#lol solemn promise to myself to never do that to readers again

[thenightisland]

already 12k into a Thing and decided to do a word count on the rest of the /outline/ rip me

[somewhatgreatexpectations]

Latch (Wanda Maximoff/ Reader)

Hello! Just a little background, this takes place post-Age of Ultron but pre-Civil War. Let me know your thoughts! I have some more ideas in store for this story. :)

Warnings: Just some good old fashioned angst and comfort plus some light fluff :)

“You lift my heart up when the rest of me is down... If there are boundaries I will try to knock them down.”

Despite everything in her life pointing to the contrary, Wanda spend the majority of her life believing in love. Life was cruel and took and took from her endlessly, yet deep down she believed that one day there would be more than that.

When she lost Pietro, she knew she couldn’t believe that anymore. Her only constant, the one she relied on most in this world was cruelly torn away from her. She was alone. Truly and utterly alone for the first time in her life, and it terrified her. It was clear to her that life had decided happiness was not in the cards for her. If life had decided that she didn’t deserve love or happiness, then she didn’t see a point in fighting it any longer. With steely resolve, she retreated into herself and found solace in her loneliness and the emptiness in her heart.  

Despite being a new Avenger, she refrained from getting to know anyone on the team or allowing them to know her. Wanda had established a routine that kept them all at arm’s length despite numerous attempts to reach her from each of them. This worked fairly well for a month.

Then you walked through the doors and everything changed.

Steve had brought you in temporarily to further the Avengers training with your powers as he was your mentor of sorts.  Almost immediately you were drawn to the girl with sadness in her eyes. It didn’t take the advanced skills of a trained assassin to notice that she was withdrawn and perpetually alone. Your heart ached for her. If there was one thing you understood in this world, it was loneliness. You knew what being alone in this cold world felt like and you would never wish it on anyone. You sensed it the moment you met Wanda and you wanted nothing more than to help her bear that heavy burden. To do anything you could to take that pain away from the beautiful stranger who had mesmerized you from the very first glance. As far as you were concerned, she was now your mission.

As cliché as it sounded, Wanda also felt an instant connection with you. Regardless of the connection she felt with you, her walls remained up. She made it her own mission to avoid you at all cost. Too scared to let anyone close again and unwilling to even consider taking the risk. Despite her efforts, you still managed what countless others before you had failed to do. You broke through Wanda’s walls as though they were made of paper. You both gravitated towards one another naturally and you understood that not all situations required words. She appreciated that.

In the beginning you would just sit with her and listen to music, both comforted by one another’s mere presence. Neither really understanding it, but seemingly seeking it. Eventually sitting together transitioned into small talk. Small talk developed into sharing small tidbits of one another’s life. Small talk led to deep conversations which often involved a lot of comforting. Slowly but surely you were helping her heal.  

You two quickly became inseparable. As much as it surprised the other Avengers, they were all just glad to see Wanda with a little less sadness in her eyes. To see Wanda accept help.

After a few weeks, Steve announced you had been formally asked to join the Avengers and had accepted much to Wanda’s dismay. While she had developed a bond with you, she knew that you staying meant that her already fragile heart was facing the threat of even more heartbreak. Staying meant that she would only come to care for you more. Staying meant she could potentially lose you – her last glimmer of hope in this unforgiving world.

Despite her fear, staying away from you had become impossible for her.  

It wasn’t until she learned about your past that she understood. You had been sitting with her quietly on the roof of the compound as usual, soft music playing in the background. That’s when she decided she couldn’t take it anymore. “Why?” she asked with a steady voice as she faced you.

“Hmm?” you hummed, as you turned to meet her questioning eyes, clearly confused by her sudden words.

“Why do you care about me? You barely even know me.”

You looked down and began twisting the rings on your fingers with a furrowed brow. Enough time had passed, and Wanda was about to ask again when you began speaking, your voice solemn. “Because… Because I know what it’s like to be you. I know that sometimes the only way to save yourself from drowning is to accept the hand that is offered to you no matter how much you’d rather sink to the bottom.”  

Wanda studied you for a moment, trying to keep her features neutral but her eyes gave her away. She was surprised. “And how would you know that?”

“We’re more similar than you think.” You replied, which was a cop-out answer. You were just trying to ready yourself in order to tell her of your own past.

“How?” She asked insistently.

Again, Wanda noticed you begin spinning the rings on your fingers. A nervous tick she picked up. “Before I met Steve I was a lot like you.” She opened her mouth to speak, but you merely held your hand up to signal you weren’t done yet. “I’m getting to it. I was a product of Hydra too. Not a volunteer exactly, but I never put up a fight to leave. I stayed for the promise of guaranteed safety for my little sister – Anna- if I cooperated.”

Wanda’s breath hitched. “Y/n-,”

“Hydra had taken my parents years before. I couldn’t let them take her too. Then my powers developed. Developed into something that they could use to harm innocent people. I became their new weapon… but, I couldn’t do it. I refused. A few days later they tied me down and brought Anna in th-then they took her from me. Right in front of my eyes.”

Wanda’s eyes watered, she understood your pain and she finally knew that you understood hers as well. She took your hand in hers and held it tightly. “You don’t have to tell me more.” She whispered.

You shook your head, “You shared your entire past with me. It’s only fair you know my own. After they took Anna I lost control and don’t remember much of what happened but when I came to the majority of the building was in rubble and I was ready to lose myself in the rubble as well to be with Anna once again. That’s when Steve found me. He knew what I was trying to do and didn’t let me. He knocked me out,” you chuckled slightly, “After I awoke again, he sat with me and offered me help, offered me another option in life. It was like I could hear Anna’s voice in my head and she told me to accept, so I did.”

“You accepted the hand that wanted to save you from drowning.” Wanda whispered, squeezing your hand once more.

With a small smile, you nodded. “I did. I had no control over my powers though, so Steve took me to Fury who helped me train for about a year with Steve constantly checking in on me. Now here I am. An Avenger. With you. Offering you a hand, hoping to save you from drowning.”

Wanda closed her eyes for a moment and took in everything you had just confided in her. She took note of your hand still steadily in her own. A life raft. She took note of how for the first time since she lost her brother she didn’t feel alone.

“I don’t think I want to sink to the bottom anymore, Y/n.” she whispered, finally opening her eyes and looking into yours with raw emotion. “Just- just don’t let go.”

You noticed the vulnerability in her eyes as you collected her in your arms, feeling her bury her face against your neck, her tears coating your skin. “I’ve got you, I won’t let go of you.” You whispered into her hair.

Well there it is, part 1! Technically this is a companion piece to my last story “One Day at a Time” but you don’t have to read it to understand this piece since it would be part 1. Inspired by Sam Smith’s “Latch (acoustic)” so full experience would involve listening to it lol. I hope anyone reading this enjoyed it!

[the-darklings]

—𝒃𝒖𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅;

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

word count: 13.7k+

summary: There’s only so much you can push a person before something cracks and breaks permanently. 

warnings: swearing, angst, strong violence (the usual lol)

notes: ahhhh it’s good to be back! I’ve missed you guys SO MUCH!! And I hope you all missed COA too. As always, thank you for your incredible support. ENJOY!!!

children of ares series: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | . . | 10 |

You move down the staircase quickly, your feet nimble against the concrete as you approach the large, blinding white car.

Across from you, Ares greets you with a subdued grin and hands clasped in front of her. She can no doubt read your expression, read the way your jaw and fingers keep flexing and your eyes shimmer with emotion. Beside Ares, Roberto shifts, clearly wary of how this will go, but moves to open the car door for you.

No other car you recognise is around, and if it had been anyone other than Winston himself telling you about Santino surrounding the place, you won’t have believed them.

It’s peaceful.

Or at least as peaceful as New York City can be at rush hour.

Why would you let him do this? you sign and know that your movements are sharp with anger.

Ares frowns slightly, nonplussed by your display of irritation and gives you a pointed look.

Did you really think we would just stand by and watch?

You have nothing to say in reply to that. Because if the situation had been reversed and it had been Santino, or even Ares herself, you wouldn’t have let it go either. You would have fought for them. But the mere thought of how close it all came to ending very badly cramps your stomach with an anxious, crippling sort of fear.

You don’t want to lose anyone else.

Sharing a long look, you both stand in silence for a moment before you incline your head and slide inside the large vehicle.

Green eyes watch you from behind his folded fingers that rest in front of his face. He looks solemn in a way you rarely see from him. He’s always been on the showy side. Santino likes making spectacles of his power. You imagine it appeals to his egoistical nature—his natural thirst for more, always more.

The world and everything in it is not enough.

In the seconds that take for Roberto to close the door, neither of you speak, silently observing the other with a grave sort of seriousness.

The door slams shut and the stillness between you stretches.

“Of all the stupid things to do, Santino,” you begin eventually, emotionless, direct. “What were you thinking?”

He doesn’t answer you. It takes another prolonged moment to realise what exactly he is doing. He’s drinking in the sight of you. Perhaps because he—even more so than you—realises how much of a close call this has been. Certainly the closest since Chicago.

“Why would you do this?” you demand after another lull of quiet between you, desperate for some sort of clarification.

His silence is starting to make you uncomfortable. Because it drags on and on and on. Because he is here and—

“I gave you my word, (Name). I swore to you,” he says, at last, finally lowering his hands into his lap. He shifts in his seat and the intensity of his regard makes you uneasy. Danger crowds all around you because deep down you know that right now Santino may say something that will crumble that wall between you. “Do you know how many times I have done so, and not gotten rid of the other party immediately after?”

You swallow and shake your head.

“Once,” he reveals to you, his features drawn and voice flat. “Only you. Does that adequately answer your question, carissima?”

“And if it had ended in blood?”

Something flickers across his expression; something cold and vicious and cruel. “Then so be it,” he intones softly; a cutting caress, a purr of his accent that sinks into you. “I would have torn that building apart brick by brick to get to you.”

“Stop.”

His expression creases with confusion.

“Stop,” you repeat, tighter, pained. “You don’t—I know you, Santino. All you care about is power. You will always choose Camorra first, despite what you might think. We both know that.”

His features harden at that, his eyes narrowing. There is nothing he can say because you’re right. It doesn’t make you angry or sad anymore. You have gone through this before. And you know he cares—that there is that small shred of him that’s still capable of good, and he shows it to you.

But John cared too, and he still left.  

“It’s okay. They’re your family,” you soothe with a small, forlorn smile. “You’re the blood of Camorra. What was it that you said to me once? Blood for blood? Those are your family’s words. I’m grateful for what you did, I am. More than you know but don’t ever do that again. You don’t risk your position for me.”

He sits up abruptly, his composure cracking around the edges and you instinctively tense before relaxing. His eyes rage as he stares at you, his elbows resting on his thighs and the charged silence between you hangs. His head dips slightly and his lips twist into a slight, biting smile.  

“I gave you the word of old Camorra,” he reminds softly, and leans so close you smell him—can feel the heat of him in your space. “I don’t think you quite grasp the severity of such a promise, cara. In the eyes of the High Table, I made an unbreakable vow to protect you. They could never—”

“You would have broken one of their two sacred rules to protect me,” you argue immediately, and that pang of worry you felt earlier sharpens your words. “The table would have outvoted Camorra and consequences of that—”

“I don’t care about the consequences.”

You gaze at him silently. The stubborn tilt of his chin, at that unyielding, wilful look in his eyes, the inherent pride with which he holds himself. Santino usually doesn’t care for consequences, you know that, but this is not like other times.

“Don’t you?” you whisper gently, sadly, and unleash a question that’s been plaguing you for years, knowing full well the damage it will do. “So if it came down to a choice between myself and Camorra?”

He jerks back, his previously parted lips pressing shut tightly at your question. With a flicker, the enraged worry fades and something distant takes its place. You see it happen, watch how he puts up his own wall up brick-by-brick. It empties his expression of that achingly familiar fondness and openness he shows seemingly only to you. The Camorra heir is the only thing left. A shell of a man you know. A shell that he shows others but not you, never you. Not anymore.

Chaos rages in his eyes but he doesn’t speak a word, clearly caught off guard by your purposeful backing into a corner.

There is no correct way to answer this. He cares for you. But he loves Camorra—it’s everything to him. His past, present, and future too. Regardless of how he might feel about his ties and position in it. If he means his words about protecting you, then he would have to sacrifice everything.

So maybe he cares, and maybe he wants to protect you, but you are not worth everything.

At least this time, you are not blindsided by the care of another to see that truth.

“That’s what I thought,” you note quietly and he swallows, unblinking. You try for a smile and reach out, lightly placing your fingers on his still hand, squeezing once. “It’s okay, grumpy. I would never ask you to make that choice anyway.”

You release your hold on him and move to open the door but he intercepts you, his burning fingers latching onto your wrist. Your eyes meet and his stare is frenzied as he peers at you, clearly looking for something to say.

“You. I—”

You can count on one hand the number of times you have seen Santino of all people struggling for words. But they seem to have escaped him, and you wait another moment before freeing your wrist from his hold, giving him a terse smile.

“Please, don’t lie to me,” you request seriously, and open the car door. “Not you.”

He doesn’t try to stop you again.

Unlike the last time you were here, there’s no rain. This time, the sun shines high and bright, its rays warming the skin of your cheek as you stare blankly ahead.

The ceremony is modest but Marcus has never had many friends. Such is the life of an assassin for hire. You are loyal to no one but yourself. Some have friends, others even create families but that rarely ends well unless you have the power to keep them hidden and safe. And even then, accidents happen and misfortune befalls people at most unexpected times and you know that well.

The casket sits surrounded by a sea of flowers, beautiful and lustrous, and your eyes move away, making you shift in your black dress uncomfortably. You never did sort out your problems before he—

The sun shining directly in your eyes makes your head hurt even more, and you blink the blinding rays away. The last three days have been dedicated to your work. To crushing ingredients and extracting necessary compounds for your solutions and poisons. It’s been long hours of boiling, drying and distilling different ingredients. Poison making takes time and precision. Your stock has been running dangerously low due to your busy schedule over these last few months, and this has been as good a time as any. An escape. Besides, you didn’t want to appear suspicious. It’s a known fact that you often disappear for close to a week, completely submerging yourself in work. If the High Table is watching, they will see you simply carrying on with your normal routine.

You’ve also left a message with Charon before disappearing. No one but Winston or the High Table itself is to disturb you.

Not like it has stopped Santino from trying. You haven’t answered any of his calls or texts. Or John’s for that matter. You have left them both with a simple ‘Busy working. Will speak to you soon.’ before going silent. Truthfully, you weren’t in the headspace to deal with either of them, and the many, many complications that come with them.

The last few days have been too destructive on you. Your relapse has struck hard, and you’ve been avoiding sleep unless absolutely necessary which, while hardly a solution, at least allows you time to work. To focus on something other than the abyss inside you, dark and foul. It’s easier to work yourself to the bone till you pass out from exhaustion and only vaguely recall hazy, fervent dreams than to experience them for yourself. Easier to pretend that you are happy and free and fixed now that Tarasov is dead.

Footsteps draw closer towards you from behind, and your fingers snake around a concealed blade in your jacket sleeve.

Your eyes flicker briefly to the side and you pause, the knot between your shoulder blades loosening.  

“John. I didn’t expect you to show up,” you greet, a touch wary when he comes to stand beside you clad in one of his customary black suits. “I figured you leaving the Continental meant that you’ve gone back.”

Back to his old life. Gone, possibly, for good.

Sunlight bathes him in a warm glow, giving him an appearance of an ordinary man dragged out from his life in the shadows and into the light. The curve of his shoulders is heavy though as is the subdued glimmer of pain in his eyes as he peers at the casket in front of him. The priest keeps reciting verses and for a second you think he’s not going to answer you at all. That perhaps he didn’t hear you over the loudness of his own mind.

“Marcus was my oldest friend,” he finally says after a period of stillness between you. “It’s the least I can do.”

Indeed he was.

And now he’s gone.

All because of Tarasov. All because you assumed your gamble will pay off without any problems and that Tarasov’s fury will be directed only at you.

“He never should have—it’s not fair,” you breathe thickly, pained, and your tiredness only makes the stinging pain more intense. “In some twisted way it still...it still feels like Tarasov won. He fucking won.”

Because Marcus is dead and you will never get a chance to make things right between you. Will never get a chance to apologise for all the hurtful words you have spoken to him. Or vice versa. It will stay like this forever. Unfinished. He will never know that you’re sorry and that despite you not being the best of friends, he was still someone you respected. Admired, even. At least back in the early days. Back when his and John’s abilities have seemed inhuman to you.

“He didn’t,” John’s quiet voice interrupts your troubled thoughts and you glance at him. But the man is not looking at you. His sad, dark eyes linger on the coffin. “Viggo might have taken lives, our friends, but we’re still here. We have to honour that. Not let it be in vain.”

You can’t help but scoff. Have all those years on the outside really made him this soft? Naive? Both.

“In vain...all deaths are in vain,” you remind him, your words overflowing with resentment. “Tarasov is dead too, and that should make me happy but it doesn’t.”

Because now there’s just nothing. Tarasov, for his many evil deeds and misgivings, has been like an anchor to you for years. He has been a purpose and a drive. A need to become better, deadlier, more feared. If John had been Tarasov’s boogeyman, then you would be the most vicious beast on his chain. So much so that he would go to bed every night with a fear that one day that monster might turn around and bite him instead. You’ve achieved that. The unease, the fear, his death.

Now what?

He’s robbed you of so many years. Has caused so much pain and misery. It feels like killing him thousand times over still won’t be enough. It won’t bring back your parents, won’t erase Tokyo, won’t magically fix what was broken. You thought that it might. Figured that his death would be the key to finally knowing peace.

The last few days have proven that you couldn’t have been further from the truth.  

Now, Tarasov is just another ghost haunting you at every corner.

Now, you feel adrift, purposeless.

Beside you, John shifts and you feel his focus on you.

“I know. Me neither.”

His words are a mere whisper; nothing more than a frayed murmur of still too fresh, strangled grief that’s only made worse by the fact that he’s had to bury his wife, puppy, and oldest friend all in a span of few weeks. Your heart clenches when you look at him. His expression falters only for a second before he rearranges it back into that hard, unfeeling mask you’re used to seeing but that second of raw agony breaks your own composure.

“John, I—”

“I’m sorry—” he halts, his voice cracking with sorrow. He blinks up at you before his gaze goes to the ground. “I miss her. It’s still...”

Still painful, still fresh, still a crushing weight that won’t ease no matter what you do.

You know it takes a lot for him to admit that out loud. John has always been withdrawn, mostly living with his emotions in private. It comes from years of living in a cruel world that uses any sign of weakness against you. For a moment, in the shining sun, you don’t see John from now. You see the John you knew. The younger version who would look at you with that look in his eyes. A look you could never decipher but made you feel more cared for than you could ever put into words.

“Don’t apologise,” you force out, your own words coming out a bit strangled. You hesitate before reaching out and taking his hand in your own. You let the resentment, the pain, the bitterness fade for a moment. In that instance, it’s simply about empathy for another human being. Your old friend. It’s about recognising the pain he carries and clearly struggles with processing. You wanted to punish him. Or you thought you did. But now that you’re faced with it…it doesn’t taste as sweet as you had hoped. Seeing his pain just feels as hollow as Tarasov’s death did. “You love her and it never quite leaves you. Death of a loved one. You don’t have to be strong.”

When your parents were killed, it had punctured a wound inside you so deep that it wasn’t until you met him that you realised how lost you’ve been. How you hadn’t been living at all. Tarasov had chained you to his side, and you had considered your life to be over. John reminded you that there’s more.

Once upon a time, he saved you without even realising it.

You stand, hand-in-hand, for a long time before he speaks again. This time, his voice is more placid, his control regained once again.

“You don’t deserve this.”

You can’t quite help your ironic grin, as empty as it is.

“We don’t deserve a great many things,” you remind him, your words mild, melancholic. “They still happen though.”

His fingers twitch and turn to wrap around yours more securely. Together, you watch as the casket gets lowered into the ground bit by bit.

You both know what it means to bury those you love.

What it means to lose and lose.

“Maybe—” he starts before stopping himself and you feel yourself frown.

“Maybe?” you prompt.

John visibly hesitates and you turn to look at him in surprise. He doesn’t hesitate often, if ever. “Maybe you could stop by the house sometime?” he wonders, and his words are cautious, his lips parted and expression guarded as if he’s expecting the worst possible response. “For a cup of coffee or tea. The dog was looking for you too. I think he likes you.”

You feel yourself swallow heavily. This might be an instance of tranquillity between you but it doesn’t change anything. Your initial swell of rage at his return has subsided, and you’re indeed far too exhausted both physically and emotionally to muster up much of an angry response right now. But the pain still exists, no matter how deeply buried. You can’t just up wipe the slate clean. But maybe—

Maybe.

Your eyes go back to the hole in the ground. Your thoughts go to Marcus. Marcus who died. Marcus who you will never see again, never talk to again. You missed the chance to make it right with him. And just how close did you and John both come to losing your lives only days prior? Too close.

Maybe it would be easier to let this go. Let this resentment and anger between you fade.

You don’t know if you’re strong enough for it, don’t know if you can or even will.

But how will you know if you don’t at least try?

“I can’t promise you anything,” you murmur, feeling raw from the honesty of those words. You can’t promise him what he no doubt wants. Absolution. Closure. Some semblance of hope to hold onto. But all you can give him is a chance.  

“I know,” he says quietly in return and your eyes meet. “I’m not asking for anything else. Just...company, if you are willing to offer it.”

You gaze at him thoughtfully, caught between refusal and acceptance.

Caught between letting go and being in the present, or clinging to the anger that has fuelled you—rightfully so—for years.  

You think about it for a while.

“Okay,” you speak, at last, your voice thin. You give him a tiny nod before letting go of his hand. “Okay, yeah. I can do that.”

John doesn’t smile. He doesn’t show much of an outward reaction. But his eyes lighten, something like relief reflecting back at you. You imagine it means more to him than he lets on even if he doesn’t show it, and that’s fine. You don’t exactly expect him to dance around you in circles from happiness.

Your eyes sweep over the graveyard as the people around start to scatter. “And your car?”

He hesitates again. “I have a lead. Soon,” he reassures. “I don’t want more bloodshed. Just my car and then...”

Your eyebrows arch. John looks exhausted, and you suspect it’s not his healing wounds that are the cause of that exhaustion.

“And then?”

“And then, peace.”

Birds chirp overhead as you stare at him in disbelief.

“Peace?” you echo, your scepticism clear. “You’re going to broker for peace with Abram?”

John dips his head in a nod but doesn’t look surprised by your reaction. Perhaps he knows how it sounds. After the slaughter he has unleashed, it seems tragically funny that John wants peace now. But perhaps you are alike in that sense. The blood-thirst that had originally clouded your judgement has passed, losing its previous intensity. Now, only bone-deep weariness is left.

“Yeah. There’s been enough death in the last few days,” he notes, only confirming your thoughts. “I’ve had enough of it.”

Enough.

You’ve seen so much death that by now you consider it a constant companion. But how much has John lost? He needs time to grieve. Properly. Iosef took that from him and he paid the ultimate price for that. His life.

“And if he declares war on you?” you wonder carefully, knowing that in your world, that’s the more likely scenario. “You killed his only brother and nephew.”

Winston told you bits and pieces of what happened when the news came to the High Table. The Russians, predictably, were making noise. Calling for a hunt. Retribution. The only thing stopping them was the knowledge of who had committed this massacre.

John Wick is known better to the Russians than anyone else. Healthy fear and a show of strength from John’s part are the only things keeping them back. They know better than to make an enemy of the boogeyman.

But the High Table is…wary. Winston didn’t have to say it explicitly for you to read into his deeper implication. John’s return has been an unexpected turn of events. It feels like someone has taken a large rock and thrown it into a too still pond. The ripples of what happened less than a week ago are being felt across the globe. It still concerns you that what may come back in reply will only cause more trouble.

But your conversation with John has eased your mind. He truly has no intention of coming back. He hit like a hurricane, leaving nothing but death and devastation in his wake, and will now retreat back to the other side he has made his home.

Hopefully, with time, everything will settle once again.

“If he is as smart as you said,” he says and there is something frigid about his low words. “He will take the offer of peace and live on another day.”

Or die. It goes unsaid but the implication is clear.

The last of the funeral party disperses, and the diggers get to work as you both watch in silence. The first shovel of dirt hits with a resounding, hollow sound and it pierces right through you. It grinds into your bones, crushing whatever little joy you might have felt about Tarasov and Perkins being dead.

It’s too high of a price to pay.

“He was a good man,” you remark, thoughtful and sad. Memories of his snarky, biting comments come flashing through your mind like a used film reel and you can’t help but snort. “A bastard. But a good man. Let’s not waste it.”

John is already looking at you when you glance his way and he nods his head in agreement. But before he can say anything else, his eyes snag onto something over your shoulder, and you see the previous ease of his expression drain and harden into something else. He switches from man to hunter in a blink of an eye.

The sudden change in the air between you makes you straighten subtly. You don’t have many weapons on you—you came to a funeral, not a battlefield, after all—but you also have your hands.

Battle instincts wash over you, and you push back your exhaustion, your current instability.

Inhaling deeply, you slowly incline your head, sneaking a look over your shoulder discreetly.

For the second time that day, your muscles relax.

Standing in front of a too familiar white Land Rover is Ares who is openly glaring at John. She catches your stare across the graveyard, and her glare drops as she nods her head in a greeting with a slight smirk. On the other side of the car, and facing away from you, stands Roberto. He seems to be scanning the nearby area and the retreating people with the usual scowl he thinks makes him look more ferocious.

It does. To everyone but people who know him. Those that do are perfectly aware that his personality is closer to that of a golden retriever than a wild wolf. A protective golden retriever but hardly a dangerous one unless provoked. He’s one of the very few you’ve never doubted when it comes to loyalty towards Santino. And you know—better than most—how hard it can be to work under the man. How demanding he can be. Perhaps that is why unlike most heirs, Santino doesn’t have an inner circle.

He doesn’t trust people enough to rely on their judgement and council. Nor does he need it, according to him.  

“She’s a friend,” you reassure John whose expression, unlike your own, has not relaxed. “And I need to talk with her.”

Santino must have sent her to speak with you.

You have to hold back a sigh at that thought. Sending Ares as a bridge between you is a cheap move, but at least he knows better than to push and come in person.

The thought of Santino seeing John again almost makes you bristle.

You have no idea how a reunion between the two would go. But you doubt it would be anything good.

Ares is Santino’s tested and tried method because you never refuse her. Predictable but clever bastard.

Sighing, you turn towards your old partner and give him a quick, vacant smile. “I’ll see you around, Baba Yaga.”

He hesitates as if he wants to say something else but stops himself. He nods his head once, solemn as always, and you turn to go with one last look in his direction.

Cutting a straight line through the graveyard, you get to the car in a few minutes and your hands are forming signs before you even come to a stop.

Why are you here?

Ares only stares at you as if she’s questioning your intelligence.

He wishes to speak with you.

“I have to work, Ares,” you bite out, coming to a stop before her. “I just buried an old associate of mine. I have other priorities other than Santino as well.”

She sighs, clearly frustrated and even Roberto looks surprised but masks it quickly when you look his way. You’re glad that she only brought him and not the rest of her little pack.

At least talk with him. He does not like it when you are angry at him.

“Then maybe he should have thought of that before putting you, himself, and everyone else in danger because he felt like proving a goddamn point.”

Because that’s what it was.

The only thing it could have been.

Santino may have given you the word of old Camorra but he must have known that if it had come down to it—

It wouldn’t have made a difference. In fact, it likely would have made an already bad situation worse. It was a show of power, of his pride, and perhaps it was ultimately about protecting you but it doesn’t change the fact that him risking everything didn’t make sense.

It makes you feel cold to the very marrow of your damaged soul, thinking about it.

I will never abandon you.

But he almost did. Even if by some miracle both of you had lived, you likely would have been forbidden from ever seeing him again. And that’s the best-case scenario. It would have been as good as losing him forever.

They’ve become important to you. So important. The idea of not seeing him, or Ares, or even Roberto ever again chills you.

Ares seems to have arrived at a similar conclusion judging by her narrowed-eyed almost angry expression.

It terrifies you, she signs with a deep-set frown, the fact that he came through for you. Why?

“Because I swore to myself that I will never be the second choice again,” you choke out because you would like to think that she’s one of the few who can truly understand. Because she knows how badly you suffered. She knows Santino—is one of the few who considers him a genuine friend—and knows all about the depth of his ambition. “Because I—I’m not strong enough to...”

To love. To trust him wholeheartedly. Only to be dropped when it longer feels thrilling for him. When something better comes along. When someone offers him something he can’t refuse in exchange for you, your services, just you.

You’ve been picked apart and used over and over again.

Your life hasn’t felt like your own for so long now.

With Santino, you have always stood as an equal. That’s the one fact that no one seems to fully grasp. Because they don’t know about you and him and things you have gone through together. The blood you’ve shed and the bodies you’ve buried—the hard-won trust and reliance on one another that’s taken years to build. They’ve only heard stories about you, rarely exaggerated but often twisted to fit a different narrative.

If that balance were to ever change he would simply become another individual in a long line of people who’ve tried to abuse you.

You can’t have that.

“We both know what he is,” you tell her softly, and her expression falters, the heat in her gaze cooling a touch. “And I will not ask him to change on my behalf because I know he never will. Santino is Santino, and that’s fine. I like him just how he is.”

Even the selfishness, even the cunning, even the greed.

You’re hardly a saint yourself. In many ways, you’re worse.

Ares stands still for a prolonged stretch of quiet between you. The sun warms her, bathing her face in a soft light that in return softens her features, and you don’t quite understand her expression. She looks caught between understanding and exasperation. Her crisp suit makes no noise and neither does she but what she signs next slices through you like a hot knife, burying itself deep.

He is not like him.  

You go still. In the body, in mind, in standing rooted to the ground.

From the corner of your eye, you think you see Roberto wince. He’s been learning ASL for almost two years now so you don’t doubt that he understood exactly what was just conveyed to you.

Ares, as always, holds your gaze, unashamed. She’s too direct to not mean her words or feel sorry for expressing her thoughts on the matter.

Your own expression must be caught between empty and furious.

To compare John and Santino is—

Pressing your mouth into a rigid line, you look away from her, an angry pulse pounding your head with a strength that almost makes you dizzy.

“I will see Santino when I want to see him,” you inform her stiffly. “Not whenever he feels bored and needs entertainment.”

With that said, you turn away from her but Roberto stops you this time, raising his hands in a pacifying motion. “He’s just worried, V,” the man phrases carefully, his brows furrowed. “We all are—”

Your eyes cut to him sharply and he retreats at the look on your face.

Your shoes crunch against the gravel but you don’t look back at either of them as you walk away.

If there is one thing you truly do despise about New York City it’s the traffic.

Most days it’s horrendous, and today it seems to be even more awful than usual.

Your cheek has gone partially numb from leaning against your palm for almost twenty minutes. You stare outside the taxi window, counting your breaths inside your head. The taxi driver—a man in his 50ties with silver hair and a short, stocky build—seems to instinctively pick up on the fact that you’re not in the mood to talk. Or maybe he’s just an asshole. One way or another, you’re grateful for the quiet even if it leaves you to navigate the scary landscape that is your mind.

Your previous minor headache has now transformed into a full-blown pounding monstrosity and your eyes water from exhaustion. You haven’t slept in…too long. Maybe two days. You fully expect yourself to collapse on the hotel bed the moment you get back to the Continental. There are only two blocks left till you get there but you’ve been stuck in this traffic for ten minutes now, unmoving.

He is not him.

The memory comes unbidden and makes your fingers curl into fists.

Of course, they’re not.

They’re so different it’s staggering.

But it’s easier to turn away, to run away from any possibility of happiness because it may lead to pain again. The darkness of your past still clings to you. So many wrong moves, so much shame and failure.

You still feel a phantom of that helplessness when Tarasov told you your parents were dead. Weak. Always too weak and too helpless. A little girl playing at being strong. Something has been taken from deep inside you and that gap, that hole, still makes you feel stuck in that suffocating flat. Kishi’s blood still coats your tongue when you wake up from your nightmares. Sometimes—too often—it feels like no time has passed at all, and you’re simply stuck in that loop of despair.

Helpless. Always helpless. Unable to feel, to move on like other people would be able to.

Santino is not John, and John is not Santino.

But you’ve given one of them power over you once. Trusted and believed.

Where exactly did that lead to?

The taxi crawls towards the intersection and you jolt from your deep thought, wincing at the stab of pain that drums through your head.

You would prefer not to throw up in the taxi.

A sound of screeching tires rips through the air and your head jerks to the side—

The impact slams the taxi to one side, tires screaming across the asphalt as windows shatter on the driver side. Your head slams against the passenger door, your vision going black for a moment. Your ears ring, everything blurring in front of you. The driver slumps towards you, his head covered in blood and you moan low in your throat as you try to reach for him. Your seatbelt holds you back and you reach for it—

The passenger door flies open and someone grabs your arm roughly, jerking you back. The belt cuts harshly into your chest and neck, stopping you, and instinct takes over. The figure trying to drag you out screams when a blade clumsily sinks into their arm.

You twist, every bit of malicious intent happily on display and rip the blade out, letting the blood flow freely. The radial artery bleeds heavily if nicked and the male figure staggers back, trying to ebb the flow while levelling his gun on you. You can’t see his face over the black blur of his mask but that doesn’t matter. He’s pissed and in pain—not the best combo. Using the gap of time to your advantage, you hack the bloody blade against your seatbelt.     

“Shit.”

Finally, the material snaps, and you jerk to the side clumsily, a shot missing you by inches. Your blade sinks into the man’s chest but the gear he’s wearing stops it from reaching anything fatal like arteries, heart or lungs. The man staggers back from impact though, grasping at the blade, and you pull out your pistol—a sleek and easy to hide Glock 42—and fire only once. This close up, it would have been embarrassing to miss but it’s still a messy shot.  

The man falls to the floor but your victory is short-lived.

Bullets rain against the side of the taxi and you throw yourself out of the car through the open door. Your knees hit the asphalt with a creak and you roll to the side, curling to make yourself a smaller target. If the driver inside wasn’t dead from the impact, then he sure as hell is now. Your ears echo with the loud bangs made only more deafening by the surrounding screams of fleeing people.

Shaking your head vigorously, you try to focus, snap back into now because this isn’t random.

This is an ambush.  

And you’re outgunned and exhausted.

Your fingers go to your coat, pulling out the only gas canister you’ve taken with you due to low stock and hurry your fingers when the gunshots suddenly cut out. They either hope they got you, or they know they didn’t.

The vial slots inside and you shake the canister; a few sharp, graceless swings back and forth. You only have five rounds left in your pistol. Too few.

Footsteps crunch on the shattered glass on the other side of the taxi, heading towards you and you curl downwards, waiting.

A foot appears first, hesitant, and you slam another blade into the shoe, cutting right through it and feel the blade sink into flesh, muscle and bone. Another black-clad figure jerks in agony, their aim veering to the side and you jump to your feet, ripping the blade from the attacker’s foot and sinking it into their neck instead.

The body falls towards you.

You grunt under the additional weight but use the body as a meat shield, immediately aiming your pistol at another two approaching figures and shooting them right in the face with a savage sort of speed.

Three rounds left.

When ambushed only two things matter: speed and efficiency.

John has taught you that one person can withstand a tempest and still come out victorious on the other side if they’re smart.

And you have done so again and again. This will be no different.

Someone grabs you from behind, and you careen back, your dead meat shield dropping to the ground when you’re harshly dragged back. Arms lock around your neck and you roll the slippery blade between your fingers before sinking it into the arms holding you. With a loud snarl, you rip the blade out and repeat the motion and again. Blood pours across your chest—hot and slippery—and their grip falters, giving you just enough leeway to twist your arm behind you and fire blindly.

Two left. Shit.

You turn sharply and sink the blade into your attacker’s neck to finish him off.

The body slumps to the side and—

An explosion rips through the air next to you, and you feel the shockwave of heat and smoke throw you back, your head slamming against the dirty pavement.

Everything goes white.

Your stomach coils and your exhausted body slants weakly to one side.

Don’t lose focus. Get up. Get up.

It sounds like a mix of voices, all of them anxious.

Your tongue feels thick and dry in your mouth, and the coldness of pavement sinks into your forehead as you try to roll over. Dizzy and drained and unable to make your muscles obey.

You haven’t slept in two days, hardly eaten or exercised, and your body strains under its natural limits when faced with your ironlike tenacity.

People scream in the far distance.

Move. You’re making yourself into a target. Move.

You brace yourself on your palms, trembling, and gnash your teeth together till your jaw aches. Swaying, you hoist yourself onto your knees.

Not again. Get up. Please, amore—

You straighten, determined.

And feel a cold, hard barrel of a gun push into the back of your skull.

Your body freezes, tense, and you blink, clearing your vision desperately. Ice rushes through your veins when you realise that the explosion has made you lose your pistol. Your hands are terribly empty. You can’t reach for another blade before that trigger is pulled.      

“Well, well, who do we have here?” a filtered female voice wonders mockingly, clear French accent lacing her lovely voice. “Seems like we caught ourselves a snake.”

Something crystallises inside you; a shadow, an echo of Tokyo. Of that stillness that made you tear Kishi’s throat out without hesitation, that made you hunt and kill dozens when they made a sport out of hunting you.

That survival instinct that makes you brutal, that makes you terrible.

Mock a snake and you might just get struck down.

“You’re about to make a very big mistake.”

You sound deceptively calm despite your injuries and mounting fury.

“Mistake? No. I think you will—”

Your eyes lift to the car in front of you and the blurry reflection of a figure behind you. On your knees, you appear small. Weak. A downwards angle is a major disadvantage when you have a gun pressed to your head as well.

But it’s either do or die.

You drop to the floor and drive your leg behind you. To put a gun to someone like that one has to stand close and the viciousness of your kick connects just as you suspected. You roll over immediately and reach forward to grab the hand holding the gun.

It fires.

You flinch at the loudness but it misses your head and you push yourself forward, adrenaline surging through your veins.

There is no hesitation to be found in you as you kick the woman in front of you again. This time in her leg and her stance falters, her gun firing twice more, both off-target. You use her moment of unsteadiness to drive your knee up and straight into the pointy end of her elbow.

Your knee explodes with numbing sort of pain but the satisfaction of hearing her olecranon fracture into little pieces is more than worth it. An open break. She will need surgery and weeks of healing, and that’s assuming the joint will ever heal well enough for her to use her arm again.

They wanted the Vipress.

They got her.

The woman howls; a loud, screeching sound and you drive your fist into her delicate face, silencing her. You grapple for her gun, ready to finish her off like you did her buddies earlier, but before you can grab it someone slams into you, their knee connecting with your ribs.

The strength behind the kick jerks you to the side, and you hit the pavement with a shout of pain. You suck in desperate inhales of oxygen, terrified and numb with pain. Air rushes into your lungs, and with it dizzying relief.

Not broken.  

“You bitch!”

A male voice drills into your eardrums this time, and your head drags to the side. A tall, lean man hovers around the woman, his blonde hair a halo around his head. His features are sharp, almost aristocratic in their beauty. If the woman is beautiful with her large eyes and full lips, he’s a completely different breed of terrible sort of beauty. But his expression is twisted with such terrifying fury and madness that it knocks the wind out of you even harder than his kick did.

You know them.

Or rather, know of them.

The woman with her equally blonde hair snarls at you like a wild animal, and it’s by the tattoos on their faces that you recognise them.

They both have a heart etched deep into the skin of their left cheek in startling scarlet.

The Lovers.

French hitmen renown for their brutality and utter, toxic dependency on each other. Most considered them too unhinged to hire but those desperate and in need of bloody, dirty work to be done came to them first.

You’ve only heard stories about their blood rituals and the revolting way they handled the bodies they disposed of. The torture they delighted in, and the mayhem they unleashed on anyone who so much as scratched the other.

The man—what is his name; does it even matter—makes a sound at the back of his throat when he sees the severity of the female’s injury, and throws something directly at you. You roll out of the way, your ribs throbbing and you wince, your eyes trying to locate the object that you heard hit the ground not far from you.

Beep. Beep.

Stumbling twice, you scramble onto your feet and dash towards the nearby car, clumsily sliding across the bonnet just as the explosion rips through the air with another deafening bang. The car windows shake from the blow, a few cracking and you crumple onto the pathway, covering your head to avoid any falling glass.

Pyromaniacs. Right. Forgot about that.

“Get back here, you little rat!” the man shouts loudly, his voice cracking with viciousness.

Shots fly above your head, and you reach between your legs, pulling out your last blade from the security of your inner thigh. Your fingers tremble around the familiar cool weight, and you lick your lips shakily, tasting salt and blood. Your weakened muscles twinge and twitch from the overload, and you roll your shoulders, relaxing them as much as you can.

No pain. Pain can come later. Feel nothing right now.

Flipping the blade in your hand, you go to your dress and slide the blade across your thigh, cutting the dark material clinging to your body. If it comes down to hand on hand you need the space and ability to use your legs freely. They’re far stronger than your arms—a rather annoying disadvantage Ares often uses against you in your sparring matches.

Distantly, you hear the female moan in pain and the sound of too many feet rushing closer towards you. The shots cut out and an eerie silence falls over the usually bustling New York street.

“Bring the snake to me!”

How many?

You lean down, peering through the gap between the pavement and the car, and count at least ten.

Shit, shit, shit.

Right.

Desperate measures, then.

Hurriedly, you shrug off your singed coat, pulling out your gas canister. You weren’t going to use it one or two guys. No, the more the merrier.

“You can’t hide from us, snake,” the man shouts, his voice wicked with a promise of delightful violence. “We’ll bleed you dry. Remove that pretty skin of yours piece by piece.”

His accent is not as noticeable as his girlfriend’s, you can’t help but think absentmindedly.

Usually, you would assume something like that to be an empty threat, but hearing the choked, furious bloodlust in the man’s voice makes you think otherwise.

You count your breaths, count in your head. Numb your mind to the pain raging through your side.

Uno. Due—

Sucking in a sharp breath, you throw the canister over the car with all your might. It sails through the air—not as far as you would have liked, and you recognise your mistake the moment you see the figures approaching fully.

The fumes explode from the canister. Perfect as always.

Except the soldiers are wearing goddamn gasmasks. They had known exactly what to expect, what to prepare for, and how to counter. At most, the fumes will cause confusion due to poor visibility and mild air passage irritation. Still usable since it will slow down their reactions but nowhere near good enough. Your paralyser momentarily locks down the airway enzyme functionality, usually without any irreversible damage.

But not if the victim only inhales a filtered version of it.

Panic is fleeting but stinging, and then you hurdle your mind to Plan B.

Simple.

You gamble.    

The blade leaves your fingers, finding its target in the closest attacker to your position and you follow behind instantly. The heavy vapour drowns the area and you hear the confused shouts that are followed by a couple of misguided, terrified shots into empty air.

Rules of survival say that you should never part with your weapon.

A weaponless fighter is a dead fighter.

But your blade is only a distraction; another smokescreen for the real target.

You’re fast. That’s always been your greatest asset besides your poison.

You will survive this. You will make it.  

Your body crashes into the figure, and you rip the blade stuck in his armour and drive it in his neck instead, grabbing his gun. It happens in a span of seconds and you roll when the body hits the ground. In the confusion, more barrels start seeking you out.

But you know your work. You know the density, the deadliness of it. It is your shroud. It may not paralyse them but it will cloak you like silent death.

You can’t shoot their chests. Ineffective.

But their heads are targets begging to be shot.

You straighten from your crouch and shoot upwards, the bullet knocking the nearest man in front of you straight in the jaw. Blood sprays and you shift out of the way. You grab his gun and others scatter, too worried to shoot in case they hit one another, but realising that you have no intention of coming quietly.  

The city is on your side though. No wind reaches the deep concrete jungle street and your vapour holds strong and thick.

With two guns in hand, you turn and run.

Confusion, chaos, and two dead. It will buy you precious seconds of a head start.

You’re proud but not stupid, and not about to risk your life when you’re at such a disadvantage and running on fumes.

The Continental is a holy ground of your world. Your one and only safe haven. No one can touch you there or risk the wrath of the High Table. Your only hope right now.

There’s only a matter of getting there.

You tear through the street, ducking every once in a while and zigzagging just in case any more explosions are aimed your way.

As if that thought conjures a response, a custom made explosion sails over you and hits the ground ahead. You throw yourself to the side and the bang that follows is ear-splitting. Ducking behind a minibus, you answer with your own gunfire but only fire three shots—two hitting and one missing. You know the explosion was about slowing you down, cutting you off. You can’t afford them catching up to you.

And then, even worse, you see the blonde male coming at you with startling speed, his teeth bared as he decreases the distance between you.

You fire but he’s too far away and ducks to the side too.

Your lungs are on fire, your side feels like it’s splitting at the seams, and the knee you used to break the female’s arm quakes.

Despite that, you swallow your inability, your weakness, and leave your momentary shelter, dashing in the direction of the Continental.

You’re close. So close. Just around the corner and then it’s a straight line across the street.

A shot whistles past your ear and you stumble, crashing against a car heavily before unloading an entire clip of continuous fire. Three more masked figures collapse dead, and you throw the empty gun to the side, aiming with another.

Most of the attackers disperse under the threat of bullets and you dash forward again, occasionally firing over your shoulder to keep them at bay.

The Continental walls appear before you, looming and imposing as always, and for a second you choke on sheer relief.

It adds a new spark of life into you and you sprint across the street, the stitch in your side making it hard to breathe evenly. The piercing red uniforms of the doormen greet you, and you take it two steps at a time as you run up the stairs. You crash against the glass door and jerk to the side when a bullet smashes a window right next to your head. Turning around, you fire at the blonde following you, only to be greeted by the horrific click of an empty chamber.

You throw yourself forward, lowering your head as another shot misses you and hear one of the doormen collapse behind you, groaning in agony.

He’s not going to stop.

It’s a horrifying conclusion to arrive at, but you know in your gut that it’s the right one.

For injuring his lover, this man is willing to fire at you even while you stand on Continental grounds.

Slamming your shoulder against the door, you practically fall inside the hotel. The people in the foyer are all rod still, gaping openly at the commotion. But you pay them no heed, sprinting towards the nearest table where a flower vase stands and smashing it against the ground. You grip the largest, sharpest piece of ceramic, and aim the empty gun at the door where the blonde man forces himself inside with strength that makes the glass rattle.

His face splits into a beaming, pleased grin when he spots you and his gun rises immediately, aiming at you.

“Shoot me now, and you’re dead,” you gasp out, your words dripping with agony.

The blonde’s expression only appears more eager at your words, his dark eyes burning.

“I’m going to—”

“Can I help you, sir? A drink perhaps?”

You have never felt more relieved in your life to hear Winston’s smooth voice behind you. His crisp steps come closer and he passes you, coming to stand partially in front of you. He’s in a suit as always and appears completely calm despite the situation, his arms resting at his sides. Charon steps to your side as well and you almost collapse from relief right there and then.

“Move out of my way, pensioner,” the Lover snarls, his excited expression morphing into something dangerous, wild. “The snake is mine.”

You take a hobbling step towards Winston, your invisible hackles rising when the blonde doesn’t lower his gun.

Winston tuts, the sound irritated and displeased.

“Why I am sure that your grievance with dear Vipress is more than founded, I encourage you to remember that no business shall be conducted on Continental grounds,” he states, his words clear and direct; a polite warning. “So I will have to ask you to leave.”

“I said get the fuck out of my way!”

The man’s voice pierces through the deadly silent foyer and you go rigid, rising the sharp shard in your palm slightly. If he so much as tries to hurt Winston—

“Mhm, very well,” the older man remarks, sounding bored. “Let me reiterate that in a way you can understand, then. Either you get out of my hotel right now or I will have you removed. In a body bag.”

A hush falls over the foyer and then a shift.

You don’t need to turn around to hear numerous weapons being drawn. This entire foyer would gladly shoot the blonde for breaking the rules. In fact, the High Table might even reward them for it.

And more importantly than that, the Lovers are outsiders. You are New York. And every single person in this hotel would kill for you as you would for them. It’s a deep running respect and protectiveness for your own lot. New York governs itself. It’s a beast different from any other city and crime family out there.

It’s one of the most cutthroat cities there is.

But an attack on one is an attack on all.

The New York Continental is your home.

And right now you feel its protective embrace once again.

That realisation reflects back on the man’s face, his expression twitching. He looks enraged in an unstable, worrying way but his gun lowers slowly.

“This isn’t over,” he whispers but the foyer is so quiet he might as well have shouted it. His face slackens, his skin glistening with sweat as his dark eyes drill into you. A brief, off-kilter smile twitches his thin lips and you control a shiver. “No. For what you did to my love...I will have your head on a spike, Vipress. I will wear your skin as a trophy. It was personal before but now—now, you made it so much worse. The Black Dragon is coming for you. You and Santino D’Antonio are marked.”

His fingers go to a pocket on his vest cautiously and he pulls out a slim, dark card. He doesn’t drop his stare as he licks it leisurely and drops it to the ground.

Then he turns and wanders out of the hotel without so much as a backwards glance.

A breath rattles out of your lungs, hushed and strangled, and you hate the severity of exhaustion that wants to fold your knees right away. Charon reaches out as if to steady you but you jerk back, unable to hold back your instinctive response. He does not look offended by it but you still spare him an apologetic look.

Winston doesn’t turn around till the male Lover is gone from sight. He gestures for his staff to rush and check the injured doormen before he looks at you. His eyes sweep over your figure, taking in your terrible state and he sighs wearily, his gaze sharp and knowing.  

“Making new friends, are we?”

You don’t have enough energy left in your body to answer him—not even a joke or a jibe.

That seems to be all Winston needs to determine where you’re at emotionally, if not physically.  

“Come with me.”

The gauze tightens around your waist and you flinch, your jaw clicking.

“Do not move,” Doc chides for the third time in less than ten minutes, shuffling around you as he pulls on the material again. “It needs to be secure, you know that. Goodness me, you were lucky your ribs weren’t broken.”

“Yeah, lucky,” you mutter shortly, wincing again, and stare over Doc’s shoulder, trying to breathe. “Do you think—”

A commotion reaches your ears and you go taut, your mouth snapping shut at once. Your head snaps towards the closed door of Winston’s office as you try to determine what’s going on. Doc lowers your new shirt down and takes a cautious step back too.

Have the Lovers come back for more? What now?

“I apologise Mr D’Antonio but—”

“Get out of my way,” a too-familiar accented voice hisses, furious. “Where is she?”

“Miss Vipress is being seen to—”

“I asked you where is she,” Santino snarls and you hear steps coming closer. “Does Winston only employ incompetent idiots, hm? Fine. Get out of my way. Now.”

The office door slams open with a bang and Santino marches into the room, his body coiled with rage. His charcoal grey suit flows like a dark cloud around his body, and he halts once he notices you seated on the sofa. His expression drops and he takes a second to observe you before he cuts the distance between you. From the corner of your eye, you see Ares step into the room after him, shooting an irritated look at Charon who hovers in the doorway.

But you can’t look away from Santino. Because he wears an expression of that terrible calm and that’s always worrying. He doesn’t seem to notice Doc when he comes to stand in front of you, and the older man politely steps aside.

“Must you be this theatric?” you wonder calmly, but your voice sounds worn, lacking the usual teasing note. Santino says nothing. You breathe audibly through your parted lips before swallowing. You know what you look like: torn, bruised, bloody. It’s not too different from a state you were in seemingly a lifetime ago now. “You should see the other guys. They’re a mess.”

Still nothing.

“Say something,” you breathe, desperate but faint.

Santino’s expression twitches and you see the effort it takes him to keep his face unreadable. He reaches forward cautiously, his Rolex on display, and his fingertips brush against your chin gingerly, tilting your head slightly. His fingers are searing hot against your cooler skin and you hold back a shiver. His thumb traces a little patch of your skin gently, taking in the bruises and the scratches as well as your pinched expression with a rapt sort of grimness.

He asks only one thing, his voice terrible in its coldness. “Who?”

“The Lovers.”

It isn’t you who answers him. Your eyes swing towards the door where Winston now stands, his eyebrows arched as he observes the scene before him.

Santino doesn’t drop his hand right away.

His fingers linger as he continues gazing at you for another few moments. Then his hand drops and he straightens with that arrogant twitch of his mouth, his hands sliding into his pockets as he turns to face the older man. His open worry only moments ago is locked away and now only displeasure remains.

“The Lovers,” Santino repeats softly and tilts his head in consideration. Winston enters the room and goes for his bottle of brandy, pouring himself a generous amount. “Those French maniacs?”

“That,” you begin dryly, recalling their unhinged behaviour. “Is a very apt way of putting it.”

For once, Santino does not find whatever you said amusing. He only looks at Winston and his mouth twists; displeased, irritated.

“You allowed this to happen.”

Your lips part in shock. “Santino.”

“Allowed it?” Winston echoes flatly, looking towards the Italian. “Why Mr D’Antonio I was unaware that besides being a Camorra Spare you’re also a part-time comedian.”

Santino takes a step closer and one of his hands flies out of his pocket. He points at Winston, enraged, and you exhale tiredly with a roll of your eyes.

“Then how do you explain her being attacked at your hotel not once,” he spits out, barely controlled, and it only thickens his accent. “No, not once but twice, hm?”

The older man observes Santino with an emotionless expression before taking a slow swing of his drink. “Mr D’Antonio,” he begins as if talking to a child. “Need I remind you that if it weren’t for the very rules that govern this fine establishment, then we would be looking at far more severe consequences. Besides the attack itself happened outside the Continental grounds.”

“I want their heads.”

Winston gestures vaguely with his hand. “Be my guest,” he deadpans. “Though it seems to me like it’s you two that will be sought out by them. Care to explain this?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slim black card and shows it to you both.

An image of a curling dragon is imprinted deep into the card, its eyes slashed twice and snarling face smeared with two smudges of dried blood.

A calling card. A marking.

You and Santino D’Antonio are marked.

For death.

Santino’s head snaps in your direction, his arm finally lowering, and you meet his stare evenly. In his wild gaze, you see a thousand things and your lips press into an even firmer line. You feel Winston’s eyes burn holes into you and fight to keep your own expression straight.  

“I assume you know what the Black Dragon is.”

His expression is stony and you don’t miss the scathing undercurrent in his words.

“Yes,” you say before Santino can no doubt offer something snarkier or provoking in reply. Your eyes connect again, an understanding—realisation—peering back at you. He knows what this is. What it means. “They’re janitors of the High Table. We know.”

Chicago.

Everything, always, inevitably, circles back to Chicago.

“My, my, so it’s not ignorance but stupidity that’s responsible for this,” Winston shoots back at once, his tone and stare cutting, and you see Santino scowl visibly, fighting to control his temper. “My next question then, if I may, is to ask what exactly you have done?”

You should tell him.

But Santino’s words from the warehouse attack halt your tongue.

We broke his precious rules. He will inform those who have the power to punish you.

If you tell Winston, he will be duty-bound to inform the High Table about a breach of rules. This way, at least, you can keep him in the dark and if worse comes to worst, he cannot be held accountable because he doesn’t know anything. You abhor the very idea, but you have no other choice. Not with how recent the Tarasov incident is.  

You look back towards Winston again and give him a one-shoulder shrug, trying to appear casual, unbothered. “A situation gone wrong. We’ll sort it out.”

You don’t miss a flash of surprise that contorts Santino’s face briefly before he relaxes.  

For a good reason too.

When it comes to these matters, you always take Winston’s side. Keeping things a secret puts a bad taste in your mouth.

A memory of a hotel room, a phone, a message, and a closing door pierces you suddenly, and you fiddle with your fingers.

“Honesty or nothing.”

You exhale sharply, your eyes flying to the older man’s serious face.

It’s an old agreement between you—one you swore to a long time ago. Either you tell each other the honest, unfiltered truth or nothing at all. No lies. It’s the one rule that you’ve always abided by. It’s likely the only reason why he also trusts you with any information at all. Over the years, you have proven yourself to be worthy of his trust. What he tells you stays between you.

Trust, in your world, is the rarest form of currency. You both know that.

For a tense moment you simply peer at each other, and then you offer him a lifeless, “Nothing.”

His expression hardens and he places the card on the table, more forceful than you’re used to seeing, and laces his hands in front of him.

“The Lovers are rabid,” he tells you and his head tilts as he glances from you to Santino and then back to you again. “They barely abide by the rule of the High Table. Being marked by the Black Dragon is even worse. Whatever it is you two did, I suggest you sort it out quickly.”

“Ah, rest assured, Winston, I will have Camorra hunt them down like dogs,” Santino states coldly, his hand sliding back inside his pocket as he peers at the manager with a faint sneer. “There is no place left for them where I won’t find them. È il mio cavallo di battaglia.”

Winston pulls a mock surprised expression. “Do you even have that power anymore, Mr D’Antonio? To command Camorra on a hunt like that?”

Haughtiness melts away from Santino’s expression at that and he notably hesitates.

He doesn’t.

As an heir apparent he would have had that power.

But as a Spare…

His influence now is minimal by comparison.

He may make a plea to Gianna if he believes his life is being threatened but there’s no guarantee she will offer help. Or care for that matter.  

“It doesn’t matter,” you cut in when you see the way his expression crumbles, how those words hit exactly where it hurts. “They caught me off guard today. There will be no second time. They’ll be rotting corpses by the end of the week.”

Winston shakes his head, sighing, “You’re not dealing with your average street thugs, dear. You’re dealing with something that’s far above you.”

“And it doesn’t matter,” you say again, harsher, and he takes in the fierce twist of your mouth thoughtfully, considering. “I don’t give a shit who the Lovers are or what the Black Dragon wants. They come for any of us again and they die choking on their own blood.”

A brief glimmer of a smirk appears across the seams of Santino’s mouth but you ignore it.

Winston continues to watch you pensively but doesn’t look surprised by your venomous declaration.

“And your plan?” he prompts curiously, one eyebrow lifting in an open challenge.

Your eyes drift towards the man next to you whose green eyes are guarded when they meet your own, and you force yourself to smile. “The oldest in the book. Bait.”

The penthouse is eerily quiet as you stare at the New York skyline.

The dizzying display of lights twinkle in front of you, and you focus on them. Focus on counting in your head too. With every mental number, you inhale; small, controlled breaths that don’t strain the gauze wrapped firmly around your waist. Doc has been clear. Either you rest your overworked body or he will refuse to order you any new materials.

You didn’t think the old man was capable of blackmail, but then again, you both work with some of the most powerful people on the planet. To survive that, you need to be just as—if not more—cunning.

Santino has been on the phone for almost twenty minutes now, making phonecall after phonecall in the kitchen. The wild mix of different languages has blurred in your ears by this point and you let your mind drift as you stare outside.

You don’t know how you’re still standing.

Adrenaline is only temporarily useful and tends to leave you more exhausted than before.  

It seems like you have hit a stage where your body simply refuses to shut down. Perhaps it’s a survival instinct, or perhaps it’s the knowledge that you’re being hunted.

Why they attacked you first and not Santino seems obvious at first glance.

You’re the easier target.

But maybe you’re underestimating the Lovers and whoever else is behind this. They were so organised, prepared—they’ve studied you. Perhaps the reason for such a focused effort to catch you off guard is because the exact opposite is true.

They consider you to be the deadlier of the two.  

Your tongue runs unhurriedly over your teeth, and you frown at your blurry reflection. Copper burns your tongue, and you squeeze your eyes shut tightly, reminding yourself that it’s not real.

You’ve brushed your teeth and tongue three times but the taste of blood still won’t fade.

The skin on your neck tingles suddenly and you rub your hand against it, wincing at the sensitivity of it. You had scrubbed your shoulder and neck raw in the shower, wild with desperation to get the blood off your skin.

You could have stayed holed up at the Continental.

But hiding is not how you overcome your enemies.

No, you plan on finding them. Wherever they are.

Neither Santino nor Winston appeared too enthusiastic about your plan but they couldn’t argue your logic.

If the Lovers or the Black Dragon want you and Santino, they will have to come to you and collect.

No rules apply out in the open. For either party.

Forcing your mind to focus on that line of thought, you consider your options.

“Chicago, then.”

You blink out of your stupor, looking over your shoulder at Santino who approaches you leisurely. His suit jacket is off, leaving him in only a shirt and a vest but something about his gait worries you.

He reminds you too much of a caged animal.

For a man like him, being hunted—challenged—like this is insulting. You can feel the restless energy rushing through his veins from across the room.

“Chicago,” you agree lightly, and you stare at each other for a tense minute. “But why now? Why wait so long?”

That’s the one thing that’s been tripping you up. Every time you think about it, that’s the one fact that doesn’t seem to make any sense.

After Chicago, you both waited for months to see if anything would come of it. When nothing did, you both assumed that luck had been on your side. But what was it that Winston said? Luck always runs out?

Still, waiting almost four years seems a little extreme when on a quest for revenge.

“Oh, I have theories, cara,” he says but appears too distracted. His lips part and he comes to stand in front of you. “Are you in pain?”

You shake your head, smiling faintly. “Doc gave me stuff strong enough to numb a horse. I’ll be fine. You know I had worse while sparring. And theories?”

But Santino doesn’t look reassured by your words. He focuses on your neck and your hand drops away.

He clears his throat and glances out towards the city.

“Whoever is behind this likely waited to see if I would become the next head.”

Oh. It would make sense.

Camorra is power. Camorra is the second seat at the table—one of the oldest, founding families of the High Table. Their power is immense. Very few measure up. As a head, Santino would have been a near-impossible target. He could have unleashed hell with a snap of his fingers.

“And I believe that the reason they did not attack you sooner, amore,” he begins shrewdly, his eyebrows furrowing, and you read the fury there. “Is because of Tarasov.”

You let his words sink in and look away, nodding your head slightly. “Of course,” you mumble, and it feels ridiculously obvious now that he’s mentioned it. “I was Tarasov’s most prized possession. He might have sought out retribution if I mysteriously died. Not to mention the fact that the Russians have two seats at the table. They might have demanded that the Dragon is held accountable. But if I’m not attached to anyone…then my death is a clean sweep. No consequences.”

He nods and you exhale deeply, your head dipping tiredly, and he steps even closer.

“They will not touch you,” he states firmly, quietly, and his fingertips hover over your neck. His expression is strained and you reach out, pressing your thumb against the deep, harsh line between his brows. His frown eases immediately and a slight grin twists your mouth, faint but teasing. Your fingers drop away but his own hand catches yours and he presses your fingers to his cheek instead. “Are you still angry at me?”

His question is nothing more than a faint whisper, his gaze as heated as it is guarded, and you shake your head.

“No,” you tell him frankly. “But I do want to know why you did what you did.”

He presses into your palm, even while a sardonic smile twists his mouth. “You would have me weak before you, amore? Hmm? Is that it?”

“I would have you honest.”

The fingers holding your own to his face trail upwards, and he takes your forearm, pressing a lingering kiss against your inner wrist. Something inside your chest sparks to life at the heat of his lips on your skin. He holds your gaze the entire time and for a split second, you see his eyes flicker down. Down towards your lips. It only lasts a second before he blinks, and then his attention drifts back to you. He lowers your wrist from his face but doesn’t let go of your hand.

He regards you seriously, his hesitance clear before his lips finally part.

“All my life,” he begins, his voice thick with…something. Something that you can’t put into words but his tone, the look on his face, all wrap around your heart like a fist. “I’ve been told that I was born to rule Camorra. That it's my only goal and purpose in life. That like my father and his father before him, I will rule an empire. That I had to prove myself worthy of it. Oh, amore, you know very well how I obeyed. I killed, cheated, stole, slept and lied my way through every problem. There were no rules and no price too high to pay for power.”

He pauses and you stare at him as he swallows, working his jaw. His lips twist again but it’s not a smile, not quite. There is something raw about him like this, all vicious whispers and raging eyes.

“Ah, yes. I would have bled this world if it had meant getting that seat because without it—”

He breaks off and your lips thin with silent understanding.

Because without the seat, he feels like a failure. Like everything he’s done in his life has been for nothing. It’s a matter of adjusting to life after the goal—the dream—he’s been chasing for over thirty years is taken away.

Santino clicks his tongue and looks back at you. His green eyes roam over your features slowly and the look on his face—

“Then you came along,” he remarks mildly, and there is something arresting—downright intimate—about the way he gazes at you. This man—this wonderful, terrible man—who you’ve cursed, and laughed, and cried and bled with looks at you like you’re an answer to a lifelong prayer. Like it hurts to look at you but he still does it anyway. “Crashed right into my life, didn’t you, (Name)? And I wanted you from the moment I saw you, and every moment since then.”

His words are like hands around your throat.

They are divine, and they are terrible.

“Santino—”

“Hear me,” he insists, and his free hand comes to rest against the curve of your cheek; an anchor, a rope. “This is the truth you wanted from me, bella. And the truth is this: I lost the title, but I have no intention of losing you too. So, to answer your question from the other day…neither. I have no intention of choosing between you and Camorra.”

Because he wants everything.

Years ago, back when you first started working together on odd jobs now and again, you asked him what he wanted. Back when you felt nothing but mild disdain for him, his answer had come as no surprise.

“I want everything,” he had divulged to you through heavy cigar smoke and a devilish, self-assured smirk. “And I plan to take it. One way or another.”

Selfish, cruel man.

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

Gianna had warned you.

You pull away from him, half-turning as his hands drop away from you, and glance back at him.

He doesn’t look surprised.

He never does anymore.

What, if anything, can you offer in response to that?

“We—” you choke on your words—on the excuses, the insecurities, the lies that would be easier to tell—and clear your throat weakly, trying and failing to get rid of the lump there. “We should prepare…for…if it comes to war…”

“Call in your life debt.”

Something cold settles in the pit of your stomach. It washes away the simmering heat, numbs the quiver in your heart.

Your head snaps to him so quickly, you feel the awful sting of pain slice through your nerves.

“What?”

But Santino only stares at you with that uncompromising, stubborn expression. The heir of Camorra stands before you; all business and sharp edges, unreasonable.

“Go to him and demand payment,” he voices coolly and tugs casually on one of his shirt sleeves with a tilt of his head, all arrogance. “Get the infamous Boogeyman to do something useful for once. Hm? Get him to repay for all you have done for him.”

“No.”

It comes out quicker and harsher than you intended. But the image of John’s grief twisted expression burns behind your eyelids, and you shake your head again. He’s out. It’s over. Let him live a peaceful life with his dog, away from all of this. You’re not about to drag him back into this life over your mistakes while he’s trying to grieve his dead wife and oldest friend.

Enough.

He’s had enough. There’s only so much you can push a person before something cracks and breaks permanently.

You would know.

Santino’s lips curve and he chuckles, breathless, but the look in his eyes is downright vicious.

“And why not, cara mia?” he demands, his voice almost melodic with its bitterness. “Why not?”

“He’s retired,” you force out but you can tell right away that for Santino it won’t be enough. He has resented John for too long for that to be valid reasoning. “He’s out.”

“Not good enough.”

Something flickers across his features then. A slow, halting thing that stills his usually animated body. His expression chips away till only terrible, focused intent remains. He closes the distance between you and reaches for you, for your neck, for the chain that rests against your throat.

“Don’t,” you plead weakly, and hurriedly wrap your fingers around his, halting him. He looks up at you, and you feel like you’re going to be sick. “Please—”

He jerks the chain upwards, freeing it from under your shirt and the weight at the end of the chain slides down till it bumps against his fingers.

It’s so still that you can hear your heartbeat hammering in your ears.

You can’t breathe. It has nothing to do with the pain or the bandages, and everything to do with the calm emptiness with which Santino observes John’s ring resting on the chain.

He doesn’t look surprised to see it.

Almost like he knew. Perhaps he always has.

But how do you begin to explain it?

How do you explain to him that the only two precious things you’ve ever owned are always with you this way? Close to your heart.

The silver viper rests against his folded fingers and you grip his hand. “I—”

“Do you still love him? Is that it?”

His soft question seizes your heart.

“No.”

He’s silent for a beat.

“I wish…” he murmurs gently, and looks up at you, his gaze empty. “I wish I believed that.”

He lets go, allowing the ring to fall back against your chest and turns to go.

Wanting to believe in someone should be enough.

Wanting to love someone should be enough.

But it isn’t.

It isn’t.

. . .

an: and now you know what happened to John’s ring :D

A few of you have asked questions about it but I’ve very purposely avoided answering anything for the sake of this reveal. I mean she wears it for multiple reasons but you can only imagine how it looks from Santino’s POV. 

So we’re beginning a major story arc so strap yourselves in, the fun is just starting :D And, as always, your support.....I’ve missed you guys skdjfhsd thank you so much for being so understanding! <33 all your comments, theories, fanart...wowowow. you’re all incredible. 

[lady-salvatore]

Never, Ever (The Proposal)

PART ONE PART TWO

Pairing: Stefan Salvatore x Klaus Mikaelson x Reader

Desc.: Part three to Never, Ever, in which Klaus proposes.

Notes: I’ve had too much fun with Never, Ever to end it in 2 parts... this will have to be moved to ‘series’ on the masterlist lol

It had been three years since you and Klaus reunited.

Maybe it seemed too soon to some, but Klaus had been waiting a century to be with you again, to make you his forever.

“Do you think she’ll like it?” Klaus asked softly, careful not to be heard.

Elena, who had become your best friend in the past years, marveled at the large diamond ring Klaus had chosen. “She’ll love it. But... Klaus, can I be honest?”

Klaus nodded.

Elena’s dark eyes turned solemn. “(Y/N) may not seem like it, but she’s not a forgetful person. She forgave you, but she’s always scared.”

“Scared that I’ll leave again,” Klaus muttered, staring down at the ring. “I just wish I could show her how I feel for her.”

“You need to show her that you’re not going anywhere,” Elena replied. “Then, the proposal will take it the rest of the way.”

Elena turned to leave Klaus’s Mystic Falls home. “By the way, you have my blessing.”

“I didn’t ask.” Klaus glared at her.

“I’m the closest thing she has to family,” Elena replied. “You should have asked me for her hand.”

“Don’t act like you’re from a previous century. I’ve been in ten of them, I didn’t find you in one.”

Elena laughed. “It’s weird working with you. The things I’d do for (Y/N)...”

Klaus smiled. “I feel the same.”

-

It had been three years with Klaus, and he hadn’t left you yet.

But every day, you were put through the pain of missing him for a century. The part of you that had been locked off when he compelled you had lived a hundred years, too, and that part tortured you every day.

You stared out a window in the Salvatore Boarding House, which you miraculously never got kicked out of, chewing on your fingernails.

“Hello, breaker-of-my-brother’s-heart,” Damon said from behind you.

You sighed. “I’ve apologized every day for three years. Stefan’s moved on, why haven’t you?”

“Stefan lost a fiancé, I lost a sister.” Damon downed his bourbon.

You turned to him. “Damon, darling, I still see you as my brother.”

He smiled, only a little. “I know. But you’ll always be an almost.”

“I hate almosts,” you whispered.

“Uh oh. Trouble in Mikaelson Paradise?”

You sighed deeply. “Something like that. I’m almost healed. The pain is almost over. That’s what I tell myself, but it’s only almost true.”

“What, about Klaus?”

“Yes,” you muttered. “I keep missing him, even while he’s here. And it hurts. I just keep thinking about him leaving me.”

Damon laid a hand on your shoulder. “I know.”

You looked into his blue eyes. He did know, and maybe he was the only one that would ever understand. After all, he carried a torch for Katherine Pierce for much longer than a hundred years, and he remembered every moment of it.

You placed your hand on top of his. “I’m so sorry.”

“You can’t change the past,” Damon said, shrugging. “You just have now. But you don’t have to spend your whole life scared. It’s your choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’ll hurt, but you’re allowed out. If you can’t get past it, nobody’s stopping you from leaving him.” Damon’s blue eyes were dark. Over the last three years, nobody had ever told you that. You choosing Klaus three years ago was, to everyone you knew, choosing him forever.

You leaned into Damon, and he put his arm around you. “You’re wise beyond your years, big brother.”

“Is it really wise beyond my years if I’m, what, a hundred and fifty-ish?”

“Yes, because you look twenty four.”

-

How do you prove to someone that you’ve loved them a century, and that will never change? How do you show them you’ll never, ever leave again? How do you make a promise that seems so hard?

How could Klaus summarize every minute he ever loved you?

He glanced over to his paints, and smiled.

-

You hadn’t heard from Klaus for three days. Every time you called, Elijah told you that he was wrapped up in his studio.

You were desolate, and so desperate just to hear his voice. If you could hear him say he loved you, it would be true.

Finally, he did call you.

“Hello, love,” he whispered through the phone. “Will you do me a favor?”

You sighed softly, just happy to hear him. “Depends.”

He laughed. “Put on that black dress you wore on our second first date.”

You chuckled. “And what’s this for?”

“You’ll see.” You could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “I love you. See you soon.”

“Love you too,” you said and hung up.

You got ready, same as you did three years ago, putting on that slinky black floor-length dress.

Klaus didn’t come to pick you up himself, he had one of his hybrid drivers come for you.

You were confused when the driver didn’t pull up to Klaus’s house, but instead pulled into the forest.

You climbed out of the car. Little yellow Christmas lights hung from the trees like fireflies in the dark. You followed a graveled path— difficult in heels— until you came to a clearing.

In the center of the clearing, Klaus stood in his tux next to a canvas with a black veil over it, a smirk on his face.

“Hello, love,” he said.

“Klaus,” you whispered, looking around. The ground was covered in red rose petals. “This is beautiful.”

“It isn’t half as beautiful as you,” Klaus replied, suddenly curling his arms around your waist from behind. He pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder.

Your heart thumped wildly in your chest as you turned to look at him. “What’s this for?”

Klaus smiled, his dimples showing. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you giggled, turning in his arms so you could look up at him. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

Klaus cradled your cheek in his hand, his blue eyes suddenly somber. “I feel terrible for abandoning you.”

Your eyes widened. “Klaus, it was a hundred years ago.”

“It’s still hurting you, is it not?” He raised an eyebrow.

You frowned. “I know why you left. It was to protect me.”

“Yes, it was,” Klaus said. “But it was wrong of me not to give you a choice in the matter. I didn’t consider how it would feel if I came back, and that was selfish of me.”

“You sound like Elena,” you muttered, stroking his jaw.

He laughed. “I suppose I do.”

Klaus swayed with you in his arms, twirling you around and around.

Then, hesitantly, he whispered into your ear, “it’s late.”

The night air felt like it was sparkling around you. You remembered that last night in the twenties. “I’m never going home, Nik. Never, ever.”

You heard his heart pick up a beat. “Never, ever it is.”

He stopped dancing, and pulled you at arms length. “Speaking of never, ever... I want to show you something.”

He turned, staring at the large portrait in the center of the clearing. Klaus moved to stand beside it, and unveiled it.

You gasped, your hand over your chest.

It was a painting of you.

You, as you were in the twenties, with (H/C) hair in short curls, skin glowing. You, with red painted lips. You, dancing, with a bouquet of red roses in your arms. Your eyes were closed and you were dancing in delight.

“This,” Klaus whispered, “is what I’ve remembered every night for a hundred years. This is what kept me going. This image of you... You are, by far, the best part of my existence.”

Then, he got down on one knee and pulled a sparkling diamond ring from his pocket. Your eyes filled with tears.

“(Y/N), my love, my life without you was torture. I never want to live that way again,” he said, tears in his eyes. “Never, ever. Will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

Damon’s words rang in your head. You could leave. You could run from the fear of abandonment.

But only for a second. In that second, you realized something— life would never be as sweet, never as beautiful, never as full without Klaus in it.

“Yes,” you cried. He leapt from the ground and held you in his arms, spinning you in the air. “Yes, every day forever!”

The both of you held each other that night, silently, both gazing at the ring on your finger. You would always mourn the century with Klaus that you’d never have.

But new centuries begin all the time.

-

TAGS: @going-insanx (you can ask to be added/removed from the never, ever taglist)

[hqwkeyes]

Hey I loved you’re Natasha fic!! Would you maybe write one with R super worried about Nat cause she gets news that Nat’s mission went bad or something like that but with a happy ending? Angst to fluff is my favorite lol, thank you!!!

Wounded

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Word Count: 1,897

Warnings: injury, mentions of blood (literally one line), slight angst, fluff, Peter being cute

A/N: Hi there! Thank you so, so much to the anon who requested this! I’m so glad you enjoyed my last Nat fic (it means a lot to me!), and I hope you like this one just as much! Also, there isn’t too much angst because I didn’t want to make myself cry (I’m sorry). I hope everyone else likes this as well! Happy reading!

You received word from Steve about an hour ago and haven’t stopped pacing around the exit to the launch pad since then. They should be arriving soon, so why isn’t the medical team out here ready to meet them yet?

As if on cue, you get a message from Sam stating that they are five minutes out and that they will be bringing Nat up to the med bay themselves. You tell him that you will be waiting for them when they arrive on the quinjet.

They arrive two minutes earlier than expected, rushing Natasha out on a stretcher. Steve is swiftly yet carefully wheeling her inside as he tells you to stay downstairs while the doctors work with her and that Bucky and Sam will fill you in. Clint comes in behind them, helping Steve get her upstairs as quickly as possible.

You try to follow them, but Sam grabs you by the arm.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. Cap’s orders,” he tells you, earning him a sharp glare. He and Bucky sit you down in the common room and begin telling you the details of the mission and where things went wrong.

“We were supposed to be in and out, Steve and Nat go in as a team and then split up. He got the weapons and she retrieved the stolen intelligence files,” Bucky explains.

“Clint and I were lookout and getaway, and Bucky was backup. The whole mission went well until we were all heading back to the quinjet,” Sam tells you with a solemn look on his face.

“Steve and Nat were exiting the building when I heard shouting. They must’ve heard it too because they bolted, and she damn near knocked me over in the process,” Bucky says with a light chuckle at the end.

“Anyway, the guards came outside and started shooting. I think Steve was grazed by a bullet but he wouldn’t let me check it out. It’s probably healed by now anyway.”

“Can you get to the part where Nat got hurt?” You know you should be more patient with them—less rude, too. They understand, though, and Sam picks up with the story again.

“Yeah, sorry. She was below me but then she just went down. She got back up quickly and kept going, but she was shot two more times. Apparently there were snipers on the roof, but they couldn’t have been that great because neither of them got a kill shot in.”

“So she got shot three times? The leg and where else?” Your tone is demanding.

“She’s gonna be fine, Y/N.” Sam’s voice is calm, and the hand on your shoulder brings you back to Earth for a moment.

You nod. Stand up. Pace around a bit. Then, you make a break for the elevator.

Bucky is fast on his feet, catching you at the metal doors that just began to open. He holds you against his chest, not to restrain you, but to soothe you—it is a warm embrace.

She cannot die. She cannot die. She cannot die.

You don’t even realize that you’re crying until you pull back and notice the tears staining Bucky’s shirt. You mumble an apology, but he offers you an understanding smile. You bury your face in his chest again, and he holds you there for a while. Sam joins in too, hugging you.

Not too long after you’ve settled down—to the best of your ability, at least—Clint and Steve came in. Steve’s arm was bandaged up, likely from the graze that Sam mentioned earlier.

“She just got out of surgery a few minutes ago. Dr. Cho said that everything went better than she expected it to and that Nat will be asleep for a little while,” Steve tells the whole group, but he faces you. He knows how stressed you must have been the past few hours.

You audibly sigh in relief.

“Doc said to come back in the morning. She should wake up then,” Clint adds. You engulf him in a hug, and you can feel the vibrations through his chest as he chuckles, wrapping his arms around you.

“You okay, kid?” He asks as he pulls away, and you nod.

“She’s a fighter,” you mumble, and he ruffles your hair.

“Damn right, she is. I took out the assholes who shot her while we were retreating, though.”

“Of course you did.” For the first time today, a genuine laugh escapes you.

“It’s getting late. You should get some rest, Y/N. All of you should. It’s been a rough day,” Steve says in his Captain voice, and Sam whines like a child about not wanting to go to bed yet.

You decide to take his advice, bidding everyone goodnight before getting ready for bed. Rather than sleeping in your own room, though, you fall asleep in the chair at Natasha’s bedside. You feel safer by her side anyway.

The following morning, you’re startled awake by someone shaking you. You look up to find Sam, a small grin on his face.

“I should’ve known you would come here,” he says.

“I couldn’t sleep without her.” Your statement is paired with a slight shrug. Sam’s smile widens as Natasha stirs.

“I’ll come back in a bit with the team,” he tells you, patting your shoulder before exiting the room.

“Thank you, Sam,” you call to him.

“No problem,” his voice echoes from down the hall.

You turn to see Natasha’s eyes fluttering a bit, trying to open but failing a few times before finally getting it right. She lifts an arm, shielding her eyes from the light. You immediately dim the lights in the room to better suit her eyes. She looks over at you, slightly alarmed. Once she realizes where she is and that you’re here, she visibly relaxes.

“Hi baby,” you say softly.

She tries to speak, but her voice is hoarse and her throat is scratchy. You’re quick to get her a glass of water, helping her sit up a bit to take a sip. She’s wearing that smile that she’s reserved just for you when she’s finished drinking, and you could swear it could light up the whole compound, let alone this room.

“I got shot,” is all she says, smile still plastered to her face. A breathy laugh leaves her lips, and it’s the prettiest sound you’ve ever heard.

“I know. Sam and Bucky told me what happened on the mission.”

“Did you sleep here?” Her voice is soft, still recovering from not being used for a while.

You nod. “I couldn’t sleep without you,” you tell her bashfully. She stretches an arm out and places her hand on your knee.

“I’m glad you were here.” She takes deep breath before scooting over in her bed to make room for you. You scold her for moving too much when you notice her wince, but she dismisses it as she pats the spot beside her.

You noticed a thick bandage wrapped around her shoulder, so you deduced that she must’ve been shot there. Carefully, you climb into the bed beside her, as you don’t know where her third wound is. You decide to ask, and she points to her abdomen on the lower right side.

“You really are a mess, huh?” you joke, and she begins to laugh before she winces again, nodding slightly.

She’s softer right now, more vulnerable. She lets her walls down around you and only you. Okay, maybe around Clint, too, but not to the same degree. You love it, though; you get to see a side of her that very, very few people have the pleasure of seeing.

She’s playing with your hair when your eyes meet. A smile breaks out on each of your faces, and you lean down a bit to kiss your girlfriend. Despite all that she’s been through in the last 24 hours, her plush lips still somehow taste sweet.

A quiet “aww” pulls the two of you away from each other slowly.

Natasha’s face lights up when she sees the entire team standing there, including Peter, Scott, and Carol.

“How’re you feeling, Romanoff?” Tony asks.

“Like I’ve been shot three times,” she deadpans, and you can hear Sam snickering in the back.

Peter leaves a vase full of flowers and a Get Well Soon balloon on her bedside table.

“Oh, thanks, Pete. You didn’t have to do that for me,” Natasha tells the young boy, her cheeks dimpling as she smiles.

“Oh, it was nothing. I’m just really glad you’re okay.” She gives him a light hug, and Steve is chuckling at the fear in poor Peter’s eyes—he’s afraid of hurting her.

Everyone sits around the room and chit chats for a while, with Wanda and Carol sitting at the foot of the bed, minding Nat’s wounded leg. Clint is sitting beside Nat, holding the hand that you’re not and stroking her hair.

Dr. Cho comes in a little later to tell her that the she’s going to put her in the same chamber she used on Clint a few years back to regenerate the tissue later on in the day.

The gang all leave to get lunch, despite Peter’s wishes to stay back to hang out with Natasha and yourself. Steve wanted the two of you to have a little bit more alone time, and he promised to bring something back for the two of you.

There’s a deafening silence in the room once they’re all gone, and it gets you thinking.

“I really thought I was gonna lose you,” you confess. “I-I saw all the blood dripping from the stretcher, and the rags—Steve tried to hide them from me but I saw them. I was so worried, I almost took Bucky down to get to you.” That last part gets Nat laughing again, but this time she laughs through the pain.

“I’m right here, my love,” she whispers, and you close your eyes and relish in the sound of her voice; the voice you thought you might never hear again.

You press a feather-light kiss to her forehead.

“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you,” you mumble.

“You don’t have to. I’m right here, Y/N. I’m not going anywhere. Some amateur snipers can’t take me down for good.” Her tone is serious, her grip on your hand tightening.

“Look at me,” she tells you, tilting your chin to face her. “I’m right here. I’m okay. In fact, I’m more than okay because I have you here, and a supportive family getting us lunch.” The last part earns a laugh from you, which brings a smile to Natasha’s lips. She leans in and kisses you again, cupping your cheek with her free hand—the one on the arm that isn’t wounded.

The jingling of keys catches your attention as well as Nat’s, and you both pull away to see who’s in the room.

“Sorry, Steve forgot his keys,” Bucky mumbles awkwardly before leaving the room with a wave. The two of you wave back, giggles spilling out into the hallway for him to hear.

Natasha leans in and kisses you again. The kiss is short and sweet, followed by a peck on your nose.

“I love you,” she says, gazing into your eyes.

“I love you too, baby,” you say, grinning broadly as you gently tug her closer to you, cuddling until your food arrives.

[spajonas]

Happy 4th Anniversary In Publishing!

Here we are! I have made it four years in this business, amazingly so. Can you believe it? I can’t. Some days I feel like I’m still a brand new author! I went back and re-read last year’s post to get a handle on how things have been since then and I’m surprised by how positive I was. I had a rough 3rd year and I was able to put a real positive spin on it. This year was equally hard, and I do have a few positive things to say, but I also have to reset expectations for the coming year.

Here is the TL;DR for below, in case you need it. I’m pulling back to part-time status, and I’ll only be publishing three books per year.

Please feel free to go back and check out my posts from Year One, Year Two, and Year Three if you want to see how far I’ve come. As ever, I will do my best to be as honest and transparent as possible.

• • • •

It’s my fourth year in this business, and again, I invested everything I made back into the business

Which means I wasn’t able to pay myself a wage again. In gross terms, I did better than the year before. My gross was around $3500 (for the whole year) but I spent almost all of that on ads. Despite working hard on every bit of ads, they don’t seem to have made a difference.

Just take a look at my top earning book for the year, and then the bottom earning book.

There’s a big difference here, and the book that I spent the most money on, SUMMER HAIKUS, between the covers, blog tour, ads, and editors, only sold ONE book in a whole year. ONE.

This is because visibility is hard to come by. And if you’re a small fry author like me, you have to pay for it. At this point, I don’t think it’s worth it.

Here’s why… I never saw any sell through to my other books. If I were gaining new readers who were interested in me, they’d be buying up my back list. And that just isn’t happening.

Every day, I see authors I know making $10k a month and not spending that much on ads. Then I know plenty others that ARE spending a lot of money on ads, but they’re making a healthy profit, an ROI of 150% or more. Then I meet new authors who have two or three books out and they’re making a few grand per month. Many of them without any prior platform or audience. Huh? Wow. That’s awesome, but that’s so not me, and I don’t know how to change it without fundamentally altering everything that I write or care about.

Information on how to really succeed and get somewhere in this business, besides knowing the basics and doing ads, is confusing and contradictory. One person says it’s all about ads. Another says it’s all about writing to market. Another swears by hand-selling at conventions. I was in a fairly popular author group earlier this year run by a NY Times Bestseller, and she said she doesn’t do any advertising. She told me personally, replying directly to my comment, that HER method works and it sells books. I was skeptical but excited that she was talking directly to me. I wanted to know what her method was! I want to write and reach my audience without having to constantly tweak and write ads. I asked her, “What’s your method? I’m excited to learn!” Nothing. She never responded. This is probably because she’s putting together a course to sell to authors and doesn’t want to give the information away for free. I see it happen all the time.

Okay then. Moving on.

I’m treading water and it’s exhausting

So, I have decided to scale back and make this whole publishing thing more of a part time job.

Why? Because it’s obvious I’m not getting anywhere. I’m treading water. How long can you tread water? Me, only about a two years before I begin to question my sanity. I love writing and I love the series I’ve created and the series I want to write, so I’m not going to stop, but something has to give.

Let’s look at some of the reasons I’ve decided to scale back…

1) I can’t write fast. I’ve tried to write fast and it all comes out like crap, even with revisions. I will NOT write crap for you all. I refuse to give you an inferior product. That’s my solemn promise.

2) I can’t grow my advanced reader team because no one new wants to leave reviews. I’ve asked my mailing list several times for advanced readers. Either no one signs up or I get one or two people who have never even read my work, want free books, and don’t know how to review on Amazon. I think that’s a sign.

3) I can’t seem to grow my newsletter with people who are interested in me and my work, not just free books. I did a reader survey this past year and a sizable amount of people on my list have never read one of my books. A large number of people indicated they would never pay for my books. And then, I get people who email me and tell me they want more free books. I already give away a lot of books, but they want more which I can’t sustain.

4) I spend tons of money advertising my books and I don’t make back my money. I was basically losing my shirt every month on ads the earlier part of this year. I’ve had to stop Facebook ads, and I’m scaling back my Amazon ads to manageable amounts. Still, I have never made a profit on this.

I knew all four of these points over the summer, but I was waiting to see how the launch of CRASH LAND ON KURAI would do. Thankfully it did well enough. But the sales never outpaced my ad spend, and I didn’t make a profit on the book like I thought I would.

So, I decided to call in the big guns

Three weeks ago, I got on the phone with a real professional in this business, someone who knows what he’s talking about. He had gone over my ad spend, looked at all my books, and helped me make plans to soldier into the future. Then he asked, “Let’s go back and look at a month when you did really well. Tell me the last time you made over $1000 to $2000 in a month and we’ll go over the numbers on how you can do that again.”

Uhhhh. *crickets* I had to break it to him that I’ve never made $1000 a month. Some years I don’t make $1000 in one year, not even gross. He was speechless. According to him, I have great covers and I’m a fabulous writer, I should be making a few grand a month.

That was news to me.

And that’s when it hit me. I defy all conventional wisdom in this industry. I can do everything right and still get it all wrong. I told him, “People tell me my books don’t sell because they’re about Japan.” And he told me, no. That can’t be it. So…?

Now what?

Now, it’s time to make solid plans

Most people would just give up at this point. I know I’ve thought about it several times. But like I said above, I love writing and I love my worlds and publishing my books for my limited audience. It’s time to be realistic about my plans for Year Five.

Last year, I said I would write what I wanted, when I wanted, and I’m going to continue that.

From now on, until things change, you can count on three books a calendar year from me: one mystery and two sci-fi.

So far this calendar year of 2017, I’ve published one mystery and one sci-fi. I have another sci-fi coming up that I’m excited about it! And you can also expect the next Daydreamer Detective book in January 2018 (it’s up for pre-order, in case you missed it.)

I also want to go back to writing more on the blog and being here more often. I love this place and I still have readers here. I want to provide content for you!

That’s it. I may write more, and it’s doubtful I will write less. This is a good pace for me. I don’t participate in anthologies or multi-author box sets because most are not a good fit for me and the organizers are not interested in my work. I occasionally write short stories, so maybe you’ll see some from me, but no guarantees.

What else will I be doing with my time?

Let me be clear that if I were killing it at this author thing, I’d be doing it 11 hours a day forever and ever. I’m a workaholic. I love being busy. I know authors who do work those kinds of authors. They’re successful and they work so hard, but they love it because they’re selling books. So, while I will be writing in my worlds and publishing a few books for you every year, I will also be trying some new things for me and going back to old loves.

I miss knitting. I put it on the back burner for a long time so I could concentrate on writing. It’s time to bring it back. It’s fun. It’s for me. And there’s so much out there for me to try.

I’d also like to learn a new hobby, but I’m not sure what that will be yet. I’m not especially crafty, so I thought maybe I’d learn something like a card game. My parents would be so happy if I learned Bridge. Lol. And now that my kids took pottery at the local museum, I’ve also been thinking about trying my hand at it.

This might also be the time for me to get back to my Japanese language skills. We shall see. I’m sure I’ll have plenty to talk about here on the blog!

There’s so much more ahead!

Even though I’m scaling back for publishing, I have a million stories in my head just waiting to hit the page! I can’t wait to write them all. I’m also looking forward to trying out new hobbies and other creative pursuits that will keep my writing brain happy.

I’m excited for Year Five! BRING IT ON!!

Happy 4th Anniversary In Publishing! was originally published on S. J. Pajonas