of mine.

It’s funny how Nemoto’s impression of Tomoko, and how Tomoko perceives that impression aren’t really the same. As I stated before, Nemoto doesn’t hold any real animosity towards Tomoko. Rather, she’s kind of envious of Tomoko. She sort of respects Tomoko for being true to herself, even if that “self” isn’t all that admirable. So when Tomoko pulls the normie act on her, it’s natural that Nemoto would be disappointed.

Of course, in Tomoko’s eyes, Nemoto’s just being a bitch.

I’ve always appreciated that no matter how screwed up Tomoko’s logic could be, she was never wholly off the mark about her proclamations. There’s always a kernel of truth in Tomoko’s words, whether it’s about the anime industry or being a loner in a world of non-loners. Even the absurd things like how popular kids have orgies at karaoke bars were likely based on some media she’d consumed.

Her little rant about how normies have to try so hard to be bland is actually something that can be kind of supported. Sure, it’s still generalizing and spiteful, but it’s also real–one of those implicit things that nobody says but everyone knows is true. I guess it goes to show that Tomoko, for all her inner ranting, isn’t totally ignorant to how the world works.

Slow clap. Slow clap. Slow clap.

There’s that old-school cringe humor. But of course, it can never be that simple. As others have pointed out, this isn’t just your typical Watamote awkwardness. The cringiest moments in the manga were always about Tomoko saying/doing something painful due to twisted logic. In this case, sure it’s painful, but there isn’t anything especially weird about wanting a boyfriend, even if it is worded in way that is so humorously casual.

In fact, you could even say that Tomoko is expressing a confidence here that she never would’ve had in her previous introductions. Perhap this is a kind of development for Tomoko in that her brashness, which was once her weakness, can now be her strength. It’d be nice if this starts to become a trend for the series.

I wonder if this is going to be a regular thing now where Tomoko has a “routine” to conduct whenever she gets overwhelmed with anxiety. At least she’s no longer wallowing in self-defeat.

Funny, remembering all these cringe-inducing moments would just stress me out even more.

Confirmed: Ogino is responsible for 50% of Tomoko’s worst moments.

If this were any other time Tomoko, I’d agree with you. Unfortunately, you just opened up an unspoken rivalry with someone who’s basically a much, much better-adjusted version of yourself. Good luck.

Oh, Komi-something. You’re baseball fangirlism never ceases to amuse me. I do find it interesting that Komiyama is a lot more upfront about her passions than Tomoko is. Granted, I know things like anime and manga are much less socially acceptable than being a fan of the Lotte Marines, but her obsession does seem to be on a higher level than Tomoko has for her own interests. But if she can be passionate without hesitation, I do find myself admiring Komiyama for it.

Meme-worthy quote right here.

The framing is phenomenal in this panel. Tomoko is partly cut off, but her expression mirrors Nemoto’s. This presents the thoughts here, which are coming from Nemoto, to apply to the both of them. Can’t wait to see even more parallels this year.

This is one of those awesome developments that’s been happening in the periphery, but didn’t become apparent until a moment like this. That being, Tomoko is not only being acknowledged by her peers, but is actually influencing them in a relatively positive way. It started with Yuri, with Tomoko unknowingly encouraging her to be more expressive, and now it’s happening with Nemoto and her decision to be more honest with herself. It seems to me that the more people learn about Tomoko, the more that they start seeing some of the negative aspects of her character as potential positives. More and more, Tomoko seems to be functioning on an even playing field with the normies in her class.

Nice to see that Nemoto’s friends don’t seem to hold her dream against her. See, Nemoto? That wasn’t so bad.

Wow, I wasn’t expecting Nemoto to take such a jab at Tomoko. I know that it’s likely meant to be endearing, but unless you already have an understanding with your classmate, I can’t see how you can call them a loner without it being just a liiiiiitle bit insulting. Will this eventually lead to some sort of fallout between them? We’ll just have to see.

Hooo boy, what a chapter. I made my predictions in the last review on who I thought would be in Tomoko’s third year class, and I made my choices based on what I thought would be realistic for the series. That being, a class with some fan favorites, and a couple of underdeveloped extras. But in true Watamote fashion, we get something expected, but not unsatisfying. It may have felt a little too convenient to have nearly all of Tomoko’s acquaintances in her class, but in way, it poses another challenge for Tomoko. As her personality becomes more and more transparent, I think it’ll be interesting to see which of her relationships will improve, which will stagnate, and which will decline. The cast may have quadrupled in size, but Tomoko Kuroki will always be the center of it.

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lovelesswiki · 7 years ago

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i've really respected your creative and analytical work with loveless for years (i actually remember reading your house crossover fanfic in like 2011 maybe?) so i've always wanted to know your general take on soubi's character? if you have time and haven't already written about it before, id love to see a general character analysis!

first of all, thank you so much! it’s fantastic to know that you like my analytical work and that i have partially redeemed myself from those weird fanfics i used to write. you know how we all look back on our past fanfics and other creative work and laugh at ourselves? well that’s what it’s like with me except i wrote about a crossover between an american medical drama and a gay catboy manga and i can’t look back on it without crying in shame.

BUT I DIGRESS. thank you for sticking with me!

NOW. youve asked me about my favorite topic (i’d make a ‘my favorite topic: myself! agatsuma soubi’ joke here but i think i already made that joke in this post and also on deviantart and probably in a couple other places) but holy shit do i love talking about soubi. hes kinda my favorite character analytically. SO, LET’S TALK ABOUT SOUBI (and i apologize if this jumps from one topic to the next bc i have many thoughts on this tall child)

soubi is a very peculiar character because more than any other character in the series, he changes. beginning-series soubi is this incredibly creepy, weird, myseterious guy who constantly says the worst and most creepiest things possible and seems to prey on children and constantly asks about killing children and frustrates the reader to no end with his whole insistence that he can’t say shit about anything. see, the thing is that you’re not supposed to like beginning-series soubi. he’s a fucking predatory asshole who is creepy and weird to no end. however, people fell in love with him because this manga was marketed as a yaoi/BL manga, which made soubi fall into the bishie trope where it is completely acceptable for the ‘dominant’ character to act in a way that is very creepy towards the other characters.

so, this really, really divided people’s opinions on soubi’s character. some people hated soubi or strongly disliked him, which was close to the correct response you’re supposed to have to soubi in the first few volumes. others fell in love with him and the bishie trope and either fell off the series or were confused when soubi’s real characterization came to be. regardless, though, i strongly dislike beginning series soubi, but now that we have an understanding of his character, i know why he acted the way he did.

let me put this into perspective. agatsuma soubi was raised in a violent society. for twelve years he was completely isolated in a small town in the mountains in a school where he was taught how to violently battle other teams. this is literally all he knows. soubi himself says that he does not remember his parents well and he was six when his parents died. developmentally, six is a huge age because it’s when a child actually begins forming long-lasting long-term memories. not a lot of people remember much before they were six years old. i like to believe that this age was chosen for soubi to lose his parents because of this, but with yun i can never be sure. just let me try to believe that this was done on purpose pls.

so soubi does not remember not being in this world. this is all he knows. on top of all this, there’s ritsu. ill get to ritsu more in a bit because i fucking love talking about the horrible dynamic between these two (and i mean that in the best way possible), but ritsu completely destroyed soubi. he took a child and destroyed him so thoroughly that soubi has no fucking idea how to function without him. ritsu filled soubi’s head with the idea that soubi would lead a subservient life where he’d be nothing more than a tool. he beat soubi constantly and used him as a way to get back at akio. even then, soubi was nothing more than a replacement for something missing. and this was how soubi came to identify. as nothing. as a fighter. as someone who would never lead and who would never have any sort of power, as someone who would lead a life of pain and fear of failing. and soubi accepted this, because he was a child and knew nothing else.

on top of this, there’s soubi’s idea of love. i have no doubt that soubi wanted to believe that ritsu loved him, and the only proof of this he could come up with was physical affection that was given to him, affection that went way too far until it resulted in soubi’s rape. however, soubi doesn’t seem to think of this as ‘wrong’ because of the simple fact that he was never exposed to anything else. you can probably guess where im going with this by now.

now we have beginning series soubi. by the time we first meet him (and we don’t learn this until later), soubi has become incredibly depressed and doesn’t seem to see the point in living anymore. other units are telling him to his face that he should’ve already killed himself, and the thing is–soubi doesn’t actually seem to disagree with this. his entire argument is that he has an order to carry out, but he seems to have wanted to go with seimei. soubi is depressed and on top of this, he no longer has seimei. by this point, soubi is twenty years old and for his entire life, he has never not had someone telling him what to do. for twelve years, he was isolated in the mountains and for the past three, soubi has lived in the real world, but under seimei’s rule, where he was still heavily isolated and controlled. and in the few times he doesn’t have seimei, such as at his university, he fails miserably at interacting in a real, meaningful way with his peers and environment. to put it simple, agatsuma soubi has no fucking idea how to function in life.

we have a guy who’s never functioned without someone heavily controlling him like a puppet and who has been extremely isolated his entire life, someone who is so fucking depressed that according to kio, he hardly functioned for months after seimei’s death, and someone who’s only reason that he didn’t commit suicide was because he had an order from a dead guy to carry out. and that order was to love a twelve year-old boy.

what’s more is that, as i explained above, soubi has an extremely warped idea of love. he does not associate it with a feeling. he associates it with physical actions. so when seimei tells soubi to go become ritsuka’s fighter and to love him, soubi’s idea of this ‘love him’ thing is a lot different from a normal person’s. soubi still seems to hold onto this idea of physical affection=love even in the later volumes, but he’s definitely less insistent with the inappropriate touching and actions than he was before.

but this doesn’t fully explain his annoying behavior in the first few volumes. he was irritating, constantly speaking in riddles and withholding information and teasing and just generally being terrible. and i think one point of information is very important in examining this behavior–that soubi got worse after ritsuka repeatedly told him that he wouldn’t punish him.

basically, soubi’s behavior is like a toddler acting out when they’re told they can’t have something. except, it’s a little different. it’s not that soubi wanted it, persay, it’s that punishment is all he knows and that it’s a main mean of controlling him. this is when, i think, it dawned on soubi that ritsuka and seimei are different people. even from the first fucking chapter, soubi looks more than a little confused when ritsuka grabs his hand and asks him to take pictures with him. to him, this is absolutely not the way people (his masters) are supposed to act around him. the look on soubi’s face when ritsuka starts talking to him so casually is actually kind of hilarious.

‘this is absolutely not what i rehearsed’

to put it simply, the first few volumes of loveless are actually soubi falling apart and trying to figure out what the hell to do. he’s in an entirely new situation with himself–he’s making decisions for the first time in his life. he’s suddenly faced with the realization that he’s a goddamn adult and an adult in the relationship he’s trying to peruse. he’s older than the kid he’s fighting for and this kid is an actual kid. he’s not like seimei. i’d say that the first three volumes of loveless are soubi trying to make ritsuka into seimei or force him to act like him, because in his mind, there must be some seimei in there somewhere.

the turning point, i’d say, for soubi, is somewhere in volume 3. i usually tell people that loveless doesn’t get good until volume 4 or 5, but soubi’s turning point where he realizes that ritsuka is ritsuka is actually somewhere in volume 3. i’d actually wager to say that it might be this scene:

for anyone who doesn’t remember a whole lot of volume 3, there’s a lot of remembering of seimei on both soubi and ritsuka’s parts. this is the volume where we get soubi fully remembering the day seimei told him to go to ritsuka if and when he died. soubi seems to spend a lot of this volume thinking about his past, since it’s also the first appearance of the zeroes and thus, the first appearance of soubi’s past with ritsu, which he also flashes back to in the beginning of the volume. this particular scene with the panel that i posted above is after ritsuka finally deciphers the message he’s been given and enters the wisdom resurrection game. when he does, soubi sort of freaks out and goes over to ritsuka’s house to find him asleep on the desk. the panel above is his immediate reaction and one of the first times we actually get to see soubi’s thoughts.

when i was young, i like many others interpreted this scene as sexual, but looking at it now, it gives off a completely different feeling of soubi finally coming to the realization that ritsuka is an innocent child and cannot be and will never be seimei. and for a while, it does seem to bother soubi a little, to the point that he actually allows himself to be defeated by the zero girls soon after this scene. after this scene, there’s not a whole lot of creepiness on soubi’s part, though it does take a bit of time to taper off.

then we get volume 5 soubi, which is where soubi becomes likable. this is where you are intended, writing-wise, to begin actually liking him. prior to this, he’s creepy, but during volume five and onwards, he becomes… human. and this is because this is when soubi actually begins to develop an identity. he starts showing a personality. he becomes an actual person because at this point, soubi has begun to accept that ritsuka isn’t and will never be seimei and he begins to think that maybe–he might be free of seimei. and maybe with ritsuka, even though things are still confusing and weird, it might be okay to develop some sense of a personality. things take their natural course, and soubi does, and he becomes likable to the reader not just because we’re finding out more about him and we’re getting into his head, thoughts, and motivations, but because this version of soubi is actually written as very likable because he’s developing a personality and is not being a meaningless creep anymore whose only personality is being a creep. this is the part of the story that soubi moves into a primary protagonist spot, whereas earlier, he was working against ritsuka, who was our primary protagonist. it’s here that you, as a reader, start to want things for soubi, and it’s because he becomes a ‘good guy’ protagonist.

god, there’s so much i want to talk about in this post. let me move on a little to soubi’s past, which i talked about a bit earlier. i think i may have said this in another post, but i think the primary reason that soubi doesn’t talk about his past with ritsuka isn’t because he was told not to by seimei, because we never actually see seimei telling soubi not to say those things. soubi’s only stipulation from seimei is not to talk about septimal moon or explain anything pertaining to them. however, ritsuka does find out about septimal moon and essentially, the cat is out of the bag after that and ritsuka makes the discovery of ritsu, and actually meets him in soubi’s presence during the WR game. i like this scene a lot because soubi instantly becomes extremely cold and goes against ritsuka’s orders by typing a fucking passive aggressive insult to ritsu by masquerading as ritsuka and that is very funny to me because it’s the most stupidly nefarious thing that we see soubi do in the manga at his own volition. the best part is that soubi was fully willing to keep going if he didn’t get his fucking yelled at when ritsuka immediately found out.

anyways, soubi completely shuts up or changes the subject at pretty much any time ritsuka or someone else brings up his past with seimei or god forbid even the subject of ritsu. during the scene i talked about in the previous paragraph, soubi goes quiet and stiff when ritsu shows up, natsuo notices and is like “oh, your arm [hand] must still be hurting, so you can’t type, that’s why” and soubi’s fine to just let him think that and doesn’t correct him or anything

he constantly changes the subject when his past comes up and goes so far as to lie to ritsuka about how he lost his ears in an extra (special edition 3, i believe, there’s a link to it on the loveless drive i made). soubi hates talking about his past to the point where i am really getting the feeling that he isn’t doing it for ritsuka’s sake. let me start with this–seimei was weird. seimei knew everything without soubi even telling him. i have no doubt at all that seimei used his past with ritsu against soubi, even to passively taunt him. when soubi got to ritsuka and realized that he didn’t know anything about soubi’s past, it must have been… pretty freeing. because if a person doesn’t know, then they can’t judge you or use it against you, and soubi more likely than not thinks that it’s more painful to talk about it than it is to keep it bottled up, which is completely untrue. soubi doesn’t talk about it in an effort to protect himself from emotional pain.

and that’s the thing–soubi’s character is partially built around the concept of pain. soubi is shown to have a huge tolerance for pain, to the point where it’s just a part of his daily life. this is physical pain, though. i wholly believe that soubi’s entire character can be viewed as an argument to that ‘sticks and stones can hurt my bones, but words will never hurt me’ rhyme, because soubi absolutely cannot take emotional pain at all, and he’s put through an enormous amount of it over and over again. the physical pain was a way for him to shut out emotions, and the ownership over him was a way for him to not have to make decisions about anything, including what to feel. but now that he’s lost both of those, there’s only the emotional pain, and a lot of it.

anyways, i’m gonna stop there for now and save some analysis for other posts i want to do, but let me know if theres anything in specific you want to know my thoughts or further thoughts on!

#jacknoir #loveless #Agatsuma Soubi #ritsuka aoyagi #aoyagi seimei #minami ritsu #theory #analysis #ask #my content

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