#thinking so much about how knuckles also has ptsd from losing a loved one and it manifests in a completely different way than Sonic

[butterflyscribbles]

“I just wanted you to know that….”

[yes-ihavealwaysbeengreen]

May I please request a HC or would include of what dating Will would be like? Please and thank you! ♥️

I woke up early and in a Will mood. :) Also, this is like my favorite gif...the little tongue lick...

Warning: Language, mentions of PTSD, mentions of sexy times. 

My Masterlist 

Dating Will Miller Headcanon 

- Will is careful who he lets close. He was so sure he would marry his ex, he proposed, but then the incident at the grocery store happened, and she left him high and dry. Causing the soldier to shelter what was left of his heart from possible heartbreak. 

- You meet Will and instantly form a kind of bond with each other. You are both quiet and think before you speak. The two of you are almost able to have an entire conversation without saying a word. Your brains already working like one and knowing what the other is thinking. 

- He doesn’t want to lose this friendship with you and struggles with letting his feelings out. So instead he writes you a letter and leaves it on your desk for you to find. When you read it, you run to go find him so you can tell him the truth; you are just as crazy about him.  

- Dating Will is wonderful. He knows everything about you because he listens and observes. It’s what made him such a good soldier. When you come home from work, there are your favorite flowers on your porch; he brings over your favorite food and cuddles you on the couch with your favorite movie—all of this without telling him a single thing. 

- And for a man who knows everything about you, that translates to the bedroom as well. He knows exactly what to do to draw out that blinding pleasure from you. But you give as good as you get, loving to watch his composure snap when you flip him over and ride him or teasing touches against his thigh in the truck. Watching his hands tighten on the steering wheel and his tongue coming out to wet his lips.

- Will loves to remind you how much he loves you. In the little actions, he does around your house. He’s hopeless with fixing anything, but he tries. And it always turns him on when he realizes you are much handier than him and can fix just about anything. “My woman is a warrior; she can do anything,” he praises before pushing you into the wall and wrapping your legs around his waist. 

- The boys and Benny love you. Will always brings you for nights out with the boys, and you love sitting beside him, his arm slung across your shoulders, tracing patterns on your arm. He makes eyes at you across the room when you go to refill the drinks, and it sends a spark of heat between you. 

- Will is a warrior, and you want to share that side of him with you. When you ask for him to teach you how to shoot, he eagerly agrees. Admitting that he worries about you home alone without a weapon. He teaches you everything before he ever puts the gun in your hands, how to take it apart, clean it, and respect for the weapon. And when he takes you to the range, and you watch his arms ricochet from the gun, the power he wields...

- You don’t make it home instead of choosing to fuck him in the darkened parking lot of the range, in the front seat. 

- Benny teaches you some self-defense as a sort of bonding with his brother's girl. You feel pretty confident at the end of the lesson, and it thankfully comes in hand the next time a man chooses to put his hands on you at the bar. Throat punching him and knocking his legs out from under him. The boys watch wide-eyed and open mouth from their table when you walk back over. 

- “Baby, you okay?” Will asks hurriedly, collecting you in his arms. “She’s a fucking warrior Will, aren’t you, honey?” Benny chuckles, and you nod. Will holds you tighter, and you don’t question it when he leaves a few moments later and comes back with a tinge of blood on his knuckles. 

Out of all his brothers, Will has the most noticeable PTSD, and it comes out on occasion. But you don’t scare easily, calling his therapist and going with him to the appointment. You even make a second appointment just for yourself to learn some strategies to help him and notice the signs. 

- The next time he has an episode, you can tell, and you quickly leave the cart in the aisle and usher him out the door, holding his hand and counting. When he gets in the truck, you straddle him in the truck and put his forehead to yours, breathing deep and counting. This time when it’s over, you remind him you love him, and you’re not going anywhere. 

Taglist: @chicken-ona-stick @agirllovespancakes @jedi-mando @ghostwiththemostbitch @the-purity-pen @paintballkid711 @wasicskosgirl @fantasticcopeaglepasta @sarahjkl82-blog @boxdyeblonde @rosiefridayrogersunday @yeah-seems-legit  @mimimi-stuff @lunarthoughts @jedi-mando @idreamofboobear @aerolanya @rebelliouscat @veracruz-djarin @marvelprincess1994 @thirstworldproblemss @spacelatinoss  @martellthemandalor @kesskirata @waatermelon-sugaar @jitterbugs927 @helga1031  @greeneyedblondie44 @mamacitapascal @oldstuffnewstuff @yespolkadotkitty @heythere-mel @justanotherblonde23 @artsymaddie @anetteaneta @aellynera @lucifer- @houseofthirst @phoenixhalliwell @demoncrypt1066 @peterhollandkait @meshlamando @xjustmenobodyelse @blufanfictionthings @nicotinebirds @queenbbarnes @itspdameronthings @gunslinger2000 @omlwhatamidoinghere @linkpk88 @tlcwrites

[the-darklings]

—𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓'𝒅;

—PART XV. | BE ALL MY SINS REMEMBER’D

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

word count: 20k+ (the longest yeah boi ever)

summary: “One day you will thank me for this.”

warnings: PTSD, unhealthy coping mechanisms, self-destructive behaviour (aka your girl is absolutely going through it but it will get better), angst, swearing, some suggestive stuff happens in this one.  

notes: might have taken 3 weeks & lots of rage but WELCOME TO CHICAGO PART 1! 

children of ares series: 01 | …. | 13 | 14 | . . | 16 |

gif credit (x)

“Father, please—”

“Quiet.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. That’s the worst thing. He doesn’t have to. One word and it’s like the air has been sucked out of the room.

You look towards Gianna but she looks only at her father, her expression blank.

Cassian is tense as a bowstring next to her. There is conflict in his expression but he is Camorra. He is sworn in and regardless of the friendship you’ve built—

“You will depart this household at once,” Giovanni says and steps closer towards you. His eyes are pitch-black. “Let’s see how long you last, viper. Your protection that was so kindly bestowed upon you by my son is hereby terminated.”

“Father, I can vouch—”

“I said quiet,” he speaks again, colder this time, and Santino’s mouth snaps shut at once. “You have done plenty already. I’ve just about had enough of your decadence, boy.”

Then, Giovanni D’Antonio’s head slants towards you again and he regards you like he’s considering whether it would be easier to kill you here and now or later.

“Hector.”

A dark shadow moves from behind the Camorra head, always the obedient dog, and halts at his side. Step is staring at the floor, stricken. Julian’s eyes are full of sadness, his shoulders curved downwards. Dario’s lips are pressed into an unhappy line, his knuckles popping from under his skin. None of them move or interfere. They know better than that. They are Giovanni’s men. They owe no loyalty to you.

“Yes, capo?”

“Get her out of my sight.”

Hector moves without hesitation. You don’t try to fight him when he grips your forearm, his cool rings pressing into the flesh of your skin.

Your eyes find Santino’s across the room. His jaw is clenched so tightly you can almost hear the grind of his teeth but he’s silent.

Something crumbles in your chest.

You had hoped that maybe—

“Move it, sweetheart.”

You turn to go.

“If you take so much as another step, Santino,” Giovanni’s merciless, soft voice reaches your ears and you almost halt. “The consequences that will follow will be of your own making.”

Silence greets every echoing step after that and no one tries to stop you.

Alone.

Again.

.

[NEW YORK CITY, 3.5 YEARS AGO]

Your eyes crack open and for a moment all you can see is blurred, muted colours above you.

The Continental room ceiling greets you like an old friend.

The sour odour of herbs and old sweat mixes in the air when you try to inhale and your face scrunches in disgust.

Your skin feels dirty and cold to the touch. You’ve spent the last several hours on the floor no doubt sweating out the toxins in your body while going through several fits.

Wrong dosage. Again.  

Trying and failing to roll onto your side, you huff a weak breath. Your throat feels raw and dry and you ignore the painful cramping of your stomach.

The elixir wasn’t clear enough again. You’ve spent almost two days trying to distil it till it was clear enough to mix and used the best alcohol you could find in the city—

Shit.

It doesn’t matter, you think and close your eyes again. You’re still delirious but there’s always tomorrow.

Welcome back, Kishi murmurs lovingly into your ear the moment darkness appears behind your eyelids.  

Your nightmares begin moments later.

.

You heave painfully, your shoulders curving harshly as you gasp for breath.

Wrong fucking dosage.

And too many zootoxins. Goddamn viper venom. Goddamn stupid chemistry. Acetylcholinesterases must be having a field day ravaging through your body as you stay curled pathetically over the toilet, losing whatever little water you had consumed in the last several hours.

Pathetic, Kishi hums from beside you, his ghostly hands caressing your hair soothingly. No wonder he left you. No wonder he doesn’t love you.

“Shut up.”

You suppose the blood you see should concern you.

It doesn’t.

.

You’ve kept the dress you wore to his wedding.

It still smells like him.

It torments you as much as it gives you comfort.

.

Foxglove is a remarkably beautiful flower.

It’s also a rather deadly, beautiful flower.

Cardiac glycoside.

Interesting.

You scribble a new formula, your brain aching but still functional after your last failure.

Too obvious? Perhaps. It lacks finesse, sure.

But you don’t care much for finesse anymore.

You just want results. And you will get them. Even if it means bleeding yourself and this world dry to get them.

You hate so beautifully, Kishi compliments with a sigh, his dark eyes glimmering in the low light.

You simply prepare yourself for another count of agony.

Such is the price to pay for power.

.

The dress doesn’t even smell like him anymore. It’s been months.

You still like to pretend that it does.

.

John.

You turn the viper ring on your hand.

John.

He’s not coming back, Kishi tells you from beside you and you both ignore how his throat spills blood. He doesn’t care about you. No one does.

“I know.”

His rough fingers caress your cheek.

You might be crying but you can’t be sure.

You’re at the bottom of the pit and there is nothing but darkness and quiet here.

Even if you wanted to get up. You don’t think you can.

You don’t want to, either.

Easier…

Easier to let things wither and die.

But I’m with you. I will never leave you, little viper. I will hate you forever.

Kishi rolls over, his fingers wrapping around your throat, his mouth a sneer, and his eyes dark. His throat is open, gushing, and red rains everywhere.

His hands tighten around your throat.

You don’t try to stop him.

.

Freezing water splashes against your face and body.

You wake up with a strangled scream, scrambling across the dirty floor.

A puddle of sick lays not too far from you and you blink away the wooziness, trying to locate a weapon. Your heart sits in your throat as you attempt to find the culprit, too, and your eyebrows knit when your eyes snag onto two men standing before you.

“Oh, good. You’re still alive,” Winston drawls, a hint of coldness lacing his scornful tone. “Saves us the trouble of cleaning up.”

Charon says nothing but the bucket in his hand paints him as the guilty party.

You try to wipe the water from your eyes but it takes several tries to lift your hands to your face due to muscle weakness.

“What—”

A weak croak and you pause, forcing your unused vocal cords to work.

Winston looks away as if he can’t bear the sight of you and approaches the window, pulling back the curtains with a swift jerk. Light explodes across the room and you flinch, ducking your head down as you block it with your palm.

“What are you…doing here?” you finally force out, your throat sore and blood stinging your tongue.

Ulcers from the chemicals. Great.  

“Considering that no one has heard from you in days, and you won’t let anyone inside without a threat of violence,” the manager explains, every word as icy as the last. “That left me with little choice but to check on you myself by forced entry. Do you plan to waste away here forever?”

The window opens with a crack and you shoot a glare towards Charon who moves around the room calmly. He opens doors and windows, letting the room air and you scowl at them both, still curled on the floor.

Your body aches and your muscles feel shaky with exhaustion. You haven’t left your room in days though. How funny it is that you feel more exhausted now than when you used to do jobs back to back with little sleep and danger around every corner.

“Get showered and dressed,” Winston instructs sternly, glancing at you only briefly and something in your stomach twists. Are you truly that repulsive to him that— “I expect you downstairs in ten minutes. Charon, handle the rest.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Winston only manages a handful of steps before your choked words stop him dead, “You’re not my father. Don’t order me around.”

With your head bowed, you imagine your glare is even more vicious when he eventually does look back at you. His own expression is cool, composed as always, and he hums thoughtfully.

“No, I’m not,” he agrees easily, his expression as hard as his voice. “And be glad for it. Because I reassure you that if you were, I would not be putting up with this behaviour. Ten minutes, dear.”

Then he’s gone, and the distant clank of his shoes fades down the corridor.

You wish that didn’t sting but it does.

.

The first sip scorches through your throat and you choke down a mouthful, pulling the glass away from your lips with a grimace.

“What the hell is this?”

“Bruichladdich.”

Ignoring the agony in your mouth, you scowl at the man before you, and force yourself to take another sip. Winston’s frown deepens as he watches you shrewdly over his glasses. You don’t care much for it. With how strong this drink is, it will probably knock you out with a few more sips and that’s the goal. Better than whatever the hell this is.

Intervention, little viper, Kishi speaks from beside you and this time you almost jump for a different reason. Kishi and his torture belong in the pit with the rest of you. Not here.

The lounge is suspiciously empty as you and Winston sit facing each other on twin leather sofas. In fact, only Charon lingers by the bar and you know that Continental lounge is rarely this quiet.

“May I ask what it is, exactly, that you’ve been doing as of late?”

The question is restrained but something simmers in that gaze as he pins you under his heavy scrutiny.

“Working.”

Winston’s eyebrows jump. “Oh! Working. Is that what you call it?” he wonders coolly. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks to me like you’re just poisoning yourself repeatedly.”

Scoffing, you lower the glass and ignore the frailness of your own grip. Your longer than usual nails tap against the glass and you force yourself to swallow over the pain in your mouth. Your tongue keeps poking at the little wound inside your cheek and a sting of copper follows swiftly after.

Your hands are as cold as your feet. Your hair still damp from a quick wash in the sink—because there is no way you could have forced yourself to shower today of all days—sits around your head like a crown of black ice.

Just like when I drowned you over and over again, Kishi recalls happily and you grit your teeth, turning to face the fireplace and soaking in its warmth.

“That’s how Mithridatism works, Winston,” you inform him, your voice still a husky, raw mess and you swallow another mouthful even though the drink goes down like a hot knife. Better to feel this pain. Something to ground you. “It doesn’t happen overnight.”

“Oh, I’m perfectly aware of how it works,” the man barely waits long enough for you to finish before speaking and you fall silent. “It’s an art of discipline and brilliance. Given a different set of circumstances, I might have even praised you on your foresight. However, given how idiotically reckless you are being that can wait.”

Your grip on the glass tightens and you drag your attention back towards him.

“Why am I here?”

“It’s your birthday,” he says tightly, his eyes flashing. “But you had no idea, did you?”

Oh.

No—no, you didn’t.

Time has become…nothing.

A stream of existing and not existing. Of being lost, adrift.

You miss the sun.

You miss the dream that you could belong. That you could be a part of something and have companionship and trust.

You miss him.

John. Your John.

You miss him so much it makes you feel sick with longing for something that will never be yours again. He’s happy. Happy without you.  

“I know what I’m doing.”

Quiet, hollow words. You both know that.

“You’re killing yourself.”

There it is. The thing he’s been trying to avoid voicing out loud.

His words devour everything. Even Charon goes quiet behind the bar and you stare at the manager blankly.

Raising your trembling hand, you drown another gulp of your drink before placing the glass on the table and standing unsteadily to your feet.

“No one would care anyway.”

You step past him.

“You have no idea how wrong you are,” he calls after you, his mild words full of something you don’t dare to class as concern. Not from a man like him. “Don’t let it consume you,” he adds, quieter, when you fail to respond.

You don’t reply to that, either.

Nor do you believe him.

.

You find flowers in your room the next day. You had planned to get them for research into a potential paralyser formula that’s been knocking around your mind for a while now.

There is no note attached to them.

But you don’t need it to know where they came from.

You suppose it should make you happy.

But there is nothing inside your chest.  

.

Some nights it feels like your bones are made out of all the nightmares living underneath your skin.

Some nights you think you will swim.

Other nights you think you will drown.

And you know all about drowning.

.

Humming weakly, you shake the vial in your hand till the liquid inside goes from dark blue to red.

Finally.

It’s a potent, haunting sort of colour. Thick and striking as it rolls in the confines of the glass it’s encased in. It reminds you of—

Just like when you tore my throat out, Kishi mutters in wonder, leaning his face closer as he squints at the vial. Shoulder to shoulder. Your only companion. I bled red just like it.

He’s still bleeding. He hasn’t stopped bleeding. He will never stop bleeding.

And you can still taste it in your mouth. Except you’re no longer sure if it’s his blood or yours.

Toying with the pencil between your fingers, you roughly cross out Baba Yaga and write Kishi on top of the crumpled sheet of paper instead.

Then you tilt your head back and drown it whole.

.

There is everything and then there is nothing.

.

.

.

Distant voices. Urgent. Hands on you. Shaking, pulling.

Then nothing again.

.

“—cannot go on like this—”

“—there is nothing you can do, sir—”

“—dead soon—called—only option—”

“—use her—can’t—he will not—”

“He will.”  

.

You wake up bathed in sunlight.

It almost makes you cry because for a moment you can’t help but think that you’re dead.

A faint rustle of paper reaches you, and you slant your head weakly.

Winston sits on an expensive leather armchair, his legs crossed and pen between his fingers.

This isn’t the hospital wing that lives beneath the ground floor of the hotel.

You know this room.

You just can’t believe the man next to you is sitting here with you.

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” is the first thing to leave your mouth. A half-forced whisper on your tender throat. “I wasn’t.”

It’s true.

But you have no idea how to convince him of it.

The air seems thick with a thousand unsaid things and Winston lowers the newspaper from his face, taking off his glasses and placing both on his lap.

His expression is empty as he examines you.

You curl further into the clean, crisp sheets around you as the silence continues. An IV is attached to your arm and you cringe at the sight of it. Your skin is suddenly so itchy you want to tear it away from you but know better than to try.

“I know you weren’t,” the man voices, at last, his words steady. “You were punishing yourself instead. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You believe that you’re not good enough—that you are deserving of pain. Better to make yourself hurt than to let anyone else do it. Am I wrong?”

Your eyes sting but you don’t speak, staring at his gleaming shoes.

“Are you hoping that you will drown everything else out?” he questions but it’s not accusatory.  If anything he sounds like he’s trying to engage with you in a way no one has before. “Never give someone else the power to destroy you. Hurting yourself will not erase what happened to you at Tokyo nor will it bring Jonathan back,” he continues, his voice grim after several moments of deafening silence between you.

You flinch at the name, your eyes closing in shame as moisture clings to your lashes.

Curtains flutter in the slight breeze.

Why did he bring you here?

“You will be staying here from now on.”

Your eyes fly open and your head snaps to him as panic fills your veins. “No—you—you can’t kick me out,” you mumble thickly, trying to rise, your fingers tangling between the sheets. You try and fail. “I pay for my stay. I—I haven’t broken any rules. You—”

Please, don’t throw me out. Please. I have nowhere else to go.

Winston’s expression creases. “I am not throwing you out,” he pacifies quietly but a shadow seems to have settled across his weathered features. “You are welcome to come back whenever you can afford it again.”

Your eyebrows furrow, and noting your confusion the man continues with a twist of his lips that would be biting normally, “When was the last time you picked up a contract, dear? It’s been months. Viggo Tarasov never gave you much to begin with and now…well. Your account ran dry two weeks ago. You likely have another two weeks at best before the Russian comes looking for you. He will expect you to pay up. It’s rather good that you already have your next job lined up though.”

That gives you a pause.

“What?”

Some of your panic has retreated but in its place blooms unease.

Winston tuts and stands to his feet. The newspaper is still in his hand and he slips his glasses into his pocket.

The look he gives you next makes you feel like you will have no choice but to comply with whatever he says next.

“You already know where you are,” he tells you knowingly, his eyebrow arching slightly. “Your employer is ready to see you.”

Santino D’Antonio hasn’t changed since the last time you saw him.

Which was before John and his wife. Before the wedding.

It was the night you decided to take a leap and hope for the best with your decision to come back to New York. Not like you could stay in Rome. Not with Camorra protection null and void.

Not with Tarasov demanding payment as usual.

Last time you saw him, Santino offered you to go to Paris with him. His own version of an apology. For not doing more to stop Giovanni. But no one could. The entire room could have stood in defence of you and it still won’t have changed a damn thing.

Last time you saw him, he had taken your hand in his and with that familiar arrogance and burning eyes and kissed your knuckles, asking only one question, “Come away with me, cara mia?”

You had refused him then.

And you would still refuse him now.  

You will always refuse him because he’s not John.

That thought makes something deep down ache.

The Italian rises when he sees you emerge onto the terrace.

Your arm is hooked around Winston’s as you walk. Normally, you might have commented on how seeing the manager of all the people here is hilarious. You know that there is no love lost between the two so the fact that they have gone through the trouble of collaborating on this…

Do they really think you’re that helpless?

A lost cause?

You don’t have enough energy to ask.

Every step closer is a metamorphosis of expressions though.

Santino seems to go through a thousand emotions in those several seconds it takes you to cut across the terrace. Your steps are shaky, your muscles aching, and you’re sweating.

A tart bitterness still coats your tongue and your grip on Winston tightens.

The older man presses closer—just a touch—but the silent comfort that gives you is immeasurable. Surprising.

Ares stands behind Santino and her expression is stoic as she takes you in. Unlike Santino, her emotions are guarded.

They both look ready for a funeral. The atmosphere that greets you is near suffocating.

You sit down awkwardly, practically falling into your seat as Winston sits down beside you. Santino is the only one left standing but he seems frozen in place.

You see his fingers flex, his Camorra ring gleaming in the golden rays of the sun when he finally lowers himself in the seat opposite to you.

It’s too late for lunch but too early for dinner. Wine and fresh coffee are always present on the heir’s table though—this you know to be an absolute that never changes.

“Ciao, cara mia. A pleasure to see you as always.”

You blink. Right.

“Santino.”

Those brilliant green eyes narrow.

“What’s wrong with your vo—”

Winston clears his throat loudly and Santino falls quiet, frowning deeply. He tugs a napkin free and drops it on his lap carelessly, peering at you.

The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife but you simply stare at the table.

“I have a job offer for you, bella,” the man begins amiably, folding his fingers on the pristine tablecloth before reaching for a glass of wine beside him. He’s frustrated, angry even. The cords of his neck are tense and the subtle clenching of his jaw betrays him. The way he taps his fingers repeatedly against the table and doesn’t seem to notice even more so. “One that I think you will find most beneficial.”

New York is so damn noisy. The traffic reaches you even up here. It’s a serenade of concrete, shouting, rushing people, laughter, arguing—

“Bella? Are you listening to me?”

You blink again, squinting at him. “Sorry,” you mutter shortly, ignoring the way Winston is dead silent, Ares is glaring at some distant point over your head, and Santino is gripping the wine glass so hard you can almost hear the cracking glass from where you sit. “It’s been a rough few days. What,” you exhale, your voice raspy and try again, “What exactly did you want?”

The Italian’s head slants, his demanding gaze drilling into you with enough intensity to keep you focused for at least a second.

“A job,” he repeats, slower this time, his voice colder, too. “I will require you in Chicago in two weeks time. In peak condition. Which you are currently not,” he adds the last part with such deliberate slowness that your bristle, something flickering in your gut.

It lasts only a second before fizzling out.

Yet between the rays of the sun blinding you both, it’s hard to miss the way he latches onto that brief moment. His navy suit accents the severe curve of his shoulders and the unmissable tension there.

“Not interested.”

A furnace, a volcano—Santino D’Antonio looks ready to shatter this world under his too-expensive shoe. Something whispers to you that it’s not anger directed at you, however.  

Winston speaks before the Camorra heir can. “You need this job. It’s not a question of want or preference, I’m afraid.”

But you don’t want it.

Santino is just another reminder. A stark reminder that you don’t belong anywhere.

John didn’t want you, Camorra didn’t want you, Tarasov only needs you as long as you’re making him money, Winston is just doing his duty as the overseer of New York.

You belong in the pit with Kishi who seems absent for once.

Maybe it’s the brightness of the sun. He fears the light as much as you do now.

“It’s an undercover mission,” Santino endeavours to explain even though his voice is strained, deepening his accent. “Information gathering only. There are several individuals who have been, ah, causing problems for our trade as of late shall we say. It will be low risk, clean exit but no loose ends. What say you?”

He’s lying.

That’s for one.

Your eyes meet his stare and he leans closer like that can somehow keep your attention on him by doing that.

He’s lying.

So he either thinks you’re an idiot or he’s being purposely misleading due to Winston’s presence here. There is something else going on that he doesn’t want the manager of the Continental to know.

That calculating glimmer in his eyes is telling enough.

“No.”

You’re tired.

Downright, bone-weary type of exhausted.

Swaying, you stand to your feet.

“Tarasov is going to hunt you down—”

You don’t let Winston finish, turning to go. “I don’t care.”

A loud scrape of a chair fills the air and loud footsteps stalk after you. Deliberate. Furious. You ignore them, continuing on your way albeit sluggishly.

“And what are you going to do, hm?” Santino hisses from behind you, his fury spilling over. “Will you go cry a bit more about how your precious Johnathan left you? Will you just give up and go lock yourself away again?”

Your feet halt but you don’t turn around.

“D’Antonio.”

Winston’s warning is icy but Santino doesn’t heed it. That fire rages in him too brightly, scorching everything in its path. “When have you become such a coward, I wonder, hm? I knew a fighter, a tornado of a woman, now you can’t even look people in the eyes. Pity. To think that you have given up so easily—”

Fire doesn’t frighten you—it never has.

It’s a second, a breath, a heartbeat—

A blade stills against the curve of that elegant neck, and you stand face to face, seething when your eyes meet. It’s an echo from years ago, of your first meeting, and just like then Santino D’Antonio leans into danger, into the cold promise of death, into you and smirks. “Ah, there she is,” he purrs, enraptured, his voice a silky caress. “Are you going to kill me, cara mia?”

“I’m considering it.”

He raises his hand casually, stopping the guards who are no doubt ready to do their jobs and remove the threat—remove you.

“Yet you know that you cannot,” he dismisses, his voice still silky, smug. “For if you do the wrath of Camorra will rain down upon you till there is nothing left. Besides, it might be in bad taste to kill your host and friend, no?”

Friend?

You lean closer and Santino’s lips part at the proximity.

“I’m not staying here.”

His eyebrow cocks up and despite the residual anger you feel radiating from him, he still manages to sound effortlessly pompous when he speaks next. “You can’t afford to go back to the Continental,” he points out sharply and tilts his head, unruffled despite the bite of the blade against his pulse. “But if you prefer to sleep with the scum of this city then, by all means, be my guest.”

He’s right.

You have nothing. No home, no safe space to call your own, just nothing. John was your home once but he’s gone now, too.

For one hateful moment, you consider slicing Santino’s throat open just to have a quick out. But the truth is that you can’t.

He’s helped you too many times.

He helped John. He helped you. He gave you security when no one else could. He offered his hand despite everything—despite the fact that you still refuse to warm his bed to this day in spite of his clear eagerness for it. He keeps helping without pushing you.

For that alone, you know you owe him.

Ripping the blade away from his neck, you spin on your heels and stagger away, your skin damp with sweat.

Blood is rushing loudly in your ears and your tongue feels dry and bloated in your mouth as you stumble into the apartment. You manage a few steps before slumping against the wall, your breathing laboured. Wiping clumsily over your face, you take a moment to appreciate the suffocating silence your departure has left behind.

You linger just long enough to hear Santino’s clear, bitter command that rings like a death knell across the terrace.

“Postpone everything. We are staying in New York till this is sorted.”

.

You’re holding on.

But barely.

Just barely.

Maybe not even at all.

.

Winston leaves twenty minutes later.

He stops by the guest room you have claimed as your own and watches your prone figure on the bed.

You don’t turn to him, don’t say anything, either. You want to be angry that he’s as good as threw you out. That he’s forced you into this situation. That you found your clothes moved into the sleek closet behind you but not your solutions or poisons.

They don’t trust you.

They might believe the fact that you weren’t trying to end your life, but they don’t trust you not to do more harm.

The anger you felt only minutes ago in Santino’s presence has fizzled out and died. Darkness has cocooned you in its embrace once again even though something restless still scratches under your skin as always.

Even now, there is no peace.

“Let me come home.”

You don’t realise your slip up till you hear the older man exhale; a weary, ragged sound. You wonder what he must be thinking. If there’s some code he has to follow in a situation like this.

Home.

What sentiment.  

What’s the protocol for this?

“Your death will not be on my hands,” he says at last, cruel and kind all at once. “One day you will thank me for this.”

And then he leaves.

.

Ares knocks on your door by the time dinner rolls around.

You don’t answer.

She comes in anyway. Her stare as hard and uncompromising as always, and the dour expression on her face only makes you blink and press your cheek back into the pillow.

Dinner?

You don’t move.

She signs again.

Sits on your bed and repeats it.

And again.

You don’t move.

Eventually, she leaves and you’re relieved that she’s gone.

A distant, angry voice sounds from somewhere in the apartment several minutes later but it cuts out quickly.

Somehow the silence that follows is even louder.

.

You could leave. You should.

But there is nothing for you out there but death.

No weapons, no solutions, and a weak body.

You won’t last a day.

For one foolish, pathetic moment you consider calling John just to see if his number is still the same. If maybe—

You curl under the covers and sink deeper into the dark.

.

Ares comes to call you for breakfast the next day.

You pretend that you’re asleep.

She brings you a tray of food and leaves it on the table.

You don’t touch it.

.

You pick at some of the food eventually.

But you don’t leave your room, spending endless hours curled under the covers, thinking.

Let Tarasov come.

It’s finally perfect. The poison you’ve created just for him. Just a touch more lethality and it will be ready.

You can’t wait to see him erode into nothing.

When he is dead—and one day he will be—you will delight in every second of dizzying triumph that will follow the stilling of that dark heart.

One day, he will die with terror in his heart that wears your name.

.

John. John. John.

.

Kishi has been absent for so long that you’re surprised to see his grinning face appear in your nightmares.

Hello, viper. I’ve missed you so dearly.

He cups your cheeks, grinning wider, wider—

His face morphs. Raven hair. Dark, thoughtful eyes that you love—

John leans forward and sinks his teeth into your neck.

Blood spills down your chest.

Your scream is silent.

.

Hands try to hold you down as you trash, your skin slick with sweat, and clothes sticking to your skin.

“Wake up,” a voice urges. “Open your eyes!”

You do. A scream climbs up your throat but you force it down, your eyes frantically seeking the figure above you.

A familiar pair of green eyes stare down at you. Wild with an emotion you have no name for.

His fingers hold you by the forearms but his grip relaxes when he sees you’re lucid.

Gasping for breath, you twist from underneath the covers, shaking his arms off and dash for the bathroom. Your knees crack against the gleaming tiles and the content of your stomach empties itself in a brutal lurch. Next several moments are full of your suffering. Tears sting your eyes from the pain, and you bite your lip, your limbs still twitching as your stomach rolls.

You feel him hovering behind you.

“Cara mia?” there is a question in that breathless address but you ignore him. “Are you well enough to stand, at least?”

He sounds frustrated but his voice is still calm—just barely.  

Footsteps draw closer to where you lay half slumped over the toilet, your eyes closed.

You feel so drained that even tears won’t come. The skin of your neck feels dirty and torn. Faint traces of the feverish nightmare still cut into you and you shiver.

Hot fingers settle on your shoulder, light and cautious, and you snarl, jerking away from the touch. “Don’t touch me!”

“You’re unwell,” Santino shoots back tightly, his eyes blazing and body rigid. He’s clad in only a clean, white shirt and trousers but you don’t care to ask what the time is. “What is happening? Is it the poison? Did you take something—”

“Shut up and get out!”

“You need—”

“I don’t need you!” you scream; a raw, awful thing that leaves you gasping. You want to claw at your own skin but can’t—shouldn’t. “I don’t need anyone,” you add in a broken, quiet whisper and it’s like that awful hotel room all over again.

His expression darkens, strains. For the first time, Santino D’Antonio looks unsure of what to do. It’s like that finely honed arrogance with which he carries himself has abandoned him. Here, in this cold, dark bathroom he simply glares down at you.

“Very well, bella,” he says, his words biting, low. “Wallow in your misery alone if you must. But we are eating breakfast together.”

The last part isn’t up for negotiation.

A brief spark of anger ignites, nothing more than a tiny ember. Egoistical prick.

No response greets him.

He lingers for a few, expectant moments but you don’t move. The only dialogue between you is your shallow breaths and the weight of his overbearing regard.

Go, leave. Everyone always does.

You don’t feel yourself drift away.

.

The next morning, it’s the blinding sun that awakens you once more.

You’re back in your bed.

At first, you think that last night was a bizarre dream until you rub your face, and catch a whiff of vinous scent staining your skin.

Santino.

There is a feeling—

It flees as everything else does now—too fast for you to grasp onto it.

You don’t get up for breakfast.

.

You don’t get up the entire day.

Or the day after that.

.

It’s been at least a year and a half since Tokyo.

Yet it still feels like you’re drowning.

Maybe you’ll never stop.

.

“I hope you’re hungry.”

Your eyes crack open and you lick your cracked lips, turning towards the doorway.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him inside this room aside from that night when he woke you up from your nightmares.

He’s been sending in Ares to deliver you food and water, to try and engage.

“What?” you mumble, blinking sluggishly.

Santino stalks into the room and aggression lines his every step. He’s trying to control it, keep calm, and his hands buried inside his pockets say a lot. Behind him, Ares walks in with a tray of food. She moves closer towards you and places it on the bed before sitting down at the foot of it, the tray now between you.  

Much to your surprise, the heir of Camorra does the same.

He looks beyond uncomfortable, his mind clearly somewhere else, but Ares starts first by picking up a mango slice from one of the many plates, and placing it inside her mouth. She chews slowly and stares at you expectantly as she does.

She’s clad in dark burgundy today as is Santino and you know that colour holds a special significance at Camorra but you can’t think of one right now.

They’re both not used to this, you realise distantly, making an effort for someone.

This is weakness. This is something that’s ruthlessly crushed and disposed of at Camorra. Such...inability would never be tolerated.

Yet they’re trying.

Santino is scowling at a wall but he’s chewing his fruit obediently. Ares is doing the same.

It’s awkward.

No one speaks.

And yet—

Your fingers stretch towards the strawberries.

Santino’s eyes snap to your hand, focusing on the motion and you still briefly before pinching one between your fingers. Your head barely lifts from your pillow but you bring it to your lips, nibbling on it cautiously.

It’s delicious. Sweet and zesty taste explodes against your tongue the moment you bite down on it. It’s taken days for the wounds inside your mouth to close but now the full extent of your taste receptors seems to have come back.

No one speaks but the tension in the room seems to ease a touch as you continue nibbling away.

You manage three strawberries that morning.

Every single one of them feels like scarlet, gushing victory.  

For the first time in months, you don’t taste blood in your mouth.

You only taste the sweetness of life.

.

It’s hours later, long after they’ve both left, that information crawls up from the back of your mind.

An heir apparent and his right hand wearing burgundy outside of Camorra duties. No deaths, no coronation, no birthday or births to warrant that very deliberate choice of dress code.  

This is something else.

Burgundy they wore in a show of favour, companionship, respectful implication that they consider you an equal and are seeking an alliance.

All while you laid in bed with greasy hair, dark circles under your eyes, stale breath and vacant eyes.

Something deep down flutters at that. You try to grasp onto that spark with whatever little strength you still have left but it’s so hard.

Everything is so hard now.

.

Warmth.

Your nose presses into it, curling against it and you sigh faintly. There is something so comforting about having someone else in the bed with you—

Your eyes snap open and you scramble backwards, your legs tangling in the sheets.

Santino lays on the other side of the bed, one hand resting behind his head. He’s relaxed, his clothes immaculate as always—pale blue, cotton shirt and trousers, no doubt all designer—and Rolex gleaming around his wrist as he taps his fingers on his chest in a careless rhythm. His eyes drag slowly from the spot he was observing on the ceiling to you, and a slight smirk curves his lips.

A spark again and it flares enough to work your tongue.

“What are you doing here?”

He blinks at the sharpness of your question and you don’t miss the trace of surprise in those green depths.

“This is my home, cara,” he says pleasantly, his voice a lovely roll of syllables, and you’ve forgotten how effortlessly charming he can be. “I am resting.”

“Get out.”

It’s hardly a demand. It sounds more like a strangled, detached whisper.

His eyes roll at that, effortlessly dismissive and condescending.

“Hm. No.”

You claw deeper to dig out that ember of your old self back. The one who would have sliced his skin for using that tone. Thrown him off the bed without warning and threatened him for good measure, too. If only to see that smug gleam in his eyes after. Listen to him throw a deliberate, heated comment about how attractive you are when angry while his eyes drag over your figure with obvious desire.

The same dance.

Always trying to get under your skin.

Even now.

“Get out.”

His eyes spark. Eager. Coaxing.

He sits up unhurriedly, his chin lowering as he looks you right in the eye.

“Make me.”

A deliberate challenge. Everything since you’ve come here has been deliberate. From his actions to his words. He’s trying to get a reaction. Even more so than he used to before. Before it was about him and his ego. Now you have no idea what he’s trying to achieve with his goading.

“What are you doing?” you demand even though it sounds faint and takes more effort than it’s worth. “Trying to piss me off on purpose?”

He leans closer and your eyes narrow when you come face-to-face. This is the closest he’s been to you in months. Since Rome. Since before whatever little control you had got buried with your heart at John’s wedding.

“Yes, cara, indeed I am,” he admits easily, shameless as always, facing you unflinchingly because it’s who he is. He never shies away and expects the same from you. “Be angry with me. Rage, yell, scream till your lungs give out. Anything is better than this.”

A knot forms in your chest at his angry, disgusted hiss at the end. At the way he waits, agog—waits for that fire to rise up and match his own.

Play with me, come on, those eyes say and you stare at him flatly, your mouth tilting downwards.

“What do you know about it?” you breathe quietly, and there is a muted sort of rage there. It prickles your skin, and your fingers knot in the sheets beneath your palms. “Poor little D’Antonio with his mean daddy who won’t shower him in praise. You have it so hard. Mansions and cars and a mountain of wealth. Freedom to do whatever you want.”

If he wants to play this game, you will indulge him.

His expression smoothens, growing colder at your words, and he leans back a touch, his chin tilting. The moment of almost ends and the cool, collected heir is all that’s left.  

“So quick to pass judgment, cara mia,” he points out softly, icily. Still, his eyes drag over your weary features and there is determination there. “Join me for breakfast.”

“Why?”

His lips curve and he leans forward without warning again, his breath tickling against your ear. “Because I asked nicely and I rarely do that, no?”

You shove him back with your hand and he hums, seemingly entertained.  

“Asshole.”

He stands to his feet, not a stitch out of place, and stretches to his full height, glancing at you before offering you his hand.

You ignore it, pulling the covers back yourself as you stumble to your feet, trying to find your balance.

“Better,” you hear him acknowledge, and flip him off without looking back as you stride towards the bathroom on shaky legs.

His chuckle sounds immediately, pleased, and you make sure to slam the door shut extra loud behind you.

You didn’t have to get up. You didn’t even think you had it in you to do so.

You cup your hands around that ember inside your chest protectively and soak in its warmth.

Just for a little while.

.

“You’ve gotten worse.”

Stabbing a fork into the fluffy pancake on your plate, you don’t answer.

The sun is bearing down on you both, warming your neck as you sip on your juice without engaging him. It tastes good. Freshly squeezed and organic no doubt—only the best for the Italian prince.

Santino exhales forcefully. He’s not used to being ignored and he doesn’t like it.

Good.

“You weren’t like this when you were staying with us,” he tries again and you ignore the resentment you can hear coating his words. “He did this to you.”

Your head lifts, your mouth a hard line, and find Santino half leaning across the small table towards you. He always does that you realise suddenly. Like he’s being dragged closer by an invisible rope.

He’s right though. Even if you hate the fact that he is.

Camorra for all its awful brutality and endless ambition had been a safe haven. It had been routine and focus and purpose. Most days you were so busy you had no time to think about anything else. You were hunted and wanted to change that.

So you shed your skin—the skin that was soft because you hadn’t realised just how much John had shielded you from before—and became a hunter yourself.

The Hunt had been a poetic slaughter—a baptism of blood.

Giovanni D'Antonio allowed you space under his roof because you had been relentless. So relentless to return the favour that with time he might have even offered you a place in his ranks and tried to buy you out from the Russian.

Camorra had been a twisted hope of belonging somewhere.

It had been friendship and hope.

Had.

“Why burgundy?” you ask him instead because it’s been plaguing you. “I have no position of power for you to seek an alliance with me.”

He blinks, exhaling, and then his mouth quirks. His features soften a touch and you ignore the fact that he appears beyond pleased with you.

“You remembered.”

Only because his family and the endless list of traditions and laws infused into the very foundation upon which that empire of blood and bones stands is fascinating. You’ve always been eager for knowledge because that’s what keeps you alive and both heirs had obliged you happily.

Many things they kept from you because you were still seen as an outsider but it hadn’t mattered.

Santino never lacked enthusiasm when it came to you wanting to know more about Camorra.

Because he’s proud of his family. Because he’s proud of his position in it. Because if he’s capable of love you think that Camorra might be the only thing he truly loves.

But articulating all that seems exhausting so you offer him a half-hearted shrug in response.

Still, this seems to have brightened his previously foul mood and he rests his chin on his folded fingers, his elbows digging into the table as he peers at you. His ring glints in the sunlight, momentarily distracting you.

“My intention is exactly what you think it was,” he reveals calmly. “I need you to come with me to Chicago, cara mia. This job is rather important to me personally.”

“Important enough to lie Winston about it.”

His smile is slow coming this time around and all teeth. A sinful, wicked soul residing inside a shell of a man with golden skin, dark curls and piercing eyes. Handsome, dangerous package. A temptation very few have resisted, you know as much.

“Perhaps,” he purrs gently and you force yourself to lower your eyes back to your food. “But I need someone like you. An individual who can deliver and be discreet about it. Besides what Winston doesn’t know, won’t hurt him, no?”

I need you.

You wonder if he’s realised that he’s said it twice in a span of less than five minutes. There is no emphasis on words or deliberate pauses. No indication at all that he’s said them on purpose. In fact, he appears entirely focused on your conversation, his voice smooth and steady.

“What is it?”

He seems even more pleased with your show of interest.

“It wasn’t entirely a lie, bella,” he says breezily, leaning back in his seat as his hands lower back onto the table. “It is undercover. Every five years operational managers from our world meet for a conference of sorts. Everything from food to clothing to weaponry is discussed. Hands are shaken, deals are struck, ah you know how it goes, cara, no? This year this very special event is being held in Chicago. We will attend it.”

You stare at him as you chew and swallow before forcing another bite of pancake into your mouth. You feel full already but you’ve only eaten half of one. You can—need—to eat more. Easier to do so with this distraction, with those eyes tracking every bite you take.

“You need me to kill someone.”

Not a question and those round, pleasant features draw into something remote, downright chilling. In that look, you see something else, something bloodthirsty. It makes you remember the words you associated with his name before your first meeting.

Charming. Power-hungry. Not to be trusted.

Fitting even now.

No, looking at him right now, it’s more fitting than ever.

“Yes,” he admits lightly with a pleasant little hum but his eyes rage. “And I want him to suffer.”

Interesting.

“I could go in alone—”

“No. You will never make it. This is a High Table related event and the security there will be unlike anything you have ever encountered,” he rebukes, and his words wash over you with the intent that tells you he’s been waiting for this moment for a while. “My name is your ticket inside. But most importantly Continental style rules apply. No bloodshed. It’s neutral ground for trading. No one can know it was you or the consequences will be...severe.”

There is more he’s not telling you.

“What do I get in return?”

Santino D'Antonio raises the espresso cup to his mouth and watches you over the rim like he’s already won. “1.5 million USD, cara mia. Agree and it’s yours. You have till twilight to decide.”

.

Charon stands beside Winston as the manager goes through the documents in front of him.

The concierge notices you first, his glasses reflecting the warm glow of the fireplace as you approach.

Winston’s attention follows several seconds later and the man straightens when he sees you, slipping his glasses off as you halt before him.

You haven’t seen him in days. Almost two weeks, in fact.

He takes you in with a critical eye before gesturing to the unoccupied seat opposite to him.

Slipping smoothly into the space you both observe each other for several moments.

“So,” Winston begins, his tone loaded. “Is signor D’Antonio dead or did you finally grow weary of his company?”

That almost makes you smile.

“Neither.”

A twitch of his expression but it’s so slight that you can’t quite read it.

“Yet here you are,” he notes calmly and something lingers in his tone, in his gaze, too. “Out and about. Looking better as well.”

Do you?

You don’t feel like it but you haven’t been feeling much of anything lately.

“I need access to my room,” you decide to cut to the chase and tap your fingers against the table as your eyes slide around the room. Few pairs of eyes skitter away under your attention. Good. This is the legacy of your bloodshed. “I need to prepare.”

Winston exhales and his regard changes. “You agreed then?”

You don’t look at them but you can tell both men are tracking your every breath. “In theory.”

You don’t elaborate further because Winston knows better than anyone that business and confidentiality are key.

“Wonderful. Though I would take this moment to remind you what kind of man you are dealing with.”

Your eyes slide back to him and you do smile this time even if it feels hollow. “You mean the very same one you threw me at?”

Winston’s expression doesn’t so much as shift. “Do you expect me to apologise? Because I have no intention of doing so,” he voices curtly and you don’t feel surprised by his words. “I took a gamble that paid off. But Santino D’Antonio is vain, bloodthirsty and arrogant. You would be wise not to trust him.”

Typical Winston. Always three steps ahead of everyone else.

A small scoff escapes you at his words and you lean back into the comfortable, plush seat. “Believe me,” you state coolly and tap your foot against the floor, once and then again. It takes a lot of energy—just like this entire trip has with your weak muscles and heavy head—but you force yourself to do it anyway. “He’s at the very bottom of the list of people I would ever trust. I know what he is.”

Just as monstrous as the rest of you. Maybe even more so.

But you’re not here seriously considering his offer because he asked nicely or offered you a mountain of money that will feed Tarasov’s greed.

You’re here due to the unspoken thing you can’t help but wonder if he’s even aware of.

The initial two-week deadline is up in less than two hours and yet he’s made no other preparations. Has taken no extra precautionary measures in case his plan backfires and you don’t agree. Despite how he keeps stressing that this job is so important to him, he’s waiting on you.

In Camorra, there is no such thing as “irreplaceable”. If someone is unavailable or incapable other options are sought out with startling ease.  

He believes that you will do it.

It’s not about his need for you.

It’s that belief.

It…

It makes you want to fight, too, and you don’t know why but you want to at least try.

Winston takes a sip of his drink, considering you and bobs his head once. “Good. It’s still better than being alone.”

He reaches into his suit jacket and takes out a keycard, sliding it across the smooth mahogany table. Something in your chest ceases at the sight of it, at the fact that he’s had it on him this whole time.

“You figured that I will agree.”

It’s not a question but he still replies with a calm, “Not at all. I hoped that you won’t disappoint, of course,” he notes and there is a brief glimmer of a smile before it’s gone. “And you haven’t.”

You’re both quiet for several moments after that. Charon says nothing as always.

Your unsteady fingers wrap around the card eventually, and you stand with a nod in their direction, straightening.

“Charon. Winston.”

The older man salutes you with his martini. “Bonus fortuna.”

You turn to go and wonder what it means that men like Winston and Santino D’Antonio have more faith in you than you do.

LaGuardia airport appears in your sights half an hour later.

Santino’s men greet you at the entrance of the airport.

Private check-in, private everything. Security is nonexistent when you’re flying with a man of such power and influence.

Ares greets you outside the private jet and you watch a slight grin transform her steely expression into something a bit more cordial.

He is waiting for you inside. Good to be working with you again, pretty viper.

She goes slower than usual so you catch everything, and you appreciate it because you’re still learning ASL. Not to mention the fact that it feels like your brain is just barely functioning.

“Likewise.”

Climbing up the stairs, you nod at the flight attendant who beams back you when you pass her to get inside.

Even the vast, luxurious space can’t seem to contain Santino D’Antonio and his larger than life presence. Every line crisp and tidy, he hardly looks any different than usual. But tinted shades hide his eyes as he stares out of the window. Those long, graceful fingers tap restlessly against the table and you take him in for several stolen seconds.

His head snaps in your direction when you enter the plane and he stills at the sight of you.

You can’t see his eyes as you approach but feel the intensity of his regard all the same. “1.5 mil was it?”

You both know it’s not about the money. It never has been with you. But it’s easier to pretend that it is. If only because that’s safe and familiar.

Santino slips off his sunglasses with a slight chuckle, looking up at you from beneath his lashes as you plop down tiredly in the seat opposite to the heir. It’s like sitting down on a cloud.

He folds the shades and hooks them on his shirt pocket with practised ease. He seems to have a penchant for making every little gesture appear effortlessly elegant and pretentious at the same time.

That little quirk of his lips remains though.

“Indeed it was, cara mia,” he says and extends his hand towards you. “A deal is a deal.”

You grasp his warm hand in yours with the intention of shaking it but as always Santino acts on his own accord. He lifts your palm to his lips and kisses your knuckles instead, his heated breath tickling your skin as he peers at you. That ghost of a smirk is softer this time, and you pull your hand back with a roll of your eyes.

He considers you for a moment before glancing over your shoulder and nodding only once. Behind you, the crew prepares for take-off.

“How long were you going to wait for me?”

Santino’s head slants in thought but his expression is serious. The switch surprises you somewhat but you wait, ignoring the fatigue in your bones.

Ares passes you both with a wave and two guards behind her, heading towards the back of the plane without so much as a backwards glance and you blink.

Deliberate again. Clearly, Santino has something he wants to discuss in private.

He appears deep in thought, going between looking out of the window and you as the jet leaves the ground below. It’s a smooth and trouble-free take off because Santino always hires professionals of the highest degree. Certain things are routine with this man and there is a certain degree of comfort to be found in that.  

“You lied to me.”

It’s been long enough that his voice startles you and your muscles tense, your mind immediately flying to all the weapons you have on you.

He seems to notice the way your body locks up just for a moment before relaxing again and his gaze darkens.

“What?”

“When I check in after you left Rome,” he begins and you suddenly understand what this is about. “You told me that you were back at the Continental safe and well. Working.”

You did.

“I wasn’t lying,” you retort tightly, guarded. “I was working.”

“Oh? Is that so? Work.”

Ignoring the scorn in his voice, you give him a fair warning, “If we are to do this job together,” you state icily, a warning ringing through your words. “Then you don’t ask me anything. Better yet, don’t talk about the past at all.”

That dangerous flame licks across his features, tightening his expression. For a prolonged, charged moment you simply survey one another. He saw it after all. How terrible it can be.

He doesn’t speak for the rest of the flight to Chicago.

.

The presidential suite is as grand as all other places Santino usually stays at.  

The spacious, high-ceilinged room is located on the top floor of the hotel, overlooking over the beautiful ravine that is Lake Michigan.

The sleek, white walls somehow manage to add dimension to an already large square footage by still remaining welcoming. Decorated tastefully with glossy cabinets, lavish loveseat and colourful armchairs to not detract from the massive canopy bed sitting in the furthest corner of the room. The velvety covers and plush cream pillows have never seemed more inviting and your eyes linger on it the longest.

There’s just enough bold colour sprinkled through the room to remove the clinical factor such bright space might bring to mind, and you peek an adjoined en-suite bathroom hiding behind one of the doors you walk by.

It’s curious how despite Santino’s life back in Italy being rooted in tradition whenever he stays anywhere else, he always chooses modern, contemporary designs.

This is the height of luxury—a welcoming card, cuvee white brut champagne, fresh fruit and chocolates already laid out in a neat manner—and behind the connecting door to your right lies this room’s twin image.

“We can discuss further details tomorrow, bella,” Santino says but doesn’t look at you as he does so. “You should rest.”

You wonder if he can tell that you’re standing upright by sheer will alone. There is a tremble in your knees as you move and your steps are heavier than usual.

You’ve grown weak.

The muscle that has been forged through years of brutal training has softened and diminished.

When did you allow yourself to become this?

When did you let Kishi win?

Never give someone else the power to destroy you.

But you have done exactly that. No matter how much you’ve been trying to dress it up, this fact still stands.

You have been punishing yourself.

It should make you feel something, you imagine. Furious, upset, determined, sad.

Anything at all.

Instead, you just feel tired.

Tired and cold, and like something has been raked right out of you, leaving a hole behind that might never be filled. A hole that you can pour happiness and hope and sadness into and it still won’t matter. Because nothing can fill what’s bottomless. Nothing can fix something like that.

You want to try but—

But you’re not sure if you’re strong enough.

Nodding your head, you head towards the bed without a word.

Santino slams the door to his half of the suite with enough force to rattle the hinges.

.

Water slides down your throat, scratching and tearing at your vocal cords as you choke on your screams.

You’re jerked back by the hair and Kishi smiles, caressing your cheek with stiff, cold fingers.

Your hands are dirty, viper, he hums lovingly and grabs you by the back of your neck, you are dirty. Time to get you clean.

You jolt into wakefulness as hands drag you forward abruptly and your forehead connects with a solid chest instead.

“Calm, shh, you are awake,” a voice urges with gentle but instant fingers digging into your shoulder blades. The comfort of that touch is so familiar that deep down it makes you gush with agony, some distant loss you can’t name. “You’re safe.”

Safe.

“John,” you sob, blindly clinging to that warmth, to silent strength there. “John.”

The figure freezes, tenses. A few shallow breaths follow and then a hand settles on the top of your head. Those muscles relax gradually and careful fingers stroke your hair. Soothing. Slow.

“Don’t—don’t leave,” you beg weakly and cling tighter, tighter because you love him so much and it hurts— “Please don’t leave m-me.”

That grip tightens and holds you closer, cocooning you in warmth. For once, the ever-present chill in your soul seems to ebb, fade just a little.

“I won’t, amore,” he reassures softly. “I won’t.”

You believe him.

.

You dreamt of John last night.

Of comfort and him staying. Fingers smoothing over your hair in that achingly familiar manner he used to touch you with when it was just you two alone. When you managed to mangle that iron-like willpower of his by leaning into him, seeking him out.

Remembering that warmth makes you both devastated and happy. It’s like a soothing balm against wounds that refuse to heal. But it’s also a knife cutting deeper and deeper.

You swore to yourself that you would let go but—

That, too, is hard.

A folder slides across the table surface and towards you, hitting your hands and you jump in your seat, rigid.

Ares shoots you an apologetic look as she goes to stand in the corner of the private breakfast room, clasping her hands in front of her, and you squint at the folder, forcing yourself back into reality.

“What’s this?”

“That, cara mia, is information about your target,” Santino explains over the rim of his espresso but his tone remains dispassionate. There’s something odd about him today but you don’t care enough to ask him. “Read it carefully.”

Opening the manila folder, you move several pieces of paper aside, blinking at the pictures of a stern-faced man. They’re black and white but they reveal a male who looks no more than five years older than Santino, his features handsome in a hard, rugged sort of way. His short hair is either brown or black and though all photos are too far away to be able to tell for sure, his eyes appear dark, too. Brown or hazel if you had to make a guess.

He’s handsome, but there is something about his features that makes you think of Tarasov. Makes you think of enough charm to get by but preference for brutality instead.

His face tells you that trusting this man would be unwise.

“Who is he and why do you want him dead?” you question after a moment of analysing the pictures.

Rafael Conte

A part of you can’t help but wonder what this man has done to evoke the wrath of the Camorra heir. Though, as always, it likely has something to do with greed and egos.  

Santino doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he spreads jam across his toast but there is something…violent about the way he drags the blade across the perfectly toasted surface. Something about the way his hair is unstyled today and a few messy, loose strands fall into his eyes. Something about the way his movements are jerkier than usual, less refined.

He’s back in a full three-piece this morning but a voice at the back of your mind whispers armour. Because this is different from those two weeks you spent at the penthouse. He rarely wore a suit at all during that time. There was something more open and casual about him then.

“Oh, you aren’t killing this man,” he finally speaks and you frown minutely at the way he lowers the butterknife back onto his plate a little too loudly, then sighs, and looks up at you with forced calmness. “We will be using him to get to your actual target. We need to be very careful about what we do here, cara mia. This man can lead us to the man he serves, and it’s him that I need you to dispose of.”

Still frowning, you look back towards the pictures. Santino’s attention lingers on your face but you ignore it.  

“Why wait this long?”

“What do you mean?”

Your head slants and you regard him with a knowing, calculated look. Santino doesn’t answer you, however, he simply stares back, and the look in his eyes challenging. You know he wants you to engage and so you do. After yesterday, after that fleeting memory of warmth, you feel like you have the strength to do so.

“Why wait for some obscure event with a ridiculous level of security when you could get rid of this man on a Tuesday afternoon while sipping lemonade in your parlour?”

Because that’s easy and clean. Because he won’t have to lift a finger and get needed results unless—

“Tell me, bella,” Santino begins, interrupting your racing thoughts and his index finger traces the rim of his cup lazily. “Have you heard of an organisation called the Black Dragon?”

Your tongue works quicker than your mind. “John—”

The words die in your throat; a feeble, pathetic crumbling of syllables.

The temperature inside the bright, sunny room seems to fall by several degrees.

Santino’s fingers are still, his attention focused on his cup. His toast remains untouched.

Forcing down the lump in your throat down, you force out a strained, “He’s told me about them before. Private organisation. Janitors of the High Table, right?”

“Indeed,” he intones coolly in reply and taps his fingers again, more agitated this time. “We are here to kill its current leader. A man by the name of Andre Boutin. The issue, however, is that if you search for a definition to word ‘paranoid’ in the dictionary that man’s name will be under it.”

He lifts the cup back to his lips again but those bright viridescent depths zero in on you. A shadow lingers across his features, and once again you can’t help but feel like he’s not being completely honest with you—there is more to this than he’s letting on.

“He never leaves his secret little lair unless the High Table forces his hand,” Santino continues and cuts a neat piece of his toast before biting into it. It doesn’t surprise you that like a true, refined heir he chews and swallows before speaking again. “Hm, but he will have to attend this event. Signor Rafael is his right-hand man. Aside from the standard proceedings, there will be…exclusive invitations into certain circles. We are to get Rafael’s attention and penetrate his. That’s the only way to get to Boutin, bella, and it’s crucial we do so. Tomorrow will be our only chance.”

“No traces?”

His eyes narrow and he nods his head once, dead serious. “None, not even a whisper of one,” he says solemnly, his heir ring tapping against the ceramic of the cup once, twice. “You are to be beautiful but harmless. I know Rafael personally. I will get you close enough.”

But he never places himself in the firing sight. Never dirties his own hands. Just how desperate is he to see this man dead to do so now? At an event that will have so many eyes from the highest circles of those under the High Table on you no less.

“You mean you need me to act as your whore,” you deadpan and go on before he can interject. “You need me to fool them, pull the wool over their eyes. But what if someone recognises me?”

Santino looks like he’s biting back a sigh and inclines backwards into his seat, staring at you. Those loose curls fall into his eyes and for a moment they distract you. “I would prefer if you did not use such…phrasing, but I suppose in a sense, yes,” he tells you and you stab a piece of melon with extra vigour before placing it between your lips. For the briefest of seconds, the man before you focuses on that tiny little movement before his attention shifts. “I also recognise the, ah, dangers. It does seem likely someone might but I’m not trying to hide you, carissima. You have spent a year with my family. You by my side is no longer a novelty. It might even be expected in certain circles.”

He pauses at that, his lips parting like that realisation is just hitting him, too.

You by his side is nothing new. You by his side. He says it with such ease, such boldness—like it’s as obvious as the sun rising every morning.

A silence that follows those words is different somehow. Almost like you have both become intimately aware of each other’s presence in your lives and all the time you have spent together.

“You don’t want this attached to your name,” you say frankly, at last, forcing casualness into your words. “Only a handful of guards with you. All this secrecy. This goes beyond killing a lackey of the High Table. What did this man do, Santino?”

Because he would never take such a personal risk unless he had no other choice. But that’s also why he needs you. A clean, untraceable kill. Even if people were to suspect him there would be nothing to stick on him personally. Clever, unprincipled bastard.

“That,” the Italian mutters, his voice wooden. “Is of no importance. You are here to kill Andre Boutin and that’s all that matters. Do you think you can you do that for me, bella, hm?”  

This is personal. That much you do know.

But something about this challenge fills you with determination to hold onto that warmth from last night.

Maybe wherever John is, his spirit is still looking out for you.

So for now at least, you decide to let the topic go. He does have a point after all. You’re not getting paid to ask questions.

“Sure I can,” you demure slyly and smother your grin against the glass of juice in your hand. Santino blinks, seemingly taken off guard by the unexpected teasing, at your spark of energy. “Anything specific wardrobe wise you want me to wear? Aside from the obvious.”

Something bold yet tantalising enough to make most people in that little get together hate you and want to fuck you in the same breath. Such is Santino D’Antonio’s way. He has to court attention at all times. You cannot be seen as less. When it comes to appearance Santino never spares expense. What a spoiled prick.

His gaze sharpens at your words, and that heat returns as he scrutinises you.

He hums quietly, his eyes dragging over your figure before saying, “Green. Wear something green,” he instructs lightly and when he meets your stare next, you do feel something inside you settle and still. “But I need them to look at you and feel like they can’t breathe.”

Where is the fire that I adore so? Do not tell me that he robbed you of it so completely, cara mia.

He hasn’t.

You had wanted to say that to Santino last night but couldn’t.

John hasn’t—

But hasn’t he?

It’s a destructive cocktail of anger and bitterness and doubt churning deep inside your chest. A part of you misses John with an intensity that shakes your bones; fracturing them and unmaking them with swift, expert proficiency. Another part of you hates him. He let you believe that he loved you but then chose another woman over you the moment a possibility of a normal life came up. Better drop the dead-weight. Better to erase the messed up, traumatised weakling from his life. Be done with it.

No, John hasn’t robbed you of anything.

He gave you a different sort of fire.

A flame of rage and longing all fusing together to create something far more devastating.

But last night…

You’ve almost forgotten what that’s like—being carefree, smiling, doing something so simple yet freeing.

Santino D’Antonio had given you a moment of yourself back without realising it. You’re not quite sure what to do with that knowledge. With the memory of your messy dance and that whisper of wonder in his eyes as he took in your smiling expression.

A knock resonates again your door and your head slants in the direction of the sound. “Come in.”

Ares pokes her head in first before stepping into the room already dressed in a tailored suit. It’s a dark, patterned number mixing black and deep grey tastefully. The black shirt she wears underneath is neatly pressed, and the pin she bears under her throat in an illusion of a tie is of Camorra making. She looks amazing and carries herself like she knows it, too. Dark makeup around her eyes accents the piercing nature of her blue eyes and you click your tongue.

“Trying to outshine me?” you joke but she doesn’t reply, taking in your appearance as well. Smiling, you run a hand down the body of the dress and towards the shimmering skirt. “What do you think?”

Her eyebrows jump up deliberately, staying that way as she signs with her eyes still on you. You fulfilled the brief.

You’ve certainly tried.

Your hair and makeup have all been done by expert hands because you didn’t trust your own. Not right now. Not with muscle weakness and the tremors.

You’re glad that this mission is not an active job that will require fighting your way out of a situation. Right now, you can admit—even only to yourself—that you would be more of a liability than an advantage in a physical fight. You can’t be seen shedding blood at this event and perhaps this is the best kind of job to ease yourself back into things.

That dedication to see an assignment through was bred into you by John, and now that you’re here no matter how empty things might feel, a part of you wants to see it finished no matter what.

It’s refreshing.

Wanting something.

“Where is Santino?” you ask her, turning to go, double-checking all your weapons—what few you could sneak in—are all on you. “I haven’t heard him in his room.”

Ares waits for you by the door as you approach, shrugging. He went ahead. He will meet us there.

“Is Piero with him?”

Ares nods and you both leave the room together, heading down the hallway.

Another security measure. Every invited person is allowed to take but one guard with them. Two, if they come with a plus one which in Santino’s case is you. A measure introduced to appease the inherently paranoid nature of the people attending but also avoid any potential…disagreements. When you have one guard you are far less likely to start making a nuisance of yourself.

A car is waiting for you outside when you and Ares exit the foyer, and you know the venue is only fifteen minutes drive from the hotel. You’ve made sure to analyse the site as much as possible.

A hotel and casino in one, Paradise has served as a hotspot and neutral meeting ground for anyone seeking an audience with Chicago’s Outfit and their Boss. The word is that you either make a deal with them or you don’t leave Paradise alive.

You suppose it’s just your luck that Chicago Outfit and Camorra have a long-running alliance from as early as the bloody 20ties era. Back when Italians have first set their sights on powerhouse cities like New York and Chicago amongst others, waging deadly wars amongst each other for territory.

An enemy of a friend is always good to have, Santino had told you with a secretive little smile and a dangerous air of viciousness thick in the air.

You can’t help but wonder if this has—to some degree—been planned for even longer than you first suspected.

If this gathering only happens once every five years and always in a different city and continent, just how long has Santino waited to put this plan into action?

Chicago. A city ruled by an Italian-American crime syndicate and ties to Camorra.

The Black Dragon. Janitors of the High Table. Trained killers who answer only to their leader and the Table.

You. A mission to kill the current leader Andre Boutin. A man who always hides as if fearing something.

What did this man do?

How do the puzzle pieces fit together?

The car rolls to a stop and you blink out of your stupor, glancing ahead and see Ares turn towards you from the front seat.

Ready?

You bob your head once and inhale deeply, letting the oxygen sit in your lungs for several seconds while she exits the expensive vehicle and opens the door for you. You take her offered hand with a silent squeeze of thanks.

From this moment on, you are no longer you.

Your heels hit the damp pavement and the Vipress steps out.

Ares shadows your side as you trek up the extravagant staircase to the Paradise hotel, ignoring the flurry of snowflakes that settle in your hair. The attendants greet you both, checking your name on the guest list, then weapons, and you’re both ushered inside with polite, stiff nods. Your coat gets taken at the door and you dip your head in a cool, disinterested manner—just enough to appear polite.

Ares is a silent phantom by your side.

The gathering has started already. S will be waiting for you by the staircase to the ballroom. You both need to be seen.

Should we not go straight for the target?

S believes appearing innocuous first is your priority.

Your eyes sweep over several individuals around the foyer who shift at being caught staring, clearly uncomfortable at your signing, and you suppress a remorseless smile. Good.

Santino wasn’t exaggerating though, most people around are unfamiliar to you. These people are the wheels that keep the underworld business rolling but they are not Tarasov or Giovanni. These people are at the top of their own food chain but under the Table, they are specks only.

The grand staircase leads up a level where the hotel rooms are located and downstairs where the ballroom and casino can be found.

Ares moves a step behind you as you descent slowly, taking your time with the gown and the shoes. A dull twinge of weakness still locks your knees and you force yourself to focus on your every move.

Just like the woman behind you warned, Santino waits a little away from the main staircase, chatting with the burly, brown-haired Piero in hushed voices.

He’s striking tonight.

Admittedly, Santino always looks good—he takes special pride in his appearance, you know that much—but today he made an effort and it shows.

The suit he wears is as dark as the richest night, tailored to fit him to perfection, and the light reflects a peculiar shine of the material whenever he moves. His hair is neatly combed and those unruly curls pulled back but you can already see a few rebellious strands trying to free themselves. The white shirt he sports under the suit is blinding and a satin bowtie rests around his throat, pulling the dignified image together.

His black dress shoes might as well be mirrors.

Santino looks like an arcane, sinful dream and you know many recognise the Camorra heir as he stands there with an air of effortless arrogance.

His eyes flicker away for a second, scanning the room and snag on you just as you reach the final step, your dress skirt dragging down the polished marble and falling against your legs as you walk with deliberate slowness towards the heir.

Santino doesn’t have to fake his reaction and that’s good—too many eyes on you.

He stills and you note the slight downwards dip of his shoulders as if whatever oxygen he did have in his lungs has fled.

His lips parted, he watches your approach unblinking and with pulse-pounding sort of intensity. He doesn’t bother masking the raw desire in his regard, either, and there is a nudge of surprise when you feel a flicker of warmth in your chest in response.

You’ve missed this. Being seen by someone. Being desired openly and without shame.

Not pausing, you walk right up to him and wrap your arms around him, resting your nose against the smooth skin of his neck.

Santino goes stiff with surprise and you tilt your head so your lips brush against his ear, “There are eyes on us. Wrap your arms around me right now,” you direct quietly and pull him closer with a smile. “Touch me as if we’re lovers.”

He does.

His right arm snakes around your waist before trailing up your back, his burning fingertips brushing against your bare shoulder blades. His breaths are shallow but he leans in and presses a brief kiss against your shoulder as his hand drags back down the arch of your spine. Slow, wanton. You have to suppress a genuine shiver despite your best efforts to play your own little act.

Pulling back, you remain right against him, meeting his stare and Santino’s eyes wander over your features, guarded.

The reservation is surprising. Is he gauging what he can get away with without you snapping at him?

He gave you a brief, a job to do. You intend to fulfil it. The last thing you need is to be caught as well. That means playing the part to perfection.

“Looking quite handsome, darling,” you tell him with the slightest curl of your mouth. Your fingers skim over the velvety material of his bow tie and you glance at him from under your lashes. “Am I to your liking tonight?”

He licks his bottom lip and his sizeable pause generates amusement deep down that you don’t let anyone see. For once the man with a silver tongue has nothing to say.

“Yes, amore,” he says thickly and his stare doesn’t stray from you. “You are breathtaking.”

Clever bastard.

He might as well be undressing you with his eyes but that’s the point.

The black gown you wear glimmers like a thousand little jewels—and indeed every inch of the light material is stitched with little gems that depending on light reflect silver or dark green. The dual-chrome aspect makes every step you take a visual feast and thin spaghetti straps made out of strings of tiny gems glitter in the light as well. The cut at the back of the dress dips all the way to your lower back and Santino’s fingers press into your skin. Tracing, lingering.

Leaning back slightly, you reach for your clutch, pulling out a silky piece of cloth that matches the reflective green of your dress.

Santino’s hand still rests securely against your lower back, and you peek at him as you place the handkerchief in the otherwise empty suit pocket. With delicate fingers you smooth the pocket square into neat lines, dragging your palm deliberately down his chest after. You stare at each other for several moments, ignoring everyone else around.

Well, not you. You’ve already counted the exits and the guards present with every guest in the nearby vicinity. Taken stock of most of their weapons, too.

Who is the biggest threat? John’s low voice questions in your ear and you take note of that as well. Keep them in your sight.  

Santino, on the other hand, looks like he can barely recall where he is.

“Shall we?”

Before he can answer another voice speaks first.

“Santino D’Antonio. It has been a while,” a deep voice calls with an accent you can’t quite place. It almost makes you think French but there is a sprinkling of something else there. “Giovanni couldn’t be bothered to attend himself?”

There is an accusation in that question and you control your expression. Letting surprise show now won’t be in your best interest. You are a shell, a plaything, a snake in the garden.

Still, not many would have the guts to speak like that about Giovanni D’Antonio—and to his son no less.

You only turn towards the owner of the voice after Santino does, and his grip on you tightens briefly before relaxing. You’re still practically hip to hip and behind you, Ares and Piero slip closer; a subtle manoeuvring.  

Tucking yourself into Santino’s right side, you give him room to shake hands with the man who comes to a stop before you. He’s taller and broader than you both and that handsome but stern face makes your instincts prickle in real life even more so than the pictures did.

“Rafael,” the Italian greets smoothly, and yet you can hear the subtle contempt in his tone as he drops the man’s hand. “Always a pleasure to see you. Father could not attend. Business with the Triad, I’m afraid.”

You have no idea if that’s true or not but regardless Santino says it with enough conviction that even a priest would believe him.

Your mark doesn’t look convinced though.

Rafael Conte in his immaculate grey two-piece suit eyes Santino with cool disdain that hides behind a ghost of a smile. Clearly, there is no love lost between the two. So much for knowing the man personally.

“I’m sure that’s the case,” he states flatly, and his dark eyes slide towards you. He looks you up and down like a butcher assessing livestock and you work to keep your expression open and friendly, shy even. “Your plus one, I assume.”

“Wonderful, is she not?” Santino poses icily and you have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes.

Rafael’s eyes linger on the skin of your thigh that peaks from between the slit in your dress. Then they drag towards your hips and deep plunge of your neckline before he finally meets your stare. The entire assessment lasts no longer than a scant few seconds but whatever he observes he seems to find lacking.

“Not your usual type,” he intones in deliberate, clipped Italian. “Couldn’t find an attractive model to fuck instead?”

The air crackles with tension as two men stare at each other, silent.

This isn’t going like expected, so reading the situation and its potential deterioration, you decide to gamble, “Actually,” you begin sweetly, in equally deliberate Italian, and Rafael’s attention snaps to you. “Most nights I fuck him so thoroughly that he doesn’t want to leave the bed the next morning. Isn’t that right, Santi?”

You’ve never called him that before and you sense the minute twitch of his muscles in reply.

His fingers sink into your hip firmly but his words are calm, genial. “I have nothing to complain about,” he admits mildly, turning to look at you and you meet his reticent gaze with a slight, coy smile. “You always impress, principessa.”

Turning back towards your mark, you find those inky eyes focused on you and blink innocently.

“This one has a mouth on her,” he says, his words terse and he looks you up and down again. “Might get her into trouble one day.”

Santino smiles but it’s more of a predator baring his teeth in warning as he presses you closer to him. “Ah, it’s a rather delightful mouth I reassure you, and I could never resist a bit of danger, Rafael. You know how it is.”

The muscular man scoffs. “Your lack of self-control is well known, D’Antonio,” he notes briskly, and the sarcastic bite of his deep voice is offset only by the easy smile he flashes you both. It softens his forbidding expression but doesn’t hide the contempt. “I certainly hope you’re here to do some actual business instead of wasting everyone’s time. But do enjoy your evening,” he adds with a purse of his lips.

He brushes past your party without another word, every step purposeful and you can practically hear the grind of Santino’s teeth beside you. Placing your hand on top of his, you pull his attention towards you.

“A dance, darling?”

He doesn’t reply, simply wrapping his arm tighter around your waist and leading you both towards the ballroom where the main event is being held. Behind you, Ares and Piero fall in step behind you.

The room itself is massive and decorated in tasteful greys and silvers—Chicago Outfit’s colours, you recall. A canopy hangs across the ceiling, a million tiny fairy lights creating an illusion of the night sky. Your gaze swings towards the massive dance floor where a glistering chandelier hangs suspended above the already dancing guests. In fact, the vast space is already full of people milling around and chatting business. Champagne, whiskey, bourbon and wine are only a couple of the drinks you spot being poured around the room. Later, when the masks fall away, you know everything from cocaine to ecstasy will be served just as openly.

Across the room, you spot the entrance to the private casino section but know that it won’t be in use till later. After these civilised people do their song and dance of being normal.

Santino cuts straight towards the dancing guests, only giving Ares and a vague tilt of his head to indicate that the plan is now in motion.

The said plan was always to catch Rafael’s attention here. Running into him this early had never been part of your previously discussed play.

A strain weighs across Santino’s face when he pulls you on the dance floor just as the live band finishes playing a song and starts another.  

His arm settles around your waist and you step closer towards him, your fingers lacing together.

He settles you into a rhythm smoothly and you spin across the shiny floor with other patrons.  

“What was that?”

His quiet, indignant question doesn’t surprise you. He doesn’t look at you as he speaks, his attention remaining on the attendees and you fight back a sigh.

“I was getting his attention,” you murmur in reply, giving his palm a measured squeeze. “Now we’re on his radar. He will watch us twice as often. We will dance and dine and have a great time,” you explain evenly and that familiar focused calm thrums through you. When your eyes meet next, you add a meaningful, “Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

Hand in hand, you spin in a slow circle and his eyes find yours.

“Trust is not a currency I deal in often, cara mia.”

You part, your palms grazing as you circle each other, and you hold his heavy stare.

“See how this whole trust thing works is that you have to give some away before any can be given back,” you remind him when he pulls you back to him, and this time you stand close enough to smell his cologne and count his eyelashes as they flutter when he fleetingly looks towards your lips. “Isn’t that what friends are for?”

He notices the mocking edge to your words and his eyebrows arch slightly when he draws you closer.

“Are we not friends, bella?”

You give him an honest answer. “Hardly.”

Something flickers across his expression but it’s gone in an instant and his answering smile is uncaring, forced.

“Such a cruel tongue you have.”

Smiling pleasantly, you hum, “I keep it especially sharpened for you.”

This time, the sharpness recedes and something more honest is left in its place as Santino dips you and unlike last night, this time you’re ready for him. Perhaps the awkward practice paid off after all.

The world tilts and then he pulls you back to him, an array of colours blurring your sight, and for the briefest of seconds, all you can see around you is him. Him and the crooked dip of his grin as he peers at you.

“I have missed this,” he admits in the space between you but even over the dancing guests and the music, you hear him. “This you. Could she perhaps be persuaded to stay, hm?”

It would be so easy, you can’t help but think, allowing yourself to tangle in his web. Allowing yourself the privilege of forgetting John and Kishi and Tarasov—of forgetting every dark shadow that haunts you. He almost makes it easy. Easy to breathe and forget. But you now know what it is to be broken apart when you allow someone else to complete you.

Never again.

Never with a man who will no doubt exchange your company for someone else’s soon. Winston had a point. Santino’s favour is bound to come with an expiration date. One day, he will grow bored of you or resentful because he’ll realise that you will never give him what he truly wants.

One day, inevitably, he will let you down. Replace you. Leave.

It’s simply who he is.

Pivoting on your heels, you turn your bodies in a different direction, your steps unfaltering as you move across the floor.

Santino blinks, his silent scrutiny letting up as he squints at you.  

“Are you trying to lead, cara mia?”

“Not trying,” you murmur slyly under your breath, a slight smile lingering across the seams of your mouth. “Succeeding.”

The soft set of his lips part and this time his grin shows teeth, dimpling his cheeks. He swiftly pushes your bodies apart, spinning you, and your skirt flares around your legs before he yanks you back to him, your bodies colliding. His arm envelops you immediately, keeping you pressed to him and the warmth of him seeps into you as he watches you through hooded eyes. His thumb caresses the bare skin of your lower back and a shiver crawls down your body as your warm breaths mingle.

You’re out of breath due to acute exhaustion still gnawing at your bones but—

“I could give you anything you want—anything at all. Power, money, jewels, pleasure,” he whispers faintly, leaning closer, and you fight to ignore the sultry drag of those words. “The world. All you need to do is ask.”

With his power—with the power he might still inherit—you imagine he could.

But—

“And what would you want in return? For me to be your pretty, obedient pet?” you whisper back but your voice lacks all the heat his has. Something far more critical twists your words and you meet his gaze, your faces inches apart. “Warming your bed whenever you feel like it until something more exciting comes along? No, I know how this game works, Santino. Men like you collect women and use them to appease your overinflated egos until we’re no longer interesting to you. Then you throw us out like trash. Even though the problem is rarely us but rather your inability to emotionally connect with another human because all you want or care about is fleeting excitement of the chase. Cheap sex on the side. Sorry to disappoint you but I’m no one’s pet.”

His jaw clenches, a ripple of emotions flitting across his features.

“I don’t want a pet.”

Low, wary.

But you push because you don’t believe him. Trust his word even less despite the fact that any and all promises he’s made so far, he’s followed through with.  

“Then what is it that you want?”

He stops. You’re the only two unmoving bodies in a sea of movement.

Those vivid green eyes glow with something you have never seen before as he studies you.

It is desire but—

He reaches up and caresses your cheek; nothing more than a whisper of a touch.  

“You.”

A breath rushes out of you.

A lump forms in your throat but you don’t move or speak. It’s like you’re both locked in your own private little bubble and the sheer intensity of Santino’s gaze leaves you with no escape. Your muscles seem to have stiffened up with disbelief. He’s always made it clear what he wanted but…

“Santino D’Antonio! It’s good to see you again.”

He exhales and whatever it was that you saw only moments ago is gone, leaving a far more familiar sight of a proud Camorra heir behind.

He turns to greet an unfamiliar man approaching, his grip on you loosening but not dropping entirely, and you remind yourself that you are nothing to him. Nothing more than an object of desire, a trophy to win, a conquest his damn pride won’t allow him to drop till he succeeds.

You hate the fact that for a second—just one—you had believed him.

Your eyes flicker over the crowd, a blur of faces, before a large man next to a bar catches your attention.  

Rafael Conte takes a slow sip of his drink that dark stare boring holes into you.

Your lips curl.

.

Santino does talk business.

He really has covered all his basis and found a legitimate reason to be here—be here and appear unsuspicious as well.

Camorra is one of the wealthiest families in the world and there are plenty of individuals eager to do business with them.

Santino talks—ruthlessness and charm weaving effortlessly—shakes hands and deals business. Number start blurring somewhere in their millions.

You stay by his side through it all. His grip around you is resolute, secure. It’s surprising how natural the fit is, comfortable. Especially because any and all foreign touch since Tokyo makes your skin crawl with disgust. You’ve only ever fit this well beside John but thinking about him now stings terribly so you push the thoughts of him away.

Instead, you focus on your role entirely. Submerge yourself in it so wholly that you can almost believe that’s truly all you are: your job.  

A mindless girl who is desperate for any scrap of attention from the powerful, handsome man beside you.

Fingers ghosting over his neck, leaning into him, giggling in his ear and playing with his fingers—you embody the desire you’re supposed to represent. Santino’s replies are rarely verbal but any and all attention from you always seems to distract him, shattering his concentration.

His fingers rub circles against the swell of your hip in response, and other times he wraps his arm around your shoulders. His cool Camorra ring grazing the skin of your arm as he traces random patterns on your skin.

People stare discreetly. You know by this point more than a few have recognised you. No one dares to comment though.

You imagine that to them you look completely caught in each other. Sharing breathing space and suggestive whispers; heat and something carnal, something only lovers could ever fully grasp.

Buying into the rampant tension between you must be easy.

You succeed in your mission.

Two hours in, a waiter approaches a spot where you and Santino sit—you draped over his lap and arms around his neck while he discusses weaponry with some Romanian crime syndicate representatives—and delivers a scrap of paper with a simple message.

Join us for poker and business, D’Antonio. Your plus-one can come along as well.—R

.

You’re in trouble.

Big, fat trouble.

Not because Santino is gambling three million away—though you imagine losing that won’t be in your best interest—but because this intimate setting is even more intimate than you ever would have suspected.

No guards, for one.

The game itself is between six players—counting Santino—in a small closed-off booth section of the casino. Your game is not the only one ongoing but you doubt this kind of money is being thrown around anywhere else. Every man playing seems to have brought their plus ones as well, including Rafael himself. A tall, stunning woman with glossy black hair, beautiful brown skin and shrewd almond eyes.

The problem is that unlike you, these women don’t have to pretend. Their interest is genuine, and when twenty minutes into the game you notice zippers being unzipped and hands starting to wander, you feel something inside your chest shrivel up.

Santino’s grip on you remains and you find yourself clinging to him for a different reason. At first, you play at being shy, burying your face against his neck. He notices, dragging his long fingers down your leg gradually, trying to calm you, as he considers his cards silently and takes another drag of his cigar. He’s purposely trying not to draw attention to either of you. It both amazes you and gives you a sense of reassurance. Perhaps there are some lows that even he won’t stoop to.  

The only issue is that Rafael Conte won’t stop staring at you.

He knows that you’re not too drunk or high enough to stop your hands from exploring. He’s been keeping track of your leisurely sips of champagne the entire evening. If he doesn’t suspect something is not right yet, he will soon. He’s smart. The same chilling, ruthless smart that reminds you of Tarasov.

If you don’t do this…

It all would have been for nothing. Another failure. If Rafael suspects something is amiss, if he thinks that you are here for any other reason other than being Santino’s lover—

You will never get access to Andre Boutin.

Fuck.

Something cold and slippery rolls inside your stomach at the muffled groan a man closest to you lets out, and the woman wrapped around him titters.

I—

You can do it, John reassures you gently, gripping your shoulder but you blink and it’s Santino’s hand on you instead.

Your eyes meet in the dim light and his hooded gaze is solemn, cautious. He, too, can see how this situation is escalating. Either you adapt or retreat.

All this preparation. You can’t help but wonder if he would still force you—

Fuck this.

And John.

And Santino.

And Kishi and Tarasov and every other asshole that’s ever hurt you.

They can all go to hell.

You’re more than this.

You didn’t survive Tokyo and John’s abandonment just to break apart now. To fail yet again.

Enough.

Enough.

It’s not real, it’s just an act.

Shifting, you practically straddle Santino and feel his breath hitch when your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling his head back for better access. Your lips press against his jaw, neck, your other hand tugging on his bowtie till the silken material comes loose between your fingers.

His pulse pounds against your mouth and you kiss that golden skin, sucking on it, your lips tingling. You’ve never been physically this close to him before and the heat of him envelops you, his free hand sliding up your back and settling against the arch of your neck. Those strong digits sink in, firm and eager, but he doesn’t push you closer until you lean into him further. You’re chest to chest. Your fingernails scratch against his scalp deliberately and a small sigh escapes him, warming the blood in your veins.

“D’Antonio.”

Tugging on his shirt, you undo the first two buttons in a second, peppering eager little kisses against the curve of his collarbone. The scent of his musky his cologne sinks into your senses, making your head swim and your lips part, your tongue swiping against the skin—

Santino’s hand tangles in your hair and he pulls you back, his wild stare pitch black. With your fingers buried in each other’s hair, you gaze at him for a heated moment, and he at you. Reaching out, you let your fingertips lightly trace up his neck, pausing on his adam’s apple. You draw a lazy circle with the tip of your nail and his breaths grow heavier. Leaning even closer, you let your fingers trail up his chin before your thumb settles on his parted lips.

He’s staring up at you like he has never seen a sight more divine, more sublime, and the heat between you is sweltering.

You’ve forgotten what it is to feel like you’re burning, igniting, coming apart.  

“D’Antonio.”

This time his self-restraint doesn’t hold, he jerks you to him till you’re fully on his lap, your foreheads almost touching as you eye each other. His fingers slip from your hair, dragging downwards till he’s grasping the side of your face, his own fingers mapping the shape of your lips as he guides you closer. Like a magnet, you follow his pull. Your mouths hover over each other and the tip of your nose nudges against his cheek, mirroring his eagerness. You grasp onto his hair firmer, those strong strands like silk in your grip. If you pull hard enough, if you kissed him, would he moan—

“D’Antonio, do you mind?”

The haze lifts and you see Santino blink as if snapping himself back to reality, his breaths are laboured, heavy, and you know that you’re hiding him from sight. This slip-up, this moment of hungry eyes and needy touches, is for you alone.

He looks you up and down, as if memorising the sight of you like this—so close to being his—before licking his lips and swallowing as he gathers his composure. His elevated breathing and blown pupils betray him, however. His appearance is dishevelled in that gorgeous, seductive sort of way and a stab of satisfaction follows the realisation that you did this to him.

He slides you carefully to one side and you release your grip on his hair, wrapping both arms around him instead as you smile slightly.

The Italian doesn’t look away from you, giving Rafael only a distracted, “Hm?”

“Make your next play, then feel free to fuck her if you must,” the man drawls, and you focus on Santino and his hair and his eyes because the careless way Rafael speaks about you sets your teeth on edge. Keep calm, keep calm, this is not Kishi. “In fact, after that little display, I’m pretty sure I won’t mind a sampling myself. See if she’s really all mouth.”

Your nails sink into the back of Santino’s shoulders and it takes sizeable effort to keep that bashful smile on your face. The heir finally looks away from you, his attention turning towards your mark, his features hardening.

“Come again?”

Rafael Conte chuckles, a rumble of a sound that unsettles you. “Don’t be shy, D’Antonio,” the man speaks, amused. “You do mine and I’ll do yours. What do you say? Unless mine is not to your liking? I can get another one in here. Two? I’ve heard you’re into that.”

No one else in the room so much as shifts or protests. This is a typical party code for them. Swapping deals, drugs, women, and whatever else they please.

Your skin crawls, those words dousing whatever heat your moment with Santino has managed to awaken in you.

Don’t let him talk about me like that. Don’t let him touch me. Don’t, don’t, please don’t—

Those words burn at the back of your throat and you grit your teeth to hold them in. You can’t risk breaking character like this but—

Kishi grins from the shadowed corner of the enclosed room and you suddenly feel sick.

Santino is quiet for a moment.

You watch his side profile with a halted breath, and another beat of silence follows before a slight smile finally tugs one side of his mouth upwards.

It’s a dangerous, dark thing and your stomach twists into knots.

Please—

“No one touches my woman,” comes his silky, cold declaration and those long fingers rest on the bare skin of your thigh; possessive, protective. “No one.”

The terror and revulsion in your veins ebbs, ebbs, his words echoing—

You don’t care about how untrue they are. That you both know that you’re not his in any sense of the word nor will you ever be.  

The conviction, the threat, the protection—those are real.

For the first time since Tokyo, since John, you don’t feel alone.

A peculiar sort of hush falls over everyone at that.

“In fact, hm, why don’t you go and freshen up, principessa?” he suggests and lifts your chin with his index finger so he can look you in the eyes. “I’m almost done here. We can go back to the hotel after. I’ve missed those pretty sounds you make when I’m inside you. Yes?”

He can see it.

And feel it, too.

The way your skin has gone cold and clammy. How a tremor shakes your muscles. How you grip onto him but your eyes keep skipping towards every shadow in the room. How your serene, sensuous demeanour is no doubt splintering right in front of him.

He’s giving you an out.  

Your nails sink into him briefly and you force yourself to act, force yourself to continue on.

Cupping the side of his face, you press a lingering kiss to his cheek. There is nothing sexual about it. Only a distinct feeling of gratitude that strums through you with the same intensity your earlier interaction did.

Your eyes flutter close briefly, the tip of your nose pressing into the smell of his aftershave, and you image to everyone else it might look like you’re simply clinging onto him, unwilling to be parted.  

Standing on stiff legs, you straighten your spine, and don’t flinch as Santino continues the performance, staring up at you, lowering his cards so he can touch your knee. He rubs a soothing circle there and his lips twitch.

“Don’t take too long now, hm?”

Your hand trembles when you reach for him, and you hope that the darkness of the room helps to mask it. Despite that, you still manage to swipe back unruly strands of his hair that have fallen into his eyes. Like a refined feline, he arches into your touch, a faint smirk appearing, and you rearrange your facial expression into something unassuming.

Trying to speak fails, so you simply dip your head once, and pull away from him. It takes everything you have to keep your footsteps steady and unhurried as you exit the small room.

The world around you splinters.

Pathetic.

Pathetic.

Pathetic.

Look at you.

“Shut up.”

It’s a choked, weak mess of an exhale. It hurts to talk and you grip the sink harder, your knuckles straining under your skin as you wheeze.

Your frightened eyes reflect in the mirror and you note how your expression crumbles in despair. Just hours ago, you had looked at your reflection in the hotel room mirror and felt beautiful for the first time since Tokyo. Since something was tarnished and stolen away from you.

Now mascara smears under your eyes and your waxen expression betrays you.

You need—

John.

You need John.

I need you. I need you. Where are you?

Kishi sinks his bony fingers into your arm and you flinch, jerking backwards. The incandescent bathroom lights scorch behind your closed eyelids, and you grapple for the running tap, letting the freezing water pour over your hands.

It hurts more, petrifies you more, but it also keeps you lucid, coherent enough to hear the bathroom door opening behind you.

“So—sorry, it’s busy! Could—could you please use—”

“The Vipress.”

You freeze.

You’re trembling but your head tilts upwards, and in the mirror reflection you see Rafael Conte leaning against the bathroom door with his arms folded over his chest.

Those dark eyes narrow and the grin on his face makes you become terribly aware just how unprepared you are for this type of confrontation. He’s taller, stronger, and heavier.

While usually, that would hardly bother you—both John and Cassian have taught you plenty of ways to take down individuals who severely outclass you in a physical sense—that was then.

The husk of a person you have deteriorated to is not as confident in her skills.

How he even found you is beyond you. You didn’t tell anyone where you were going, didn’t bother finding Ares in the crowd of people because she was instructed to mingle and collect information. You purposely didn’t go in the casino bathroom or the one right outside the ballroom. You went through the bother of trekking halfway across the hotel just to find a secluded bathroom far away from the main event.

Just your goddamn luck.  

Keeping him in your sight, you straighten.

Where is Santino?

“The viper that never strikes twice. I wondered why D’Antonio would bring you,” the man says after you keep silent and his smile turns more cutting. “But then I realised that this might be something more than just business.”

“This—this is neutral ground,” you force out, trying and failing to keep your voice even. “There is nothing—”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” the man snaps, stepping from the door and you twist around, glaring at him. “Do you think I’m stupid? I know he’s up to something. You will tell me what, or I will send your head back to Viggo Tarasov as a present.”

Your hand flies down but he’s faster.

A pistol appears in front of your face just as your fingers wrap around a blade strapped to your inner thigh.

“I don’t think so,” the man growls and steps closer. “Drop it.”

The water from the tap keeps running noisily, and you try to calculate how quickly he would be able to pull that trigger. Would you be able to throw your blade faster? Or would he react quicker?

Don’t let him corner you, John warns sternly, or you will lose.

You let the blade drop. Rafael marches towards you, shoving the barrel of the pistol under your chin, tilting your head. He glowers at you, the heavy set of his eyebrows pinching. “Why are you here?”

“Get fucked.”

His palm connects with your cheek, a flare of agony numbing the right side of your face. He jerks you closer by the hair, pressing the barrel painfully into your cheek.

“I will blow your fucking brains out, princess,” he warns harshly, and shakes you once, your teeth clenching. “Is D’Antonio really worth dying for? Answer me!”

Your knee drives between his legs and you duck when his grip on your hair loosens, ignoring the painful tear. You strike his arm, the pistol slipping but he grabs it just before it falls, kicking you in the stomach as you slam against the sinks with a loud thud. You gasp in pain, trying to grab onto the edge of the basin to straighten yourself, but your weak muscles struggle to obey and Rafael grabs you by the throat. He slams you into the mirror and then again.

And again.

The mirror cracks and you choke down a sob of pain, everything blurring.

“You know,” the man pants, and his grip on your neck tightens, choking you. “I expected more from John Wick’s partner. His little protege. But you’re pathetic.”

He slams you against the mirror again. “Tell me what D’Antonio is doing here,” he demands, giving you another shake and you feel something wet staining the back of your head. “Tell me or I will drown the truth out of you.”

A handkerchief gets pushed into the sink, trapping the still pouring water, and you let out a whimper of pure terror.

No—no—no—

Rafael grasp you by the back of your neck, and you kick at him but your muscles are frail with exhaustion and panic, failing you when you need them most.

The man hits one of your legs and you crumple, your face flying towards the half-full sink as you let out a sob. No matter how much you struggle or try to push yourself back, you’re not strong enough.

Another brutal shove downwards.

You’re never—

The bathroom door slams open with a deafening bang.

“Get your fucking hands off her.”

A slight chuckle against your neck. “D’Antonio. Slow as always.”

The grip on you loosens and you slump to the floor. Footsteps step over you, but Rafael’s gleaming shoes don’t miss your trembling digits. He steps on them on purpose and you flinch as the sink overflows, spilling water all over the white tile floor.

“I will skin you alive for this.”

You can’t remember ever hearing Santino so furious before.

“Sure you will,” Rafael remarks and the mirth in his voice is clear. “You know my father always told me to never trust you D’Antonio’s. He said that you all have the devil in you. Especially your psychopath father and that frigid bitch you have for a sister. You’re just the leftover people tolerate because they’re scared of your father. After San Diego, I knew my father was right.”

“What’s the matter, old friend,” Santino wonders in Italian, his voice honey and rage all at once. “Can’t handle a bit of competition, hm?”

Your forehead slides across the tiles when you turn your head, a wall of tears blurring your vision as you try to blink them away. Violent shivers wreck your body as water roars in your ears and your body convulses. Blinking, you try to tighten your bruised fingers into a fist. It’s then that your eyes snag onto an object an arm length away from you.

“I sure can. Because I don’t fear weak fuckers like you,” Rafael shoots back coolly and you hear the cocking of the pistol as he aims it at Santino. “I would be lying if I said that I will not enjoy this.”

Santino.

A meeting in a church.

“I always get what I want.”

A favour without a charge.

“I’m not doing this for him but for you.”

An offer of help.

“You can stay with me, cara mia. My home can be your home. It will not be for free but no harm will come to you.”

Burgundy suits.

“I need you.”

Arms around you, something in his eyes you have never seen before—something genuine.

“You.”

You slam into Rafael with full awareness of what this will mean.

“Fear me.”

You plunge the poisoned blade deep into his neck.

. . .

an: can you believe Santino D’Antonio really hit that high this early on and then....just never been able to hit it since lmao. amazing. anyway whooooooooooooo babey!!!! if you read this in one sitting, please pat yourself on the back, soldier. sorry that I didn’t have time to reply to everyone about the last chapter. life has just been a big ‘ol mess as you all know, and I’ve been really busy and blocked so if this chapter reads funny....well then......though, as always, I’m super excited to hear your thoughts. :D

as always you’re all incredible, amazing, and the best so please take care of yourselves! <333 

[imaginingmanyfandoms]

The Triwizard Tragedy

summary: a collections of moments between Rachel & Cedric before his death. Also her coping with his passing afterwards.

warnings: depression, ptsd (maybe), death

October 25, 1999 - The Present -

Rachel was constantly wrong, about a lot of things. For one, she was not the first person to ever feel the pain of lose. Second, she would eventually heal. But it didn't feel that way. Not to her. Not now.

In the dawn of war, Rachel had returned to her alma mater to fight against the very person who had taken away the love of her life. Cedric Diggory had died years ago, leaving a cocky, lovable Hufflepuff sized hole in her heart. For the last few years of her schooling, she had distractions from the pain left, right, and centre. In the midst of war she never really had time to grieve.

Of course, she never had any direct contact in battle with Lord Voldemort, but sending a few death eaters to their graves was enough. But that didn't make her feel better, instead the reminder that she had taken lives, even on a battlefield, had her waking up screaming in the middle of the night, traumatized by the memories of the past. The ghosts roaming her mind. It was like a constant stinging reminder that the pain she felt over losing Cedric, someone definitely felt about the men she'd hurt during the war. She knew she was on the right side, and those men were evil. But it still felt as though there was no coming back from ending a life.

Her best friend and roommate (until he moved in with Angelina Johnson, but that has never been truly talked about) is the only person that Rachel was really close with. Everyone else she knew was left at arms length. Never getting close enough to hurt her.

George knew what she was feeling, probably worse. He had lost the most important person in the world to him. And he'd never be the same. But he was managing. He had the legacy of the Wheezes, and he had his family. He had his fiancée and his best friend, who he was deeply worried about. He'd tried to talk to her about the clear PTSD and grief she displayed, but like a switch she would shut off whenever the conversation would start. Once she shut off, she was a robot for days, and he couldn't risk doing that too much for fear that something horrible would happen to her. He was afraid he was going to lose her to herself.

And he couldn't lose her.

You see, after the war, after feeling like nothing would ever be okay again. Rachel pounded on the door to the closed shop of the Wheezes. When George continued lying in Fred's bunk bed, she broke in. She climbed into bed with him and they stayed there for days. Leaving only to use the bathroom and eat. Then she snapped her fingers, and said, "let's get this baby back into business."

And just like that, they had a distraction to focus on instead of dealing with their pain. The difference between the two was that George would frequently talk to his siblings, and reach out to them when he needed support. Rachel was like a brick wall, and wouldn't say a word even as she wept alone in her room.

George couldn't let it go on forever, soon she'd die of a broken heart. So he did what any confused, young man would do. He ran to his mother and asked for help.

"I think that maybe I'm not the one who's going to pull her out of this, mum. I've tried but I think I'm too close to it to see what she needs."

Molly only smiled slightly, and took a day - with the help of Hermione, to head to the Wheezes and try and talk to Rachel. The store closed early on Sunday's, giving both Rachel and George the afternoon off. Ron took the entire Sunday since the mornings were slow anyway.

Rachel didn't notice at first that this was a gentle intervention, and put on a cup of tea for both of her guests. Hermione casually strolled around the shop, giving some space to Molly and Rachel.

Rachel served the tea.

"How are you doing, honey?" Molly asked, trying to sound as light as possible, not wanting Rachel to shut her out.

"I'm fine, store could use a little cleaning tonight, and I might get a head start on the inventory night for tomorrow."

Molly suspected she'd be filling her time with distractions this week. Saturday would've been Cedric's birthday. Molly thought for a moment, and decided to just go for it, and fill Rachel's head with Cedric before Molly could be shut out.

"How old would he be?" she asked. She knew the answer, but she needed to talk about Cedric. That was the root of Rachel's pain.

Rachel quickly went as stiff as a board, as her head filled with images of the boy she loved so much. The boy who took her heart and died with it still in his possession.

"What is this?" Rachel asked, standing from the table. "How dare you?"

"I just want to help you, Rachel. You're wasting away in here. We're worried about you," Molly said, "We love you and we want to help."

"Who's we? You and Hermione?" Rachel asked, Molly stayed quiet. "Did George put you up to this?" Rachel sighed. "Of course he did. Well if I'm causing this much stress maybe I should just get out of his hair then."

Rachel left the room, and climbed to her bedroom. Angrily, she threw clothes into a trunk, crying and repeating how everyone should just leave her alone. She sat on the edge of the bed, gripping the sheets in her hands until her knuckled turned white. She had pushed Cedric out of her mind for so long, and his memory was like a dam bursting, filled her head until she was drowning in her pain.

November 16, 1992. - Fourth Year -

Rachel held her potions textbook tight against her chest, willing this git Marcus Flint to give her back her essay. He persisted in trying to get a kiss from her.

"Come on, who says Gryffindors and Syltherins have to be enemies? We can be sweethearts instead," he said, grinning.

Gross.

She rolled her eyes, and once again told him to just give it back. She didn't have time for this, it was almost dinner time and she had plans to meet her friend afterwards to play chess. Also, she just didn't particularly care to be harassed.

"I'm not giving it back until I get a kiss, love."

"Not happening," she said, shaking her head.

"Well, then I guess I'll keep this. I don't need it but I bet I could sell it to someone in your year. Last chance, love."

"Give her the parchment back, Flint," a boy said, approaching the pair. He was a Hufflepuff prefect, and absolutely stunning. She knew him as Cedric Diggory, all the girls did. He was in the year above her, so there was no way he knew who she was. She felt her cheeks heat up as Cedric came to save her homework. She could've turned into putty right then and there.

"Who's gonna make me? You? You've got no power over me, Diggory."

"No, you're right about that. Except I am a prefect, and I would hate for Snape to hear about this, I really would."

"He'd take my word, he wouldn't believe you."

"He'd believe her, top marks in his class you know. Above all the Slytherins," he said, smirking. "And he'd know you definitely didn't write that. All the words are probably spelled right."

"And if I rip it right now, burn it even. How are you going to prove it?"

Rachel saw Snape rounding the corner only a few feet away from where they were standing. He had an extra sour look on his face, the kind of face he made when he knew he'd have to discipline someone from his own house. Marcus hadn't noticed him approach yet.

"I won't have to."

"I'll take the essay, Mr Flint," Snape said, putting a hadn't on Marcus' shoulder. Snape unrolled the essay, skimming over it briefly. "You disappoint me, Mr Flint. Five points from Slytherin, and an essay on why stealing is wrong to be on my desk by the end of tomorrow."

Snape looked at Rachel and scowled, before giving her back to essay and leaving. Marcus huffed off as well.

"Thanks, I really didn't want to do that twice," she said. She wanted to ask how he knew she had top marks, but she figured he was bluffing. Good thing Marcus hadn't called it.

"No problem, Rachel. Happy to help," Cedric said, walking off.

She took a breath and began walking towards the Great hall, before stopping dead in her tracks and turning around in time to see him turning the corner, out of her sight.

He knew her name?

October 25, 1999 - The Present -

The pain in her chest was agonizing. It was like her chest had been set on fire, while her mind filled with water and froze. The tears continued to fall, as her white knuckles began to fall numb. She was suffering. She'd never really let herself grieve over Cedric. She stuck to distractions, and numbing herself.

Turns out she couldn't stop the pain, only postpone it. And today it was coming back with interest.

Rachel heard the door open, and relaxed her hands, letting the blood flow return, making her hand tingle with pins and needles.

She looked up and saw Hermione peeking her head in. The girls used to be a lot closer than they were today. That was how it was with pretty much anyone that used to be close with Rachel. After Rachel's sixth year, aside from Fred and George, she'd pushed away everyone, and shut them out. Refusing to give anyone the power to leave her.

"He would've been 22," Rachel said, her voice no louder than a whisper. Hermione said nothing, but continued to look at Rachel. She'd never seen her look so weak. It was always hidden. Suffer in silence.

"Not to say you're wrong to miss him, and hurt over the fact that he's gone. But we've all lost people. And we've survived by dealing with it. That's all we want for you, we just want you to experience life again." Hermione sat down on the bed next to Rachel, and put a soft hand on her shoulder. Rachel genuinely couldn't remember the last time she'd been shown physical affection from anyone. She hadn't hugged anyone since Fred died. “We miss you.”

“I think I miss me, too.” Rachel sighed. “But I miss him, more.”

February 12 - Fourth Year -

Rachel crossed paths with Cedric Diggory again, less than a week later. He was standing in front of the Great Hall, talking to a friend of his – Jon, she thought his name was. And she was passing by, trying to escape without having to make eye contact with him. She knew that if she saw his beautiful smile, or the way his grin made it up to his eyes, letting you know that everything about him was genuine. It made her sick. Made the butterflies in her tummy jump to life, like a toddler was running through and disturbing them.

“Hey, Rachel!” Cedric said, thwarting her plan. “Wait up.”

She had no choice to, there was no way to pretend she didn't hear him. She turned around with a forced smile. Small talk is easy to fake, just get through it.

“You okay?” he asked, his grin fading into concern and he put a hand on her arm, immediately setting it on metaphorical fire.

“Yeah, uh, I just need air.”

She ran away.

From the cutest boy in the world.

She ran.

Was she ever embarrassed.

She made it to the entrance of the school, and sat on the top stair. Putting her head in her hands and trying not to cry of embarrassment. When the guy you develop a crush on touches you... don't run away, maybe? A couple of deep breaths later, and someone joined her outside. Cedric had followed her out here? Why? He didn't even know her.

“You're pretty quick,” he said, clearly trying to lighten the mood. She said nothing. “You want to talk about anything?”

“How'd you know my name?”

“Uh, we met last year.”

She shook her head. “No, why didn't. I would've remembered that.”

A blush crept onto his cheeks, and he looked away from her. Now she was really confused.  “I might have asked your friends about you.”

“What? Why? They never said anything.”

“I kind of lied to them, and said I was just trying to learn everybody's name. They pointed out like forty people before they got to you. Funny thing is, I don't remember any of the other names. I was just anxious to get to yours.” His grin was back on his face, but his cheeks still held the ghost of a blush.

“Why me?” she asked.

“Because I think you're beautiful,” he said without skipping a beat.

Rachel blushed, her eyes growing wide. He chuckled when she looked away. Between the pair of them the only pattern was a 'blush and turn.' Casually, Cedric slide closer to her, so their thighs were touching, and from the corner of her eyes she saw him drumming his fingers against his knee. With a relax face, and natural smile she looked over at him, and tried to find an ounce of a lie in his features. When she couldn't find one, she settled for just smiling at him. He smiled back. When she thought the moment was ending, he was planning to start a new one. He moved his hand up to her neck, and ever so gently guided her closer, giving her every opportunity to move away. When she started moving with his advances, he smirked. Drawing her in for the final collide of a kiss. They both knew they were goners, right then and there.

Hogwarts was truly magical.

October 25, 1999 - Present Day -

“I can't think about it anymore, Hermione. It hurts,” Rachel said. “It hurts so much.”

“I know,” she said, tearing up. Hermione felt pain in her chest watching Rachel breakdown. Was t weird for her to admit it was better to see her breakdown than shut down? Felt like they were having a break through. “Tell me about the day.”

“Which day?”

“The day he died.”

“No, no, no, no...” she kept repeating no, but Hermione stood her ground.

“You need to talk through your feelings. I have all day. Just start stalking and if you need to stop and cry, or collect your thoughts. Fine, that's absolutely fine. But I'm afraid if you wait any longer your going to permanently stunt your emotions.”

“It hurts...”

It felt like Hermione was forcing razors down her throat. Felt like she was fighting against drinking a lava smoothie. If she recounted the day, after all these years. She could no longer deny he was dead. Could no longer hope that one day he'd walk through the door as if he hadn't missed a day. Could hold her and tell her everything would be fine.

June 24, 1995 - Fifth Year -

She sat crossed legged on the bleachers, on edge just as everyone else was. She was so hoping that Cedric won. She'd be so proud of him. Her boyfriend, the Triwizard Champion. Even thinking the words made her excited.

“I thought you hated the idea of the whole thing,” Hermione said, eyeing her friend.

“I've come around to it,” Rachel said, smiling. “He's been so proud of himself. And I've been proud of him. And I'll admit, every time he completes one of those challenges, and he's all proud and sweaty... it's pretty sexy.”

“You're shameless,” Hermione said, laughing.

“Maybe.”

Then someone appeared back at the start of the maze. Harry came back first, he won! Rachel got ready to cheer, happy that at least Hogwarts won if not Cedric. But then she noticed something else.

“Is he knocked out?” Hermione whispered, talking about Cedric.

There was a commotion down there, and immediately Rachel was fighting and shoving her way down the the area. She hopped over the wall and made it, staring at the body of her body, lying lifeless on the grass. She heard things going on around her, but she couldn't make out details. The air around her felt thin, she couldn't breath. She felt dizzy, and confused, and upset. What was going on? What happened? It's okay, he's just petrified she kept repeating in her head. But she knew that wasn't true.

On her arms she felt two cool, firm hands. She looked and saw Professor McGonagall gently shaking her, and telling her not to look. The words, Do you hear me? Rachel, don't look! Don't look! Didn't even register with her. She kept staring at Cedric's face. His beautiful face. Frozen.

Cedric wasn't going to wake up. He died out there. The air got thinner. And her throat got tighter. But she didn't even realize she was dizzy – she just kept staring at Cedric until tears streamed down her face. But it wasn't even crying, she just hadn't blinked in so long. She couldn't stop looking at her recently deceased boyfriend.

“What's happening?” she asked, but it came out in a wheeze. And only a few seconds later, Rachel passed out, falling onto the ground like a ragdoll.

October 25, 1999 - Present Day -

After recounting every second of that day, Rachel wept for another twenty minutes before the tears finally stopped.

“I never got to say goodbye. There was so much wee were supposed to do. So much I had to say. So much left,” she said. Hermione still hadn't spoken. “I was so mad at him, Hermione. For weeks I was so mad at him. I kept thinking, I knew this tournament was going to be a horrible idea. And I begged him not to enter. I begged him, but he did it. And I supported him – like a girlfriend is supposed to. And then he died. And I was mad.” Rachel didn't start crying again, but her throat tightened and she felt like it could start at anytime. “How am I supposed to move on from perfection? From someone who loved me so genuinely, and selflessly? From someone who didn't break up with me but is just... gone.”

“You don't move on,” Hermione finally said. “He's never going to leave you. He's always going to be a part of you, you have to know that by now. I get that you feel guilty for living when he isn't, but you have to remember he wouldn't want you to waste your life. He wanted more for you than anyone. You don't move on, you don't forgive and forget. You forgive and carry on his memory, because that's all you can do. And one day, when your kids, or my kids, or George's kids... someone, asks you about your first love. You tell them. You tell them that you fell in love with a beautiful guy who was a perfect gentleman. And you tell them that you still love him, and you will always love him. But love doesn't stop because a heartbeat did.”

Rachel sat unmoving during Hermione's whole speech.

“Did you rehearse that?” she asked, smiling.

Hermione laughed. “Yes I did.”

For the first time in years, Rachel thought she might be okay one day. She just needed to let them in. Let her friends back in.

June 1, 1995 - Fifth Year -

“Not still mad at me, are you?” Cedric asked, sitting between his girlfriend's legs, propping his elbows on her knees and sinking back into her chest. Even, yes, she was still mad – she loved when he tucked himself close to her. She continued reading her book without answering him, letting go with one hand to get comfortable. She raised the book above his head, and set her now free palm on the grass, feeling the blades between her fingers. “C'mon, babe! Dumbledore wouldn't let anything happen.”

She sighed, and closed her book with one hand, making sure to use enough pressure to let it slam with a clap. “They cancelled these games because people kept dying, you realize that?”

“I'm not going to die,” Cedric said, stretching himself up to nuzzle his nose against her neck. She sighed contentedly at the softness of his hair, brushing against her sensitive neck. He laid a few gentle kisses on the skin there, before slacking back down to his original lazy posture. “Cute that you're so worried about me though.”

“It's not cute,” she said, rolling her eyes. She set her book down and wrapped her arms around his neck, pushing the side of her head against his. He laughed, and turned to kiss her cheek.

“I love you, always and forever.”

She sighed happily. “I love you, forever and always.”

[missmeltycat]

i see u have an oc for the real ghostbusters!!! i dunno if u already paired them or anything but can u do some pairing headcanons for each guy and janine maybe too??

Ohhh wow. OK. This is definitely an interesting challenge. Amusingly, waaaaay back when (We are talking a long time ago) she was paired with Egon, but I have made a number of changes since then and she’s not now.

OK, let’s do this! *Cracks knuckles*

Egon Spengler

Probably takes a LOT of time to actually get anywhere because... Well... It’s Egon!

Either happens as a moment of experimentation seeing if there’s anything between them worth pursuing or not, or part of an adrenaline rush moment.

GUILT. REGRET. “OH GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE! I’M NORMALLY SO LOGICAL!”

Sex? What’s that? Oh, that thing that only happens once in a blue moon?

Nights spent reading together. Egon tries to teach her things since she’s not a scientist like he is.

Kisses are quick and fleeting. Pecks and nips, rarely deeper unless adrenaline or hormones play a part.

Equipment experimentation made purely for Rae’s build and work method.

Love language of reminding the other to eat/drink/sleep. Cleaning of glasses. Maintaining fitness equipment.

Night’s out at the opera/theatre.

Dates at the museum. Egon explaining in great depth about everything.

Rae dragging him to the gym. He doesn’t enjoy it until she gets him to think about it from a scientific and biological standpoint. (He wears a sweatband.)

Yes. Problems with Janine. Oh boy.

Arguments are quick, never long-lasting. Usually a sudden explosion of irrational anger, followed by parting ways in different rooms and coming together with apologies laced with tremendous guilt.

Rae’s family are pretty pleased with Rae’s choice.

Pros:

Sweet and considerate pairing

Comfortable silences and just existing in each other’s spaces

Mutual respect

Maturity

Dependability

Cons:

Janine conflict

Occasional fights due to differences in interests and intellect

Late nights make for cranky people

Egon is all logic, Rae is all muscle - Technically opposites

Egon’s attitude could rub Rae the wrong way, as it can come off as slightly big-headed

Rae can be a bit rough. Egon not so much - Ouch!

Peter Venkman

Probably happens after a fight. Sudden!

Lots of angry, make up sex

Huge amount of flirting

Dates to fast food joints, pizza parlours and ice-cream shops. Possibly music venues

Fights over expenses. Let’s face it. If Peter can get out of paying, he will

Playful punch-u-punch-me matches that usually end up with Peter with bruised arms

“Goals? How many places we can do it in. The storage locker is next!”

Bets. Lots of bets. “Ten bucks says Ray can’t X.” “Ten bucks says Egon messes up.” “Ten bucks says Slimer eats X.” Occasionally “Ten bucks and I’ll eat X” and “Ten bucks says you can’t lift X, Rae!”

Gaming. Competitive gaming. Peter will sulk if he loses.

Evenings spent sleeping happily

Table hockey with utensils and condiments

Kisses are passionate, dirty, messy, lots of tongue

Love language? You mean making out lots? Yeah, that...

No shame in PDA, but not sentimental in nature. More like copping feels

No pressure. More like friends with benefits.

Arguments are usually about Peter’s flirting, or immaturity. They last a while and always end as if they never happened.

Rae is active, Peter prefers slobbing when he can. Rae tries to get him active, he tries to get her to chill more.

Creativity in the form of music. When people say they’ll make sweet music together? They were wrong in this case. Terrible music is more like it. But it’s all good fun.

Rae’s family are charmed by Peter. Wary, but charmed nonetheless.

Pros:

Fun and humour

Amazing physical encounters

No pressure or expectations

Passion

Creativity

Cons:

Immaturity

Overly flirtatious with others (Peter)

Lazy and active don’t mix all that well

Hot tempers

Trust issues

Ray Stantz

Known as ‘The Rays’

Lots of shy glances (Ray)

Self-confidence issues and inadequacy worries (Ray) because Rae works out and he’s... Ray

Anxious confessions

Sweetness, consideration, caring words and actions

Absolutely 100% serious. No room for messing about when it starts

Love language of soft touches, fingers over the hair, face cupping and cheek stroking... Oh and FOOD!

Nights spent on the sofa in blankets and PJs with popcorn

Sex? “Oh boy, are you sure? I mean, are you a hundred percent sure you wanna? I’m not hurting you am I? Am I squishing you too much? Sorry, was that right?”

Cook together a lot. Ray isn’t quite as good, so Rae (Who is knowledgeable on nutrition since she works out etc) often finishes off the dishes and lets him take credit

Dates could be anything. It doesn’t need to be fancy, as long as they’re together.

Kisses are sweet, tender, passionate without being over the top and usually combine with fingers in hair

Mutual respect and love/fascination of the paranormal, ghosts and creatures

Alternating big spoon, little spoon and always very comfortable

Fights? Not very often, but usually doesn’t last long and ends in flowers, chocolates and lots of snuggles

Soft neck kisses, breathless terms of endearment, wandering hands, confidence boosting body worship

Rae lifting Ray with one arm for training, resulting in gushing

Fawning, doodling, love-sick teen type behaviour

Comfortably discuss the future together without awkwardness

Rae’s family are surprised by Rae’s choice, but are absolutely happy with him

Pros:

Sweet and caring

Dependable and loyal

Kind to animals, ghosts and other such creatures

Willingness to always be better

Cons:

Self-confidence issues

Sometimes naive

Occasional know-it-all behaviour

Curiosity that almost kills the cat

Can’t cook so well and has questionable ingredient choices that border on imminent food poisoning danger (Ray)

Winston Zeddemore

Happens smoothly, gradually over time as the pair gain the bond naturally through companionship

Chill as fuck, but absolutely committed and serious

Love language of gifts and showing off in public

Dates at ball games and other sporting events, sometimes at sports bars showing various games

Clubs and music venues until extremely late

Workout buddies

Love to tease Peter together

Will chill out to horror movies together on the couch

Sex is passionate, but considerate, full of respect but occasionally borders on kinky. Sometimes in the shower. Did that door get locked? Oops!

Will discuss relationship stuff anywhere, no shame

Kisses are deep, long-lasting, skin-tinglingly good

Sports in the park on afternoons off

Will gladly spot Rae when she lifts weights

Games of catch with equipment and contests with how far or how high things can be thrown

Rae cooks his favourite meal every month just because

He will give her full body massage after her workouts

Arguments are strong, as they are both strong willed people. They last a little longer than they probably should, with lots of huffing and passing messages through other people. Making up, though, always the best part

Mutual enjoyment of harder music genres

Rae tries to encourage him to be more active in the group, as he’s sometimes overshadowed by the others

Always help each other out and share chores equally

Nudes exchanged. Absolutely

Rae’s family take to him quite quickly and are absolutely pleased

Pros:

Active

Mutual respect

Openly proud and shows off the other

Responsible 

Loving and passionate

Open to new ideas

Cons:

Strong personalities, so sometimes clash

Sometimes shies away from challenges

Some PTSD issues (From the canonical military experience)

His passion for things sometimes trump other things, such as date nights or other promises

Janine Melnitz

This one was a random one and happened as a result of harmless flirting at the reception desk, probably as an assurance that Rae wasn’t after Egon, but it ended in something surprising for both

Bitching to each other about the guys a lot, a little club of two

Janine drags Rae shopping a lot, mostly to spend time together, but also because Rae can actually carry the shopping with no problem with her muscles

Dates at fancy restaurants and wine bars where Janine gets dressed up and Rae feels uncomfortable in a dress

Janine will offer to give her make overs, which always amuses the guys

Love language of comforting hugs, washing each others hair, giving each other shoulder massages, doing small things such as put incense on when the other is feeling stressed out and little notes left around for each other to find

Mail order flowers

Both of their apartments become used equally as bases and it’s never known which they will be at at any given point

Arguments are loud and sometimes vicious in nature, which prompts the guys to demand they make up. Usually ends with crying and hugging and huge apologies

Nights binging series or movies with pizza, ice-cream and soda

Will both kick Peter’s ass if he’s not careful

Intimacy is usually sweet and loving, but with a spark of passion. And, yes, absolutely open to others to join... By others Janine means Egon

Kisses are sudden and big smooches, or quick pecks on the fly

Janine will phone to make sure Rae is OK when out on assignment, sometimes becoming a nuisance. She will also threaten everyone to look after her, or she’ll kick the crap out of them

Rae’s family are a little shocked over her choice, but completely pleased with Janine.

Pros:

Playful banter

Reliable, responsible and loyal

Conscious of feelings

Pretty badass, let’s face it

Cons:

Cranky and overly emotional 

Jealous

Sometimes clumsy to the point of endangerment

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #404

“death doesn’t answer when i cried for help”

The person you had the strongest feelings for dies, do you care? I'd be fucking devastated. It wouldn't feel real. Is there something you’re happy about at the moment? A few things. I'm still on that high of my APAP mask working, like I'm actually getting some fucking quality sleep, and I think I'm noticing the effects of my TMS therapy finally, too. My PTSD has most notably been much more bearable, and my interests are beginning to spread again. Do you want someone dead? No. Do you ever wonder what your ex is up to? I mean yeah, I think that's pretty normal, even for someone without my issues. Have you ever fed or taken care of a stray animal? Oh, many times. What is something you tend to worry about? My health and future. What is something you do that is unhealthy? Sit at the computer for way too long. I'm absolutely certain my vision is as poor as it is partially because of me endlessly staring at screens. What is something you do that is good for you? I'm not afraid to prioritize my mental health. What last caused you to force a smile? I was watching a Mark video for the first time in a while and was just reminded of how much I love and appreciate that moron. What was the last video game you played? Was it fun? Because you said "video" game, I guess I'll exclude computer ones, in which case I'm pretty sure it was Silent Hill 2. Given it's one of my all-time favorite games, of course I think it's fun. It's one hell of an emotional ride. What is something not many people know about you? The fact I was a dancer for many years would probably surprise people once they have a good idea of me and what I like. What word describes your basic style? Lazy, honestly. I dress for comfort, and given that's usually just pj pants and a tank top... yeah, I don't put much effort into my clothing when I'm going most places. Have you ever been told you were going to Hell? She kinda beat around the bush, but yes. Have you ever wanted to kill yourself? On more than one occasion. If yes, what convinced you not to go through with it? Well, I did OD once, but on the other occasions, it was the fear of the unknown that deterred me. Have you ever rejected a guy, only to have him push the issue by asking “why?” and insisting that you just need to get to know him better? Omg no, thank god. I would NOT handle that well. Is there something that you believe everyone should do and you can’t believe that some people don’t do it (e.g., recycle or go to the dentist regularly)? I didn't know 'til a survey question asked it that there are people who don't brush their tongue when brushing their teeth. Like holy shit dude, there are SO many germs on your tongue, clean that shit. Regarding the last good choice (healthy choice, kind choice, selfless choice, etc.) you made, what was your real motivation behind it? Ummmm the nearest that comes to mind is I guess taking my meds? I mean I do that every single day, but it's still a healthy choice for me. The motivation was because I am very serious about doing what I can for my mental wellbeing. What is something that you have had to practice at to get the hang of it? If you can’t think of anything, that’s okay, what’s something you are currently practicing at and trying to master? I really can't think of something for the first half of the question, but I can tell you that right now I'm attempting to force a routine of applying a therapy technique called "opposite action" into my daily life, where you, well, do the exact opposite of what your depression tells you to not do. It is WAY harder than it sounds, but I'm doing it with reading 30 minutes a day! Have you ever gone to the store to buy something, like a video game, when it came out at midnight? Not to my recollection, no. Regarding the last novel you read, was there a romance included? If so, was it central to the plot? The last novel I finished, yes. It wasn't central to the plot. Have you ever done relaxation meditations or listened to relaxation guides or positive-thinking/healing recordings? No, except in therapy when different therapists wanted me to experiment with it during a session. They just don't work for me. Do you have any interests that are also often shared by children? Yeah. Those are the one I'm especially self-conscious about. there something that could be a solitary activity but you really only like to do it with other people (e.g., watching movies, playing video games, etc.)? Watching movies or TV. Are you satisfied with the interior design or decoration in your home? Or do you think it needs a total home makeover? A makeover would be nice... Is there something that you’d like to own but you can’t find it anywhere? If not, can you a remember a time when you wanted something? Did you ever end up finding it or did you eventually stop wanting it? OKAY SO I actually have seen this custom-made once long after deciding I wanted it, but it was RIDICULOUSLY expensive. There's a location in the Silent Hill games called Heaven's Night, and I'd love love LOVE to commission someone to duplicate the neon pink sign of it to hang in my room. Hopefully one day I could still do it. Who makes you smile the most? Probably my cat, honestly. What piercings do you want/have? I've talked about the piercings I have, but I'll talk about those I want. My #1 is absolutely collarbone dermals, but as I've explained a billion times, I want to lose weight so the bones are more prominent for the sake of contrast; you can't really see my collarbones now, so I just think it'd look pretty dumb and random to just have random piercings somewhere around there with no dimension. I also want way more in my ears, dermals in my back dimples also once I've lost weight, my right nostril for the dozenth time (but this time I'll wear a hoop), and while I'd absolutely adore an undereye microdermal as well, it'd be pointless with glasses. :/ What's your favorite website? KM is my pride and joy and really feels like my online home, so despite using sites like YouTube more, that 'ole RP site has to be my fave. Do you own a fish tank with fish? No. I had fish bowls (AWFUL idea) as a kid, but never tanks Do you like the movie 300? Never seen it. Do you pop your knuckles? NOOOOOOOOOOO. I absolutely hate the sound. It makes me cringe and shiver. Do you have Photoshop? Yes. It comes in the Adobe CC photography bundle I have. Do you use tinypic or photobucket? I used Photobucket back in the day. Now I just upload to imgur. What’s your favourite song from the 1980s? You're talking to someone who adores classic rock/metal, haha. How about the 1990s? There are way too many songs to choose from. Have you won anything recently? No. How often do you make Excel tables? What for? Never. What was the last baby animal you saw in the wild? There was a poor fawn as roadkill on the highway recently. :/ Are you always available or online? Preeeetty much. Do you have dietary restrictions? Or do you just eat what you like? I can eat whatever. Do you prefer gold, silver or steel jewelry? Or no jewelry at all? Steel. I'm allergic to silver, and I think steel is more subtle than gold. Have you been binge-watching any shows lately? If so, what? No. If you dye your hair, do you do it yourself or go to a salon? I do it at a salon. If you have any, do you like your in-laws? I don’t have any. Would it bother you, if your partner had cut contact with their parents? If they had a good reason, no. Have you ever wondered whether you were adopted? As a kid I did because I thought Mom was meaner to me than my siblings, lol. What’s the best physical feeling in the entire universe? ........... This question is a setup lmfao. Have you ever grown a berry bush? No. Have you done something new to your hair recently? No. It's been the same for quite a while. I wanna dye it badly. Do you have bad anxiety? If so, do you take any kind of medication for it? I'm diagnosed with generalized and social anxiety, so yeah. I take Klonopin once and day and Ativan as needed for attacks. One thing you’ve experienced that you thought you never would have? HA, the first thing to come to mind was being noticed by Mark by making a viral (in the community, anyway) gif of he and his doggy. I shit you not, I couldn't sleep for three days lmfao. What was the last thing someone said to you that kept repeating over & over in your head? That I gained fucking seven pounds in two months at my last doctor appointment. I wanted to scream. How often do you have late nights out? Never. I'm a homebody. If you could, would you work from home? Do you think that would make you more or less productive? No. It would absolutely make me less productive. If you had the ability to change the weather, what would you change it to right now? Cool with a nice breeze, mostly clear skies, crisp air... That'd be nice right now. Is there something that you really need to do, but can’t seem to get motivated to do it? I say it all the time: finish decorating my room. It's funny, because I KNOW I'll feel more at home and cozy with my bedroom more personalized. Most disturbing movie you have ever seen? Paranormal Entity. The ending was... a lot. Has a life goal or dream ever come true for you yet? If yes, what is it? If no, do you think you’ll achieve it? Not that I can think of. .-. I hope I can achieve some... Have you ever had food poisoning? No, thank God. What are you listening to? "The Man Who Made a Monster" by Dance With the Dead. Do you think there will be a WWIII? I find it inevitable at some point down humanity's future. People are too hateful for it not to eventually. Has anyone ever asked you if you were emo? Yeah. Has someone ever liked you that you never thought would? Maybe? Idk. In all honesty, can a person be too nice? Yes, in some instances. Has one of your friend’s boyfriends ever tried to cheat on them with you? Yes, when I was around 12. And I let it happen. It's one of my biggest regrets. Is mental abuse really as bad as physical abuse? Of course it is. Emotional abuse can cut just as deep as some physical blows, or even deeper. Do you shop at Sephora for make-up? No. Zelda: Twilight Princess or Ocarina of Time? I'm actually not into TLoZ. Do you own a rosary? I did as a kid growing up in a Catholic Sunday school. If you were homeless, how would you cope? If I had no loved ones in my life and no sign of things getting better, I'm honestly preeetty sure I'd end my life.

[chxmpionofjustice]

STUDY  :  TSUKINO USAGI  ♡

♡   BASICS.

♡  IS YOUR MUSE TALL  /  SHORT  /  AVERAGE? Usagi is the shortest of all of her friends. She’s 4′11″ or 150 cm and yes, she’s fun-sized.

♡  ARE THEY OKAY WITH THEIR HEIGHT? Yes and no. Her lack of height can come in handy sometimes, but it really is a pain in the butt to buy pants. She compensates with shorts and skirts and she can’t really complain because she’s looks amazing in them. And her boyfriend’s face is too far away from hers for her own liking, but standing on tip toe for a kiss feels like something out of a romance, so she can deal.

♡  WHAT’S THEIR HAIR LIKE? Long, blonde, and shiny. She tries to keep it cut to around knee/calf length but ever since she awoke as the Moon Princess, her hair seems to want to grow much farther than than of its own accord and... well it seems to get a little lighter over time. She keeps her hair up in her signature odango-and-pig-tail style on either side of her head. The hair style is held to together painstakingly with hair bands and bobby pins, all of which come out when she goes to sleep. Sometimes she’ll wear her hair in two low pigtails when she sleeps but more often than not, she lets her hair loose.

♡  DO THEY SPEND A LOT OF TIME ON THEIR HAIR  /  GROOMING? Hahahahahahahhahaha. What do you think? YES. Usagi’s hair is one of the few things she puts real effort into. Her hairstyle itself takes a lot of time to do (She’s got the thing down to a science but it still takes her around 10 minutes and would take anyone else a LOT longer), not to mention what she does to keep her hair healthy. Usagi has a whole basket of hair products in her room, ranging from shampoos, conditioners, hair masks, and oils. Maintaining all that hair is hard, okay?

♡  DOES YOUR MUSE CARE ABOUT THEIR APPEARANCE  /  WHAT OTHERS THINK?  Yes and no. She definitely cares what she looks like. She loves fashion and putting together outfits so she looks kawaii wherever she’s going (this also counts work as an adult, she will be the girl in the office wearing the cutest blouse and skirt combo with a pair of adorable kitten heels and this will clearly fool everyone into thinking she can adult). But she doesn’t really do that because she cares what others think. She does that for herself, to make herself happy. And if people happen to think she looks good, well that’s a plus. She can be a little vain like that, but who isn’t?

♡   PREFERENCES.

INDOORS OR OUTDOORS? outdoors

RAIN OR SUNSHINE? sunshine

FOREST OR BEACH? beach

PRECIOUS METALS OR GEMS? gems

FLOWERS OR PERFUMES? flowers

PERSONALITY OR APPEARANCE? personality

BEING ALONE OR BEING IN A CROWD? being in a crowd

ORDER OR ANARCHY?  order

PAINFUL TRUTHS OR WHITE LIES? painful truths

SCIENCE OR MAGIC?  magic

PEACE OR CONFLICT? peace

NIGHT OR DAY? day

DUSK OR DAWN? dusk

WARMTH OR COLD? warmth

MANY ACQUAINTANCES OR A FEW CLOSE FRIENDS?  a few close friends

READING OR PLAYING A GAME? GIVE ME GAMES OR GIVE ME DEATH

♡   QUESTIONNAIRE.  

♡ WHAT ARE SOME OF YOUR MUSE’S BAD HABITS? HAHAHAHA. Okay do y’all even have TIME to read this? Seriously, there are a lot. To name the biggest bad habit of hers, it’s over-indulgence. Usagi shamelessly indulges in EVERYTHING she loves to the point of excess sometimes. She’s banned from a couple buffets because of her eating habits, the girl is a black hole for food, and will eat whatever she wants to eat. She wastes money on food, mostly junk food because she doesn’t cook. 

Despite the fact that she can’t cook, she will buy ANY cute appliance available for the kitchen that she can. Hello Kitty Toaster? Got it. Sailor Senshi chopsticks? GOT THE WHOLE SET (of course for when everyone comes over, they can eat with their designated chopsticks, duh). Mickey Mouse Waffle Maker? BOUGHT (Girl doesn’t know how to make waffle batter). Every single cup she owns has a character on if from some anime, movie, or manga. She even has commemorative Sailor Senshi cups too. Oh you thought it ended with the chopsticks? NOPE. She spends money on plushies, pillows, pens, bags, etc, of her and her friends and does it QUITE HAPPILY. Of course, the thing she buys the most of (besides herself)? Tuxedo Mask. Tuxedo Mask plushies. A Tuxedo Mask pillow case for a body pillow (listen don’t judge her), the rare Tuxedo Mask action figure and the Tuxedo Mask vibr-.... Well let’s just say that she doesn’t only buy every day items with his brand.

A lot of her indulgence has to do with money because she has no impulse control. If she sees a cute thing, she wants it, she buys it. Be it items or clothes. And whatever she buys usually ends up... Well, not put away. Usagi can be pretty messy (it’s a system that works for her, okay), to put it simply. And she’s messy because, to put it quite frankly, she’s kind of lazy. She’s a queen procrastinator who prefers to play games, read manga, doodle, and SLEEP rather than do homework or chores. Usagi would rather do anything under the sun except her responsibilities and everyone who knows her knows this. Boy, do they know this.

That being said, when she is facing her responsibilities as Sailor Moon, she does almost a complete 180. The Earth is her responsibility to protect and she will do anything she has to to keep it safe. Even if it means sacrificing herself. Despite how selfish she can act with certain things (food mostly, she’s like Joey, JOEY DOESN’T SHARE FOOD), Usagi will give herself to save a life in an instant. No hesitation. Because to her every life is precious. The world is precious. So if she has to use her crystal to the point where she has no life energy left to defeat someone evil or divert an asteroid, she will. If she has to throw herself into an abyss to defeat an enemy and save everyone else, she will. 

You may be asking yourself why I wrote that all out. “Altruism is a good thing!” I did it because the level of altruism she displays is destructive. To herself. She is so willing to save everyone that if she sees her own demise as the only way to keep everyone else from dying, she will let herself die. And that’s not giving up. Giving up would be going without a fight. Usagi is gonna fight until her very last breath and that’s gonna be what takes her. Unless someone can come up with a way to save everyone where she won’t have to do that, there’s no stopping her, either. 

♡ HAS YOUR MUSE LOST ANYONE CLOSE TO THEM? HOW HAS IT AFFECTED THEM? Yes and no. Usagi and her friends have all died more than once. Losing them and Mamoru the first time it happened was absolutely devastating to her. She still has nightmares of seeing their bodies lifelessly laying in the snow. Of watching Mamoru, her prince, die in her arms and then be taken away from her only to become a pawn for the enemy. 

The first deaths are the hardest to get over.

And then watching one by one as her friends were taken by the Black Moon (she only BARELY saved Venus, if she didn’t have Mina-P with her, she doesn’t know if she would have been able to go on like she did), her future daughter was corrupted so heinously that she took her own father hostage for her own amusement, and then Sailor Pluto’s death.

I won’t even get into how Galaxia practically vaporized Mamoru in front of her and she was so traumatized that she wiped it from her own memory and was convinced he got on the plane to America. Or how Galaxia also did the same to her friends. There are nights Usagi wakes up in tears with the awful inability to breathe and the only thing that can calm her down is hearing their voices. 

She clings tight to Mamoru when anyone gives him an all too appreciative lingering look (seriously, the man is too pretty for his own good, he attracts so many bad guys) because god forbid they end up turning out to be something evil and try to take him away from her. 

The long and the short of it is that Usagi definitely has some form of PTSD. Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

♡ WHAT ARE SOME FOND MEMORIES YOUR MUSE HAS? Usagi had a sunny life and continues to live wearing rose-tinted glasses even when she has to stop and save the world now and then. She has so many fond memories of growing up like playing dress up with her mom,  meeting Naru in primary school, playing in parks and going to the beach with her family. She has even fonder memories of meeting her best friends, her sisters in arms, in middle school.

And, despite how it ended, sometimes Usagi likes to think on some of the memories from her past life in the Silver Millennium. How she and the senshi would spend day after day with each other. Memories of her mother doting on her and of extravagant balls held in opulent ballrooms. Memories of meeting the beautiful prince of Earth and of the first time she felt his lips on hers.

She has an awful lot to sort through.

♡ IS IT EASY FOR YOUR MUSE TO KILL?  Hell no. She struggles with that idea. The only time she kills is when the enemy has shown their truest form and she has no choice. Otherwise, Usagi will do her damnedest to save everyone. The bad guy included. Because everyone deserves a second chance to do the right thing.

♡ WHAT’S IT LIKE WHEN YOUR MUSE BREAKS DOWN?  Usagi is known for being a crybaby. We establish this early on when we meet her. So one would think her break downs are loud and dramatic because that’s how she is when she cries. That’s... Not strictly true though. When Usagi breaks down, really breaks down, its because she’s holding onto her pain quietly. Usagi breaks down with silent tears and full body sobs. She breaks down with trembling hands and their white knuckle grip on her pillow that she’s holding against her face to muffle when she can’t be quiet anymore.

She breaks down alone.

When someone finds her and tries to comfort her, it can go one of two ways, either she’ll just keep letting it out and allow herself to be comforted, or she’ll suck it all back in, put a stopper in it and assure whomever it is that she’s fine, really, she was just crying because Lawsons didn’t have any more red velvet cake, honestly. 

When Usagi breaks down, she’s at her lowest emotionally, usually feeling horrible about herself. That’s a point that you’d think would be particularly difficult for her to get to right? Right?

♡ IS YOUR MUSE CAPABLE OF TRUSTING SOMEONE WITH THEIR LIFE? She literally does this all the time. Usagi is an amazing judge of character. Not counting her senshi, Usagi has put her life in the hands of people that her allies considered untrustworthy multiple times. And she was right to trust every single one of them. The first one being Tuxedo Mask, then the Outer Senshi. After that, Hotaru. Helios. The Starlights. Usagi knows when she can trust someone with her life and yes, yes, YES, she is very capable of doing it. 

♡ WHAT’S YOUR MUSE LIKE WHEN THEY’RE IN LOVE? Haaaaaaaaaaaa, gosh. Usagi in love is... She loves with her whole self. Usagi is not good at hiding her emotions, even when she’s trying to hold them in. She’s the definition of ‘heart on your sleeve’ because she’s so very open with her emotions and she doesn’t know any other way to be. 

When Usagi is in love, you can take one look at her with the person she loves and it’s obvious. We’re talkin’ heart eyes muthafucka. She’s clingy, likes to touch and be affectionate a lot. And, this goes back to her indulgence thing, she has no problem letting her person know she wants them when she wants them and indulging in that. She’s not subtle in anything with her love. 

She is very physical in her love, but that’s because that’s how she is. But being in love is also tender. Kisses pressed into sleep warm skin, banter and giggles over breakfast (that the other person made because once again, ya girl cannot COOK), cuddling on the couch or in bed while having soft conversations or talking about their day, going out to spend the day at the park or where ever for a day date, romantic dinners in her favorite restaurants or, even better, at home. It’s secret smiles and softened eyes and soft brushes of skin. It’s being completely open and endlessly patient when the other person can’t be just yet. Usagi in love is both in-your-face and achingly tender.

And yes, I know that Usagi had heart eyes when she saw Rei. Listen. Usagi has a big heart. Like a humongous heart. She falls in love easily. She could say she’s in love with her ice cream and totally mean it, okay? Usagi loves with all of herself and that’s not just romantically. But the type of “in love” Usagi can be in, because of her heart, can seem fickle, even when it’s not to her. Just because she started loving one thing doesn’t mean she doesn’t love something else just as fiercely.

♡ TAGGED BY: @adversitybloomed​  ♡ TAGGING :  WHO EVER WANTS TO TBH

[mermaidxatxheart]

As You Wish

So, my birthday was a couple weeks ago. I didn’t do much, but what I did do was watch one of my favorite movies. The Princess Bride. If you haven’t watched it, you definitely should. So, here’s my little homage-not nearly the caliber of that genius. But, I hope you enjoy it all the same. Message me or send me an ask telling me what you thought. If you’d like to be tagged in anything I write, just let me know. Lots of love~Jamie.

Pairing: Bucky X Reader

Word Count: 3900

Warnings: Angst, fluff, mentions of violence and PTSD. 

Summary: You’ve been watching movies with Bucky, trying to help him catch up on all the things he’s missed over the years. But, he’s having a difficult time adjusting to a Hydra-free life, and in the process, hurts your feelings. Can he ever make it up to you? And how would you ever believe him?

“Bucky! Ready to watch a movie?” You skip into his room, as you always do, without knocking and never gently.

 He’s come to expect it, enjoy it even, but he’d never let you know it. Once it’s known that he likes something it gets taken away. And he can’t let you go. So, he pretends to tolerate you, just barely managing to keep you at arms—length.

 “What is it this time?” He asks with a sigh, coming out of his bedroom.

 “The Princess Bride. Steve said you would have never seen it, so I thought it was perfect. It’s one of my favorite movies!” You skip to his couch, ignoring his sighs as you usually do. He loves that about you. You just don’t care that you are potentially putting yourself in danger every time you’re with him. 

 He really didn’t want to watch what sounded like a very boring chick flick, but then you look at him with those big round eyes and how the fuck is he supposed to say no to you now?

 “I guess we’re watching,” he picks up the case. “The Princess Bride. Why does the cover look like that? The writing is so loopy.” 

 You laugh at him and take the case out of his hand, turning it upside down. It takes him a second but he realizes the writing upside down spells the same thing as it does right side up. 

 “Oh, that’s cool. What’s the word for that? Um...” he struggles to think of the word for a minute before looking to you. He knows you know it, and he knows you’ve had it on the tip of your tongue since he looked at the case. He also knows that you would never blurt it out, waiting to see if he can find his way there. Sometimes he does, sometimes it escapes him, but you’re always there with what he needs.

 “Ambigram.” You smile up at him, taking the case and slipping the round disc into the player.

 “Twentieth-anniversary edition?” He looks at the case again. Gold scrolling letters form the title over mirror images of scarlets and blues that somehow both work together. 

 “Yeah, it came out in 1987, just before I was born.” You say looking at him as you head back to the couch. 

 He groans loudly. “You’re making me feel old.”

 “You are old, Bucky.” You laugh and he swears, you could make fun of him all day long if only you keep laughing like that. You take the seat in the middle of the couch and he’s left with a conundrum. If he sits on either side of you, he’ll be close enough to pull you against his side, and even though he wants that more than anything, he would rather have you in his life than just a few seconds of touching you. But if he sits in the armchair, he knows you’ll be hurt. 

 “Bucky, I don’t bite that hard, sit down.” You tell him, patting the seat next to you. 

 He bites back a second groan at the images that are now running through his head. He takes the seat next to you, shifting the pillow to put a pathetic barrier between your body and his. 

 He’s not an idiot, he knows you see it. He also knows that even if it hurts you, you’d never let him know. 

 Fuck.

 It’s like you were put on this earth just to torment him with what he can’t have. And even if he could, he’d never deserve you, never be good enough for you, with all the blood he has on his hands? And you, you’re so innocent, so pure, why would you ever want someone so broken?

 But, of course, that’s why he loves you so fucking much. Because you’re everything he’s not.

 “So, not gonna lie, this is my favorite movie, hands down. I know every line, start to finish, so if I get annoying, just smack me with a pillow.” You warn him with a teasing smile.

 You make that offer every time you bring a movie to his room, but he never takes you up on it. For one, he loves watching you mouth the words along with the characters, and for two, the thought of hitting you, even jokingly with something soft like a pillow makes his stomach curdle and his skin crawl. He would never hurt you. 

 And now he’s curious because he’s never seen you so excited over a movie before. You press play and settle back into the couch. Your legs are cross under you and you seem to almost fold in on yourself and he feels he needs to do something to relax you.

 “Why do they show all these things at the beginning?” He asks and you look at him for a minute.

 “It’s just to advertise what movies are coming out soon or that they’re out and you can buy them now.” You shrug. 

 “But this movie was made... thirty years ago.” He adds quickly in his head. “What’s the point of having them on there now?”

 “To complete the experience? It would feel incomplete, almost amateurish if it didn’t have previews beforehand. It’s just something people expect.” You explain patiently. You never lose your cool with him, always patient. 

 “They didn’t use to.” He sighs, thinking about how complicated the world has become. 

 You simply smile at home and fast forward through the rest. “I never usually watch them anyway, unless it’s the first time.” You select ‘play’ and the screen changes to black and a weird noise sounds.

 “What is that?” Bucky asks, tilting his head. 

 “It’s a video game that was popular back in the ’80s. Like an interactive baseball game.” You say, a smile curling on your perfect lips.

 He aches to trace it with his thumb, to feel your tongue swipe over it, the silky feel of you wrapping your lips around it—he forces the thoughts down. Those lead down dangerous paths and he has to stay away.

 He turns his attention back to the screen, deciding if this one is so important to you, he can watch it instead of you.

 “Farmboy, polish my horse’s saddle. I want to see my face shining in it by morning.”

 “As you wish.”

 “As you wish was all he ever said to her.”

 “Farmboy, fill these with water...please.”

 “As you wish.”

 “That day she was amazed to discover that when he was saying ‘as you wish’ what he meant was ‘I love you’. And even more amazing was the day she realized she truly loved him back.”

 “Farmboy! ......fetch me that pitcher.”

 “As you wish.”

 That doesn’t mean he isn’t hyper-aware of you mouthing every word, sitting so close that all he has to do is twitch his hand out to touch you.

 “Inhale this, but do not touch.”

 “I smell nothing.”

 “What you do not smell is called iocaine powder. It is odorless, tasteless and dissolves instantly in water. It is among the more deadly poisons known to man.”

 He’s conscious of you looking over at him but he keeps his eyes on the screen. You’re not annoying him at all, how could you? Your enthusiasm for this movie is infectious and he’s hooked. 

 What he isn’t aware of is that you’re subtly shifting closer to him. With each adjustment or stretch, it brings you closer to his side. 

 “Boo! Boo! Boo!”

 “Why do you do this?”

 “Because you had love in your hands and you gave it up!”

 “But they would have killed Westley if I hadn’t done it.”

 “Your true love lives, and you marry another! True love saved her in the Fire Swamp and she treated it like garbage! And that’s what she is! The Queen of Refuse. So, bow down to her if you want, bow to her. Bow to the queen of slime, the queen of filth, the queen of putrescence.”

 You mouth every word in perfect synch. The words feel familiar to Bucky, not necessarily the true love part, but the name-calling. He feels that on a personal level. 

 Suddenly, you’re there, snuggling into his side, pulling his arm tight around you. Your fingers trace the plates on his fingers and knuckles and you’re so hot against the metal, he almost loses focus on the movie. He tenses, you have to feel it, but you don’t pull away, and he doesn’t push you away. 

 “Why don’t you ever touch me?” You ask. Your voice is so soft, so quiet that if it weren’t for his enhanced hearing, he never would have heard you. 

 His blood stills in his veins.

 He tries to keep his eyes on the screen so you can’t see him panic.

 “I don’t know what you mean. We’re touching right now.” He says quietly.

 You let out a loud sigh. “Because I’m making you. If you had your way, I’d be at the other end of the couch. You touch Steve, even Sam when he’s not bothering you to death. Natasha, Wanda, you touch them.”

 “You’re missing the movie.” He points out, a bead of sweat trickling down the back of his neck.

 You pout and he loves the way your bottom lip pokes out. “Can I stay like this?” You ask and he’s absolutely too weak to say no.

 “If you stop talking so I can hear.” He tells you, corners or his mouth tugging. 

 You smile brightly and worm your way impossibly closer to his side.

 How is he supposed to say no when you look at him like that?

 “A technicality that will shortly be remedied. But first thing’s first. To the death!”

 “No! To the pain.”

 “...I don’t think I’m quite familiar with that phrase.”

 “I’ll explain. And I’ll use small words so that you’ll be sure to understand, you warthog faced buffoon.”

 “That may be the first time in my life a man has dared insult me.”

 “It won’t be the last.”

 He’s so enthralled with the movie that he doesn’t see Steve pass by the door. The blond man doesn’t miss a thing when it comes to Bucky.

 The credits roll and you turn to Bucky. “What’d you think?” 

 He quickly arranges his face into his normal scowl. “It was alright, a bit sappy. I can see why you like it, though. The satirical aspect of it really made it.”

 You laugh, easing up away from him. He almost doesn’t let you go, but there’s a knock on his door. He jerks away from you, guilt churning in his gut at having been caught. Steve pokes his head in with an apologetic smile.

 “Sorry to interrupt. Y/N, can I have a few minutes with Bucky?” He asks you.

 You nod and scoop up your movie. A part of him wishes you would leave it behind so you would have a reason to come back. But he lets you go, pretending you’re not there, turning away at the last minute so that he doesn’t see your happy wave. The door clicks shut and Steve is so silent Bucky almost thinks he left, too.

 “What’s going on?” He asks finally. Bucky turns away from him, meticulously fixing the cushions on the couch. “Bucky, tell me the truth.” 

 “Nothing is going on, Steve. She likes movies.” He shrugs.

 “Buck. She only watches them with you. You like her?” Steve guesses, hitting the nail on the head.

 Bucky flinches. “No. She just wants company. Easy to tune her out.” 

 Steve rubs the back of his neck. “You’re hiding something from me. I don’t know what it is, but I can feel it. Whenever you’re ready to tell me the truth, you know where to find me.” He turns to leave, opening the door and freezing. “Y/N.” He says and Bucky’s heart plummets, but he refuses to turn around.

 “I just forgot my phone.” You say, clearly struggling to keep your voice even.

 Bucky’s heart constricts at the sound of it, but he scoops up your phone, handing it to you. He walks out of his quarters and heads for the gym without a second look. He can use a brutal workout right now. 

 He changes in the locker room and wraps his hand in the boxing tape. He steps up to the bag and starts punching. The burning of his muscles is welcome as he dances around, light on his feet. It’s something to focus on besides the way you smell, the feel of your fingers on his metal hand. Anything but the way you feel against his side, so natural and warm.

 He becomes aware of Steve leaning against the wall next to him. He doesn’t know how long he’s been there, but he refuses to break the silence. Strands of hair are plastered to his face and neck.

 Finally, he can’t take Steve’s stare anymore. He thought he was tough, that he could handle it, but the guilt of hurting your feelings was already eating away at him.

 “Words are hard,” Bucky mutters, pausing and breathing hard. Steve remains silent, waiting. “I can’t...” Bucky shakes his head. “She’s too...” he looks helplessly at his best friend. “Important.”

 “You act like you don’t care about her.” Steve points out. “If she’s so important to you, why do you act like you don’t even like her that much?”

 “Because I have to.” Bucky snaps before blowing out a sigh.

 “You have to?” Steve repeats.

 “Steve, you don’t.... it wasn’t the same for you.” Bucky shakes his head and Steve stiffens.

 “Hydra.” He guesses.

 “I wasn’t allowed... if I liked anything....” Bucky rubs his face frustratedly. 

 “You’re not at Hydra anymore, Buck. No one is going to take her away from you.” Steve pushes himself off the wall. “How long have you felt like this?”

 “Couple months? Maybe a year? It’s hard to keep track of time.” Bucky shrugs.

 “You need to go talk to her.” 

 “And say what? I know I’ve been an asshole but really, I’m crazy about you? Yeah, that will go over well.” Bucky replies sarcastically. 

 “Guys, we have a mission. Take off in ten minutes.” Natasha pokes her head into the room. Steve looks at him and he sighs.

 “Alright.” He jumps in the shower quickly before getting dressed in his mission suit. He wants to run up to your room to say goodbye, but there isn’t time. 

 “You can talk when we get back,” Steve reassures his best friend.

 One week later

 “Bucky! Go left!” Steve shouts.

 Trusting his best friend, the Winter Soldier veers to the left, fighting off anyone the comes his way. Light flashes a split second before a boom echoes. Bucky is flipped over, plain flaring up his side. He gasps for air, his chest refusing to expand. 

 Something is wrong.

 “Bucky!” Steve shouts, quickly eliminating his opponents.

 Bucky rolls over onto his back, he can feel his chest is wet and the whole area burns as he presses his hand to it. Natasha is there, hovering over him. 

 “Can you hear me?” She asks.

 Bucky tries to push himself up but she forces him back. He needs to talk to you; he can’t die with you thinking he doesn’t care. “Y/N,” Bucky groans deliriously.

 “Stay down!” Natasha yells. 

 He can hear her, but her words aren’t making sense.

 “Bucky, stay down. Stay still.” Steve peels back the fabric of Bucky’s suit and winces. He snaps a couple pictures and sends them to Doctor Cho. 

 “That’s really bad,” Natasha says, her voice becoming muffled. The light filtering down between the leaves dims and Bucky is left in the dark, again.

 ***

There was a lot of commotion outside the kitchen, people running and shouting at each other. The team has been gone for a week and you were even more miserable than before.

 Bucky had left without saying goodbye to you, which just confirmed your fears. He really didn’t care. Maria informed you that it was just because there wasn’t time, but she didn’t know what you did, that Bucky only tolerated you. He didn’t care.

 All that time you spent falling in love with him was wasted. He just put up with you because you forced your company on him. 

 How could you be so blind?

 The commotion gets louder as people are running back the other way. What the heck is going on? You move to the door in time to see a gurney being moved at top speed. 

 You would recognize that dark brown hair anywhere, the silver arm and red star were just extra giveaways. 

 Your heart turns to ice in your chest and you sink back against the door, legs unable to support you. His side was bright crimson red and sticky wet. His face was pale, and he was still. 

 So very still.

 “Bucky?” You whisper. Your eyes turn blurry and you don’t understand why.

 “Y/N,” Steve starts, touching your shoulder. 

 You jerk away from him. “I... I think the ceiling is leaking?” You stammer. That didn’t make sense, you were 30 floors from any type of roof, and there was a gym above you. Nothing to leak. 

 “We should talk.” He says softly. He helps you stand up and leads you to a private room. 

 You slump into a chair and look up at him. “You might want to get Tony on that leak.” Your voice wavers.

 “There’s no leak, Y/N. You’re crying.”

 “Well, that’s a lie.”

 He gives a small smile. “Bucky is going to be okay.”

 A dozen waspish replies run through your head, but then you remember how he looked on the gurney and you swallow every last one. “What happened?”

 “A sniper. I missed it.” Steve curses under his breath. “I can’t believe I missed it.” 

 “You were gone for a long time.” You say.

 He kneels in front of you, his hands resting on your knees. “He won’t want me to say this, because he’s a punk. But he was coming to talk to you, to tell you how he really feels when we got the mission.”

 “Steve, you don’t have to do this. I know how he feels.” You sigh.

 “No, you really don’t. He’ll want to see you when he wakes up.” He looks up at you with those impossibly blue eyes. “I know you’re hurt, but please. This is important.”

 You nod wordlessly and he sits in the chair next to you.

 It’s silent for hours. Your entire body is tense and aching. Steve hasn’t stopped bouncing his knee the entire time. You’ve recited every line from the Princess Bride in your head and now you’ve taken to reciting plots to Indiana Jones. 

 “Should it be taking this long?” You ask, looking over at the big man.

 “I’m sure everything is fine.” He says, reassuring you.

 You are not reassured. 

 The door opens and Natasha pokes her head in. “He’s awake. Asking for Y/N.” She jerks her head at you. 

 You look at Steve and he gestures for you to go. “Just tell him I’m sorry.” He squeezes your hand and nudges you towards the door. 

 The walk down the hall to the medical wing was the hardest, longest walk of your life. You hesitate outside the door before knocking once.

 “Was.... was that a knock? I couldn’t tell.” You hear his voice on the other side of the door, sounding a little tired but still strong and it’s like a dam breaks in your chest. You lean against the door, unable to open it because you don’t want him to see you a crying mess.

 “Y/N?” He calls.

 “I-I’m here.” You reply.

 “Are you going to come in?” You can hear the smirk in his voice and it makes you want to smack him a little. 

 “No. I-I think I’ll stay out here.” You can’t handle seeing him lying in that bed right now.

 “As you wish.”

 “Are you okay?” You ask, sliding down the door.

 “I’ve had worse.” He says lightly. 

 “Steve feels bad. He blames himself.”

 “Typical. He’s an idiot.” 

 “Bucky?” You start and he lets out a sigh. “Bucky? Are you okay?” You rush, reaching for the doorknob.

 “I like the way you say my name.” He says softly. “Are you sure you won’t come in?”

 “Can we just talk like this for a little bit?” You ask, rubbing your eyes.

 He’s quiet for a minute. “As you wish.” 

 “I’m sorry I forced my company on you.” You say and he groans. “If I had known that it bothered you that much-“ the door behind you opens and you topple backward. “What are you doing out of bed?” You yell at his retreating back.

 “I couldn’t hear you.” He says and you can’t tell if he’s lying or not.

 “Get back in the bed!”

 “As you wish.” He says patiently, hobbling back to the bed. 

 You scramble up and follow him. He eases himself back into the bed with a groan, capturing your hand as you stand next to him. 

 “Bucky,” you start again and he closes his eyes. His words sink in and you look at him sharply.

 He laces his fingers with yours, his thumb tracing the shapes. 

 “Why do you keep saying that?”

 “Saying what?” He mumbles, resting your intertwined hands on his very broad chest.

 “You know what! Stop it.”

 “As you wish.” He says evenly. His eyes open and he looks at you square on. You try to back away but he holds you tight. “You wouldn’t fight a guy that just almost died, would you?”

 You look at him for a minute before yanking your hand out of his. His perfect blue-green eyes turn sad as he nods a little.

 “I understand.” He says softly. 

 You can’t hide the smile as you throw your arms over his shoulders, hugging him as best you could, so instead, you choose to hide your face. He lets out a small groan but his arms encircle you anyway. Then you remember that he was shot.

 “Oh shit!” You try to pull away but he doesn’t let you. “Bucky-“

 “It’s worth the pain.” He shifts you so that you’re more on the bed than off, and still able to touch him. “You asked why I never touched you.”

 “We don’t have to talk about that.” You rush, just wanting him to rest.

 “But I want to, so we’re going to.” He takes your hand and rests it on his chest, playing with your fingers. “It was ingrained into me over and over again, for seventy years, that I was nothing. That I deserved nothing. Anything I wanted, anything I enjoyed, it was taken away. I couldn’t let anyone see how I really felt, you’d be taken away.”

 “You don’t think you deserve to be happy? Even after all this time? All the pain you’ve been through?”

 “How can I? After everything I’ve done?”

 You press a finger to his lips. “Because if you had a choice, you wouldn’t have done all those things. That’s the difference between you and The Winter Soldier. You deserve all the happiness in the world, Bucky.” You say gently, leaning forward and kissing his cheek. “And I’m going to be here to make sure you get it all.”

 “As you wish.” He mumbles quietly.

Tag List: (If I forget anyone, I’m so sorry.)

@everythingisoverrated​ @dsakita​ @i-dont-want-to-be-called​ @thefridgeismybestie​ @alexblrus​ @bitsandbobsandstuff​ @after-avenging-hours​ @thinkingsofamadwoman​ @fortheloveofallthatsholy​ @crazychaotic​ @pleasureoftheguiltiestvariety​ @redstarstan​ @septic-boye​ @justreadingfics​ @themistsofmyavalon​ @sebastianstanslefteyebrow​ @wkemeup​ @thiccbinch​ @glide-thru​ @moli1497​ @ellaenchanted91​ @part-time-patronus​ @janeyboo​ @jensensjaredsandmishaslover​ @uncledaddykelbo @thirstybitchqueen 

[thankskenpenders]

Yeah, this is the big one. Grab your popcorn

Sally finally gets a moment to talk to Sonic after being ignored all day, and tells him what’s up. With her being put in charge, and Sonic being her royal consort (basically, the guy who’s committed to marrying her someday but isn’t quite her fiance yet), Sally wants Sonic to stop going on away missions and lead Knothole by her side

Look. Let’s set aside all of our preconceived notions about what a Sonic comic should or shouldn’t be. Ignore the fact that we obviously want to see Sonic go on adventures. Forget it. Let’s look at it from Sally’s perspective for a second

Yes, this is the post in which I explain that “The Slap” isn’t that bad. It’s certainly not great, but it’s not The Worst Thing Ever like it’s been made out to be. I wish I didn’t have to spend my evening writing this, but 15 years of hyperbolic fan outrage (note: some Wikia rando added that “reception” section this year) have forced my hand

First of all, again, Sonic is formally committed to marrying her and ruling alongside her someday. This was established ten issues ago. He was already committed to this. Then, Sonic went and died. Sally still spent an entire year of her life thinking her basically-fiance was dead, and had to deal with shit in Knothole without him as things continued to get worse and worse. No one can just bounce back from that unscathed. After his return, she WANTED to help Sonic and go be a Freedom Fighter on the last mission, but her parents forbade her and the royal guards kept her in the castle. (That SUCKS, but is a whole ‘nother conversation.) She wants to fight by his side and keep him safe, but her parents are forcing her to stay home and be the princess, which only makes her more distraught. Last issue, she broke down into tears when she saw Sonic get shot by M over Eggman’s video feed, and her mother had to console her and reassure her Sonic wasn’t dead

Sally very clearly has PTSD over Sonic’s “death” a year ago. She doesn’t want to lose him again. She’s outright said as much

And also... when she says Sonic isn’t the only hero around, she’s got a point?Sonic barely did anything in the last arc! Tails was the one who outsmarted ADAM. Shadow dealt with Eggman. Bunnie did most of the damage to M and took out an entire fucking aircraft carrier on her own. Knuckles, the Chaotix, Rouge, and Amy took out the robot horde. All Sonic did was land the final attack on M--which, honestly, someone else could’ve done. And he got his arm injured in the process

Add on to this all of the chaos of the last few days. Sally’s barely had a free moment to see Sonic since she found out he was alive. They nearly got nuked by Eggman. They’re being harangued by the paparazzi. It sucks. And hell, it goes back WAY further than this! She spent years as a kid trying to save her parents, and now all they do is belittle her. She found out she had a secret older brother, and then her parents decided he was the more important child. She went through all sorts of relationship drama. She nearly died a few times herself. And now, her parents have decided to leave her in charge of their whole kingdom at a time of war, while she’s still a mess from the trauma of losing Sonic. The idea Bollers had was apparently that Sally had been bottling up her issues for years (which she totally had been), and this was just the breaking point

I know Sonic’s desire to keep being a hero is understandable. I know he’s right. That’s all he really knows how to do, and he feels useless in times of peace. And obviously, we the readers want to see Sonic go on adventures. But Sally’s concerns are valid. We don’t have to agree with her plan to have Sonic rule by her side for her emotions to be understandable

Sally’s been on the verge of a breakdown for who knows how long. She should be mad at her parents, but they’ve worn her down to the point where she thinks she’s unable to confront them. (It would be very, very easy to make a case arguing that Sally’s parents are emotionally abusive. Max especially.) She thinks that Sonic is the one person who will listen to her and have her back. They’re betrothed, after all. This is literally what he signed up for. After trying to get his attention ALL DAY, she finally gets a chance to talk to him. But he wants other things in life, and refuses. In front of a crowd, no less

So she lashes out at Sonic and slaps him

Then they both start yelling at each other and crying. Sally asks Sonic if she’s more important to him than fighting Eggman, Sonic can’t answer, and Sally runs away in tears. For all intents and purposes, Sonic and Sally are now broken up. (For now.)

Should Sally be lashing out at Sonic? No. Could this scene be done better? Oh, absolutely. This is not the direction I would want Sally to go in as a character, and if you ARE gonna have them fight, this wasn’t written with the care required to make fans sympathize with both parties. The fact that we’ve seen everything from Sonic’s perspective with barely any insight into Sally’s certainly doesn’t help. But as the several lengthy paragraphs above explain, this does not come out of nowhere. It’s easy to find lots of fans online calling Sally all sorts of names (sometimes very misogynistic or ableist ones) because they think she just flipped out on Sonic out of nowhere. But she didn’t. Sally having some sort of breakdown had been foreshadowed for several issues, and the reasons why make sense. No, she shouldn’t have lashed out at Sonic, but this isn’t just her going “Oh no, my period! Let’s nuke England!” as so many have made it out to be. (And hell, the comics already had a lengthy history of treating Sally even worse than this, with Gallagher making her the nagging girlfriend who bickered with Sonic all the time and Penders sympathizing more with her shitty dad.)

Again, this was supposed to be a turning point in which Sally bottling up all this crap and carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders finally leads to her breaking. It’s a dramatic low point to build back up from. The problem is that Bollers left the series only a few issues later, and Penders and “Chacon” never did much with this. So in hindsight, many view this as her randomly snapping “for no reason,” because the followup stories that would have explored how she’d been bottling up her feelings were never actually written. But it’s not hard to figure out what’s supposed to be going on in her head if you actually go back and look at the preceding Sally scenes

For the most part, this is just run of the mill relationship drama for Archie Sonic. You see this kind of shit all the time in serialized media. Characters date, but the writers need to keep things ~spicy~, so they break up, see other people... then inevitably end up back together, and the process repeats ad nauseum. You ever watch Scrubs? You know how JD and Elliot are obviously love interests from episode one, but they had to do that will they/won’t they shit for years and have flings with other characters to keep up ratings? Yeah, it’s just that. For Sonic, there’s also the added pressure from Sega, who never allowed Sonic to be in any stable relationship for very long. Several writers have talked about how this limited what they could do with Sonic and Sally. Do I like that this cycle of drama is the norm? No. But after over 200 of these comics, I’m used to it

(And hell, at this point in the comics, they had literally just broken up Bunnie and Antoine, and Rouge was starting to get in the way of Knuckles and Julie-Su’s relationship. Between Julie-Su and Knuckles’ first kiss and them actually dating, Penders had Julie-Su get mad at Knuckles and go out with some random other guy. They do this shit all the time)

The worst you can really say about this scene is that Jon’s art is a little too goofy and undermines the drama a bit. In his own words from his website’s FAQ: “I’m sorry. Like I said, I was an overeager noob and I drew what I was given.” But really, he had been drawing these sorts of exaggerated, frantic expressions throughout the entire issue. Not just with Sally. Look at all the panels of Sonic wigging out in the previous pages. I still think his work is fantastic. If anything, it was a bad call on Archie’s part to give this somber scene to a brand new artist with a very exaggerated, silly art style. He just drew what was in the script

You know what really blows about this whole thing, though? Jon Gray is still, to this day, over 15 years later, getting harassed for drawing The Slap

That is so utterly ridiculous and shitty. People have made up all sorts of conspiracy theories about the slap, saying that Jon had some sort of “anti-Sally agenda” and that it wasn’t in the script. (This is completely false.) People are so stuck in the past and bent out of shape over this one panel in a pretty run-of-the-mill Archie Sonic issue that Jon has to block people who come into his Twitter mentions accusing him of “sabotaging” the series on a regular basis. Y’all, Jon’s a good guy, and he doesn’t deserve to be treated like that

And lord. There’s so much nastier shit within this series. Penders hooking a 15-year-old Sally up with a dude in his 20s (and later saying that he wanted her to lose his virginity to said dude). Gallagher making Barby Koala have a creepy crush on Tails. Penders rephrasing a poem about the Holocaust to be about hedgehogs. Penders having Sally rationalize her dad’s attempt at genocide. (I could go on and on with Penders, can you tell)

This whole thing is just, so blown out of proportion. It’s not a great scene, but it didn’t “ruin” Sally’s character. Neither Jon nor Bollers had some sort of “anti-Sally agenda.” They weren’t out to ruin your fucking ship. And for god’s sake, quit yelling at them about it. This was 15 years ago and all parties involved have moved on. It’s just more melodrama in a series that’s always 90% melodrama

It’s a single panel in a comic about Sonic the Hedgehog. Can we move on

[diveronaevents]

AUTHOR: Rogue

MENTIONED: ORSINO, ROSALINE, JULIET

TRIGGERS: Discussions of past torture/bodily injury, PTSD

SUMMARY: After taking some time to reflect, ROSALINE and ORSINO make a plan to leave Verona. As of MAY 23rd, ROSALINE and ORSINO are permanently in Amsterdam in order to take the city for the Capulets. Rosey will no longer be writing Rafaella in any capacity, but Rogue will continue to write Orion in an extremely limited one (occasional phone calls, emergency visits from characters to Amsterdam should you wish it, etc).

The positions of SPETTRO and ADVISOR are now open. Currently, Cosimo and VOLUMNIA are reviewing candidates for the ADVISOR position. If your character is interested in the SPETTRO position, you are welcome to think about their development, and also to send those thoughts to the main so we can discuss them! Thank you for bearing with us as we figured this out! 

The sounds of the city below are a low hum he’s learned to tune out. It’s calm tonight, very few sirens, no drunken raucous to be found as he listens to Rafaella’s quiet breaths, feeling them as her chest rises and falls beneath his head.

He used to hold her like this often. Orion has no issue in the switching of position; it’s the why that trips him up, stealing one of the rare nights of peace until the quiet buzzes like a wasp’s nest in his mind.

She runs her hands through his hair and it feels different. The long nails she used to wear haven’t yet grown back, the foundation slow if they want her hands to eventually be strong and healthy again. She won’t ask, but she feels more than hears her hum as she presses her lips to his temple a moment. He sighs.

“Today was bad.” That’s putting it delicately, but it’s not untrue. Rafaella makes that tiny hum again, but her focus has shifted entirely from her book. It’s set aside on the end-table now, her formerly preoccupied hand finding his so she can link their fingers together. They’re very unlike each other in this one specific way, for all the things they share. When Rafaella tries to hide her hurts from him at first, trying to protect herself or him in some immeasurable way, Orion has no issue sharing his.

He outlines it clearly: there will be no intensive movement of his shoulder for the next twelve months. Were he to do so, he would certainly lose any range of motion, and may end up paralyzed. There are other, more minor hurts that will still take an awful lot of time to heal, but this is the most egregious. This is the injury that debilitates him in the eyes of her Uncle, and Orion has an awful sinking feeling in his chest that he tries to ignore.

(Will it debilitate him in the eyes of Rafaella, too? He’s never worried about this before. He’s never been weak.)

Orion laughs with no bitterness, genuinely amused by how thoroughly Marcelo has decimated him. “They’re really good at their job, hm?” He blinks up at Rafaella, almost coquettish. “I have a type. Competent with a shitty home life.”

Rafaella lets go of his hand and runs a finger down the bridge of his nose before tapping once, lightly. “Don’t forget beautiful.”

“Yes, and works of art. The triad.”

Her mouth twitches at the corners, soft and fond but still reserved compared to several months previous. His Rafaella is quieter, now. He finds he doesn’t mind.

“How long,” he asks calmly, “until Capulet disposes of me?”

The hand in his hair freezes.

“He’s not a man to take kindly to wasted resources,” Orion continues, blithe, even as he reaches for her hand again. He squeezes until Rafaella squeezes back, until he has awareness that she’s listening again. “I’ll certainly be demoted, but I could handle that. It’s the rest that has me on edge.”

Rafaella shifts him off of her so she can look him in the eye. She doesn’t let go of his hand, warm and solid in his. “You are not disposable.” Her eyes are red. He wants to kiss them at the corners.

“Not to you,” he reminds her. “Not to some.” It’s not good enough, not if Capulet is truly headed for war. “I know too much, and there’s no way to ensure my compliance if I’m not being paid for anything. There’s no reason to pay me if I’m not doing anything, and I’m not the right person to be an emissary, even if they weren’t leaning more into fights lately. Two plus two equalling four, the easiest solution would be — “

“No.” This is practically a snarl. Rafaella’s gaze is biting, some of her former venom appearing in the way she bares her teeth with the sound.

He waits. Her mind is so sharp, twisting and unfurling until it blooms with new ideas, potent strategy, or something witty and bold. He wishes he could listen to her think, sometimes. He wants to be in that maze, curve around the edges, hug the walls until he finds her waiting for him at the center.

If he’s realized something, it cannot be long until she realizes it too.

There. He finds it in her eyes, when anger becomes defeat and quickly rallies into determination. “That’s not happening.”

“Of course not.” Orion smiles.

It must be contagious, because her lips curve too, shaking her head. She has far less faith in her ability than he does, but that’s fine. Orion has never been over-burdened with insecurity, but some have said he may be overwhelmed by overconfidence.

If he splits some with Rafaella, it will balance.

“Since it’s not, though,” he points out, “we’re going to have to do something about it, and I don’t have anything in mind.” His head is still fuzzy, sometimes. Things don’t come with perfect clarity. He has been assured that they will, after extensive scans of his brain, but that will come slowly, too. His treasured independence has been cast aside in favor of being coddled and taken care of, and he doesn’t mind half as much as he should, so long as it’s Maeve or Rafaella doing the caring.

She brings their hands up to kiss his knuckles, her gaze very far away.

“I might,” Rafaella admits. Orion never doubted it. “Give me some time.”

When Rafaella Capulet tenders her resignation as Cosimo’s advisor, it does not go the way anyone thinks it will.

That it happens at all is a shock to the bloodstream for almost everyone.

She attends three meetings in the span of a day, one public, one revealed but under the guise of being secretive, and one that is truly kept from the world at large. There are other goodbyes, of course. Other meetings to be had for herself and Orion both, other tender words to share with those who love them and are loved in return, other stolen moments where the pair can be themselves and acknowledge what they’re giving up.

But first, it goes like this:

Near dawn, Rafaella and Juliana Capulet share espresso in Orion’s kitchen. He would call it their kitchen, but she still can’t believe that, can’t hold onto it without fearing she’ll break it. Orion’s house, Orion’s kitchen. She’s an invader he refuses to get rid of.

They talk at length, until the sun is high in the sky and Orion has left for physical therapy. What they speak of, it’s too soon to tell. What they plan for, only the two of them know. In the end, they simply hold each other, holding tight for a very long time, all the while knowing that even when separated, family doesn’t truly end.

Hugs do, though, and finding solace in one another will never quite be the same.

Next, Orion and Rafaella go together to meet two non-descript men in a simple cafe. Nothing is ostentatious, everything quiet, their heads bent low. The Montagues and Capulets alike who pass them by hear Orion and this man conversing in stilted, passable Dutch. When the two men depart, the couple seem extremely satisfied, Rafaella curling around Orion like a cat stretching toward the sun.

The third, of course, is the hardest. Meeting with Cosimo Capulet is never easy. Telling your Uncle you’re leaving him behind is infinitely worse.

Somehow, though, she manages it. She stands strong as she calmly explains their reasoning. Both Orion and Rafaella have been torn apart by this war, bloody and raw, but she doesn’t point that out. They have been nearly broken, slashed into so many times they’re shells of their former selves in so many ways, but these are not reasons that will impress Capulet. And so, with Orion’s hand tight in hers, she lies.

She lies about the up and coming organized crime groups in Amsterdam. She explains the disorganized and chaotic nature of the warring gangs, of how many have fallen victim to hubris and the law. She opens his eyes to a world of her own creation, where Amsterdam has a power vacuum in dire need of filling, and the Capulets desperately need allies if they’re going to win this war without dying out in the process. She spins and spins her web around him with enough half-truths and persuasive words to bring glory to his thoughts, and all the while, Orion’s hand stays in hers.

A role better suited to our current position, she admits, letting the hint of vulnerability in her show for just a moment. Or should I say our current predicament?

It’s easier than she wants it to be. Selfishly, desperately, she wants him to fight for her to stay. Rafaella has been accepted as his family; should he not fight to keep his family together? Yet he considers it with almost cerebral calm, like he’s watching a chess game rather than thinking of the future of his family, and Rafaella’s heart hardens.

When Verona implodes around him, when his throne is viciously stolen, when everything he’s built flourishes while he crumbles himself, Rafaella tells herself she will not be sorry.

[apassintohell]

Briar Avery Quinn, Empath and RAD Student

Briar walks through the castle halls with their head held high. The sound of their heels chases after them the way their shadow does not; the way their shadow hasn’t since the day they became something inhuman. Their skirts whisper when they brush against the back of their legs, parting to reveal flashes of the many seals marking their skin. 

Diavolo meets them by the doors with a waiting hand. They hook their arm with his before following him out into the ballroom. There are immediately eyes from all the realms on them, though Briar doesn’t falter.

They are an example of the success of RAD’s exchange program. A human-turned-other by their own design, now advisor and consort to the King.

Their loved ones stand in the crowd and look on in pride as Briar shows off every bit of monster they are.

Let the guests stare. Briar has no plans to go anywhere anytime soon.

Full profile under the cut!

Warning: mentions of self harm, drugging and abuse

Basics

Name: Briar Avery Quinn

Gender: Non-Binary (they/them)

Age: 23

Birthday: October 24th

Deathday: N/A

Zodiac Sign: Scorpio

Sexuality: pansexual

Ethnicity: White

Language(s) Spoken: English

Hometown: Michigan, Detroit

Relationship Status: in a polyamorous relationship

Current Family: Luis Quinn (father), Molly Quinn (mother)

Family Background: Disowned at 18

Relationship with Men: rocky

Relationship with Women: rocky

Religion: Satanist

Attitude Towards Religion: annoying; shitty people use it as an excuse to do horrible things—their parents are a prime example

  Magic

Special Abilities: empathy, emotion reading, seeing auras, able to discern basic thoughts through touch

Magical Abilities: nature based, specifically animals, various dark and pact magic

  Physical

Complexion: usually clear unless they’re extremely stressed or not eating well; permanent and very large dark circles

Skin Color: very pale with cool undertones; freckles mostly concentrated around their nose and under eyes on their face, also scattered over their body

Eye Color: pale green in right, red in left

Hair Color:  red

Hair Length: loose waves and down to mid back

Usual Hair Style: bangs parted to the left, either down or up in a ponytail

Face Shape: round

Height: 5’6

Body Type: hourglass

Build: athletic  

Posture: normally pretty good but can slouch at times

Scars: self-harm scars on their upper thighs; jagged scar at the back of their neck from a glass bottle; scars on knees and knuckles from falling and fighting

Seals (all are the size of half a hand unless otherwise specified): Mammon’s on back of neck, Asmo’s over their heart, Beel’s on the left side of their stomach, Levi’s on their upper right arm, Satan’s on right hip, Belphie at base of spine, Lucifer’s on inner left thigh, Simeon’s on the back of their left hand, Diavolo (largest) across their shoulder blades and upper back, Barbatos on their right calf, Solomon on the inside of their right forearm, Kestral on the right side of their neck behind their ear

Seals from other MC’s: Valoreal’s ( @rebsrebsrebsrebs ) on the center of their sternum beneath their breasts, Thatcher’s ( @rebsrebsrebsrebs ) on their forehead and over the top of their cheeks, Evie’s ( @justalittlebitwitchy ) on their right wrist

Piercings: first and second holes on both ears; three cartilage on the left

Clothing style: favors crop tops and showing lots of skin most days; others are full of sweatshirts and comfy pants; mostly gothic with primarily black pieces; leather harnesses, mesh, lace and occult inspired jewelry

Voice: soft and firm

  Personality

Introvert or Extrovert: Extroverted

MBTI Personality: ENFP-T (56% extroverted, 55% intuitive, 75% feeling, 58% prospecting, 69% turbulent)

Optimist or Pessimist: Forced Pessimist  

Sense of Humor: dark and sexual

Temperament: a storm and a spitfire; can just as easily be chill and calm as they can jump into defensive anger

Attitude: infuriatingly honest, has a problem with authority

Expressiveness: tries to keep most emotion hidden save for anger and amusement

Ruled by Heart or Mind: Heart

Consideration for Others: considers the people they care about very carefully but others don’t really matter

How Other People See Them: reckless, purposefully confrontational, alluring, strong

Opinion of Themselves: low in the scheme of things; worthless and everyone is going to realize it eventually

Strengths: their ability to stand strong during conflict

Flaws: their fear of losing the people they love holds them back

Morning Person or Night Owl: Night Owl

Favorite Sin: Lust

Favorite Virtue: Temperance

  Health

Energy Levels: low, gives a false sense of high to others

Disabilities and Mental Issues: PTSD, depression, occasional dysphoria, periods of dissociation  

Phobias: being surrounded and touched by strangers; being drugged

Drinking: fine with social drinking but won’t drink enough to lose control

Drugs/Prescriptions: takes anti-depressants and anxiety meds; has done hard drugs before but won’t do anything other than marijuana now

Addictions: N/A

Mental Strengths: able to empathize with anyone; was able to keep going despite their horrible past; very strong will

Mental Weaknesses: puts others above their own well-being; the idea of losing the ones they love; being treated kindly

Past/Present Illnesses: suffers from migraines

Allergies: N/A

Memory: tends to remember what they deem important but what others would think are small insignificant things; not very good at memorization-based schoolwork; has some gaps due to PTSD and being drugged against their will

  Career

Job Title: King’s Consort and Diplomat of The Realms

Career Type: Political

Education: high school and RAD’s university

Work Ethic: motivated on topics they’re curious about but can struggle with schoolwork and deadlines due to mental health issues; far better at hands on and physical activities

Career Satisfaction: very high

  Preferences

Diet: will eat pretty much anything so long as it won’t make them sick

Favorite Foods: sushi, sweet fruits like strawberries, brownies, backstabbing sandwiches, bat wings in howling sauce

Favorite Drinks: anything fruity, tea

Favorite Movies: romance, action and documentaries

Favorite Books: fantasy/romance, occult and mythology  

Favorite Music: trap, pop, rock, hip-hop

Favorite Place: they really love the gothic architecture of Devildom and enjoy exploring everything but honestly anywhere the people they love are

Favorite Activities: playing games with Levi, napping with their lovers, flying, sparring, exploring old architecture

Favorite Time of Day: evening

Favorite Season: fall

Favorite Animal: wolves, foxes, butterflies, cats

Hobbies: gaming, studying mythology/occult history, learning new magic, baking

[nefariouscryptid]

Hey hi, oc question time? Do they break down regularly? Or do they feel low and fed up with everything? Have they ever cried like honestly? What is/was the cause in each case? How do they deal with this situation? What and who brings them comfort on those occasions?

They frequently have breakdowns and even cry a lot.

Peter: he has frequent breakdowns, both from stress, anger, and his own mental issues. When he’s alone if he’s upset he will either just cry, or if he’s having a very bad day, lock himself in his closet and sob, scream, rip at his hair and skin, bite his knuckles and arm, choke himself, and curl up into a ball. He normally doesn’t get comforted by anyone, but sometimes Jason will be there for him. It helps a little.

Jason: he’s down a lot. He doesn’t cry much, can’t really cry, but some days he doesn’t feel as if he’s there, and just goes on autopilot. He smokes a lot and drinks when he gets this way, if he can. Peter tries to either tell him to suck it up and ignore it or takes him to do something.

Anahii: she has extreme ptsd and her own mental issues, so if she’s in one of her episodes she will stay in the same place for hours. Just staring at the ceiling, in the shower with the water on boiling until someone has to pull her out so she doesn’t burn to death, or trying to destroy her own body. She doesn’t see herself as a human anymore, but as a robot. She often tries ripping her own limbs off or crushing them in anyway she can. She believes her eyes have been ripped out and replaced, so she tries to rip them out herself, but someone always stops her before she does. She never registers who.

Cooper: he doesn’t get breakdowns often, but sometimes he just has the days where he thinks about his sister and family, everything he could have done to help her, thinks about what she’d be like if she was alive. It triggers if he sees something she likes, or even if the weather is a certain way. Plethora and Cassandra know it’s best to just leave him alone since it doesn’t last longer then a day or two. But they’re there for him.

Plethora: he doesn’t get episodes but he does also get sad when he thinks about his family, how they just abandoned him. He doesn’t know if they cared when he “died”, and he believes they didn’t. He wishes things were different, that he just had a family who loved him. But then he realizes he does, and that’s all he needs. Doesn’t get rid of the pain, but it helps him. He also has his moments of anxiety and paranoia, which he’s then either alone in the bathroom trying to sort himself out, or sandwiched between Cooper and Cassandra.

Cassandra: probably the most okay out of everyone. She has her off days of course, but she knows how to handle herself and knows her emotions very well. When she feels.. let’s say guilty over all the jobs she caused people to lose and how that affects them she just distracts herself in whatever way she can. She’s fine for the most part. She does miss her family, even if she doesn’t think they miss her.

Michelle: work. She just works and plans, finds out a way to solve whatever problem she has instead of just trying to feel it. It’s just a task to her, something in the way of the bigger picture. She has friends that try to help her, but she normally just takes what they say with a grain of salt. No one knows her, she knows herself better then anyone and knows what she wants. She’s too headstrong. But In the moments of vulnerability she gets, crying on a friends shoulder helps her a lot, even if she’s a tad embarrassed.

Gwen: she panics, if she believes she’s not good enough, what people expect of her. She’s constantly trying to be who she wants to be to get the approval of others. In her moments of fear and self hatred, Aj is there to help her. Whenever that’s getting her food, taking her out, or just spending time with her.

Aj: she’s often caught up and holding onto whatever bits of nostalgia she can remember before her new life. When she forgets, she goes into a frenzy and sobs, gripping her hair. Gwen, or her friends in the facility, are their to rub her back. But she doesn’t trust many to know her problems and is afraid of going to the adults in her life for help. So she listens to music, exercises, showers. Whatever she can to distract.

Ivan: a perfectionist, so if one thing doesn’t go his way he can be sent into a rage, and if all fingers point to him, he breaks down, screaming, throwing things, killing people. To avoid this he does everything perfectly. And even if it’s not, even if it all goes wrong, if he sees it as how it was meant to be or he can fix, he’s okay with it.

[royalpains-roleplay]

Hey lovelies! Just some friendly reminders about roleplaying triggers. If you need any resources to help you play them please let me know. Possible trigger warning as it goes into some details and symptoms.

Addiction - A big one I see a lot in roleplay - I don’t mean in this group but I haven’t seen a lot of addiction storylines played all the same - is people who claim their characters are addicted to something but then they get ‘help’ and are able to casually do so afterwards. The things is, say your character is an alcohol dependent character, they can’t just get treatment and be able to have a glass of champagne. Once an addict, even when you’ve recovered, you will always have addiction thoughts and won’t be able to just casually drink without relapsing. Same goes for drugs, gambling, etc. Any addiction you cover, follow through with the storyline, don’t just drop off half way because it bores you. If you don’t think you’re ready to take on a big storyline of the sort, don’t take the character. You’re not a bad person because you can’t do the storyline, it’s just not your style.

Sickness (Cancer, etc) - If your character has a severe illness of some sort, like cancer for example, or they had cancer, there are going to be things to be included. Your character is going through treatments? Maybe they lost their hair, or are seeing thinning in it. They’re probably feeling weaker than they usually are, maybe you just kinda make it so they’re out of breath and need a minute to sit down. Maybe they wear a certain makeup to hide paleness. Small things like this are easy to include in your writing. A character suffering from a debilitating illness will probably not be perfectly capable of looking super model ready every five minutes and being able to just get up and run. Again, most people do an excellent job but even I, myself as a writer forget that sometimes that Ana is in remission but her body is still permanently affected. Things to remember is say like alcohol might hit the character quickly, or depending on how long it’s been since the treatment, the character might be struggling with fertility, all things to take into account. Think about the kind of treatment they’re receiving, don’t be scared of details. 

PTSD - It is so, so easy to stick this claim on your character. I’ve seen it done a hundred times (I’m a dinosaur whose been roleplaying for like 12 years now, don’t mind me). It’s fashionable at this rate, all those television characters. But in reality, it’s not fashionable. It’s not just a breakdown that fits the storyline, it’s inconvenience. It’s anger you can’t control, flashbacks, nightmares, irritability. You can personally come to me and I can give you a whole list of things to attempt including into your storyline if you need it. But don’t just claim your character has this and don’t go anywhere with it. Follow through is so so important for everyone. It’s not just a fashion, many people know this, so don’t treat it as such. It’s important to think about whether they would display symptoms as CPTSD, PTSD or even Borderline Personality Disorder.

Mental Illness - This is not a fashion. Any illness you put on a character of the sort is going to affect themselves in one way or another. Maybe they’re having a hard time socializing, maybe they can’t get out of the bed in the morning. Or maybe they are really bottling it so it comes out physically. Nausea, headaches, vision problems, etc. Make sure you find a way to include the diagnosis of your character. (Not as detailed because there are so many of them. If you need more info on a particular character’s illness, inbox for more info).

Miscarriage - This is a really hard topic for a lot of people. It’s painful, brutal and can shake an entire family. Don’t take the topic lightly. There’s nothing wrong with covering this particular topic, what’s wrong is addressing it once and then calling it the end of the storyline. It doesn’t mean you have to constantly have your character be a mess. It can be a lot of ways. Anger, irritability, losing sleep, over-productivity, under-productivity, dissociation. Or maybe your character is okay with it, but always make sure you say why. The why is so important in those cases. You can never just sweep this storyline under the rug. 

Sexual Assault - Another storyline that has really made a dramatic spike over the years. Which isn’t a bad thing. The more people who write about it, the more awareness that is spread that this is real and it happens. Maybe your storyline encourages someone to do some research, to study and look it up. Maybe someday that means it helps a person. However, this storyline is not something to be taken lightly. It’s not something you just write once and never ever address at all again. This sticks with you. This is not something you can just kind of sweep under the rug. Surface wise, your character can seem well adjusted, but as a writer you have the ability to show it in the little ways. Yes, you might get the few people who have recovered perfectly fine without therapy. But this is rare. So remember not to ditch the storyline without finding closure for it. 

ED’s - This is a really common one. Especially in the media. For example in Gossip Girl where they addressed Blair’s eating disorder for about three episodes and never really showed any big struggles afterward. A lot of people can do that with characters. One thing to remember with severe eating disorders is that it’s not just something that’ll make you thin. It’s not just some increased diet, it’s about psychology. Control, etc. And it’s not just presenting by thinness. Characters with severe eating disorders are going to show signs. Some things that are small to add in would be yellowing teeth. Purging strips a lot of the protective layers from your teeth and can make them yellow and in severe cases can rot them. So if you’re wanting to address this, maybe your character is buying white strips to counteract? Maybe they’re buying dentures. There’s also like callousing of the fingers, sores, scabs on the knuckles, etc. Sore throats are also common as a mix of stomach acid burn and scratching of nails. Maybe the character has a raspy voice because of it. Maybe they have cracked nails so they wear fake ones. Always find ways to include this in your storyline, because if you’re making it purely that your character is just dramatically losing weight, you may be accidentally “romanticizing bulimia”. This is not to say all bulimics purge in that way, but there’s always some kind of sign or symptom you can incorporate. Anorexia is a lot harder to hide visibly. In drastic cases you’re going to see sunken faces and eyes, yellowing of the skin and eyes, dramatic hair loss and so much more. Low blood sugar would cause passing out. Not eating would cause weakening of muscles. Blueish fingers and toes because the blood is all going to your body core, linugo. Even calloused knuckles and worn teeth from purging. Anorexia can cause excessive bruising as well. Again, this is all very very important to include. Maybe your character is wearing a wig, maybe they use filling make up to hide the sunken face and yellowing skin, maybe they’re wearing dentures, or they see regular manicures. Maybe they carry glucose tablets to bring their sugar up in a pinch. This is all very very important to include. Because an eating disorder isn’t pretty. And it’s not just being thin. Now it’s not to say you have to include everything, but try to include some. Just like with illness/cancer, you’re probably looking at more easily affected by alcohol, more prone to alcohol poisoning, and it’s very commonly known that anorexia patients tend to struggle fertility wise. All things you can include. (This one was so long because I wanted to cover the two commonly known ED’s in length because I know they’re very different. Though if anyone starts to take on a Binge Eating Disorder or the ARFID I will also do research and come back with more info. ) 

Abuse - Abuse storylines can be quite common. Especially things like abuse from parents and what not. I’ve seen it a lot in my time. In roleplay, books, movies, television. Things to remember is that sometimes, abuse victims don’t actually know that what they’re going through isn’t normal. Some do, others don’t. But that doesn’t mean there won’t be symptoms. Some might have wet the bed as children, some are more violent. Some flinch when others are approaching, some suffer from perhaps substance abuse. Others who are aware of what they’re going through being wrong could probably be better at keeping secrets, more paranoid, etc. There are a lot of things to think about in regards to abuse storylines.

I know there are a few triggering storylines I left out. It’s not to say they don’t exist and if you want me to cover another topic, just let me know and I definitely will go over it. This isn’t calling anyone out, it’s not criticizing anyone’s writing, it’s just some things to take note of, and think about when travelling down roads for your characters.

[mobius-prime]

213. Sonic the Hedgehog #145

Shadows of Hope

Writer: Ken Penders Pencils: Ron Lim Colors: Jason Jensen

I've pointed out misleading cover pages before, but it's been a while since we've seen one. This issue's cover page makes it seem like Shadow is gonna beat up Sonic or something, but in reality they never even come face to face within this issue, so I don't know what the cover artist was thinking. Shadow isn't interested in antagonizing Sonic as of yet - instead, he's been coming to Knothole for several weeks in a row, watching Hope Kintobor from the bushes near where she likes to hang out. That's not creepy at all! A mysterious robed figure, in turn, has been spying on Shadow all this time, referring to him as "it" and wondering what "its" purpose here is. Of course, we know why he's been watching Hope - because she looks very much like Maria. Shadow is surprised by a sudden flash of light behind him, and turns to find the mysterious stranger looking down at him.

…dude, what the hell? I'm sorry, but did you really think that your plan of lassoing the literal ultimate life form with a $2 roll of twine you got from Home Depot would be a good idea? Shadow is similarly baffled by the sheer audacity of this figure, and leaps forward to attack, but suddenly finds himself being teleported away by another flash of light, and Hope finds herself also being caught in the light. The three end up in a hidden facility somewhere, where the figure kicks Shadow off him and slams a glass door shut, locking him in a pod. Shadow has a few quick flashbacks, first to the nutrient pod he first awoke in when he was created by Gerald, and then the healing pod the Bem put him in after his tangle with the Biolizard. The figure removes their hood to reveal themselves to be none other than Locke, who has captured Shadow for the purpose of using him to find his missing family, the other members of the Brotherhood. He's really just kind of a piece of garbage in this issue, even more so than usual - asking if Shadow knows what it's like to lose everything, and when Shadow angrily replies that he's never had anything in the first place, replying with a callous "That's not surprising." Seriously, dude? Apparently, the reason he isn't surprised is because according to his scans, Shadow is neither "biological, mineral, nor vegetable," which makes absolutely no sense. Like… he's not a robot, dude, he's a biological creature like any other, just with some unusual origins. I chalk this up entirely to Penders just not knowing anything about Shadow's history or circumstances, because as I've mentioned before, he's almost bizarrely proud of how he's never played a single Sonic game while writing these comics.

Anyway, it's not even clearly explained why Locke seems to think that Shadow of all people can help him locate the missing members of the Brotherhood, nor why he thinks kidnapping him is an acceptable thing to do toward that end.  Hope steps forward at this point, scolding Locke for enacting this terrible, terrible plan, and when Locke turns around to pull a "you're just too young to understand my wise adult ways" on her (keep in mind she's like at least fourteen by this point), Shadow's PTSD kicks into high gear.

Shadow starts beating the everloving crap out of Locke, who at first tries to fight back with some Chaos powers of his own but is ultimately overwhelmed by Shadow's sheer strength in his frenzy. Shadow is on the verge of actually killing Locke when Hope yells for him to stop, saying she thought he was better than that and that he's scaring her. This appears to snap Shadow out of his flashback, and he recognizes once more where he is.

So this is the beginning of a series of really weird issues in the comic, led primarily by Penders. I'm not sure exactly what his angle was here, but after everything that came before, it seems he's decided to take a break from focusing on his favorite echidna in favor of a few other characters - namely, Shadow, Locke, and Evil Sonic. Evil Sonic and Locke are his own creations, so I guess I can't really fault him for whatever he decides to write about them, but I'm not really a fan of the way he writes Shadow. Shadow is easily my favorite character in the entire Sonic the Hedgehog franchise, across all canons (though his iteration in the games is my favorite), and I'm very particular about how he's portrayed. He can be a bit of an anti-hero at times, a bit brooding and sometimes violent, but in the end he's much more hero than anything else. He's not some vicious killer edgelord, he's a confused and traumatized individual just trying to figure out where he fits in the larger scheme of things. This is something that becomes abundantly clear if you play through Sonic Adventure 2, Sonic Heroes, and Shadow the Hedgehog in order, as those three games contain the bulk of his character development. Interestingly enough, while Shadow's amnesia is a big part of the story of the latter two games and has a huge impact on how his story goes, Shadow doesn't appear to have amnesia at all in the comics. Instead, his main motivation is finding out exactly why Gerald created him in the first place. It's a bit of a bizarre turn from the games and anime, as while the motive is similar, it makes a lot more sense in the games and anime due to his amnesia, which makes him far more suggestible to those trying to manipulate him. I don't know, I can't even point to one specific thing about the way he's portrayed in the comics that bothers me - all I know is that it's different from the games in a way that just rubs me wrong, and makes me feel like Penders kind of missed the point of Shadow's character development in the first place.

As for Locke, suddenly making him out to be this callous bad guy who forcefully kidnaps others to study their biology for his own purposes is really jarring considering his deathbed redemption speech not two issues ago. Like, I know that all takes place in the future so he hasn't gotten that redemption yet, but if anything that just goes to show how weird and out of order everything in the comics lately feels. I really feel like Penders actually should have stuck to focusing on Knuckles, since at this point he's made him into such an author's pet that he seems to be horribly rusty at writing literally anyone else in the comic. On the other hand, I suppose it's valid to argue that the quality of Penders' work has been declining for quite some time now, first with the entirely-too-long Green Knuckles Saga and followed up immediately by Mobius 25 Years Later. Honestly, most of my defenses of his work have fallen flat ever since the cancellation of the KtE spinoff a while back, which if you ask me was the main point in time where his writing abilities actually got a chance to shine. In these last couple eras, he's gotten his head so far stuck up his own ass that he's lost sight of what things readers actually find interesting in these comics. I suppose it's fitting, then, that in the next fifteen issues we'll be witnessing the final death throes of Kenders' writing in the Archie preboot, in an era of flux where no one really knows what kind of story they're going for anymore.

Training Day

Writer: Karl Bollers Pencils: Al Bigley Colors: Jason Jensen

Oh, speaking of a story that doesn't really go anywhere, we've got one here! I'm not being facetious here either - the "plot" of this story is just that Eggman has some data files on why he hates the Freedom Fighters, and does a little presentation for his army of mindless swatbots informing them of the dangers of several key players in particular. Of course, he covers Sonic first as his most hated enemy, then talks about how Tails is dangerous due to his precociousness and expertise with machinery. Knuckles is up next despite not being a member of the Freedom Fighters proper, and finally we end with Amy of all people. Not to insult Amy of course, as she's quite a bruiser in her own right, but I mean… why not cover someone like Bunnie, who has power enough to wreck an entire battleship loaded with nuclear missiles?

I only include this picture to sort of show that at least, as I've mentioned before, the comics actually do Amy proper justice as a character - she's the definition of a kickass girly-girl, a perfect demonstration of the idea that being feminine doesn't make you weak. The tarot card thing is a new one for the comics, but that's actually established backstory for her in the games, for those who don't know - the whole reason she met Sonic in the first place in Sonic CD was because she did a tarot reading for herself and the cards told her to go meet the love of her life in a specific location, which just so happened to be where Sonic was on his latest adventure. Ultimately, this story doesn't really tell us anything we didn't already know apart from that, so we can safely move on, as it distinctly smacks of filler.

Harbinger

Writer: Ken Penders Pencils: Dawn Best Colors: Jason Jensen

Knothole is experiencing a moment of calm, and thus Tails lounges in his room engrossed in a book about the history of technology on Mobius. No one is aware that some distance from the village a huge explosion has just gone off, because why would they be aware? It happened several hundred miles away! Sonic and his friends (minus Tails) are spending their free time playing idle games, with Sonic and Ash becoming overly competitive over their game of darts while the girls in the room giggle knowingly at their bristling and strutting. Tails becomes intrigued by something-or-other that he read in his book and decides to go ask Rotor about it, only to find him already preoccupied with something else.

Tails suggests the three of them pile into the Tornado and check it out, but Rotor says they should at least take along Sonic and Bunnie for some muscle just in case. Tails gets weirdly offended by this, prompting Rotor to give us an explanation of the roles each Freedom Fighter plays in the group for whatever reason, including listing off himself and Tails as the tactical support and Sally as their leader. I mean, it's accurate at least? Tails heads out to find Sonic as Ash stomps out of the hut in a huff, with Mina trailing him and complaining that he's only upset because he and Sonic were deliberately antagonizing each other. He finds the others still hanging out in the game room, and is initially offended that they didn't invite him until Sonic mentions offhandedly that he knocked at Tails' door several times to no answer since Tails was so caught up in his reading. Tails explains the situation to everybody, and soon everyone, including Tommy, is ready to head out in the FFS and check out the disturbance, while Sally comes over to see them off.

I mean, Sonic's got a point, Sally - he's been on a million missions before with little more than a few scratches here and there, what makes this one any different? Oh, severe trauma, right. The story concludes with a final page showing a familiar pair of air shoes stepping into a ruined facility, their owner pleased at finding the location of some kind of prototype that he learned of in Gerald's old encrypted data files…

[ginny-chase-shadeslayer]

Sleeping at Last - Saturn

I think it was a few months ago in calc class when I first came up with this, but it’s the corona house arrest that’s finally making me post it. 

Stay safe everyone, and have some more Percy angst.

Find it on FanFiction: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13517771/1/Sleeping-at-Last

“I’d give anything to hear, you say it one more time, that the universe was made, just to be seen by my eyes”

________________________________________________________________

He couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, the darkness reminded him of that pit and the pain of having to live through it. Sometimes Annabeth’s presence next to him helped, but tonight, she wasn’t with him. The sad truth was that as much as they helped each other heal their wounds, they also reminded each other of what they had been through. For the better part of eight days now, Percy was faced with the heartbreaking pain of choosing between seeing her and either being comforted or being triggered into a panic attack.

As much as he loved her, it hurt to be around her. He was being unfair he knew, expecting her to be the same as before, when he himself was only a shell of a man. But watching Annabeth shiver or snip and snarl at everything, only pushed him deeper still.

The argument that had resulted from that was vicious, and had left more than just the participants shaken.

Sitting up after an unsuccessful attempt at sleeping, he got out of bed and reached for Riptide. The weight of his loyal blade grounded him, pulling him towards the arenas.

…

THWACK!

There rolled the head, cleanly sliced off from the body.

Another strike. There were the disemboweled guts of a straw man.

It wasn’t enough. No matter how much he stabbed and slashed, it never helped abate the darkness. Riptide would cut through the clouds for a second, a shining streak of bronze. But then they would gather back faster than before.

It wasn’t long until Percy was panting, harder than he should have been. Taking shorter breaths than he should have been.

He tried blinking back the images. But the arena began to transform. He attacked a dummy viciously, face screwing up in determination, trying to fight back, but in vain.

Akhlys was laughing. Annabeth was crying his name. Bob was yelling for him, while Damasen tried to pull his sword out of the dragon’s mouth.

And Percy? He was on the floor. Staring at them from behind an impenetrable curtain. It took him some time to realize he was under water. He was looking at them from the bottom of a lake. He pounded the surface, trying desperately to break free. Even under water, he could taste the sulphurous air on his tongue as it burned his mouth, along with something more metallic. Every breath he took his poisoned his lungs, as if the water itself had turned into acid.

He heard Akhlys whispering as if she were next to him, “You killed me using your father’s powers. Here. See if they protect you now.”

His lungs began to fill. He was drowning. No, he couldn’t drown, he was the son of Poseidon. He choked and sputtered. But that only made it worse.

In front of him, Annabeth had gone blind again, and was desperately trying to call out to him through horrible coughing fits. She had her back turned to Damasen, and through his fading view, Percy saw Damasen yank his sword out from the Dragon and raise it against Annabeth.

Percy fought like a demon against the water then. He tried to control his breathing, but the water wouldn’t let go of him. He had to get to Annabeth. He had to. He swung his sword left and right, trying to fight the element that had protected him all his life. His eyes streamed, and he cried his voice hoarse. He swung his sword with all his might against the water –

CLANG!

His sword hit metal. But he couldn’t see where it came from.

The scene in front of him stilled. Annabeth had her face away from him, and Damasen still had his sword raised, so he hadn’t stabbed her yet.

A low voice from somewhere near him said, “Percy, snap out of it. It’s not real”

Slowly, the mist from his eyes cleared, and he realized he was on his haunches. His throat was raw. Riptide was still gripped under his white knuckles, as if the blade could cure his visions.

“Get up.” She ordered him. She didn’t hold out a hand, so Percy braced himself against the ground and heaved himself to a standing position. He regarded her cautiously, still trying to figure out if she was real or not.

“Do you still have the energy to fight? Because we need those dummies for practice tomorrow.”

Percy was weak, he needed a good night’s rest. His face still stung under the tear tracks. He wiped his nose, and glimpsed a streak of red on the blue of his shirt.

He nodded.

Clarisse raised her sword and swung at him.

Percy parried the strike, and his senses sharpened. He experimentally stabbed at her stomach. She easily dodged that, and returned with a blow of her own.

Slowly, they picked up the pace. Percy went from autopilot to actually focusing on the fight. He noticed that in the time he had been missing, Clarisse had gotten better at the sword. Or he had gotten worse.

He also noticed that Clarisse wasn’t really trying to fight him exactly. It was more like…leading him somewhere. He saw some mistakes in his technique that she could have taken advantage of, but she still let him move to the next position without taking the chance. Almost as if she were listening to him, to what his sword had to say, to what his tired body had to say. He had never heard of swordplay that was meant to be caring, and least of all, he didn’t expect Clarisse to know it.

He let his body go, slowly, but surely. Getting into the flow of their blades. They picked up the pace further, but that only calmed him more. This was sword fighting, it was something he knew. He was in control. In that moment, he was a blur of bronze, pouring his frustrations out into his weapon.

And Clarisse let him. In that moment, he had never felt so rested.

But when the deadly dance took him towards the armoury, a draught of wind transported the smell of gun powder, and with it, Sulphur. His eyes darted to the torchlight bouncing off her sword, flickering against the beams and columns, creating shadows that hadn’t been there a second before.

This time, there was nothing he could do. His mental shields had been down, and he had been too focused on Clarisse to notice the signs. The visions were brutal, as they were every time he thought he had finally evaded them.

He crumpled.

…

He found himself near the stairs of the arena, sitting up with his back propped against a pillar. He didn’t remember what he had seen this time, and he definitely didn’t remember losing consciousness.

“It’s going to take some time”

He was surprised to see Clarisse still there. She was sitting on the stairs next to him.

“What?”

“Your blackouts, your hallucinations. It’s going to take some time to get better.”

He stayed silent. Not ready to talk yet. Not ready to accept that he was not getting better, despite Chiron’s healing and Grover’s magic.

As if reading his mind, “Chiron’s ambrosia only works temporarily, and only on the physical pain you feel. Unfortunately, the Greeks either never thought about healing the head, or they never lived long enough to experience PTSD.”

“How do you know so much about this?” he asked, curious.

He had never expected Clarisse of all people to be sympathetic to trauma, especially not like the one he was experiencing. But if he was being honest with himself, he was grateful for her presence. Her familiar scowl surprisingly reminded him of life before Tartarus, and it comforted him. And he didn’t think he was ready to be alone just yet.

Clarisse just sighed. “Ares is the god of war, right? You want to go conquer a land, fight a battle, you make sacrifices to Ares and hope he favors you enough to let you win. At least that’s only how the Greek civilization chose to see Ares, and it stuck.”

She paused.

“But over the years, Ares has come to represent all battles, all wars.”

She looked at him knowingly, “including internal ones.”

They were quiet after that, watching the sun rise over the Long Island Sound. ‘It makes sense’, thought Percy. Although he berated himself for letting his guard down, he had to admit that dueling with her had felt good. Better than he had felt in a long time.

Finally, he asked, “that sword fighting technique, where’d you learn that?”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t have to learn anything, punk. I’m a daughter of Ares, sword fighting techniques are instinct to me.”

He smiled lightly and conceded. Understood.

The dew on the strawberry fields glittered in the morning light. The Apollo cabin, naturally the first to wake up, began to stir, while the dryads in the forest softly greeted the earliest songbirds. Watching the life below him, he felt like he should have had some poetic internal dialogue about permanence and the transience of life. Or at least some epiphany prompted by the sun’s rays through the clouds.

But in that moment, he simply reveled in the fact that there were beautiful things still left in the world, outside his head. Like the tugging of his heart at the sight of a familiar blonde head that emerged from the cabins below, and the warmth of a friendship, reaching out from the person seated next to him.

________________________________________________________________

“How rare and beautiful it is, that we exist”

The title of this fic is from the song Saturn, by artist Sleeping at Last. They’re amazing you guys should go check it out if you haven’t already! 

Also, I haven’t personally dealt with PTSD, but I know that different people deal with / experience it in different ways. Nothing I’ve written here is meant to be harmful in any way.

[hopeled]

𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑨𝑪𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑺𝑯𝑬𝑬𝑻.

Repost, don’t reblog.

BASICS.

FULL NAME.   Fujimaru Ritsuka NICKNAME(S).   Master of Chaldea, Fujimaru, Ritz, Master, Fool, etc. etc. GENDER.   cis female. HEIGHT.   5′6″  AGE.   20-21  ZODIAC.  Sagittarius  SPOKEN LANGUAGES.   Japanese (native language), English, has picked up on phrases in numerous languages from the various Servants in Chaldea & locations she’s been to during the Grand Order & Lostbelts

PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS.

HAIR COLOR.   �� orange but falls under the ‘redhead’ spectrum  SKIN TONE.   fair light but a little pale in some lighting, but generally healthy looking  ACCENT. doesn’t have much of one VOICE. kinda nestled between high and low in tone, very ‘bright’ and often holds a joking and teasing tone when having fun, can be sarcastic at times too (imagine nano’s voice  until i find a va i think fits best--) DOMINANT HAND.   right hand but she is able to do things with her left one a bit  POSTURE.   straight but not always perfect, has a tendency to slouch for a moment when exhuastion hits or she’s in pain, but she’ll straighten back up just as quick. a bit crooked at times, has a tendency to shift weight to one leg and rest a hand on her hip SCARS.   quite a lot, mostly small and faded ones but there are numerous noticeable ones: her right forearm has bite-mark scars from the security breach event, fingertips are discolored from over-use of mana, knuckles has noticeable scaring (as do her hands in general ), a gunshot scar on her abdomen, a large ‘tear’ shaped scar also on her abdomen that’s about the size of a small plate, some larger and noticeable scars on her legs & upper arms , a few burn scars on her back, one just a few centimeters below her collarbone, and a scar on the top of her right cheek just under her eye that’s about the length of a nail TATTOOS /  BIRTHMARKS.   do the command seals count-- NOTICEABLE FEATURE(S).   the very bright red command seals on top of her right hand, her eyes (almost gold and always seeming as if they glow and shine when the sun hits them), and the scars on her body when visible

CHILDHOOD.

PLACE OF BIRTH.   Tokyo, Japan . BIRTH WEIGHT.   7.5 lbs BIRTH HEIGHT.  17″ MANNER OF BIRTH.   a long labor but ultimately a natural birth with little to no complications FIRST WORDS. “fishy” because her parents took her to an aquarium  SIBLINGS.  none but she very much so wanted a little brother   PARENTS. mother & father PARENTAL INVOLVEMENT. heavily involved, they wanted her to have a good life as their only daughter and did what they could and felt like they should to ensure it was possible for her

ADULT LIFE.

OCCUPATION.   Chaldea’s Last Master / Humanity’s Last Master  CURRENT RESIDENCE.  Archimedes Ward, Mashu’s House CLOSE FRIENDS.   most of her friends she considers close, but there are a few she’s less hesitant to be not as cheery around RELATIONSHIP STATUS.   as single as these fingerguns  FINANCIAL STATUS. generally good, she uses her dust first on things needed-- groceries, necessities, etc. before using it on things she wants and it’s why she has a lot of plushies from the machines down by the boardwalk and a few odds and ends scattered about her room  DRIVER’S LICENSE.  doesn’t have a one but his mild driving ‘experience’. blame da vinci CRIMINAL RECORD. kinda hard to have a criminal record when the entire Earth is bleached white but she did kinda break a lot of laws during the Grand Order but it’s fine it was to save humanity even if the assholes at the Clocktower thought it was on purpose and treated her like a criminal for it

SEX & ROMANCE.

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION.   panromantic SEXUAL ORIENTATION. bisexual but also with a heaping dose of morosexual PREFERRED SEXUAL ROLE.   who cares about roles LIBIDO.  catching up on her favorite tv show is more important than that  LOVE LANGUAGE.    words of affirmation & physical touch

MISCELLANEOUS.

CHARACTER THEME SONG.   I associate quite a few with Ritsuka as a ‘theme’ song but there’s Kizuna & Kaleidoscope (this one ESPECIALLY in regards to her canon point),  HOBBIES TO PASS TIME. reading, playing gacha games (gotta get that ssr folks), she’s taken up cooking more as of late, talking long walks MENTAL ILLNESSES.  none officially diagnosed but:  PTSD, Acute & Maintenance Insomnia, Night Terrors (mostly about Babylonia) PHYSICAL ILLNESSES. none which is surprising considering the absolute hell her body has been through FEARS. losing everything she cares for, failing in her duty, forgetting how to feel, the Lahmu (gestures at the night terrors), losing control of herself and or decisions/having it be taken away from her SELF-CONFIDENCE LEVEL.   pretty high, not reaching in the ‘arrogant and conceited’ levels, but she’s confident in herself and what she does. of course, she has her moments of doubts, as does everyone else, but can work past it VULNERABILITIES.   just about anything that can hurt a human being, cute things, cake, feeling too much