#3.5 maybe nothing that comes out of your mouth will ever be as interesting and immediate as a crimson slurry of tonsils and adenoids

[deadpanwalking]

i'm in an otolaryngology residency program and one of the doctors has his dad's Soviet era tonsil guillotine, clamps, and adenoid curette (tastefully) displayed in a shadowbox frame with some other stuff and a photo of himself as a little kid smiling while sitting in the Trauma Chair. the doc says it makes a lot of his pediatric patients feel better to see that he got through the surgery alright, but later admitted his papa told him it was a routine exam situation. "I thought it was open say ah, but it was open scream aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah"

OH MY GOD, I'M NASTY CACKLING! That's exactly how I got got. My great-aunt was a nurse and let me play with her old medic kit, so visits to the hospital were field trips where I could see my close, personal friends Stethoscope and Blood Pressure Cuff and receive a good grade in Doctor Visit for being such an agreeable child. On the day of the operation, I had no idea anything was up when the nurses situated me in The People's Otolaryngology Chair. Even when they started to tie my foot to the chair leg, I wasn't afraid, I was indignant...like, did they not get the memo that I was the rock star who only sniffled a little before thanking the doctor who'd stuck a needle in my left asscheek when I got sick last month? The nurses agreed that the restraints were absolutely unnecessary, a formality that was mostly symbolic, and thanked me profusely for indulging them. I have never been as smug as I was on that day when, after all that fuss, they told me to open and say "ah".

[a-simple-imagine]

The Smarter Witch

Synopsis: You like to consider Hermione your academic rival but things begin to fall apart between the two of you when Malfoy and friends start asking questions. The reader is in Slytherin sorry.

Pairing: Hermione Granger x fem!reader (can be read as romantic or platonic)

Words: 3.5+

A/N - I’ve been rewatching all the Harry Potter Movies at the cinema recently and I think i like it more now than I ever did before. This is my first HP story so go easy on me, okay? Comments are appreciated and requests are open!!

Warnings - Swearing, excessive use of the word mudblood... i think that’s it. 

"Granger," You call out, shoving your things into your bag as quick as humanly possible before charging after her. The crowd of other students growing the distance between you as you slip between them but not without almost crashing into people a bunch of times along the way. "Granger- wait." You try but she continues to walk away with Potter and Weasley beside her. You eventually manage to push your way through until you're walking in step with the trio. The girl stands in the middle, guarded by her two best friends.

"Hey," You offer them a smile, "Guess who got a perfect?"

"How?" It's instinctive to turn your nose up when it comes to Ronald Weasley. Not because of his social status like Malfoy suggests but you just found him rather... irritating. You completely ignore his question; breaking formation, you get ahead of the group and begin to carefully walk backwards so you can focus on the girl. She looked anywhere but at you, however, she had a smirk on her lips. Small but visible.

"Only because Snape favours you," The brunette proclaimed. This was routine for the two of you as of late. Always making excuses as to why the other came out on top. Only because of this. Only because of that. It was never as simple as just studying and doing well.

"You're just jealous that I'm a genius." You insist, your smile growing as you teased your own brilliance. Her head shakes a little.

"Since when were you, two friends?"

"Nobody said anything about friends Weasley-" You growl, your once happy expression morphing into one of pure distaste as you look at him. Spinning gracefully on your heel, you begin to walk normally again. "Since I'm so much smarter than you, I can help you study if you need it."

"I don't need any help from the likes of you, thank you," The likes of you? Did she mean a Slytherin? Or just someone who was smarter than her? Although you didn't actually believe you were smarter... well, not entirely anyway. Hermione Granger was often proclaimed as the smartest in your grade, didn't matter how hard you worked; you'd never quite be the promising young witch everyone seemed to think she was. Which is why you find yourself constantly competing. If you can prove to her you were smart then maybe everyone would see you as more than just a Malfoy crony.

You slap your hand against your chest just above your heart; stumbling backwards as if she just shot an arrow straight through. "Oh, how you wound me, Miss Granger. Care to share how well you did? One hundred percent?" She wouldn't have done badly at least not by everyone else's standard of bad. "Ninety maybe?" You turn back to them, coming to halt directly in front of the girl. "Merlin's beard Hermione, don't tell me you got less than eighty? That would be a travesty."

"if you don't mind, we're a little busy." She hadn't answered the question and as she walked around you, you expected she wasn't going to. "Come along Harry," she took his hand. "Ronald." And his before marching away. You watch them as they go, a smirk lingering before slipping off in search of your friends.

Come Friday afternoon and you found yourself in the great hall. The busy castle was beginning to calm and few people sat in the tables alongside the two of you. You take a sip of some water as you watch the gears in her head turn, debated her next move. At this point you already knew you would win; you always did. While everything else was more of a competition; Hermione Granger surprisingly wasn't all too hard to beat at Wizard's chess. Your Fridays together we're brilliant times to chat though, you'd often sum up any achievements from the week just to see who's doing better.

"I can't believe you beat me in history of magic again- I spent hours on that stupid essay. I basically lived in the library."

"I can help you study if you like," she offered, her eyes not leaving the board as she ordered her bishop forward. You watch as the chess piece moves along the board.

"You're not funny Granger," you tease, ordering your knight forward to take down her bishop. "Check,"

A paper ball hit the back of your head, drawing your attention away. Pansy stood with a wide grin on display, you ignored her and returned to your game but Hermione was also focused on your friend. "I think she wants your attention."

Another paper ball collides against your head. You sigh loudly before turning and mouthing 'what?'

"We're going down to the black lake? You coming?" She asked. "Or are you too busy with the Gryffindor?"

"just give me a sec." You wave her away, turning back to the other girl. "Have you moved?" She nods a little, her hair bouncing with the movements. You examine the board trying to figure out who she had moved but it didn't really matter. With a final move of your queen, the king was knocked off the board. "I do believe that is checkmate."

"I'm beginning to think you're cheating."

"Me?" You ask, pretending to be offended by the notion. "Never. How little faith you have me in, Granger."

"Slytherins are known for being cunning."

"We're not all cheating monsters, my dear sweet Gryffindor. Some of us actually have a conscience."

"I find that hard to believe," Her lips were curled into a cheeky smile. You'd never quite noticed the way her eyes crinkle when her smile is so big or how teethy it was. It was adorable. 

"I gotta go- same time next week? Maybe I'll even let you win."

"I don't need you to let me win,"

"You sure?" Nothing more than a harmless joke as you stand. "How many times in a row have I won now?"

"Slither away," Hermione smiles as you back away towards Pansy. You had to admit, you did firm Hermione to be intriguing.

Being in the same year, meant you actually saw Hermione rather frequently, however, your actual interactions were limited. Yes, you played Wizard's chess together every Friday but other than that, you basically only had very short conversations. It was like being in two completely different worlds simply because you were put in different houses. This school had a weird obsession with separation by houses. You were a proud Slytherin as were you friends but your ambition to branch out was often looked at as beneath some of the others. It was dinner time and you sat at the Slytherin table but your focus was pulled towards a certain familiar Gryffindor student. She just happened to be sat in your eye line, so you couldn't help but amuse her from afar. With funny faces and playful winks. Her most common reactions were shakes of the head or rolling her eyes but you knew secretly she enjoyed the teasing.

"Are you even listening?" A sharp elbow slams into your side. You bite back a groan as you shove the boy gently.

"The hell Draco,"

"What are you staring at?" There was a particularly bite behind his words but you'd grown used to how aggressive he could come across. He was always trying to be the alpha and frankly, everyone let him be. You simply shrug at his question; grabbing an apple and taking a bite.

"What did you want?"

The grey of his eyes flickers in curiosity as he tries to figure out what had you so distracted. When you look across at Granger, she's chatting to Ginny Weasley about something.

"Sometimes I wonder if the sorting hat got it wrong with you," He muses. "Should have put you in Gryffindor since you're so obsessed with Potter."

"Says the boy who never shuts up about him." You fight back. You couldn't care less about Harry Potter or his chosen one status. You knew Malfoy hated him though; it was a little weird just how much.

"You gravely misunderstand my interest in potter."

"I don't care if you have a crush on him Malfoy," There are a few snickers around the table but he's definitely not laughing.

"Don't be ridiculous." He growled, leaving the table. It was only a joke. You follow after him along with the others.

After dinner, you're lounging in the common room. One leg hooked over the arm of the couch as you read a book all about dragons. Fascinating creatures.

"So are you and the Gryffindor friends?"

"Who?" You question. Not even looking at the blonde as he sits down beside you.

"Granger." He confirms. "Pansy thinks you have a crush or something?"

"Pansy is a liar." The joke isn't as funny when it's against you. Your feelings towards Granger was nobody else's business but your own. You were often left conflicted when it came to her. You roll your eyes, sitting up straight. "I just like proving that I'm better than her."

"You spend a lot of time with her," Goyle adds.

"So?" You finally lower your book. Your brows knitted together in a clear frown as you scan the room. A few people had invited themselves into the conversation. "I spend a lot of time with you but doesn't mean I wanna get into your pants,"

"I don't know why you associate with any of them." This was beginning to feel like a lecture. Why do they even care who you hang out with? You didn't care much for the boys but you liked Hermione. She was kind, funny and really smart. You enjoyed the little time you ultimately spent together but if you admitted that, they would crucify you.

"They'd probably say the same about you lot," you state. Bringing the large book back up to cover your face. "Now if you don't mind, I'm trying to read here,"

"You can tell us if you like her," Pansy contributes. "I mean we all know you have a soft spot for the weak."

"Are you taking pity on her?"

"Maybe she wants to start hanging out with Potter. Can you imagine?"

You grit your teeth, not at all reading the words on the page in front of you. They're just trying to get a rise out of you.

"I can't imagine anything more pathetic," Malfoy chuckles followed by a few of the others. "They're an embarrassment to the wizarding world if you ask me. Parading around like they own the place-"

"We're nothing okay?" You slap your book shut. "Not friends or secret lovers or anything, I would never date someone so.... dirty." The word slipped out before you had a chance to stop. You didn't see her that way; she was much too grand to be considered dirty. And you couldn't care less about pure bloodlines. It didn't make her any less of a fantastic witch. "I'm not joining Potter's Merry band of monkeys, so just drop it okay." Ignoring the snickers and hushed whispers, you march off to bed.

It's the Friday following your little session in the common room. You forgave them all of course; you always did. There was no point in being angry at them over some harmless teasing. You had the chessboard set up and even brought along a pack of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans but she was running late. Normally it was you showing up late; very unusual behaviour from someone known for punctuality. But as time ticked on and you were still left alone, you began to realise she wasn't going to turn up. Packing everything up, you decide it'll be best to search for her; something bad must have happened for her to not show at all.

"Weasley," you shout, jogging up to Harry and Ron who seemed to be missing their third arm. "You seen granger?"

"Why?" Asks the redhead. Harry presents you with a smile.

"None of your business," you spit at Ron. "Have you seen her or not?"

"Last we saw her she said she was heading to the library," Harry answered. You offer a grateful smile but you can't help but wonder why she's decided to head to the library. Was there a test you didn't know about? Was she trying to get the upper hand? Surely she could have just told you that instead of having you wait.

"Thanks, Harry," You skip along to the library but the journey proves pointless when you discover she isn't there either. You would be lying if you said you had searched particularly hard before giving up though. There was always next week. With a defeated sigh, you head back towards the common room. Luck must have been on your side because you spot her on the way back. Perched on a ledge with her head in a book. Typical Hermione Granger.

"I've been looking everywhere for you," you announce as you walk towards her. "I thought we were gonna play wizards chess so I could annihilate you again." The faintest sniffle hit your ears and you froze. Was she... crying? Shit. You don't do well with criers; you never know how to handle situations when people cry. It's always so... awkward. "What's wrong?"

"Go away." Her voice is quiet but echoes through the empty corridor.

"Granger?" You closer to her now, leaning against one of the stone columns.

"I said go away," Her words are harsh; she shoves her face further into the book. Was she trying to hide the fact she had been crying? It was pretty obvious at this point.

"What's up with you?" You wonder, folding your arms over your chest.

"I don't want to talk to you,"

"What did I do?" The confusion is very clear in your voice. You'd hardly even spoken to the girl recently so how could you have possibly upset her.

"You're as bad as the rest of them, now leave me alone," Sharp words as she grabbed her things and stormed off. As bad as the rest of them? What did that even mean? Pushing yourself upright, you follow after her.

"What's gotten into you?"

"Just some filthy mudblood am I?" Venomous words spat at you with the speed of a viper. You stumble back a little; she's never been so angry with you. Tears spill down her rosy cheeks."Malfoy told me what you said- Guess I should have known better considering your so-called friends. You're just as cruel as the rest of them."

"Hermione..." you sigh softly. You couldn't exactly defend your fellow Slytherin friends. "Why do you believe him anyway?"

"So you didn't say it then."

"No, I did," you shrug a little. "Well I said you were dirty, I didn't say... that word."

"Mudblood- Same thing though right? You think you're so much better just because you're of Pure blood."

"I didn't say that, I-"

"Just stay away from me." Her tone has you backing down from the fight. You consider following her as she charges off down the hall but instead, you go back to the dorms.

"You're a right git," you exclaim, storming into the room, grip tight on the book you launch at his head. Platinum blonde hair darts of the way.

"What the hell."

"You told her?" All eyes are on you as you confront him.

"What are you on about?"

"Hermione- you told her I thought she was dirty."

"Your words, not mine." Draco shrugged a little. A huff of a laugh passing his lips which pissed you off even more. 

"I-," you look around, picking up a pillow and tossing it at him. "You are such a pain in the ass."

"Why do you care about that filthy mudblood, you said you don't even like her?"

"I don't even like you and yet we're best friends," You shout, looking at the coffee table you grab a mug and aim at the boy. Draco's hand shoots up in defense.

"Don't you dare throw that at me or I swear-" He fought back. You lower your hand and so does he then you throw it anyway, hearing it break as you collapse on the couch. "You don't need someone like that." He muses as he cautiously approaches the couch.

"We can't all be insufferable snobs Malfoy," you grumble, rather casually considering what just happened. "You mess up everything for no bloody reason"

"Probably shouldn't go around calling her dirty then," He argues. "I didn't make you say that..."

The boy hovers over the back of the couch and you shove him away. "I hate you."

You realise you have to be the one because Malfoy's not about to admit he did anything wrong. And you know at the end of the day it was your fault for saying it in the first place. You retire to your bed, no longer watching to deal with other people.

For the next week or so Hermione avoids you like the plague. You'd obviously see her in some of your classes but when you'd try to speak to her after, she'd rush out before you had a chance to so much as saying hi. If you managed to catch her gaze, she'd stare daggers; if looks could kill you'd be six feet under by now. You'd sometimes find her in the library, it was the one place she could cause a scene but neither could you. When you tried to whisper to her, she'd completely ignore you. You were beginning to miss the limited interaction you hard; Half the fun of studying was ultimately doing better than her in the end.

The girl was alone today, searching the shelves. The library was fairly empty and it was getting late. You take the opportunity to make some paper birds and send them fluttering over to her. One by one until she whispers yells at you to stop. You chuckle. Doing it again. This develops into a habit throughout the next couple of days. You'll send paper birds her way, just to get a reacting out of her. You start writing little messages on them too but you don't think she ever reads them before setting them on fire.

It becomes abundantly clear she's not giving in and therefore one day during breakfast you abandon your table and enter what Malfoy would consider enemy territory. Pushing Neville aside to sit next to Hermione. A bunch of lions look to you like you'd just entered their den without permission; in their defense, you never sit here. Hermione gets up to leave but not before you can grab her wrist.

"Can you please stop ignoring me," she yanks out of your grip, walking away to leave you surrounded by kids you've only ever spoken to in passing. You groan loudly.

"What happened between you two?" Ron asked.

"Do you ever keep out of other people's business Weasley or do you have some obsessive need to weasel your way into everything."

"Just tryna help, jeez."

"If you must know, Malfoy told her that I referred to her as a... y'know."

"Mudblood?" Harry continues for you.

"I called her dirty but I didn't mean it."

"Thought you weren't friends anyway," Ron wore a smirk like he caught you out or something so you just ignore him.

"Now she's ignoring me. I just want her to talk to me."

"Have you apologised?"

"How can I apologise if she won't bloody talk to me, Harry? I thought you were supposed to be smart." You comment, dropping your head against the table. "I've tried writing notes but she burns all of them. I'm running out of ideas, I can only be so charming."

"Can't really help you there," Ron replies.

"All the boys in this school are so bloody useless," you sigh dramatically, slamming your hands on the table to push yourself up. "You’re her best friends and you can't help? Pathetic."

You debate joining the others but you decide against it and leave the great hall. You're not hungry anymore.

"You really should stop sending paper birds," The voice catches you off guard, whipping your wand out before realising it's her.

"I'll stop if you talk to me again," You counter, lowering your wand.

"I'm not ashamed of my parents."

"And you shouldn't be." Your head falls, "I really am sorry for what I said, it was definitely a peer pressure thing and I was stupid." You blurt out. "Malfoy can just be a lot sometimes and I was trying to study so... I don't think you're less than just because your parents are muggles Hermione. Not even a little." You take a deep breath. "I just want my friend back."

She hesitates. "Oh, so we're friends now huh?"

"Only if you want to be," You shrug. There was part of you that wanted to say maybe you like her as more than that but you kept it to yourself; at least for now. "I understand if you don't like... I was really shitty."

"So Friday then?"

"What?"

"Wizards chess? I think I may be able to beat you now, I've been practising."

"Pfft not likely," You tease, your smile growing. "Friday sounds good."

// NEXT

[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 

[hongism]

mists of celeste ➻ 3.5

➻ pairing: ??? x fem reader ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, eventual smut ➻ Word Count: 1.7k ➻ Rating: M ➻ Warnings: language, violence, guns and weaponry, blood, future warnings tba ➻ summary: Sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you

⇐ previous | next ⇒

mists of celeste act one ➻ part 3.5

​​​

Yunho hums as he works, hands coming through the head of hair before him as he rubs dye over each strand with great care. It’s almost therapeutic in a way, but it does nothing to take his mind off the patient who is still unconscious in the med bay. He has no shortage of confidence over his abilities; he fixed your arm up to near perfection, the best he could do given the circumstance, and in a short amount of time as well. That isn’t what bothers him though. You’ve been unconscious for days since the operation. Well, it’s only been two days to be exact, but your fever hasn’t broken yet and that concerns Yunho more than he’d like to admit.

It’s a damn fever. He should know how to cure one within hours, but all the medicines he tried did nothing to curb the fever so he settled for waiting for it to break instead. While he still can’t understand why exactly the medicines didn’t work, it feels too much like a failure. He doesn’t fail. Ever. It’s not even a possibility.

Yunho must be rubbing too vigorously at the head under his hands, because the owner leads forward and twists to look back at him.

“Sorry,” he says through a small smile. Mingi blinks back at him, eyes wide as ever in wonder and curiosity. Yunho expects the question before he asks it and braces himself for the next words to leave the young Berserker’s mouth.

“What are you feeling right now?”

“Confusion,” Yunho answers, maintaining his grin. Mingi glances away and stares down at the floor for a few moments.

“The aura feels weird.”

“Is it affecting you badly?”

“No… no. I just don’t understand it.” Mingi settles back into the chair comfortably again, and Yunho returns to his methodical motions on his hair. Each blonde strand gets a thick coating of pale brown dye. Yunho watches the dye coat the hair underneath with little interest, barely aware of his hand going over the same piece over and over again. A sigh escapes him. It prompts Mingi to shift again, but before he turns around, Yunho drops a hand to his shoulder.

“Stay put or you’ll make a mess.”

“Could you explain it?”

“What? Hair dye?”

“No, no. What has you so conflicted?”

“Ah,” Yunho exhales. He hesitates before speaking again, eyes trailing towards the ceiling as he mulls over his next words. “You remember what I told you about feeling concerned, right?”

“Yeah, somewhat. How when people spend time together, they begin to care for each other. Then if something bad happens to one of them, the other gets worried or anxious about their well-being. Like… uh, how I feel when Hongjoong leaves for a dangerous mission. Thinking that he might get hurt. That’s concern.”

“Exactly, yes.” Yunho smiles at the back of Mingi’s head. “Well, sometimes you can be concerned about people you’ve just met.”

“You mean the girl in the med bay?”

“Yes, yes, her. I–”

“How can you be concerned about someone you don’t know? Is that still concern or is it something else? Is there another word for it?”

“Hold on, Mingi. I’m going to explain just be patient.” Yunho smacks the side of Mingi’s head, a risky move maybe, but he knows Mingi won’t lash out like he used to. They’ve come a long way since then, nearly six years or maybe more than that. Yunho knows that he is good at many things, but keeping track of time is not one of those things. Despite all that time, it’s still a lengthy and arduous process to help Mingi understand even basic emotions and morals, but at least he shows interest in learning about them. “Since I’m a doctor, I feel a responsibility towards my patients. I know I have the ability to heal them, but there are some things I can’t fix. Sometimes I can’t fix them even using tried and true methods. Even if I don’t know them, I feel a sense of duty to heal them. It’s my job, right?”

“Why not just put them out of their misery then?”

Yunho purses his lips at the question. It’s one that Mingi asks time and time again, and he shouldn’t be surprised that the man is bringing it up again here and now. Still, he wishes he could get through to the Berserker. As much as he tries to exercise patience with Mingi, he does grow tired of answering the same question over and over again like this.

“That’s not right, Mingi. I can’t kill a patient in good conscience, meaning that if they even have a sliver of a chance of surviving then I will take that chance. It’s a risk but one taken with good intentions. My job as a doctor is to save people not kill them.”

“Then I’ll kill her. Save you the trouble.” Mingi moves to get out of his seat. Yunho lunges forward, grabbing hold of his shoulder and tugging him back down to the chair again. He releases a small bout of laughter that echoes how nervous Mingi’s hasty actions made him. “Why?”

“Because even if you deliver the blow, the blame is still on my shoulders.”

“That’s not what they taught me in the arenas.”

“The arenas… they were different. They bred you to kill without thought or feeling, did they not?”

“Yeah, but it was easy.”

“For you, Mingi. They raised you to not feel any emotions and not to think for yourself. But I – that’s not how I was raised, remember?”

Mingi glances back at the healer, eyes wide as ever, and Yunho sighs at the sight of the blankness in his eyes. Of course, he doesn’t remember. Yunho has to remind himself to be a bit more patient; years of patience may not be enough. He hasn’t spent every waking moment of the last six years with Mingi at his side. No, the first three years were spent in a strange limbo where the two neglected to speak to each other one on one. Rather their time was filled with curious glances and passing comments made to a group of people rather than to each other.

If someone asked Yunho to pinpoint the exact moment in which they began speaking to each other, he would not be able to. That time is mostly a blur of faces coming in and out of his life with haste; the only true constants were San and Wooyoung. He frankly didn’t speak much with the other members who still remain on the crew around that time either. He was just a shut-in, to put it simply. Spent all his time in the med bay, rarely even coming out to get food because Wooyoung would always bring it by for him. He and Wooyoung were a lot more similar back then, before Yunho started branching out and being more comfortable with other people. Wooyoung would just spend all his time at Yeosang’s side, hand in his wherever they went, and on the rare occasion that Wooyoung wouldn’t be there, he would be in the med bay with Yunho.

Mingi, on the other hand, was never around much. At least not that Yunho noticed. Hongjoong’s side. That’s the place he saw Mingi the most, and that’s always where he expected him to be. The fact of the matter is that Mingi and Yunho were – still are actually – complete opposites. Yunho would say that about him and San, but at least San has a semblance of emotions. Mingi has always been void of that to a scary degree, which is probably what deterred Yunho from talking to him for so long.

The Berserker was the one to approach him after those three long and awkward years of avoidance. He cornered Yunho in the med bay with those wide and curious eyes. Yunho thought he was going to get annihilated by the man back then, maybe die at his hands without even knowing why but Mingi presented a simple and straight-forward question that had Yunho fumbling for words. Ironically enough, the same question that falls from Mingi’s lips now as Yunho continues to comb through his hair with dye in silence.

“Why do you want to be a good person?”

Yunho hadn’t known what to say back when Mingi first asked him the question, but now that time has passed he thinks he can at least construct a decent answer.

“The arrogance in me would say it’s because I want people to think I’m a good person. Because being perceived as good is better than being perceived as bad. But honestly… I just feel happiness by doing good things and helping people.”

“Happiness…” Mingi echoes to himself. Yunho knows that the man doesn’t quite understand that emotion, and all his attempts to explain it to him have failed drastically.

“It makes me feel warm inside.”

“Why would you want to feel warm inside?”

“It’s like the feeling when Hongjoong says he’s proud of you. Or when you’re told that you did a good job. You know that sensation, right?” Mingi nods against Yunho’s touch. Yunho finishes up with the last few strands of pale hair before speaking again. “Well, that’s what I feel when I help someone or do a good thing. That’s why I want to be good.”

“Ah… okay, yeah, I see. Thank you, Healer.”

“You know to call me Yunho, Mingi.”

“Right. Yunho.”

“That’s good enough, I guess. Alright, up. You still wanna do mine?”

“Yes, I think I can manage it.”

“I trust you, Mingi. Think about the things we talked about. Or ask some more questions. It’ll help keep your thoughts from drifting back to those things.”

“Okay, yeah, I can handle that.” Mingi stands up, barely inching over Yunho, and glances down at the bowl of blue dye that Yunho passes his way. “Blue?”

“Your favorite,” Yunho answers with a small laugh, and he pats Mingi on the cheek as he steps around him to take his place in the wood chair. There is a pause after that. Yunho glances up at Mingi through the mirror before him, eyeing the Berserker carefully. He continues to stare down at the bowl of dye with that familiar blank expression.

“You said happiness felt… warm?”

✧✧✧ a/n: hello hello this is the first interim type chapter so far, and i got an overwhelming amount of answers giving me wonderful ideas and questions to be answered, as well as interest in the interim chapters so im excited to do these here and there to break up the tension. i know i said i wasn’t going to post this week but given all that’s been happening, i figured we could all use a break from the stress and negativity and have a more light-hearted thing to think about!

taglist: @faeriewoobin​ @sugarrimajins​ @atinyinwonderland​ @sparklychangbin​ @jeong-uwu​ @jeonartemis​ @anothershorthuman​ @xxbluestrifexx​​ @saturatedsan​ @haotheheckk​

unable to tag: @2504-life @lil7bluedragon

note: if you would not like to be tagged in future interim chapters, please don’t hesitate to let me know!!!

[thewinedarksea]

thief/assassin au pt 4

ft. (the mention of) handcuffs and a river. also liel’s flip-floppy emotions. mildly suggestive.

(part 1, part 2, part 3, part 3.5)

Sirens drifted through the air, faint from distance. There were at least five blocks between them and Liel but she walked faster nonetheless, gait casual as she strolled down the chill city streets. 

A cold wind skittered after her, slicing through her thin shirt; she’d been counting on a getaway car to provide warmth, so she was clad only in a pair of leggings and a top made for attraction and not practicality, her toes frozen inside the thin leather of her boots. Another gust of wind and she curved her shoulders inwards, tightening her grip around the hot chocolate cup in her hands. Warmth bled through the cheap cardboard and into her fingers, a mild protection against the temperature. It was the only thing keeping her going. 

Well. That, and the promise of getting revenge on Johann’s worthless hide ten times over. Liel was thinking a lifetime subscription to some truly awful porn mailing lists, maybe a stint in a minimum security prison depending on how long it took for her to get back to her hotel. Half a million in diamonds, ripe for the taking, and she’d had to abandon them all. Idiot kid. She didn’t know what street corner Emory had picked him off of, but he could damn well put him back. 

She stepped off the street and onto a bridge, blending with the horde of pedestrians making their way across. And there, propped up against the railing, her long black coat whipping in the wind, stood Celine. 

Despite the cold and the bustle of people flowing past her she looked unbothered, eyes on the river’s banks, just one of the many citizens taking a break from her everyday life to admire the view.

The sight of her sent a confusing tangle of emotions rushing through Liel: fear, always and ever-present, because she hadn’t survived ten odd years as a criminal without a healthy dose of being able to recognize a predator when she saw one, and wanting, too, sharp and immediate as a knife to the gut. More than both of those though was the annoyance, a matchstick flare that promised to ignite.  

Liel should walk away. She should go back to her hotel, drink a staggering amount of wine, and sink into the suite’s luxurious tub until the water washed away all the frustrations and disappointments of the afternoon. She should. But Liel had just had two weeks of planning go up in smoke thanks to a jumpy kid and an early guard patrol, and all that irritation was just begging for an outlet. Celine would do nicely.

She tossed her cup into a nearby trash can and wandered over, propping herself up on the railing, so close her arm brushed Celine’s sleeve. The river below was a chaotic swirl of dark water, shiny bits of aluminum and old coffee cups caught tumbling in its hold. On its banks the sidewalks teemed with life, awash with shoppers catching up on last minute holiday gifts. 

“I was going to complain about the cold, but I find I’m plenty warm just by being around you.” 

Celine didn’t so much as glance at her, her eyes fixed on one of the cafes lining the waterway. Liel squinted, trying to make out what she was looking at, but saw nothing besides some red striped umbrellas and a few customers enjoying a meal in the freezing cold. Masochists. 

“Because you’re from hell,” Liel elaborated. “Like a demon. Hellfire. It’s very amusing.” 

A faint smirk touched Celine’s lips, but that was the extent of her reaction. No teasing, no clever remarks. Not even an acknowledgement that the last time they’d seen each other Celine had had her hands around Liel’s neck, before they’d shifted to other, less mentionable places. 

The annoyance flared brighter the longer she ignored her. Liel wanted to draw a reaction, to claw some control from her perfect grip. Crack it, like she had the night of the party, Celine’s mouth on hers, gasping and half-breathless, teeth and tongue and sweet words that had spilled like a river from her lips.

Liel smiled up at her, batting her eyelashes in the way that normally made people fall all over themselves to give her what she wanted. 

“What’s a girl have to do to get some attention around here?”

“Try coming back when I’m not working.”

Okay, see, that was just rude. Liel had been working every time they’d crossed paths, but that hadn’t stopped Celine from fucking her over or just fucking her, period. It was called a double standard, and Liel had no intention of letting it get in her way. 

“Ooh, are you on a job?” She slid closer, pressing their sides flush together, and made a production of following Celine’s gaze back to the cafe. It didn’t take long for her to hone in on the trio sitting off to one side, their clothes worth far more than the cafe’s old facade warranted. The woman on the left was definitely packing a gun. 

“A hundred dollars says it’s the one in pink.” A shot in the dark, but it landed, Celine’s expression going even more carefully still. Liel pressed the advantage. “I could make some phone calls. I’m sure the police would be very interested in knowing someone hired an assassin to go after Miss Dior and Co. over there.” 

“And I could snap your neck right now and throw your body over the edge.” Celine’s voice was as cool and dangerous as ice. “But you wouldn’t make me do that, would you pet?”

The fear came back with a vengeance, her annoyance snuffed out beneath the douse of ice water sliding down her spine. It might have been a mistake antagonizing the girl who killed people for a living. A small, small mistake. 

“That does sound unpleasant,” Liel said as lightly as she could manage. “My neck is much prettier when it’s in one piece. Tell you what, I’ll just come back when you’re not working.” 

Celine’s hand lashed out, gloved fingers wrapping around Liel’s wrist as she moved to step away. 

“Oh no,” she said softly. “You said you wanted attention.” 

She was watching Liel now, cafe abandoned for more interesting prey. Her eyes slid over Liel’s body, noting the lack of a coat, the goosebumps littering the bare skin of her arms. Despite the chill Liel felt herself heat up, all too aware that the last time Celine had seen her it had been without a stitch of clothing. From the smug slant of her mouth she remembered it, too. 

“Poor thing. You’re shivering.” She tugged Liel in front of her, her head against her shoulder. Celine was unfairly warm despite the weather, warmth bleeding from her in far more pleasant ways than the hot chocolate had managed. Damage control, Liel reassured herself as she snuggled closer, allowing herself to melt into the heat. She had to protect her pretty neck, after all.

“And here I thought we were getting along so much better,” Celine murmured. Her breath ghosted against Liel’s ear, lips brushing skin with every word. “Threats don’t suit you.”

“Everything suits me,” Liel informed the sky because, honestly, she didn’t have much more to lose. It stared back, a pale, dispassionate gray that put her in mind of a blade. “Also, I’m angry at you.”

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Celine’s voice echoed in her ear as she wrapped an arm around Liel’s middle, drawing her ever closer. “Why so upset, sweetling? I thought our evening together went very well.”

“You tied me to a bed.” Liel’s legs struggled to hold up beneath the assault of Celine’s pet names, the scent of her rose perfume curling around her, light as a kiss.

“I did,” Celine agreed. “But I seem to recall that you begged me to do it. Quite prettily, too.”

Liel flushed all the way down, cheeks burning red. Memories stirred, flickers of Celine’s mouth on her neck, between her legs, biting at the skin of her thighs. She’d worn the bruises she left for a week, and the memory of them a hell of a lot longer.

“You didn’t untie me,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. One of the hotel staff had found her and boy had that been a particularly humiliating conversation to have. She’d been lucky the maid had proven sympathetic to her tale of a prank gone wrong. Luckier still that Celine hadn’t been cruel enough to call the police.

She could sense Celine’s smirk where it rested against the side of her head. “Consider it your punishment.” 

“For what?”

“You stole a drive from me when we first met.”

“That was three months ago!”  

A few heads turned in their direction at Liel’s cry, glancing away when they saw the two of them entwined. Liel made an effort to squirm out of Celine’s grip, swearing at the lack of give. Pettiness was her deal. It looked way cuter on her.

With an exasperated noise Celine crowded her forward against the rail, bending Liel over until Celine’s chin rested on the top of her head, her body pinned between metal and flesh with no easy method of escape.

“Stay still,” Celine chided. Her grip tightened until Liel subsided, slumping back against her. “That job cost me a lot of money, to say nothing of what it did to my reputation. You’re lucky all I did was tie you up.”

And threaten to kill her, and actually try to kill her. The list went on.

 “Can’t imagine how great your reputation is going to be if you get yourself caught throwing me off a bridge,” Liel muttered.

“Believe me, there are far more interesting things I would rather to do to you.” 

That sounded promising. Interesting typically required alive, which was a step up from a watery grave. Liel wriggled even further back, pressing herself into Celine until any distance between them was eaten up. 

“Elaborate on that?” she asked, sweet as she could manage. 

Across the river Celine’s target stood. Her pink dress, terribly impractical for the weather, swirled around her legs as the wind blew again, a bright streak against the dull pavement. At the motion Celine straightened, stepping away from Liel as quickly as she’d grabbed her. 

The frigid rush of air that crept into the space she left set Liel trembling all over again, colder now that she’d found protection and lost it. 

“Business calls,” Celine said, composed once more. God Liel hated her. “You have my room key?” 

And her bracelet, and half her credit cards. Liel hadn’t taken her gun, though, so honestly she should be heralded as a paragon of self-restraint. She didn’t bring that point up though. 

“I’m still cold.” Scared and pissed off, too, but she doubted she would care about that. 

Celine’s mouth twisted in amused exasperation, and then she stripped out of her coat, wrapping the garment around Liel’s shoulders like a shawl. The fabric was warm, the scent of her perfume clinging to the silky lining. 

“Be a good girl and wait for me in my room.” She leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Liel’s cheek. Her lipstick left behind a mark. “I’ll bring my handcuffs.”

“What if I say no?”

Celine paused in the middle of turning away, an eyebrow raising in mock surprise. “I thought you wanted me to elaborate. Although if you prefer the river, I will have to ask for my key back.” 

When Liel made no move to hand it over she smiled, teeth gleaming sharp in the sunlight. “It’s the Royal Suite. Don’t bother with clothes.”

[eyebrowluv]

Continuing This: https://eyebrowluv.tumblr.com/post/612157189295095808/tall-blonde-with-one-sugar-35-yeah-and-i-saw

“That makes no sense, Erwin.”

“It makes perfect sense. If I don’t get this job, I’m moving back home because I can’t afford to stay otherwise.” Erwin held up a hand. “And before you say something ridiculous, I refuse to stay with you and not contribute in some way. If I get the job, I’ll move my stuff in tomorrow. If not, then it will be easier for you to return everything.”

“Are you always so difficult?” Levi rubbed his temple, a major headache forming after a long day of debate.

“No. I’m just trying to be an adult here. I don’t want to be a burden to anyone in any way.”

“If I didn’t want to help you, I wouldn’t. Period.” Levi grabbed Erwin’s duffle bag. “If you don’t get this job tomorrow, and that’s a big fucking if, there’s other jobs you can apply for. Just call it a deferment in payment. Only I won’t charge interest.”

“I can’t do that,” Erwin argues, grabbing for his bag.

“I’m not really asking at this point, Erwin,” Levi scolded as he sidestepped the taller man. “You’re moving your shit in...now, right now.” Levi held the bag to his chest and left the apartment.

“Levi, wait! I didn’t have a chance to pack yet. That bag is empty!”

“Well, fuck.”

— —

“I left the keys to the Audi on the counter last night.” Erwin jumped at the sound of Levi’s voice as the sleek black Mercedes pulled up beside him. “You know, so you wouldn’t have to walk from downtown.”

“But it’s your car. What if I wrecked it or something scratched it?”

“That’s why I have insurance,” Levi reminded. “Get in the car. I can’t always drive by at the right time. Take the car next time.”

“But Levi-“

“But nothing. Take it or I’ll just buy you a new one.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Erwin protested as he slid into the passenger seat.

“Try me,” Levi warned with a glare.

“Fine,” Erwin sighed in defeat.

“So, how did the interview go?”

“I start Monday. I actually interviewed with Judge Pixis himself. Rico said that he was so impressed by me that he is going to pay me more than he originally posted and he wants me to work full time during breaks.”

“I’m not usually one to say ‘I told you so,’ but…”

“Fine, you were right, but-“

“But nothing. I know Rico. She doesn’t lie and is brutally honest. If she said Pixis was impressed, he was impressed. Congratulations, Erwin. We’ll go out to dinner later to celebrate.” Levi’s face softened, and Erwin could almost swore he saw a smile. He almost hated to disappoint him.

“Sorry, Levi, but I really can’t afford to eat out just yet. I’ll take a rain check, though. After I get my first paycheck, we’ll go out.” Erwin was not prepared for the smack to the back of his head that propelled him forward, almost causing him to hit his head on the dash. “Ow, Levi!”

“You won’t be paying for anything. That is not how this is going to work,” Levi growled. “We will go home, I’ll sleep, and you will contact your professors regarding any makeup assignments, and we will go out to dinner tonight.”

“Just like that,” Erwin snorted.

“Yeah, Blondie. Just like that.” Levi looked over with a cocky smirk, and Erwin’s heart skipped a beat.

And with that, Levi won this battle.

“Okay, we’ll go to dinner.”

— —

“Levi, I’m not so sure about this place. It looks awfully expensive,” Erwin said as he watched Levi hand the valet his keys. The blond looked at the building nervously, trying to tuck into himself, trying to become less noticeable.

“We’re celebrating. What else did you expect? A drive-thru?” Levi gently grasped his elbow. “Now come on.”

“But Levi-“

“What? What is wrong with you?” Levi turned to look at him fully.

“I don’t want to embarrass you. I’ve never eaten at a place this nice, Levi. My idea of a nice dinner is a franchise steakhouse.”

“It’s just a restaurant, Erwin. Unless you strip naked and eat off the floor with your bare hands, you’re not going to embarrass me.”

“I try not to be naked in front of other people if I can help it.”

Levi snorted. “Come on, let’s go eat.”

— —

“You’re the worst sugar daddy ever,” Mike announced.

“Hey!”

“Or he’s the worst sugar baby ever. I haven’t decided yet.” Mike grabbed a salad from the cooler. “I mean he basically told you that there was no way in hell you were going to get him naked. He does understand what a sugar daddy is, right?”

“Tche.” Levi wrinkled his nose at the soup selection, but poured himself a bowl of corn chowder anyway. “I’m not certain that he even knows that I’m trying to be his sugar daddy.”

“Well, that’s on you, my friend. Are you bringing him to the Casino Night fundraiser this weekend? Maybe I can pull him to the side-“

“Please, don’t even speak to him. I don’t want him to know that I associate with you.”

“Levi, you’re so mean. You might want to wipe that sour look off your face or he’ll never sleep with you.”

“Fuck you, Zacharius.”

“Nah, that’s why you have your little boy toy.”

— —

Levi was mulling over Mike’s assessment of his sugar daddy prowess as he turned the lock of his apartment door. He did notice that it smelled of clean laundry and...chocolate chip cookies? He toed off his shoes and padded toward the kitchen.

What. The. Hell?

Levi always knew that Erwin had a decent ass. He didn’t exactly flaunt it, but the cut of his jeans gave just enough of a hint. He thought he would be prepared for the moment he got to see said ass, but he was mistaken, so sadly mistaken. Because there was Erwin’s ass, encased in skin tight boxer briefs, wiggling around his kitchen to a song about lovely lady lumps. Song choice aside, it was almost a religious experience. Levi was ready to lay down an altar and worship that ass.

Holy Shit!

He wasn’t going to survive this boy. He was too old to experience things that made his heart beat that hard and that fast. Erwin was going to give him a heart attack. Why wasn’t he wearing clothes???

“Check it out,” Erwin sang (horribly off-key), and turned to find Levi standing there, staring. Staring at his chest, his sculpted abs…

‘Good god, Levi, don’t look lower!’

Too late.

And hot damn!

“Levi! You’re home early,” Erwin said with a smile, oblivious of the fact that Levi had just been staring at the bulge in his underwear...the very prominent bulge. Those boxer briefs really left nothing to the imagination.

“Levi? You okay? Rough day?”

“It’s fine, I’m fine. Just a long day,” Levi finally managed to say.

“I’ve done laundry and made some cookies. It’s just pre-made dough, but I’m hardly a chef. I haven’t started dinner yet because I didn’t think you would be home for another couple of hours.”

“No, it’s fine. I...I think...I’m going to take a shower, and I’ll help with dinner.” He had to pull it together. Erwin was looking at him like he was losing his mind.

“Sounds good. We’ll do something simple tonight, then. You look exhausted.” Erwin smiled brightly.

Great, Levi thought. He was thirsty for his roommate and Erwin thought he was just tired. Maybe Mike was right. He was a terrible sugar daddy.

— —

“So...how is it?”

“How is what?” Erwin looked up from his laptop to find Hange grinning at him maniacally.

“The sex? You can’t be a prude all of the time, so spill.”

“Uh...I don’t know what you’re talking about. Just who do you think I’ve had sex with? I haven’t had sex since Marie and I broke up.”

“What?” Hange gaped for a moment, open and closing their mouth, too confused to utter a word. “You’re joking...HA! You almost had me fooled.”

Erwin raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, you’re serious,” Hange crumpled. “Wait...you’re serious? What the hell?”

“What? I think I’m missing something.”

“Erwin, to be so smart, you are so incredibly dumb sometimes,” Hange groaned and leaned back in their seat.

“Hey!”

“No, really. I can’t believe that you’re so blind, or naive.”

“What are you going on about, Hange?”

“Levi, you dumb blond! You know, your sugar daddy.”

“My what? Wait, what? Are you saying-“

“There’s no such thing as a free lunch, my beautiful boy. Econ 101. I’ve seen the way that man looks at your ass. He’s just not doing this out of the kindness of his heart. I mean, he probably is to a certain extent, because he’s not heartless. And let’s face it, he’s probably not hurting for dates-“

“Hange, your point.”

“Oh, yeah. He wants to get you in bed with him, and he’s willing to support you financially to do it. Like I said, he’s your sugar daddy.”

“He’s never said anything about...repayment.” Erwin’s face scrunched in thought. “Does that make me a prostitute? Am I doing something illegal? I work for a judge, Hange.”

“Calm down. A relationship with an older, more financially stable man is not illegal. He not paying to have sex with you. He’s in a relationship with you and making sure all your needs and wants are being met.” Hange threw a paper ball at Erwin.

“Isn’t that basically the same thing? Am I taking advantage of him? Am I that desperate?” Erwin’s moral dilemma was obviously causing him to spiral, so Hange grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him violently.

“Answer me this: Are you attracted to Levi? I don’t want you to brush me off like you always do. I want an honest answer.”

“Well, yeah. He’s...so damn hot.”

“Do you like him on a personal level?”

“Of course.”

“You already know that he has some sort of attraction and emotional investment in you. The man threatened to buy you a car just so you can get work on time. He was appalled by the idea of you living in a dirty cheap hotel in a dead end town. He cares for you.” Hange loosened her grip. “Now the question is: do you think you can care for him, too?”

“I do care for him, and I’m attracted to him, but-“

“But what, Erwin?”

“What if he’s disappointed?” Erwin blushed.

“Disappointed? With what?”

“Sex. With me.” Erwin blew out an exasperated breath. “I’m not good at it, Hange. I’ve told you before, I’m awkward as hell. I haven’t slept with another man since undergrad, and it wasn’t great. Not that I’m any better with women. I mean, Marie couldn’t find someone else fast enough.”

“That’s because Marie is a slut and doesn’t deserve you.” Erwin looked unconvinced. “Seriously, though. Think about it. Levi’s an older man. He probably is a better lover than Frodo-“

“Flagon.”

“Whatever,” Hange waved off. “He might show you some things that will change your mind about sex and your insecurities. It’s not like he’s going to laugh at you, Erwin.”

“No, but he may never want to sleep with me again, and then he will realize that I’m a bad investment and cut his losses to find someone he really deserves. Not some stupid kid who can’t pay his own way or suck a dick.”

“Wow. You are spiraling. Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this conversation to upset you.” Hange laid their head on Erwin’s shoulder. “I just wish you could see you how everyone else sees you. We love you, Erwin. And I think, if you gave him a chance, Levi will love you, too. But you got to love yourself enough to know you deserve it.”

“I’ll think about it.”

And Erwin did think about it. All night, he tossed and turned, mulling it over in his head. It wasn’t until the sun was peeking through the curtains and the sound of Levi shuffling in the kitchen before he made his decision.

[mshermia]

No. 03 - Nothing Left To Lose - Part I

Whumptober Prompt No 3. MY WAY OR THE HIGHWAY

Manhandled | Forced to their Knees | Held at Gunpoint

The reversal of the Snap added 3.5 billion people back to Earth’s population. 3.5 billion more people to house somewhere, 3.5 billion mouths to be fed, 3.5 billion people who return to a world that was not expecting them to ever come back.

In the aftermath of the victory over Thanos, Peter Parker finds himself in a bit of a situation. Instead of helping the "little guy", what is he supposed to do when the "little guys" start helping themselves to the property of others. Tony finds out that his billionaire status doesn't really help that particular situation.

###

I'm using my own Fix-it to Endgame "Like You'd Know How It Works" as a basis for the timeline, though the prompt will work fine without having read that story. The important part is, that Tony's not dead.

Baseline: 2 weeks after Tony is brought back from the multiverse.

###

AO3 Link

###

People never did tell you what it would feel like to come back from the dead. Possibly because people had very little experience with things like that. The odd person being found after they had gone missing for a long time, maybe even been presumed dead, that was one thing. Something like that might happen from time to time. But full-on coming-back-from-the-dead? Well, Tony had always been a pioneer when it came to living through the weirdest shit.

To be fair, to him it wasn't a resurrection per se. He hadn't been dead after all, just his other-dimensional self. Well, just... And the other version of him remained quite dead still, thank you very much, and in all honesty, he wasn't anywhere close to being cool with all that yet. Possibly ever. So there was no way he'd let that big brain of his even start to muse over what was basically his corpse that lay buried not too far off their house. Chances were, he'd never be cool with thinking about that part. So, he didn't. Didn't think about it. Didn't talk about it. Just waiting for it to go away. Which it would. In a few years. 50, give or take.

He rubbed both hands across his face, an active effort for his brain to change the channel. He was supposed to be paying attention to the furry beasts in front of him.

"Seriously, Gerald, you're acting as if it wasn't in your best interest to keep your neck un-wrung. Fluffy, Tiny, let's go."

Gerald didn't like the barn. He was used to grazing wherever and whenever he wanted, nobody's schedule to follow. A free spirit after Tony's own taste. But there was a reason why their stock had grown from one fairly independent alpaca to a flock of three. Damn poachers. Or rogue hunters. Something along those lines, he hadn't inquired in that much detail. They had decimated the two herds in the near-by village, only Gerald's new barn-mates had been able to flee.

And apparently, the Stark's had expanded their life-saving services to the community's life stock now. Well, Pepper had decided they would and Tony wasn't going to question whatever it was that made Pepper happy, not any time soon. His family was the only thing that mattered now. Not the village's life-stock-politics, not any kind of politics. He had retired from everything that didn't directly involve making the people he loved forget about that little death-mishap.

Tony grimaced to himself. Semi-officially retired at least. Yes, in the long run, he was likely to consult for the team and there was always Peter's neighborhood-avenging to support. He'd never leave the Spiderling hanging, no pun intended. But right now, there was some healing he had to supervise. Emotional healing that could only be done with lots of hugs and kisses. With hot chocolate by the fire and glasses of cold wine by the lake. With breakfast in bed and comfy afternoon board game sessions. With nights spent sitting next to his kids' beds, for their benefit of course, not just his own. That was why he had come back with his little protegee after all. For them. And Tony would do whatever it would take, even if it involved wangling three alpacas at once.

Those very alpacas who were very reluctant to move into the barn. Even with how remote the cabin lay, they weren't safe outside anymore, not with the sun slowly setting in the west. But all the pulling on Gerald's head-collar just didn't get him moving, not until Pepper took pity on her dear husband and lent a hand. While she was pulling on the leash, Tony was pushing against the stubborn buck's backside. Alpacas didn't usually tend to kick with their hind legs. That was horses... right?

He groaned, rolling his stiff neck from one side to the other as the gate clicked shut behind Pepper. "Remind me again... Why did we agree to this?"

Pepper didn't bother to send him a scolding look as she wrapped the security seal around the gate's locking mechanism. "Because we're good neighbors?"

"We are?" He smelled like damp fur. When did wet fur and barn animals become his life? "Since when exactly? Was there a house meeting? Did I miss it?"

"Mh... do you need a reminder of the process of negotiation?" She took a step towards him, one hand in his shirt pulling him close against her, their lips almost close enough to touch. "You smell like wet alpaca."

He pulled in an affronted gasp. The hand that was still holding his shirt pushed him away from her, her lips stretched wide in amusement. "Come on, Cesar. Maybe I'll remind you after a hot shower."

"Hey!" He followed after her. "Cesar? Really? First of all, Gerald is not a dog, second... how about during the hot shower?" He had caught up with her, his eyebrows wiggling suggestively. "I could think of a couple of other things that—"

"Boss." Tony froze as FRIDAY's voice rang in his earpiece. "Captain Rogers is on the line."

"Oh, but whyyy?" He cringed, not just because it was evident from Pepper's face that whatever road that moment had been leading them down on, was gone. Replaced by the kind of dread he was supposed to shield her from.

"He is asking to speak to you. Immediately."

As Tony groaned again, Pepper blew out a shaky breath. "Everything okay?"

He only pulled a frown as he told FRIDAY to put the man through and didn't bother with any niceties. "What's going on?"

"We need you." Rogers' voice was low and solemn.

"Excuse me? I'm retired." The nonchalant quip was second nature to him but he couldn't deny that the Captain's voice gave him the creeps.

Pepper stepped a little closer and whispered a pained "No!", worry radiating off her like someone had flipped a switch.

"Yeah, we don't really have time for that right now, Tony." Rogers seemed even less inclined to take Tony's demeanor in stride than he usually was. "It's your pet project."

Deep down, Tony had suspected something like this. They knew not to call him for anything but this. "What happened?"

"He's in the middle of a bit of a situation. You need to get here. Now."

"Tony, what's going on?" The way Pepper's hand curled painfully tight around his wrist, she seemed to instinctively know what was up.

There should be a process, how he made those decisions. There should be but in all honestly, it was likely redundant since there was no question as to what he would do if the kid was in trouble. Whenever the kid was in trouble. He didn't hesitate, not even for a second thought. "I'm sorry, honey." He pressed a kiss on Pepper's cheek - any light-hearted banter about alpaca-smell forgotten - as he tapped the nano housing unit hidden underneath his shirt.

"Gotta make sure the kid's safe." He pried Pepper's fingers off his arm. "I'm sorry, honey."

The thrusters engaged before Pepper could draw a breath to argue. He was so retired. He was so retired and they all knew that. It could only mean one thing: the kid was in deep shit.

His heart was racing. This shouldn't even be happening. The kid... he had given the kid the best protection anyone could imagine. The Iron Spider had held up against the ugly purple Grape. Nothing on Earth could... he swallowed hard. He had just been back for a couple of weeks. He was just getting some normalcy back. His family.

Time seemed to crawl by as he shot across the New York sky. The route took him straight to the coordinates that FRIDAY had extracted from Peter's suit. Tony had sent out a call to the kid. When Peter didn't answer he sent out another. This one Peter rejected outright. Still too far out to access the team's comms, Tony and his thoughts had another couple of minutes to imagine the worst until they finally arrived in Queens.

The location was a rather unremarkable looking warehouse, some windows smashed, a couple of doors off its hinges. A little more prominent was the number of police cars parked around the property. There were at least 12 of them, more sirens approaching from the distance. None of them attempted to intervene or even talk to him after the suit had touched ground within the police's perimeter and he made to walk into the building. The picture that presented itself in front of him didn't match what Tony had been expecting. Not in a good way. In fact, it came very close to giving him a heart attack that was going to get in the way of all the supervised healing he still had to do.

Rogers and Barnes in full Super-Soldier outfits stood opposite his boy. His boy had his back turned toward his teammates and stood smack in the middle between them and a whole group of people, their faces mostly covered with scarfs or other contraptions. Some of them were frozen, eyes wide as they were staring at the Avengers in front of them. Others behind them were quietly emptying the shelves of the warehouse. Boxes upon boxes were ripped open and their content vanished in backpacks and large carrier bags. One of the looters however had a very tight grip on a middle-aged dude, a handgun pressed against the man's temple.

Tony froze where he stood, still hidden in the shadows of the entryway.

"...and I get that." Peter's arms were stretched wide. One in front of him at the crowd of people, the other towards Rogers and Barnes like he was urging them to stay back. "This is just not the way to do it, okay?"

With a pressing need for more information, Tony's eyes roamed across the warehouse. Besides the guy on his knees with the gun to his head, a few more people - he counted 10 of them - had been cuffed to three of the large storage shelves. Only a couple of people were standing guard over them. Most of the other intruders were busy stuffing their bags with everything they could— Food. It had just dawned on Tony what was stored within this facility. Canned goods and boxes of what looked like pasta, beans, or rice. These people were stealing food.

"You get it? You don't get anything!" It wasn't the guy screaming those words, just someone else in the crowd, a young woman. "When's the last time you had a warm meal, huh? We came back to nothing!"

"You have every right to be angry." The kid had turned a little away from the hostage, his arm still signaling for calmness. "Coming back to this was a shock. For me too, okay? But this... you don't want to do this. Just... just take the food and you can let him go, okay? This isn't you!" Tony's eyes shot back towards his Spiderling, frowning. "This is— hey... stop! Don't!"

The guy with the gun was pulling on the hostage's shirt, forcing him to balance himself a little more upright on his knees, squirming in his hold.

Rogers had shuffled a little closer. "You don't want to do anything rash now, son."

"Fuck off, traitor," the man spat back at the Captain.

"Stop, just..." Peter's eyes were still on the hostage and his abductor. "I told you to leave, Captain! You're not helping!"

"Spider-Man—" Rogers was interrupted, Peter's voice echoing off the warehouse walls.

"I said, leave!" The boy almost seemed to be panting.

"FRI," Tony whispered inaudible to anyone else because of his suit. "Vitals on the kid."

His heart rate was high, unnaturally high for Peter even during a mission. A close-up provided by FRIDAY confirmed that the boy's hands were positively shaking.

"I can help you, okay?" The kid swallowed hard. "I know that you wouldn't do this if you didn't have to. I can help you and I will, but you have to let this man go. Please."

The group's leader turned from Rogers back to the boy. "You don't know shit about what we want! People are dying because of this jackass! Because of people like him!"

The guy's eyes had found Tony and that seemed to be his cue to advance out of the shadows.

"What the fuck is this, Robin Hood?" Eyes still studying the scene in front of him, a murmur went through the crowd.

Peter spun around, his spider-eyes wide as he looked straight at Tony. "No, no, no, no, no!" He mumbled, his voice echoing in Tony's earpiece.

"You know I can still hear you on the comms, right?" Tony shook his head, sticking to the team-only communication himself now. "Kid... what the fuck is going on?"

"It's... it's fine." Peter's head spun back and forth between Tony and the looters. "Just go home. I got it all under control!"

Tony kept his eyes on the kid, fighting the urge to step any closer. "The dude over there has a gun pointed at this other dude's head. Nothing about this looks like anything's under control. Can we just..." Tony dipped his head to the corner of the room.

"How about I drop, erm..." Peter swallowed hard, still looking back and forth between Tony and the ongoing hostage situation. "I can just drop by when I'm done with all this, okay?"

"How about no?" Tony made a face even though behind the face-plate, it was only for his own benefit. "How about you web this dude up and get some actual control of the situation instead?"

"I got this!" Peter's voice walked a tight rope between urgency and badly suppressed panic. "Just go home, Tony! Please, please just leave!"

There wasn't much that could stun Tony Stark at this point, but an outright dismissal by his intern slash mentee would do it. "Excuse me, did you just—"

"Get the fuck away from us!" Tony's eyes shifted to the looters behind the kid, the guy with the gun was getting antsy. "This is none of your business!"

To Tony's right still a little ahead of him, Rogers inched a step closer to the scene. "Let's just stay calm and figure this thing out, hm?"

"S-stay back!" Another guy from the crowd of looters stepped a little closer toward the main action. He, too, was holding a gun though his arm was dangling loosely next to his body. At a closer look, Tony could spot quite a few weapons, shotguns, knives, and bats in the hands of everyone not currently ransacking those shelves. The group was made up out of a variety of different people, young and old, he could even see some children stuffing tote bags in the back. It was starting to dawn on him, why neither Peter nor the two Super-Soldier's to Tony's right had jumped in guns blazing, not yet.

A whole group of seemingly normal people brought their children to loot this warehouse for all the food they could carry. All of a sudden, the decimated numbers of his neighbor’s alpaca flock left him with a different kind of headache. There seemed to be more to this than he was presently privy to.

Tony cleared his throat, speaking to the whole room. "Unless you want to eat this dude, too, how about we talk about some of your demands, hm? Find a compromise everyone is happy with and nobody gets hurt over?"

For a second, the man's gun twitched towards Tony before he pressed it back against the temple of the man kneeling in front of him. "Shut the fuck up, you murderer."

Ouch. Tony pursed his lips. He hadn't heard that one in a long time.

"Hey!" Peter stepped closer to the crowd, clearly an attempt to shield Tony from their view. "Watch your fucking mouth, asshole."

His jaw popped open and Tony was quick to make an abortive motion towards Rogers and Barnes to stop them from advancing like the kid had done. This was escalating quickly.

"Of course, you're protecting your sugar daddy, you insect. You stopped being a hero when you started wearing this guy's fancy suits. You don't give a shit about us! You haven't in a long time!"

The Spiderling flinched back from the open hatred spewed at him. "I... that's not..." He shook his head, pulling in deep breaths. "I don't want to hurt you, okay? I want to help. We can still all walk away from this."

"Hurt us?" The young woman's voice from before was shaking but still rang harshly through the otherwise quiet building. "We haven't eaten in 2 weeks! We have no place to stay, nowhere safe to sleep!" She pointed a hand at the man on his knees in front of her accomplice. "People like him are selling the little food that is left in the city for 10 times the regular price. We have no money! Nobody helps us!"

"We're here to help now, young lady." Rogers' deep voice always rang with such sincerity, they could only hope it would convince at least some of them. "What you're doing right now is not going to help you!"

"You're not helping us, you want to help him." She pointed at the man on his knees in front of them. "You care more about his property than about the fact that we're starving!"

"Right now," Barnes' low growl surprised Tony more than most of the things happening around them. "We care more about the gun that your buddy there is pointing at the man's head, darling."

"I'm not your darling, jackass!" She spat at Barnes.

"Stop. Stop this." Peter sounded almost scared. "Please."

"He doesn't deserve this kind of money." She barked out before her eyes landed on Tony. "Nobody does."

Tony's eyes stuck with the young woman, his mind racing. Money... was that what they wanted the guy for? His money or plain revenge... maybe a little bit of both. Time to find out what their priorities were.

"You want to take all this out on someone, huh? Alright, Let's do that. How about you let the civilian go and take this up with a bigger fish, hm?"

"No." Peter spun around. "What are you doing? Don’t!"

Tony got a step closer, his focus shifting back to the man that was the group's apparent leader.

To Tony's undeniable satisfaction, the guy's feet shuffled back a couple of inches though his eyes never strayed from Tony. "While you're hiding behind your tin can?"

He had expected as much and his hand was ready to fly up and tap the nano-housing unit. Jaw set, his PR mask in place, the nanites retract just enough for Tony to exit the suit, leaving his armor behind him but still perfectly ready to engage if necessary.

"Stop!" Peter's voice was far from strong now, only a panicky high-pitched squeak. "Mr. Stark, don't!"

Rogers was next to Tony with a couple of long strides, his voice low. "What do you think you're doing?"

Tony cleared his throat before he dragged his gaze away from the looters towards the Captain. "Hostage negotiations?"

"Put that suit back on!" Rogers growled next to him. "That's not why I asked you here."

"You asked me to help." Tony was holding his hands up just below his shoulders, fingers spread wide. "So, I'm helping."

Roger's chest was heaving with deep long breaths. "Getting yourself killed is not helping, Tony."

"I'm not getting myself killed." He had his eyes still steeled on the group leader, careful not to be caught off guard by a trigger-happy hippie. "I'm taking a calculated risk."

"No, you're not." The Captain's hand shot out, holding Tony back with a strong grasp on his arm. "If anyone will be offered up to trade places it—"

"I don't think your bank account will be as attractive to them as mine," Tony hissed. "No offense, Capsicle." He pulled his arm free from Rogers' hold and advanced a few more steps before the kid could get a hold of him. "So, here I am. Let this dude go."

### 

Thank you guys for reading!

Hope you enjoyed the first chapter! I'm always happy to hear everyone's predictions and theories, so let me know how you think Peter and Tony might get out of this one in the comments. Likes and Reblogs are really appreciated!

Hope you liked it! More whump and more for this timeline will come soon! You can find more from this timeline on my WIP Page.

The Fix-it this is based on: Like You'd Know How This Works

[amintyworld]

Inconveniences - Sanders Sides Oneshot

A/N: This is for @an-agender-disaster 's Sanders Sides Fic Contest. Please go check them out, and if you like this fic go and give it a vote! Love all of you! -Minty

Summary: Roman sacrifices everything to save a stranger.

TW: Cursing, Bullying, Fighting, Blood, Pressure, Yelling, Caps, abuse of power

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Logan and Virgil were best friends. A fact that seemed unbelievable to the students of Sanders High. One was dark, mysterious, paranoid to flinch at a single touch. The other? A classical nerd who memorized more facts than a search engine.

The two outcasts were known throughout their grade for their so to say 'weirdness'. Virgil, though desperately trying to fit in, was a natural outcast. He was extremely awkward, especially in social interaction, a fact that the more popular students quickly took notice of. Logan was what Virgil called 'naturally smart'. The 16 year old could recite 150 digits of pi and the entire table of elements without breaking a sweat. It was no doubt the two would eventually found a friendship, a strong one at that.

They didn't have many friends, but...they had each other. And really, when bullying becomes a daily issue, a friend is all you need.

"So Specs," Virgil asked as they were walking through the hall toward their next class, "what was the probability again?"

Logan pushed his glasses that started to slide down his nose as he processed the question, remembering almost instantly. He smiled for the first time that week, facing his friend as he answered. "Of us meeting?" Virgil nodded. "That's nearly impossible odds, Virgil."

"Impossible odds…" Virgil breathed, listening to his friend rant about probability, and percentages. He sat down, sighing, closing his eyes briefly, just to relax. Virgil wouldn't admit it, but he loved just to sit and listen to his best friend explain any topic, there was some kind of comfort to it that Virgil couldn't explain.

For a small amount of time that day, Virgil wasn't nervous, or anxious. All the possibilities of what could go wrong stopped running through his mind. 

"Impossible...odds…"

He was just a regular high school student.

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"GO ROMAN, GO, GO, GO, ROMAN!" Patton cheered from the sidelines. He was early for his cheer practice afterschool, so he figured he could fit in extra practice. He and Roman had been best friends since middle school, when Roman was the new kid, he'd recently moved from New York. Since then, they'd been practically inseparable.

Coach blew his whistle, and Roman ran back to the benches nearby, chugging water and running his hands through his sweaty hair. Coach gave him a stern look. "Take a break, Prince." Roman just nodded, catching his breath. Coach turned quickly, "Demenga! Sub for Prince! Come on, you pansies, on the field, NOW!"

Roman grabbed a second water bottle and sat down on the bleachers next to Patton. "Hey, you alright, Ro?" Patton asked. "You look… horrible."

"Well, despite what my father believes, I'm not made for football." Roman sighed. Patton gave him a sympathetic smile.

"You could always quit, I'm sure your father would-"

"You know what he'd say." Roman said. "Either UCLA, or nothing."

"I know," Patton said defeatedly. "I just hate to see you so... miserable."

"Well," Roman smiled. "Not completely miserable. I get to see you practice, at least. Who knew you had such a talent with pom-poms?"

Patton smiled. "I wouldn't have known if it weren't for you joining the team, Ro."

"Please Patton," Roman joked, smiling at his cheery friend. "You'd be a cheerleader anyway, it was only about making it official."

"You know me too well, Roman. How's Remus doing, by the way?"

"Absolutely loving his biochemistry classes," Roman said, wrinkling his nose at the thought. "...maybe a little TOO much." He shivered, wishing he could erase all the grotesque things Remus had sent him via text since the start of the year.

"But Roman, it's so cool! Look at it twitch!" Remus insisted when he shared a video of a rat dissection that nearly made Roman hurl.

He'd never admit it, but he wished he was the younger twin. Free to pursue anything he pleased, instead of having your entire life planned out for you from the first moment of your existence. God, how he craved to reprise his spark for Theater, one that his father tried so badly to put out completely, though Roman never truly lost the passion.

As he put it, it was in his blood.

Patton's parents, or parent, rather, were completely different from Roman's. Almost as full of sunshine as Patton himself, Mr. Foster was quite a role model for the young boy. 'Superdad' handled two jobs and three kids without breaking a sweat, and he was more than happy to let Roman into their close-knit family.

He showed Roman all of his kids' baby photos, smiling and cooing over how tiny baby Patton was, making Patton flush with embarrassment: "Daaaaaad!"

Patton, you could say, was the second parent of the family, cooking meals, helping with homework, keeping an eye on his younger siblings while maintaining a 3.5 GPA.

"I'm gonna go wash up, Dad will be here soon anyway, and he hates when I'm not exactly on time, you know." Roman said, grabbing his duffel and heading to the showers. "Be back in a few, Pat!"

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

"OH MY GOD, STOP IT!" Virgil screamed, trying to restrain the stronger teen as he easily slammed his best friend's face into the concrete wall. Richard turned, throwing Logan to the floor, his face busted and bleeding, his glasses snapped in half on the ground.

"What exactly are you going to do to stop me, Scaredy Cat?" Richard said, a smirk spreading across his lips.

"I...I'm...I'm gonna...I…"

Within seconds, his body was slammed on the concrete wall. He let out a scream of pain, Richard clamping his hand over Virgil's mouth quickly, nearly gagging him, Virgil struggling to breathe. "You're gonna do WHAT?" Richard said. "You are WEAK. You are POWERLESS. You...you're NOTHING, nothing but a wimpy dimpy Scaredy Cat." With that, he dropped Virgil onto the dirt, but he knew he wasn't going to get up.

He'd done his damage just right.

Tears fell from Virgil's eyes as the words cut him like a knife. He was right. He couldn't do anything, he couldn't even save his best friend. His hands gripped the dirt as tears fell, soaking the ground underneath him.

How absolutely PATHETIC was he?!

Richard laughed at the pain visible on their faces. "You two are nothing but a bunch of losers. Do you know what we do, with losers?" He couldn't help laughing as he asked. His father the mayor, Richard was power-hungry from the start. He ruled this school, this town, and no one, absolutely NO ONE, was going to say otherwise. 

As King, he had a duty to himself, and to everyone, to put these… these pigs, right in their place.

Virgil's heart nearly dropped. He knew what was coming next. Worse, he knew he couldn't fight back. He looked at Logan, who fell unconscious, bleeding. No one was around. No one ever was around when he did this.

"We… we kill losers."

Richard grabbed Virgil by the neck, Virgil no match for his size, lifting him off the ground, against the wall. He grinned, squeezing his neck. "Fat pig…" He breathed, sending chills down Virgil's spine. Virgil clenched his eyes tight, fearing he would cry if he opened them. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction. He didn't deserve to get what he wanted. He felt his hot breath on his face, his mouth getting closer. 

The world began to spin, almost getting darker. He started to choke in his grasp, gasping for air, for any breath. He didn't say a word, didn't fight back. He knew he'd just wind up back here, with his world dizzing, just like Richard wanted.

"Richard, what are you DOING?!"

Richard quickly dropped him, Virgil's world slowly coming back to focus, breathing heavily to get air back into his lungs.

"Ah, my old friend! I thought you had practice." Richard said, maybe a little too cheery.

"It's nearly over…" Roman trailed off, looking at the two students on the floor, then back to Richard. "What are you… you… you hurt them…"

Richard set a hardened glare on Roman. "It would be in your best interests, Roman, to not get in the way of the King." He smirked. "I'm sure your father would love to know all about your movie stash."

Roman's eyes widened. "How did you know about-!?"

His movies, hidden underneath his bed - the only thing left of the old days. Days when there wasn't a legacy, there wasn't football. When his father didn't care what he did, and… he was, well, happy. Happy to just have Roman.

Before, well… Roman went to high school.

"I have my ways. Now, back off, Prince. Let your King do his work."

Roman gulped, hesitating. He knew Richard picked on them, but this was too far. He made up his mind quickly, silently saying goodbye to all his DVDs. He raised his fists, getting into a defensive position almost instantly. "I...I won't let you hurt them."

Richard sighed. "Shame you had to turn on your people, Roman. You better believe that now, you're just like them. You're a weirdo, an outcast."

"You have no right to just go around saying whatever you want-"

Richard's face turned bright red with anger. "I OWN YOU."

Silence fell. Roman slowly walked over. Richard looked to him, something indescribable in his eyes. "You don't own me. At least, not anymore."

Roman stepped back as the sting of sliced flesh zipped through his body. He looked down, and there, clear as day, was a thin, bloodred line that ripped his football practice shirt straight across the middle. He knew what was going to happen when he got home, but at this point - Roman didn't care. His instincts from New York kicked in as he tackled Richard to the ground, holding the hand clutching the knife firmly behind his back. "Drop it." He growled, and the small pocket knife fell to the ground with a small clink. 

Roman kicked it a good ten feet away before dragging Richard up from the ground, leaning close to his ear, making sure the next words out of his mouth stuck. "Don't you DARE even so much as think about hurting another person, or I won't be so nice next time." He growled angrily. He let the boy go, pushing him away, and Richard looked back for a moment, mostly in shock, before seemingly shoving his hands in his pockets and trudging toward the road. 

Roman sighed, the adrenaline wearing off, realizing what he'd done. His father will kill him, disown him, if he isn't expelled from school first and kicked from the team.

But you know what? Roman thought, rushing back to find Patton (who was a certified first aid), Eff it.

[drumpfwatch]

State of the Union 2019 Commentary

It’s been a week and some change. Let’s talk State of the Union.

First off, I’d like to make a comment on the overall speech theme. Trump spoke of unity and everyone coming together, but that very morning he went to yell at how obstructionist and obnoxious the Democrats were being for not giving him his baby bottle wall. This man, who speaks of himself as the best deal maker in the world, and bragged he’d be able to get everyone to get together and make friends, sort out their differences, when he has done nothing but make demand after demand and concede no ground.

A compromise, Mr. Trump, is two people coming together and agreeing on something they’re both willing to do while conceding parts of what they want. It’s called a surrender if someone gives you everything they want while getting nothing. Dummkopf.

So with that, let’s begin at the beginning. I warn you right now I don’t want to go over every single point he made, but I’ll cover as many of them as I can and comment as needed. There are other commentaries out there, some as soon as the day after, and those are more than cool to have hanging around. I’m sure between all of those you can come up with a total summary of what he said, based on every single word. With that, let’s begin.

As per his theme, he started the speech by calling for unity and cooperation. All well and good for anyone else. We should avoid revenge politics - which is fucking rich coming from him, but whatever. Specifically, he calls congress to concern themselves “with the agenda of the American people” but…

Well, we’ll get to that.

He thanks some WW2 vets and then talks about how he’s interested in “America First.” People have on more than one occasion pointed out that given his actions, he seems to mean “America Only” when he says that, and that should be a premise that is upsetting to everyone but I have no doubt there is a large portion of the population of the American population who are more than happy to ignore the rest of the world. They already do, after all.

He then introduces Buzz Aldrin, saying that we’ll be going to space on American rockets again. And he’s actually, sadly, right there. Back in 2011, the Space Shuttle program was retired, and we’ve been relying on the Russian Soyuz capsule to get us into the space ever since. The successor to the Space Shuttle Program, the Space Launch System, has been slow coming for numerous reasons. It is, however, finally going to be ready to go in 2019 and will perform its first mission in 2020 - sending a craft to Mars. They wanted a rocket that could get a crew to Mars eventually, and the Senate…

Well, let’s just say congress stuck it’s fingers into the Space Launch System so much that it has been derisively called the Senate Launch System, and a lot of astronauts and NASA Engineers are concerned that it is basically a horrible, efficient money sink. Still, as an avid space fanatic, I’m glad we’re making efforts, at least. Though I’d point out that those efforts have been in motion long before he ever got there to direct them. This is, after all, the man that believed we could go to Mars before his first term was out.

He next goes on to talk about the economy, claiming that our middle class is bigger and more prosperous than ever before. This is untrue. While it seems to be complicated, the general consensus is that while the Middle Class has been stable in size, they tend to have less and less, especially in comparison to the upper class. That is where the real problem is, as well. The absolutely ridiculous wealth disparity. Though I get the feeling that removing taxes from private jets is totally gonna help with that. She says, sarcasm frothing in her mouth in a mixture of rage and bitterness.

He then claimed responsibility for the parts of the economic boom that have been happening. First of all, the economy is...not exactly booming. But there are good things happening in it. It’s sort of a whirlygig of insanity, if I’m honest. Now, you’ll hear me say this again a few other times, but I am not all that educated when it comes to economics. Economics is a chaos system and I much prefer stable ones with easy to predict results. Is a thing right or wrong, is this method an effective way of accomplishing the intended goal. Things like that.

That said, I do know a few things, and one of them is that a lot of people who do know a thing or two about economics point out that this economic boom began in 2016, which means it's entirely possible that this is a result of Obama’s policies were responsible, we don’t really know. Maybe Trump did have something to do with it, but it’s often not accurate to blame the problems or successes of an economy on a single thing. So this claim gets a big ol’ stamp of “UNVERIFIABLE” from me.

I can say that wages are not rising, or at least as much as he thinks. The Federal Minimum Wage was not changed since 2009, and lost about 9.6% of its purchasing power because of inflation. While some states have made major strides towards livable minimum wages have been made in places like New York and California, I’d be willing to bet dollars to donuts that if you removed the massive amount of wealth that people like Jeff Bezos make, you’d find that they are stagnant, or even lowering.

There’s a thought for a math rant sometime.

Anyway, he then praises the 5 million people who got off of food stamps. First of all, the number is 3.5 million. Second of all, it’s a bit more complicated than that. To summarize, while the decrease in unemployment is helping, there’s another little niggling thing. There was a provision in the law that basically said you could turn off some of the safety nets if employment rates rose, and a lot of states decided not to pay for those benefits. I won’t argue whether or not that was a right or wrong decision, but I will say you don’t get to wave around the number of people who are off a program as a victory when the reason they’re off it isn’t because they don’t need it, but because they were kicked off it.

We’re the hottest economy in the world, he says! And he’s wrong. I mentioned before that we’re in a weird sort of “Good Things, Bad Things” phase, but I don’t think I need to tell anyone that the stock market has been all over the place, falling and rising considerably at random. Meanwhile, S&P has downgraded America’s credit score. I think we’ve got a problem, and I know we’re not the hottest economy.

He then goes onto say that the unemployment rate for people of color is the lowest it’s ever been. And shockingly, he’s right on this one. Sort of. The Federal Bureau of Labor Statistics shows that the rate of unemployment for hispanic people and black people actually went down, and was at one point the lowest it’s ever been. Asian unemployment has sorta been all over the place. What makes it strange, however, is that each of these groups had a random and sudden spike since November/December of last year, while for whites it’s been pretty stagnant. Last hired, first fired, I guess.

He also talks about the same with disabled people and that is blatantly untrue. While it seems the number of people who qualify for disability also is going up, they’re not getting employed any faster.

I should also mention that even if we could point to one specific thing as responsible for these changes, I doubt it would be the fault of the man who himself wouldn’t house or hire black people.

He also celebrated getting rid of the estate tax. Which yes, he did. That is not necessarily a good thing. He acts like it applies to small businesses and farmers, but it doesn’t. One person said on the matter “If you don’t feel comfortable calling what you own an estate, then you probably aren’t affected by the estate tax.” You and your guilded crotch spawn and protected up to 10 million dollars. Only after that is your wealthy taxed on death, and only to prevent the the existence of a permanent landed gentry. The only people benefiting from the end of the estate tax are literal millionaires, who can afford to give some of that dosh to the community.

He then talks about Obamacare, and how he get rid of the Individual Mandate. He claims this was the most unpopular part of the law, and he’s right, but analysts point out that it’s more complicated then Thing Bad So Get Rid Of. Without the Individual Mandate to get people motivated to apply for coverage, a lot of people simply won’t get insured. Further, the whole point was that forcing the younger people to pay for insurance when they’re less likely to need it helped to add money to the pool that could be used to help cover the people with pre-existing conditions or complications. That said, it’s also a good thing not having people pay for coverage they can’t afford, so...it’s complicated.

Trump then bragged about cutting the most regulations of any President ever, and I won’t deny that he has. I will, however, point out that this is a horrible thing that should concern and frighten all of you. While some of those regulations may seem arbitrary, literally every one of them was written in the blood of some innocent person who died so a corporation could make an extra buck. We’ve already seen an increase in food poisoning and infections and the increase in food recalls since 2013 has been kind of horrifying. Trump has been eagerly cutting regulations to “Pre-1960s” levels. You know, before we had seatbelts. It’s very harmful to cut those regulations, and it needs to stop.

He then says that America has corporations coming back in record numbers. On this, he is also not wrong. The Jobs report was very good, and we should all be happy about that. That said, whether or not he is the one to thank for that is a bit more complicated, as usual. It turns out that some of these gears were set into motion when Obama was in office. Some of them are just the effects of a slow recovery process since the 2009 Recession. That said, they did take a sharp rise in 2017. So yay for him, I guess.

Except, again, if deregulation is how you’re doing this, then you’re doing it wrong. We should not be sacrificing the blood of American people so that a few already stupid wealthy people can get even more stupid wealthy. The reward is not worth the cost.

He then goes on about how we’re the number one producer of oil in the world. This claim is untrue. There has, however, been a boom in oil and natural gas production due to things like the invention of fracking and loosening of regulations that goes all the way back to the Bush Era. The rate is increasing such that by sometime into the 2020s, we will be the greatest producer of oil and natural gas, at least privately. Considering those materials are murdering our planet this is also not good news, but since Global Warming is, of course, a conspiracy cooked up by the Chinese to steal American Jobs, that doesn’t matter. We are also not a net exporter of energy, by the way, but are on are way to becoming one.

Then things get...weird. Everyone starts chanting “U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!” in this really low and creepy tone that I was frankly a bit creeped out by. It was like these people thought they were at a football game and not a session of Congress. Then again, this is my first time really sitting down and paying attention to the State of the Union, so this may be normal. I just didn’t like it.

What should, however, terrify everyone is his next babbling remark. He spends five minutes or so going on a rant about how “If there is going to be peace in legislation, there cannot be war and investigation.” Which, frankly, reminded me of a mafia frontman. “Lovely country you got here, shame if somethin’ were to happen to it. You noisy folks stink’ yah nose into my bosses business makes it real hard for him to keep wild guys like Big Jim ova deya under control. I can’t promise you won’t upset him wid all this.”

Sorry, trumby. You don’t get to talk about the need to stop our adversaries when you may well have been put in office by one.

Ughk, I hate using that word. Adversaries. It makes it sound like we have a boat load of enemies, when in reality we have like, 3 or 4, and otherwise a series of complex political relationships. Like we can’t work together with those people for a better future if we all just calmed the fuck down.

Like they’re not people.

Whatever. There are more important things to worry about.

Like how he goes on to mock the democrats for not approving his nominations. Even though a whole boatload of them are sketchy as fuck, should have never even been approved at all, or were just never filled by Trump in the first place.

Also can I just say that it’s fucking rich hearing aa man like Trump complain about not getting a nominee approved after what his party pulled with the Supreme Court? We call that hypocrisy.

He then goes on to talk about making life easier for prisoners and punishing people who abuse our veterans. Now, I could point out that prison reform was actually Barack Obama’s whole big thing and he passed a lot of laws in that regard, and Trump has not, and Former President Obama also passed VA reform in 2014 that allowed for people who mistreated veterans to be harshly punished. That said, Trump has been making further strides on those initiatives, and in fact his most approved and liked legislation is the First Step Act. These are the sorts of policies that really can make life better for people, and it’s nice to see everyone getting behind them. Ofcoursewecouldfurtherthesegreatstridesbyclosingdownforprofitprisons, andotherthingsthatimcertaindontappealtoarepublicanmindset, but that’s for another day. What I’m saying here is that as much as I don’t like it, I have to admit Trump has done a good. I don’t care who past them, how they developed, they were good things that happened. Yay! Good job Trump, you get a big shiny gold star.

We then move on to the Racist section of the speech. He starts by talking about the Migrant Caravan and I am shocked at how wrong and full of hatred this man is. He claims these refugees are an “onslaught” of illegal aliens when they’re all coming to America to seek asylum. You know, something that’s completely and totally legal. But no, this is an INVADING FORCE of ILLEGAL ALIENS that need to be stopped with 3,750 more Soldiers with GUNS. They managed to make it all the way to the American border with only one small kerfuffle with the Mexican border police, before arriving at the American border not to see Lady Liberty’s open arms welcoming the hopeless and downtrodden, the weary and poor, but instead heavily armed and barricaded troops who would then go on to use tear gas on them. Is that the America we want to show to the world?

Now, to his credit, Trump admits that Immigrants enrich our society - which is entirely true. Yes, there’s a bit of stress on lower-wage jobs when they first arrive, but that’s minimal in comparison to the benefits. Not that saying that to someone who got laid off and replaced with a migrant is no consolation, I fully understand, but there are ways to help these problems. Also, side note, if he believes immigrants are so awesome and enriching to our society, then he would be more than happy to have them enter the country. But the immigration system here is a convoluted mess of insanity that takes forever to get anything done and then occasionally does nothing, and Trump has just been making it worse. Just a thought.

Now I wrote an entire post about the wall, so I won’t go into it too much here. But the wall is an expensive, stupid, and ineffective idea. Drugs aren’t coming through skirmishers who are dodging around the border, they’re coming through ports of entry. The San Diego wall he was talking about isn’t nearly as effective as he pretends, and it didn’t really start working until the entry port in that area was spruced up. Smuggler still break through it all the time, as well, to the point where an area of it is called “Smuggler’s Gulch.” It also has trapped migrants into paying more to cross to the bad guys, taking riskier and more lethal routes, and actually trapping “illegal” migrants in who may want to leave. Most of the time, men would come up, do some work for cash, then go home once they felt they had enough, but now they’re coming, staying, and bringing their families.

Trump also points out that there were people in that room who voted for the wall, but I reckon the immense amount of insanity that came from that previous attempt are why a lot of people don’t want to do it again. Trump says that “No issue better illustrates the divide between America's working class and America's political class” but in truth, 60% of Americans are strongly opposed to the wall. The wall is a lost, stupid cause, and Trump needs to give it up before he hurts himself with his flailing about it.

OH, and just as one last cherry on the cake, it won’t stop sex trafficking either. Most traffickers bring there people in through on legal Visas, which they are then forced to overstay as those visas are held from them. In fact, over 80 anti-trafficking organizations got together to say that Trump's comments on the matter were actually harmful to efforts to stop this stuff.

He then goes on to tell the story of the Maddison family. I honestly don’t remember what it specifically was, because they are just a prop to garner sympathy for his position, and I’d actually be fine with that if the idiot didn’t use it to spread a lie. This family lost ones they love to MS13 members. That’s horrible and tragic and very sad, and I feel for them and wish it hadn’t happened. But acting like this is how every “illegal immigrant” operates is just a flat out lie. While the actual numbers are hard to tell, we know enough to say that if you strip away the illegal crime of coming here when not allowed, “illegal” immigrants commit 16% less crimes then the native-born population. Most of them are just people who want to escape an insane life and live the American Dream. But, see, they’re hispanic, so they can’t. You have to be white to be an American.

So with all of that said, let’s jump ahead to a cute moment where he talks about women taking 53% of the open jobs. Again, not his fault but go off I guess.

He then goes on to celebrate the women in Congress, of which there are more than ever before. Hurrah! I appreciate that little wink and nod, and in fact Donny, you get a gold star for this one too because this one is your fault.

By proxy.

Pretty much every one of those women ran for office because they hated you, your policies, and your stupid ugly face. They’re not there because they like you, they’re there because they want to stop you. So I think I’mma just take that shiny gold star away.

Next, he bounces back to talking about the economy, because Trump can’t focus on a single thing. Again, I won’t say much on this because economics is not my speciality, but people who DO know a thing or two about economics are pretty much in agreement that tariffs are a tool, and not a very good one. The analogy I like to use goes something like this. Imagine tariffs as a double edged knife you’re going to use to stab someone you don’t like. You’re already dealing with a weapon that’s not the safest, but guess what? This one also doesn't have a hilt, or a guard, or a pommel or anything. It’s literally just a long, serrated sheet of iron with a point on one end. So whenever you hit the other guy, you’re cutting yourself too. You can’t not.

Tariffs need to be used with the precision of a scalpel, and only if they’re determined to be the right tool for the job. And that’s without accounting for the unintended consequences like how rich people can probably find a way to avoid tariffs so they hurt the poorer people more, or you know, starting a trade war because the other people can just pass tariffs on you too?! And if any of you think this gigantic flatulating, tiny-handed orange with a racist stick coming out of its ass is capable of “precision” then I have a bridge I’d very much like to sell you.

He also goes on to talk about NAFTA again, and I’m gonna have to plead ignorance on this one. I don’t know if NAFTA is or is not a good deal, or if UMCA is a better one. I don’t know enough about economics and I don’t know enough about the laws themselves. I’m at least grateful the idiot didn’t cancel NAFTA before enstating UMCA, and those people who are smarter than me I keep talking about say that Mexico and Canada may not be in a mood to negotiate a new trade deal. So who knows. I’m not going to say much else on the matter.

So then we move on to infrastructure brieful. Trump talks about how it’s crumbling and needs repair, and he’s not wrong. The infrastructure report card for the US is, frankly, abysmal. But this begins a trend on a couple of topics.

He goes on to eagerly talk about how we need to improve health care, and lower drug prices! That we’re going to get rid of HIV in 10 years! That Childhood Cancer is going to be eradicated! Everyone gets paid family leave! All this wonderful pie-in-the-sky stuff that is super cool to hear him talk about, and I’d be totally behind him….

If he were actually doing anything on these matters. Trump talks a big game on these things, but hasn’t made any moves. Whenever he starts to, his business buddies step in and explain why they’re going to lose money and he stops.

So! He then moves on to talk about the legislation in New York that protects women’s rights to get an abortion anytime and how horrible it is that they’re murdering babies.

I think the response the white-clade congress women gave was the best.

I think the look on Angela Ocasio-Cortez’s face is the best, but the look on Angelia Ocasio-Cortez’s face and I think that’s Kathleen Rice giving the stink eye.

I don’t want to get into a debate about abortion, because that really is the best way to get everyone everywhere ever to hate you. I will say this, however. The law more or less only applies to pregnancies that would kill the mother or if the baby is already dead, and it wouldn’t matter if it didn’t.

Do you honestly think a person is going to go throw eight months of the most harrowing and obnoxious process the human body is capable of performing and then just suddenly decide “You know what? I don’t want this baby anymore.” If you’re that far along you either wanted the baby and were willing to suffer for it, or you never wanted the baby and were prevented from getting an abortion when it would’ve been kinder. The law isn’t about murdering babies, it's about letting women have control over themselves and their bodies. Acting like it’s some horrible evil that happened just makes you look dumb.

We then go onto nonsense about military bravado. Trump yammered about how he forced our allies to pay their fair share in NATO - which is honestly a kettle of fish I want to talk about in its own post, but suffice it to say it’s interesting everything he stresses and hates NATO for makes matters easier for Putin.

The real thing I want to talk about is the nuclear treaty he eventually meanders into like a toddler into a wall. Look, I’m not going to pretend that I understand the intricate diplomatics of nuclear negotiations, but even I know that YOU DO NOT ARBITRARILY CANCEL A TREATY THAT PREVENTS NUKES FROM BEING BUILT. You want an arms race?! This is how you get an arms race!

So what if Russia is “flaunting it” and ignoring it? I do not give one single solitary flying fuck. You negotiate a treaty that makes them suffer consequences - or better yet, stop not making them suffer the consequences they’re supposed to when they pull that shit - and you do it while the other treaty is still active. The last thing we need right now is a nuclear war and I don’t want to fucking hear that you’re taking Russia out of a treaty that at least somewhat contained them.

This man is going to get us all killed, I swear to Athena.

He then starts saying that “oh, the world would be in Nuclear war with South Korea if it weren’t for him, and he’s just wrong. I mean I know the nature of reality is such that there’s no real way to measure the tiny micro changes in the fabric of events that could lead to a given result, but I can say for damn sure that North Korea became more aggressive after Trump took office, and that their nuclear problem is largely for deterrent purposes because they are afraid of. Not that anyone should have nuclear weapons. Point is, this claim is bullshit, and I don’t need to source anything because it’s fantastical.

Next up is Venezuela, and his whole...spat against socialism. First of all, socialism is not responsible for the collapse of Venezuela because it wasn’t socialist. Those close to Maduro call his state a narco mafia government under the guise of socialism. It’s complicated - like everything else here is - but it can basically be summarized that instead of gathering material in the government and using it to support the people, it gave all that to big companies and then just kept taking and taking. Because that’s what unregulated big companies do. There was no market.

That said, even if Venezuela had been socialist in the truest sense, that doesn’t mean that socialist policies couldn’t work or shouldn’t be used. When applied properly (with a mix of capitalism, in my opinion), you can create a prosperous country that takes care of everyone by skimming off the top of those who have much and giving to those who have little. We’ve seen it work in different circumstances before, and even an entire country that made it work up until Stalin decided to take it over and twist its efficacy into bullshit.

He then talks a bit about Israel and Palestine, which is another basket of snakes I refuse to open other then to say that treating it as casually as he does is stupid. Israel and weird creepy end times Christians are the only people who actually don’t want a two-state solution. Sooo yeah.

Next, he speaks on how he’s done with the war against ISIS and that the troops are coming home, but fails to give a time frame and talks about not fighting an endless war - something I’d be more willing to believe if he wasn’t spewing money into the military like a sick man on laxatives does into the toilet. But whatever, I’m all for both of those things, so if he does them I’ll compliment him accordingly and apologize for not believing him.

The last thing I really want to talk about is how he brags about getting out of the Iran Nuclear Deal. That was actually working just fine and had finally squeezed Iran into cooperating and now they don’t have to while still giving them breathing room for their civilian population. But that is a complicated matter, that, again, is more difficult to ascertain than “Thing Good” or “Thing Bad.”

From there, the rest of the speech is just chest beating and bravado. Emotional appeals about how great America is and how free we are and blah blaah blaaah. I actually don’t have a problem with this - the swelling call to action at the end of the speech is a very effective tool and it’s not like I haven’t used emotional manipulation myself, even in this very article. But the point is that it’s not factual - it’s not meant to be criticized as a series of claims or even critiqued at all. It’s bravado, pure and simple. Trump is good at it, and he did a good job with it here.

Before I conclude though, I just want to quickly comment on one thing. Him derailing antisemitism is hilarious. You’re like 4 years too late on that bro.

Anyway, conclusions.

Most of the problems with this speech can be summed up with “It’s not that simple, idiot.” The world is a complicated place and Trump tried to simplify it. His ignorance to fully explain the complexities - or, as the case may be, even bother to understand them - has led him to misinform people live on TV. I’m not going to spend time talking about whether it was deliberate or not, I have long since given up and trying to determine where Trump’s evil ends and his stupid begins.  

I will say that I give him one or two points for doing the things right, but given how much else was disgusting and, frankly, hateful, it’s very much “even a broken clock is right twice a day” type thing. Trump’s state of the Union was a cavalcade of lies and misjudgements, interspaced with bravado and unnecessary calls to his god. This is a secular nation, people. I should not hear about God no less than 4 times in the most important speech the country makes.

Hopefully he’ll be out of office soon.

[lokibannerpool]

Update on the Mun

so i have been lurking on here for a while, not really doing any drafts or replies. I’m not abandoning this blog and these muses, I just haven’t had the motivation lately to be active on this account. I have been active on my other blogs for the most part. you can find me on @forcedintoperfection @thevirginandthefool @worldsfastestpredator @strongestcullen  @zorii-unknown and/or @brokenprincessofasgard  

Now for the shitstorm that is my life right now.

If you’re basically homeless and you know it clap your hands  *clap clap*

So we (by we I mean my mom, little brother and I) finally got evicted for reals like around Feburary-ish. My mom’s bright idea for temporary living was to move in with the worst person possible, her crazy ass aunt (on my grandpa’s side). 

Not only was the move stressful, but living here is terrible, and most of that is because my mother’s aunt (i have disowned her so no she’s not my great aunt) is doing everything in her power to make us feel unwelcome. Before I go into details, let me point out that my brother refused to come stay here because he has never felt welcome in this house, so he’s staying with family from our grandmother’s side (still crazy, but slightly more reasonable). And although I technically still have a room there, I did not stay because they hate animals and the great aunt that lives there once told me that if she could make it up the stairs to our old apartment she’d kill my cats. Later she denied it, but yeah... that’s the kind of crazy on that side’ of the family.

I was going to take my cats and live in a hotel from paycheck to paycheck. i had done the math and i could afford 7 days from one paycheck if i literally didn’t buy anything else, and the hotel had free breakfast i didn’t have to worry about food at least if i could save some of the breakfast for lunch then probably do dinner at a family member’s house. (yeah not the best plan but for me if I’m giving up my cats to a shelter I’m giving up on life. plus hotel accepted animals and was legit cheaper than a putting them in a pet hotel which would have been 22 a night per cat... i have 5 cats and a part time job) BUT low and behold my mother pulls some strings with the aunt (only after catching me crying on eviction day because I didn’t know what to do with my babies) and suddenly I can keep the cats as long as they stay in the basement. Not ideal, but more affordable for me so I take it.

Now back to the hell house I’m trapped in.

1) It took a while to move everything in, but I think we were almost full settled in by a Friday or Saturday night. On the Monday (which was like day 3 of living there) my mother’s aunt not only called me repeatedly on my phone, she kept yelling my name from the first floor. When I finally become conscious enough to go see what she wants, she is telling me that I sleep too much, It’s ridiculous how much I sleep, I need to go get a job, I’m not going to sleep my life away in HER house, yada yada, then she goes on about how by my age she was living on her own and paying off her own car (both were confirmed to be lies by sources that were alive at that time. crazy bitch was still sleeping in the bed with her mother at 22).. Now maybe you think that’s not so bad? but I forgot to mention one little detail. 

It was only 8:10 AM  and I had class at 10 am.

My alarm clock was literally set to go off 20 minutes from that time. Not only was it early as fuck, but I had a class to go to so it wasn’t like i was going to be staying in the house all day. SHE KNEW I HAD CLASS, THAT WAS WHAT PISSED ME OFF THE MOST. I had literally been discussing my classes with her for weeks prior to even moving in with her. Another thing that interested me was how she conveniently waited until my mother had left to start harassing me. anyway, so i get dressed because im mad as hell by this point, and i get ready to leave in under 15 minutes so we’re around 8:30am by this point. When I get downstairs she is demanding that I come into her room, and against my better judgement I do but I’m in no mood to talk. She takes one look at my face and asks me “why are you pissed off?”  As if she didn’t know why. I don’t want to curse her out because I wasn’t raised to do things like that so i keep my mouth shut. She keeps trying to get me to talk, and at this point angry tears that I have been trying so hard to hold back are falling and she tells me I’m being dramatic and I’m over reacting. I tell her I have to go to class more than once and she’s still demanding that I sit and talk with her, so I just walk out.    She calls my phone more than once but I don’t answer because I am a) driving and b) still mad as hell. she leaves voicemails. 1 saying that im being overreacting and stuff. the second comes a few hours later with a fake apology after she apparently talked to my mother. I later find out that she lied to my mom and told her that she forgot I had school, yet when I was not trying to talk to her she was telling me i had 2 hours before i had to be in class.. so yeah and that was only the start of day 3 of living there.

2) Fast forward a few days because in this family, we apparently just go on like nothing happened after conflicts like this. My mom comes to me in the morning and warns me that the aunt had threatened to call the human society to take my cats away because I ‘don’t spend enough time with them’. Which pissed off my mom as much as me because she’s seen what I’ve done for these cats in the past 2 years. (especially with Brenda, who is a rescue stray I took in after she was covered in tape by strangers and either dropped at our door or she limped her way up the stairs to us for help, and the two litters of kittens she had in our apartment) 

The aunt confronts me about this after I come down to feed them by asking me “do you really want the cats” and then telling me not to get an attitude when I say “of course I do” rather defensively. She tells me the b.s. she told my mom to which i point out that we literally just got here, i have classes 5 days a week and work 7 days a week. Plus, she’s usually sleep when I come in after work so she doesn’t see me dragging my aching body (still sore from doing the brunt of the moving) down to the basement to replace the food and water and spend time with them before I go to bed and I would literally be sleeping down there if it wasn’t for my mom nagging me about my health (which tbh comes second to the cats in my opinion but she disagrees). She doesn’t seem all that convinced, and my anxiety was through the roof for the longest because i wasn’t sure if i was going to come back to a cat-less basement after work. 

My therapist has been having an earful btw. Literally the week before I knew we were being evicted I spent most of a session trying to find something to talk to her about and now I have at least one new problem ever week. 

3) This woman has no respect for me or my mother. She’s verbally attacked my mother and berated her more than once. (today included) and at one point accused my mom of using her father for money(who died only 2 years prior, and who is the only one who took responsibility for making all the funeral arrangements and is still struggling to pay that bill because no one else wanted to help). This is sidetracking a little, but my mom did a lot for my grandfather. Brought his medical supplies with a loan she had taken out from her job, literally came to wash him up multiple times because his in house nurse wasn’t doing it, and pretty much ran every errand he asked for her and if she couldn’t do it she had me do it for her... so yeah to say she was using him was really fucked up and it really hurt my mom.

3.5) One morning (last week) i literally caught her and her ‘tenant’ (aka her brother’s ex girlfriend who he left for his wife 2 years ago and refuses to leave his family’s home) talking shit about me and my mom. How we’re dirty,  my mom walks too loud, complaining about us having mini conversations late at night (which only happened once), calling my mom fat, and saying that she’s not  ‘dainty’ and ‘feminine’ enough and they don’t know how she kept a man for so long... really just talking trash while im standing at the top of the stairs listening. I wait until they finish to say anything and they’re not even ashamed or apologetic. The aunt literally says “good. now you can tell your mom what i said” after  i said i heard just about all of it. She seemed offended when I refused to be her messenger. She then tried to talk shit about my mom to me, going as far to tell me that my mother a ‘fat slob’. And because I don’t want to be kicked out before we find a place, I have to bite my tongue and just walk away while she purposely baits me and tells me to ‘speak my mind’. 

There is so much more I could write about, like how she (a woman who has never had a cat in her life) is always telling me how to take care of my cats like I don’t know what I’m doing, yet she’s basing this all off the dog she had (but didn’t really want or take care of) over 10 years ago.  Or how she likes to try to provoke me or my mom (but mostly me because I’m the easier target I guess) whenever she’s bored. The fact that she forced cable boxes on us, then demanded my mom pay her $400 for the installation of the cable despite us both making it very clear we didn’t want it. How she’s always trying to say someone is trying to use her as if my mom isn’t paying $800 a month for two little ass rooms and a bathroom/kitchen we have to share with two other people And sooo much more. 

I’ve ended up self harming for the first time in about two-ish years while staying here. My suicidal thoughts are  happening very often and honestly I’ve turned to drinking my feelings away when I’m not cutting them away. I’ve literally been so stressed that my period disappeared for like 3 months (no im not pregnant. gotta be sexually active to get pregnant so yes its stress) and I’m pretty sure I’m developing some sort of repressed anger issues that I should probably mention to my therapist but I keep forgetting. 

So that’s pretty much what’s been going on in my life lately. 

And I don’t know how to end this so... there

[ttakemethere]

100 day update.

               I never planned to go to Australia. Of course, at some point I decided that I would come to live here and had to start working towards it. But to be honest, I can’t remember a distinct moment when I thought to myself “Yeah, I definitely want to go to Australia”. I grew up obsessed with Steve Irwin, who fostered my love for animals, and all things that seemed to push the border of normal. Maybe it was something that had been manifesting in me since childhood. Whatever the reason was, I left home knowing next to nothing about the country I was headed to. I knew the names and locations of a few capital cities, and that it was home to some of the world’s most deadly animals, but that was it. Suddenly one day I found myself at the airport saying goodbye to my parents with my backpack, and that was it. I was on a plane, and I had no idea where I was going or what I was getting myself into. I was absolutely terrified, but I couldn’t wait.

Maui was incredible. It was a dream holiday, and exactly what I needed after 70 hour/ 6 day work weeks. Yoga in the mornings, beach hopping, sunbathing, day drinking, jungle trekking, waterfall climbing, snorkeling with sea turtles, and partying the night away with new friends from around the world; it was the perfect “welcome back” to the backpacker hostel lifestyle I had missed. Breathtaking landscapes, friendly hostel mates, delicious food, long days, late nights, and the slow-paced island lifestyle was the cocktail I needed to kick off my working holiday. It was one of those destinations that make you want to freeze time and stay forever. Eventually though I woke me up from my island dream after managing to lose my wallet (the day before moving overseas!? No worries!).I spent most of my last day on Maui on the phone waiting on hold with my bank, eventually my roommate managed to coerce me into an afternoon beach hopping break to relieve me from the stress. I laid on the shore of Makena beach while I reminded myself of Bob Marley (and my Dad’s) words “Every little thing is gonna be alright…”

               Sleeping in airport terminals isn’t the most glamorous part of traveling, nor is it my favorite, but it’s something that I’m no longer a stranger to. I had an overnight layover in Honolulu, where the airport welcomes stranded travelers with a designated area to sleep in. While the benches didn’t make the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept on, I was able to catch a few hours of good rest. In the morning I woke to a beautiful sunrise bidding me a final goodbye from the states, and after the longest walk of my entire life to the other side of the world in the terminal, and a goodbye call to home I boarded my plane. A window seat in econcomy on a budget airline promised me that a year of adventure laid just a sore neck and a close of my eyes ahead.        

The day I arrived in Sydney I felt pretty overwhelmed. I had just moved to the other side of the world, and since I’d lost my wallet, I only had the bit of cash I had brought with me. I was feeling pretty grateful for an exchange rate that worked in my favor, a hostel kitchen with 8 (eight!!!!) stoves, and a clean bed to relax in after the journey over. My first priority was to get my money sorted; it didn’t take long for the Sydney sticker shock to set in and I knew I needed to work it out. I was up with the sun my first morning to head to the bank where I learned two things: 1. It gets cold in Sydney (who knew that Australia actually has a winter too?!) 2: It would be over a week before I could get access to my money Deep breaths, everything is going be alright. Stressing out about it wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I’ve got this; I’ve done the whole hungry budget backpacker thing before. No worries.

               In the midst of work/life chaos before leaving home, I had decided to book my first week in Sydney with a tour company. This was my first time doing organized travel and although it lacked a little freedom, I was glad that I had decided on it. They had set up my accommodation for the week and a few meals, so I didn’t have to worry about spending too much until I could get my card. I was grouped with some lovely and hilarious English and Canadians who were also starting out on their working holiday visas. It was comforting to be around people who were in the same boat as me, but it also was a bit strange to be at the mercy of whatever was planned for us. 6 days and 5 nights in Sydney and Port  Stephens: complete of course with the obligatory city walking tour and pub crawls. It was an interesting change of pace from the travel that I’m used to. No planning on my part, just “Show up here at this time and we’ll take care of everything for you”. A harbor cruise and boat barbecue, an evening exploring the dazzling VIVID Sydney displays, yoga with kangaroos at an eco-hostel, a hike through Tomaree National Park, boarding through sand dunes, restaurants with food that looks like it came straight out of one of those trendy facebook videos, drinking games, nights out dancing, and a sales pitch just every now and then to gently remind you that your tour leader was getting paid to hang out with you. While it was fun to have my days filled with things that I probably wouldn’t have done on my own, I was desperate for a little independence which I was able to find at a couchsurfing meet-up.

I fell in love with couchsurfing while I was in Ireland a year ago. I was in Dublin, my first big city on my solo Europe trip and I joined a meet up for a hike on the coast of Howth, a fishing village an hour bus ride outside of the city. After our walk through the cold wind and rain, we took refuge at a jazz and blues festival pub crawl. Hours went by chatting to each other and listening to music before heading back into the city together. I had never met so many people from so many different places, and being new to traveling it blew my mind to feel so welcomed by everyone; I knew that I would definitely be doing it again. Shortly after I had gotten home from Europe I started attending meet up every week in Phoenix. I haven’t surfed yet, but I definitely plan to soon. When I got to the bar in Sydney, I was greeted by friendly faces, and after watching fireworks over Darling Harbor, I was invited to head to someone’s flat for pre-drinks followed by a Friday night out. I didn’t need much convincing, but the promise of free drinks and new friends made any hesitations I might have had disappear.

               After a week in Sydney, I was ready to move on. My bank was going to forward my card to me, so all that was left to do was set up my phone plan, book my flight, and then I was ready to head out on the next chapter of my journey. After a bus ride, a flight, another flight, a bus, a few hours of sleep, and another bus, I arrived at my new home away from home. The Northern Territory: home of crocodiles, and barra fishing; where winter is a sunny 40 degrees Celsius, and men brag about the size of their fish. I would be spending the next 88 days working remotely in Kakadu National Park. Remote work is required by Australian Immigration to extend your Working Holiday visa from 1 year to 2 years. Where and what you can do depends on which visa you are on. But for me, this meant administration work at a hotel.

               My bus left from Darwin at 6:30 in the morning, and after a 3.5 hour ride through the middle of nowhere, the bus pulled over and it was my turn to get out. It felt like a scene from a movie, getting off the bus with my backpack, walking through the doors of this little green hotel in the desert. Things moved pretty quickly as soon as I arrived and I started work the next day. It took a few days to get situated, but everyone I worked with were backpackers, so it didn’t feel too unfamiliar. What did take some getting used to was the isolation.

               Kakadu National Park is more than half the size of Switzerland, and with a population totaling just 1130 people, it’s easy to feel small in such a big space. The hotel is a half hour drive from Jabiru, the only town in the park, which boasts a shopping center featuring a small grocery market, library, bank, police station, hairdresser, and an Olympic sized swimming pool (to which I regularly wonder how on earth they managed that). It’s pretty much impossible to get anywhere around the park if you don’t have a car without hitchhiking, however I managed to make it away from the hotel quite a few times in my first month. My first trip was to Yellow Water Billabong. We spent the afternoon on a river cruise learning about some the Aborignal history in the park and the unique wildlife, bird watching, looking for buffaloes, and of course, spotting crocs. A few days later we were off to Ubirr, the largest rock art site in Australia. On our way, we stopped at Cahills Crossing, the border to Arnhem land, where the aboriginal community live. At high tide when the river flows over the crossing, you can be eaten alive by mosquitoes while watch crocodiles at the edge of the water, waiting for fish to be pushed into their mouths. After finishing the climb to the top of Ubirr, you are welcomed by a 360 degree view of the park. Being there felt like I had been taken back to the Jurassic age. Looking out across the wetlands, I half expected to see a dinosaur, or lions and elephants walk across the plains. During this time of year, Wurrgeng season, the locals burn the land to prevent bush fires and help restore nutrients to the soil. The smoke from the controlled burns turns the sky beautiful colors, and the sun a deep glowing red. It’s a picture that each time I’ve visited reminds me of the opening scene from The Lion King.

               Remote living is a unique experience. You work, sleep, eat, live, and play all in the same place with the same people. Imagine laying out in your backyard at the pool with a book on your afternoon off, then your manager walks through your back gate to let you know that the schedule has changed and now you need to be back in the office to close in half an hour. It’s your day off and you’re having a late breakfast in your kitchen in your pajamas, and in they come to tell you all of the things they would like you to do tomorrow. Work-life balance does not exist, they are one and the same. This made the work become frustrating quickly, and management challenging to deal with to say the least. As staff you quickly learn to rely on each other: celebrating small victories together, acting as an outlet for frustration, and taking a little extra time and effort to do things as a group. I found the answers to “what will I do tonight?” were different than they had ever been. Taking dinner out to the grass for a picnic instead of eating in the kitchen, grabbing a beer and going for a walk to the billabong at the back of the hotel, being workout buddies at the gym, drinking until late (which now meant 10pm) doing puzzles, playing and billiards in the rec room, or playing cards sprawled across the floor of your hotel room.

               Of course my favorite days were my days off. While there were certainly hardships to living in the middle of nowhere without my own mode of transportation, it was the first chance I’d had in a long time to learn how to live life slowly. I no longer had to wake up early on my day off to make it to Bikram Yoga, or run to the grocery store and spend hours cooking in the kitchen (although I do miss those things dearly now). I could be lazy ,and not feel bad about it! I could sleep until my body decided it was time to get up, head to the gym when I felt like it, float in the pool for hours, listen to a podcast during a walk through the forest, read a book in my hammock, practice yoga at the gym, and still have hours left in the day to burn (my hula hoop, of course). And on the days when I felt like I had cabin fever coming on, I had the entirety of the park at my doorstep. A spur of the moment decision and catching the boss in a good mood meant you could ask for the keys to the company car. Maybe having an early afternoon off meant going for a drive to the Mamukala Billabong for some birdwatching, over to Burrunkguy to admire more  rock art, and then to Nawurlandja to watch the sunset. On one of my lucky days I had the day off with someone with a car and we took the 3 hour drive through the park to Gunlom Falls. A 25 minute hike up a steep cliff led us to breathtaking views at the top of the waterfall (and with crocodiles being one of the most populous residents of Kakadu) meant one of the rare chances to swim in the infinity pools. One day after catching a late bus and being temporarily stranded, I even worked up the courage to try hitchhiking. It was a rough go at first, but after half a bottle of sunscreen I got picked up by a fisherman that took me to the South Alligator river. We cast a line out together and watched crocodiles swim by before taking me back to the hotel.

As backpackers, this was only our temporary home, and we all had another adventure planned when our 88 days came to an end. The nights before we said good bye were always my favorite: both fun and bittersweet. The bonds that formed over such close quarters always hurt a bit to sever, but it was impossible not to be excited for them to continue on their own journey.

               One of the biggest things I have learned from traveling is to let go of my expectations. I didn’t really know what it would be like or what would happen living here, but I can say easily that most of this had never crossed my mind.  The past 100 days have been a roller coaster ride of emotions and adventure, and as I enter my last week at Aurora Kakadu, I can’t contain my excitement for the future. I’m so grateful to all the people I have met along the way. What an incredible opportunity, to live in such a uniquely beautiful place (I mean come on, how many people can say that they’ve lived in a National Park that’s a dual listed UNESCO World Heritage site?!). It’s offered a unique glimpse into Aboriginal culture, and it has been a once in a lifetime experience that I will never forget. I’m looking forward to getting back on that bus in a few days and taking all the lessons that I’ve learned with me on my way. In 8 days I will be on a plane on my way to Queensland (home to the zoo of my childhood hero) to explore The Daintree Rainforest, and The Great Barrier Reef.

100 days down since leaving home, 269 days left in Australia, and then…. We’ll see.

[pinkipie100]

Gone Is the Light of Your Palm

...

I’m not sure I should even post this.

I’ll not lie. This is an EXTREMELY UNCOMFORTABLE READ.

It was so draining, physically, emotionally, just to write it. It’s... honestly? It’s the single most depressing thing I’ve ever written to date. I always love to write angst, but... I didn’t even fully enjoy writing this.

It started out as an image in my head, an interesting concept, innocent enough angst, just like every other fic. But then... it got dark. It got EXTREMELY DARK. And I’m not usually disturbed by my own writing, but this...

I think it’s because I wrote a little too close to my own heart. I may have self-projected too much, made too many parallels to my real life, and written it based off of fresh wounds...

Just to be perfectly clear, I’m referring to the suicidal topic of this fic. Now, I’ve never actually lost family or a friend to suicide, but in light of Chester Bennington’s recent suicide... yeah, that’s really the first time suicide’s ever directly taken something from my life. And... I think this fic is honestly just me venting about it, projecting on parallel characters from Voltron.

I’m extremely conflicted about posting this fic, and I fear I may receive some serious flame for it. I don’t really blame people. I already know there are many people who are distraught about the way Shiro was treated this season, believe me, my best friend @lenarart wept right next to me after watching 3.5, and I know how much he means to various fans.

Sometimes, writers can’t control their visions. This is the first time it’s gotten so out of hand for me, that writing it actually made me feel physically sick. I just... don’t know how I lost control so completely...

This isn’t my first fanfic. Maybe it’s the first one I’ve posted online, but I’ve written fanfic for Avatar, Korra, and my own original writing. Angst is my specialty. I would not consider this your average angst AT ALL. If this leaves a bad taste in your mouth afterwords, don’t hesitate to unfollow me. I’ve only got, like, ten of ‘em, anyway. Follower count doesn’t matter that much to me.

Just... be safe. Read at your own risk. This contains disturbing imagery, possible reminiscent of that of panic attacks, I’m not sure. And again, there is pretty clearly implied suicide.

This is not a fluffy Klance fic. This is not hurt/comfort Shallura. This is not background Hunay.

This is something so deeply real and personal for me, I’ve truly left myself horrified at my own work.

I don’t expect you to enjoy.

Words: 2046

Category: Gen, Pidge-centric.

Contains: Major Character Death, Suicide Mention, Possibly Panic-Inducing Imagery

Takes place about 5 years in the future.

insp.

Pidge stepped down from the pod, along with several other Olkari. She let them pass by her, unwilling to look up, almost unwilling to be here at all. She already wanted to go back to Olkarion, just hide in the city, surround herself with her silent garden plants. She’d rather be surrounded by silence than the loud, loud faces.

Begrudgingly, Pidge looked up. The first face she saw was Hunk’s. He was facing her head-on. His countenance was loud. So, so loud… louder than she’d ever seen it. The Guardian of the Forest sensed a pungent sting in her heart at the sight of solid, begging tears in the bigger paladin’s eyes. Hunk refused to let them go, though, the strong anchor that he was.

Pidge’s lips wobbled. The small paladin went forth to hug Hunk unabashedly. She could still barely wrap her arms around him, but she wasn’t about to let physical reality stop her from trying to crush around Hunk’s waist, encircle him totally, until she squeezed all his sorrow out, along with banishing her own. Hunk’s arms reciprocated accordingly, reaching down to Pidge’s back. Pidge felt something thick and wet plop on top of her head, and she dared not to mention it to her friend whom she was trying so desperately to crush.

When the two finally parted, Hunk’s hands remained on top of Pidge’s shoulders. Hunk then turned and let one arm rest across her shoulders as he led her up to the rest of the funeral party.

God, why is everyone’s faces so loud?

Coran’s expression mumbled. It mumbled of not understanding, of a thirst for answers. So say we all. He looked so tired. The older Altean’s eyes were half-lidded, and his mouth hung open in a zombielike fashion. When he blinked, he did it too slowly. The man was half-alive. Everything about him was just… reduced to half of what it used to be. Except for his spontaneous cheerfulness; that was just gone. Pidge wanted nothing more than to go to him, to hug the pain away like she’d attempted to do with Hunk. But she worried that if she did, she might just snap the old man in two. Coran’s physical body was the only part of him still whole; Pidge couldn’t take that away.

Hunk escorted Pidge up to her brother. Pidge could understand every word his face was saying. The grey words lining every crease on his face, and the agonizing sympathy his face screamed at his sister. Don’t say that. She wanted to throw back all that sympathy in his face. She was the one who should be screaming comfort at him from her eyebrows, tightly knitted together. She should be boring her slightly cold amber eyes into his to give him the life to carry on. Pidge could almost laugh when she realized her and Matt’s expressions toward each other were complete mirror images, each trying to lift the other back into survival from this valley.

Hunk and Matt, too, traded solemn, supportive expressions, then Hunk gave Pidge’s shoulder as strong a squeeze as he could [it held a weakness uncharacteristic of Hunk] before grimly sauntering over to someone else in the crowd of mourners.

Pidge and Matt wandered over to the front of the congregation, meeting Lance and Keith. Quickly, even more quickly, Pidge’s blood was draining from her veins, leaving them cold. The noise was so much… Seeing those two together was deafening. Lance gave Pidge a smile. The Green Paladin could throw up. She barely registered Matt wrapping an arm around her shoulders as Hunk just had, but it must have prevented her from passing out on the spot. Pidge took a deep breath and gave Lance a weak smile back. After a moment of this, they both glanced sideways at Keith. He was like a marble tombstone. His eyes were wide open, shaking, and his pupils were pinpricks. Pidge could detect nothing but static. Loud static. Piercing static. She felt like her ears were going to bleed. But seeing Keith brought about a new kind of pain in Pidge: the pain of helplessness. Because there was nothing she could do to put a stop to the static. Lance eventually looked back at Pidge, then came forth and gave her a light hug. Pidge hugged back; somehow, though Lance’s hugs were made of water, they never failed to help her breathe. She was pulled back from the edge of insanity.

When they pulled back, they noticed her stepping up onto the podium to speak. She had left the twins with Hunk, whom had come over to take them from her arms. Thank god they were too young for this noise.

Allura took center stage on the podium. Coran stood on the ground, facing the audience, ever the protective sentinel for her, even though everyone here felt death infecting their very beings.

Pidge took in a deep breath of life through her nose, then let it go.

Then Allura spoke.

“Hello, everyone.”

Pidge’s eardrums were broken. That couldn’t have been Allura. That was not the Allura who used to shatter her ears with hope every word she said. That wasn’t her Queen Allura.

This was the voice of a broken old woman. Her voice sounded like sandpaper rubbed on ashy gravel. She stood as tall as she could on the podium, and normally, a pregnant belly would not have hindered her one bit, but her shoulders carried new life on top of a fresh, sinking death. A death so terrible and oppressive that the whole universe could feel it. This was the voice of no queen. This was the silent sound of someone gargling a dead heart in their throat.

The silence from Allura spoke of heroic deeds. Selfless actions. Persevering and inspiring in the face of insurmountable odds. Defying, no, spitting in the face of the impossible. Spending a year in hell, and coming back to still see hope and good in the broken universe that everyone else thought of as not worth saving. Losing so many essential pieces and having them warped and replaced with something demonic, but still using that vile instrument for something pure. A guiding light to so many, a light that never gave up shining on anyone, no matter how much the void tried to stamp it all out. Just take that hand, that glorious light, and you were already halfway to heaven. The first king of New Altea, the Savior of the Universe, the last Champion…

“Takashi Shirogane, the Black Paladin.”

Pidge heard a flicker as Keith woke up. His eyes could focus now. The static diminished. The Red Paladin could finally see. And it was breaking him apart like glass cracking in the fire.

Meanwhile, Pidge was going numb.

“None of us wanted to be here for a very…”

~ ~

“…very long time. We certainly never expected to be here under these circumstances. But I…”

~

“…understand more than many that he was in so much pain. It…”

~

Allura kept taking huge gulps of air between words, very unlike her when giving a speech. And they were so loud.

“…pains me to realize… ~ …that I will have to raise our… ~ …children alone. And I’m far from the only person who… ~ ~ ~”

Coran looked at Allura worriedly.

“…lost him,” Allura finally managed. Keith blinked, tender tears slipping down his cheeks for the first time. “But just because this life became too much for him, it does not… ~ …mean that we must only think of him as a tragedy.”

Matt’s eyes were slowly drowning with tears, and every paladin’s face turned up directly at the Queen.

“Far from it!” Allura managed to inflect a tiny bit more optimistically. “Everyone’s life is a ride of ups and downs. We can overcome every valley, and fly upon every high! Coping with any trauma, any grief…” Pidge’s ears twitched. She was starting to hear the real Allura again. “…is not impossible. All our hearts are heavy here and now, but… we are not done fighting. We either count on our friends,” the paladins saw that pink glint in Allura’s eyes, “our families,” Coran almost looked like he was smiling, “strangers, even,” the Olkari, Shay and the Balmerans, Slav, and the other members of the crowd lifted slightly, “even the stardust can keep us company.” Allura’s voice wobbled a bit on that last word. “The future is ahead- the future Takashi gave us. We will make the most of it, and make him proud from wherever he is watching.”

Pidge witnessed the casket carriers lower Shiro down, his body made beautiful and broken one last time, exposing all his perfect flaws and damn beautiful tarnishes, yes, even the burn that he ended his life with, and she almost thinks she can hear a melody in this noise.

Lance, Keith, Matt, Pidge, Coran, Allura, Hunk. They stood in a straight line facing Shiro’s grave. Their shoulders were all perfectly squared off. Like seven sentries greeting visitors to the grave.

Breathe.

No one speaks.

Breathe.

Grey clouds and the empty, flat, wind-blown grassland expand around them to reemphasize how alone they are.

Just breathe, Katie.

The sound synthesizer starts playing behind her.

Go. Be great.

The melody from before picks up.

“Should have stayed… were the signs I ignored.

Can I help you not to hurt anymore?”

Lance let his lips go slack, closing his eyes. Keith sniffled, breathing strained.

“We saw brilliance when the world was asleep.”

Allura, now holding her twins, let her warriorlike facade down for now. Instead, she looked like an ocean.

“There are things that we can have, but can’t keep.”

Coran’s breathing had to be cold, meticulously calculated, mechanical. Controlled.

“If they say,”

Katie’s voice wavers at these lines, but she won’t let up.

“Who cares if one more light goes out

In a sky of a million stars?

It flickers, flickers.

Who cares when someone’s time runs out

If a moment is all we are?”

Her diaphragm stings like acidic ice. She’s unfazed.

“We’re quicker, quicker.

Who cares if one more light goes out?

Well, I do.”

Katie knew these next lines were going to hurt. She just had to stay alive. Just survive.

You can do this. For Shiro.

“The reminder...”

That already felt like a javelin through the stomach.

“…pulled the floor, from your feet.”

It was unclear whether Hunk’s arm had spread the trembling to Allura’s shoulders, or if it was the other way around.

Katie braced her voice for the next lines.

“In the kitchen… one more chair than you need.”

Keith sobbed. He cracked and shattered and splintered and combusted and quaked and convulsed and he wept. Right into the crook of Lance’s neck, as a crying Matt hung his head and clasped Keith’s closest shoulder.

“Oooh...”

Katie’s stance had been stock still throughout the entire song so far. Feet spread, unshakable, shoulders tensed and squared, hands tight but open at her sides. This was where that would all change.

“And you’re angry… and you should be…

It’s not fair…”

Hands became claws.

“Just ’cause you can’t see it…”

Voice cold iron.

“…doesn’t mean it…”

Melody a warsong.

“Isn’t there, if they say,

Who cares if one more light goes out,

In a sky of a million stars?

It flickers, flickers.

Who cares when someone’s time runs out,

If a moment is all we are?!

We’re quicker, quicker-

Who cares if one more light goes out,

Well, I do.”

Finally, the instrumental break. Katie needed to surface after drowning. She breathed, albeit shallowly. She could sense the mutual pain around her. Her fists clenched so tight, she could have broken someone’s neck. Katie realized she had doubled over, hinged at the hips, knees slightly bent, and she tore her vocal chords asunder when she preached,

“I DO!!!”

A sob of an inhale, and,

“If they say,”

The last lines sounded like shit as she wept them out.

“Who cares if one more light goes out,

In a sky of a million stars…

It flickers. Flickers…

Who cares when someone’s… time runs out.

If a moment is all we are?!

We’re quicker, quicker!

Who care if one more light goes out...”

~

“Well, I do…”

“…I do.” Gentle, like a proud breath on the wing.

[lesbianalicent]

mass effect: andromeda review

abandon hope of not seeing spoilers, all ye who click the cut

overall: 3/5 main story: 3.5/5 dialogue: 5/5 fuck all of you it was hilarious combat: 5/5 worldbuilding: 2/5 squad: 4/5 overall gameplay: 2/5 side quests: 1/5

this is gonna be long, y’all, i have A Lot To Say

so, first thing’s first: ryder is a treasure and probably the best protagonist that bioware has come up with since hawke or shepard. inquisitor whom??? they’re absolutely hilarious and whenever they open their mouth i know something delightfully terrible is going to come out of it. i find it interesting that the older folks who play this game (late twenties and over) HATE the dialogue but the younger folks who are around ryder’s actual age don’t? it’s an interesting split that i could write essays on just bc of how ryder talks bc it’s so similar to how i talk.

god she’s such a little asshole i love her i would die for her.

THE PROS: -fantastic combat that is probably the best that bioware has ever done, not having a set class is wonderful and being able to switch to do whatever you want is [prayer hands emoji] i can finally be the biotic infiltrator combo of my dreams -I LOVE BEING ABLE TO PROJECT MY DADDY ISSUES ONTO RYDER THANK YOU FOR THAT BIOWARE -kissable!! turian!! gotta Kiss That Turian!! -the tempest crew feels like a tight knit family, they feel Real, hearing them banter on the ship itself is lovely and seeing how their relationship grows over the course of the game is delightful. the movie night single handedly saved me. the emails and the message board killed me dead. -nakmor kesh is my girlfriend -liara t’soni cameos -SAM, i love that ai i hope he knows that. he’s a very different character than edi and i really like that? i like the relationship he has with ryder it’s a lot different than shepard’s relationship with legion and with edi -the little easter eggs scattered around, like hunting dr. okeer’s research and finding zaeed’s son -the main story missions really felt like mass effect, and there’s some great choices you have to make that i hope will have actual effects later in the series -STUNNING scenery, holy shit -nomad banter -peebee/vetra, specifically. thank you sheryl chee for my life. -THE RYDER FAMILY WHAT THE HECK I LOVE THESE ASSHOLES -loyalty missions were a lot of fun, liam’s specifically is SO funny i love that boy -i would die for the tempest’s crew THE CONS: -too big. way, way, WAY too big. like take the hinterlands and make it into several PLANETS big. it’s exhausting and it was neat at first but by the end i just wanted it to be done, i had to resort to doing a speed run just so i wouldn’t burn myself out on the first try. if i wanted to play an open world game i’d play world of warcraft or skyrim, honestly. the open world aspect of it is dEFINITELY one of the game’s biggest weak spots, and i’m def gonna save my completionist run for when some mods and patches come out so i don’t burn myself out real quickly. i still haven’t recovered from my dai completionist run and that was a year ago. -the loyalty missions are fun and interesting, but except for cora’s they really didn’t seem to have much of a point other than unlocking romances. in me2 the point of the loyalty missions was that the crew would draw a line with shepard somewhere, things you said and did could lose their loyalty and if you lost their loyalty the characters could and often did die in the suicide mission. these seemed more like personal quests, they didn’t even unlock new outfits :/ -okay. listen. i understand that garrus is a fan favorite. and i love him too. but holy shit liara had a VOICE cameo and he still got the most references. that goddamn archangel paintjob? “reach and flexibility”? having his picture in the codex? his goddamn father being in a flashback? liam mentioning a scarred turian vigilante? meanwhile kaidan and ashley get nothing, lmao, Okay. like shit even shepard only got referenced ONCE like come on y’all. not even gonna mention the battle of the citadel? that was a big goddamn plot point, especially since ryder was RAISED ON THE CITADEL? you’d think that the sovereign attack would be traumatizing. -dragon age characters got references but ash and kaidan don’t.........lol.........i see you bioware.............. -what was even the point of editing shepard’s gender -if you’re gonna have references you should at least have a little reference for every major character like the game is so fucking big you could have done it without being in your face. ellen’s role with biotics? reference baat. general williams and shanxi. wrex when talking to drack’s clan urdnot friend. -i really wish they’d have at least had some major choices from me1 imported in, like “did the council survive, who was the virmire survivor, was everyone recruited, did wrex survive” etc.  -speaking off, there’s plot holes for days. i can’t get a confirmation on when in 2185 they left, but if they left before shepard woke up and they didn’t ever recruit garrus in me1 then WHY would garrus’s dad talk to alec about it. the fuck my dudes. -yeah. plot holes for days. i’m tired and a bitter OT fucker. -gil’s.......entire.............storyline............lol GOD bioware...... -having the two crime lords being the latino man and the black woman. i see you bioware. -sloane’s entire storyline god bioware........... -the remnant are literally just synthetic protheans and the kett are organic reapers -i’m tired of this trend in bioware games where they use the “SILLY MORTALS YOU CANNOT EVEN COMPREHEND OUR ACTIONS, THEY ARE BEYOND YOUR UNDERSTANDING” like with the reapers it was cool, corypheus was a disaster and quite frankly so was the kett but whatever. -activating the monoliths and having to do sudoku. why.  -not prioritizing quests properly. you could miss one of the biggest twists in the game bc you don’t finish that fetch quest to get all the memory triggers, and that twist was the main one that i actually wanted to see (shepard and the reapers and liara’s SOS) -PEEBEE’S SEX SCENE GOD. TOO MUCH. BIOWARE. -JAAL WITH HIS VAGINA HEAD GOING DOWN ON SARA RYDER. FUCK.

that’s all i can think of atm but my main issue with the game is that bioware doesn’t seem to know how to prioritize quests, it’s SO BIG, and they treat their mlm like garbage. also racist tropes ahoy.

i’m really excited to see where they take the franchise tho! definitely got some solid future plot points with whatever the fuck the remnant were, whatever the kett are after (ugh...), discovering what happened in the milky way, who killed jien garson, who is the benefactor (my money is illusive man and tann’s power hungry froggy ass had her killed and it was unrelated just coincidental), ellen ryder’s recovery, the quarian ark, etc.

i hope they keep the same squad for the next game! continue the romances as well as add in new ones, maybe add a couple of new squaddies. i like having the same characters overlap in different games, it makes you actually care about them. add in scott/sara as a squaddie! LESBIAN/GAY SQUADDIES. keep ryder as the protag or so help me god..........

it really, really makes me miss the original trilogy tho. and playing it knowing there’s a bunch of ppl who wont ever touch it but will play andromeda hurts me deeply.

[stuckinthekookiejar]

Goodbye Kisses pt 2

Pt. 1 || Pt. 2 || Pt. 3 || Pt. 3.5 || Pt. 4 || Pt. 5 || Pt. 6 || Pt. 7 (final)

Jin x Reader

Genre: Angst/Fluff (more fluff)

Summary: You woke up and Jin never wanted to let you go ever again. Your confidence in him skyrocketed and you thought nothing could ever make you doubt him again...

Word Count: 1866

The sun rose, it’s light penetrating through the glass of the windows. The blinds were of no help in shielding you from the rays. You awoke in Jin’s arms which currently felt like they were going to suffocate you,

“Jin...Jinnie...yah...wake up...” You poked at his stomach hoping he would let you go from his rather tight embrace, “Jinnie...wake...up!” One harsh poke to his abdomen must’ve worked because he literally jumped in surprise, almost falling off the hospital bed. 

He sat up, his breathing was quick and heavy from the rush of adrenaline and looked around like he was confused. Then he looked back at you who also was sitting up at this point,

“J-Jagi? Jagi-ah...is...is that really you?” 

“Yes, Jin. It’s really me...” You were taken aback when Jin’s body suddenly collides with yours in a desperate hug. You wrapped your arms around him, rubbing his back as he cried in your arms. This was about the fifth time Jin had broken down ever since you woke up from your coma, and that was only yesterday. 

When you had woken up, the doctor was rather perplexed by your sudden improvement, so he advised that you stay in the hospital for another week in order to run some tests. The doctor wanted to make sure everything was okay before you were discharged. 

You weren’t so sure if Jin processed the fact that you were alive, awake, out of danger. Jin wasn’t so sure either. Ever since you had woken up, he wouldn’t stop stroking your hand, caressing your face or even look away from you. He thought that he was dreaming or that this was too good to be true. He kept on hugging you from the moment you woke up because he promised that he wasn’t going to ever let you go again. 

Now here he was again, hugging you as if you would fade away at any moment,

“Shh, I’m here Jinnie...I’m here...” Your hand came up to stroke his brown locks. 

“Y-you know....you know I love you, Y/N? I really, really love you, so much. Don’t ever, even for a second, think that I don’t...” Your eyes widen as you realize that he knew that you had doubted him. Jungkook must’ve scolded him, you thought. 

“I know Jinnie...I know, I’m sorry I doubted you...I love you too.” You cried in each other’s arms, comforting each other, building your bond, strengthening it. You thought now that he was here, crying over you, hugging you, loving you, there would be nothing in this world that could ever make you doubt him again.

For the next couple of days, Jin barely left your side. He got you the food you asked for, rented the movies you missed while you were in your coma, and sang to you whenever you asked. He was a complete sweetheart. It wasn’t like he wasn’t one before you got into your accident, but it seemed like he was trying extra hard to be sweet to you after the incident. Jin just wanted to make sure that you felt his love. 

Jin was laying with you in the small hospital bed watching a movie when suddenly the door swung open violently, “Noona!” A crying Taehyung, along with the rest of the boys, came in. Taehyung ran to you, almost knocking you backward over Jin as he embraced you, “Noona! We were so worried!” This was the first time you’d seen the boys since you woke up.

You giggled as you patted Taehyung on the shoulder, “Aw, I’m sorry that I worried you guys.” 

Taehyung backed away and held your face with his hands and squished it, “Are you okay, noona? Are you really okay?” 

“Tae,” Yoongi interjected, “You’re going to break her face at this rate.” Taehyung gasped, and immediately let go of your face.

“I’m fine, Taehyung-ah. Really, I am.” 

Hoseok held a box in his hand, “Oh, we brought some fried chicken. The one from the place you like, noona.” You clapped in excitement. You had completely forgotten about your favorite fried chicken, and your mouth was watering at the mention of it. 

Everyone pulled up a chair and surrounded your bed which served as a makeshift table. You and the boys happily grabbed at the crispy pieces of tender meat and munched on them. Occasionally, Jin would grab a piece, debone it, and feed it to you. You were a little surprised since Jin never really did that when you were in public or with the boys. He was always shy to show anything towards you in public, so a simple act of feeding you felt really foreign. 

The boys took notice of Jin’s change in practice, especially Hoseok, “Waaah, Jinnie-hyung! Why’re you being so loving all of a sudden, hmmm?” He smirked as his eyebrows bounced on his forehead. 

Before, Jin and you would just awkwardly accept Hoseok’s teasing, so it came as a surprise when Jin flung his arm around your shoulder bringing you closer to him, “Why? I can’t show my jagi that I love her?” His face came closer to yours and he pecked you on the cheek. The boys cringed as they made various incomprehensible noises. 

You were utterly flustered. Jin had never ever acted this way before in front of anyone. You were surprised, but at the same time, you were happy. You thought, maybe I should have gotten into an accident sooner. 

After a while, all the chicken had been successfully transferred from the box to all eight of your stomachs. It was starting to get late, and visiting hours were almost over, so the boys got ready to pack their stuff and leave. However, Jin looked as if he wasn’t going anywhere. He had slept in your room ever since you woke up, and you knew he hadn’t gotten a good night’s rest sleeping on that uncomfortable couch.

“Jinnie, why don’t you go back to the dorms tonight?” 

“But jagi...”

“No! No ‘buts’. I’ve seen how you’ve been getting back pain from sleeping on that tiny couch, and it is not healthy for you. Especially with the kind of job you have, you need to be healthy. I am totally fine now. I think I can manage to sleep by myself. Now go back to the dorms...or else.” Jin pouted but accepted your suggestion. He never defied you whenever you added “or else” at the end of your statement. 

The boys leave and finally, you think that you could get some alone time. You loved Jin, but you also needed your fair share of solitude from time to time. But suddenly, the opening of the door disturbs your two seconds of peace. 

“Oh...Jungkook? Did you forget something?” Jungkook was silent as he took long strides over to you. You were confused when he came and wrapped his arms around you,

“Noona, I’m glad you’re okay.” He let go of you and left just as quickly as he had entered the room. 

You thought that he was particularly quiet today, and you realize that he was because you must have caused him so much worry. You didn’t tell anyone, especially to Taehyung, that Jungkook was your favorite dongsaeng. He always came to you whenever he wanted to get something off his chest, and you gladly lent him your ear. He entrusted you with his inner feelings that not even the members knew about. Seeing him worried like this made you guilty, but you were happy that he cared for you just as you cared for him.

You couldn’t sleep. Your throat felt so dry that it was practically pleading for a drink of water. On the side of the bed, you pushed the “call” button and after a short moment a nurse came in,

“Hello, my name is Yoo-Bin. You called for a nurse?” 

“Ah, yes. Sorry, but do you mind getting me a glass of water?” 

“Oh, of course! I’ll be right back.” She disappeared for a few minutes before she came back in and handed you a bottle of water,

“You know, the nurses and doctors were pleased to hear that you woke up.” 

“Really?”

“Yeah! We thought you were never going to wake up...I felt bad for that boyfriend of yours.” She came closer to you and whispered, “Don’t tell anybody, but I saw him in your room late at night once, after visiting hours. You’re lucky to have a guy willing to sneak into a hospital to see you...I wish I had a boyfriend like that...” 

Jin? Sneak into a hospital in the middle of the night? Jin? The same Jin who’s scared of being a foot away from a grasshopper? 

“Oh...my boyfriend did? I’m so sorry if he broke the rules...”

Yoo-Bin giggles, “Oh no, don’t worry. I didn’t tell anyone about it. I thought that he was just so sweet that he came to see you and took the effort to sneak in and...oops...I’m sorry....you probably wanted to go back to sleep...”

“No, no! It’s okay. I like talking to people, plus I can’t really sleep right now. I wouldn’t mind the company if you aren’t busy, Yoo Bin-ssi.” 

“Oh please, call me Yoo Bin.” 

The two of you clicked instantly. Your interests were similar, your hobbies were similar, even your personal tastes were similar. It was like your friendship was meant to be. The both of you talked as if you’ve known each other for years, and you found it comforting to speak to someone other than the boys for once. The boys were nice to talk to, but sometimes you wished you had time for some “girl” talk. 

After what felt like hours, Yoo Bin leaves you to get some needed rest. You thought that she was a very nice and you were glad to have befriended her, but something about her looked...familiar.

The next morning Jin came by super early just as visiting hours began. 

“Jinnie! You’re here rather early, don’t you have to get to the studio?” He greeted you with a hug,

“I’m sure Namjoon would understand if I’m a little late to practice. I just wanted to come and check if you were doing okay.”

“Jin, I’m not some sick child you know.”

“No, but you’re my sick jagi.” You cringed, but you also thought that it was cute.

“Hey, Jin? When I was in a coma...did you ever visit me...like super late? Like you ‘snuck in after hours’ late?”

Jin shook his head, “Um, I don’t think so. The only time I could come around was during our lunch breaks in the middle of the day. And me? Sneak in? You’re funny jagi-ah, I trip over my own two feet. How am I supposed to successfully sneak in without getting caught?” 

It was true, you knew Jin wouldn’t be capable of sneaking in late at night...then who...

“Ms. Y/L/N, I’m here to just check on your blood pressure.” Yoo Bin walked in with a sphygmomanometer in her hand.

“Oh, Yoo Bin! I thought you were a night shift nurse?” 

“Yeah, well my shift doesn’t end until...” Her smile faded into a look of surprise as she noticed your boyfriend, “Jin?”

Gif not mine, credit to owner

[ultimatestudyabroad]

This Sucks

Note – I wrote this in November and December, when I was at a particularly low point in my job searching despair (there have been several, including now). I didn’t publish it at the time because I felt it wouldn’t be good to have this in the public domain while I was still looking for a job, but since coronavirus has paused all job searches and it seems I will never again have gainful employment, I figure, what the hell? Maybe it will be cathartic to get my frustration out into the universe.

My happiness from a year ago feels like a dream. Facebook reminds me that a year ago I was on a mini-holiday in Port Douglas with friends, marking essays for the class I was teaching in between snorkeling sessions and gin and tonics. My day-to-day life was luxuriously full of reading and writing; my weekends full of concerts and shows, trips to the beach, and dinners with friends. And though my financial subsistence was meagre, I had regular income and I had established a budget that allowed me to live without worrying about money all that often. And above all, I felt like the best, happiest version of myself. This was a life I had intentionally built for myself through meticulous planning and more than a bit of luck. It was everything I had ever hoped it would be.

That luck has run out. From the beginning, I knew that my life in Australia was but temporary and, if you read this blog regularly, you know that I was very concerned with whether, upon return to the U.S., I’d be able to build a better life there than I had had before Australia. Certainly not as happy as I was in Sydney, but hopefully happier than before I left. Instead, I have no life. Four-and-a-half months since I’ve returned to the U.S. (now 11 months) and a full nine months since my first administrative job application was submitted (now 15), I still have no job and no immediate job prospects. Applications are out, sure, but the hiring process in higher ed usually takes months (and now it is non-existent because of coronavirus). The money I so carefully saved throughout my time in Sydney for this period of transition is gone. I’m still relying on the kindness of friends and family to house me and Hibby. I have no job, I have no steady income, I have no home, I have no future, and I have absolutely no idea when (or if) it will ever end.

Now, before people start thinking to themselves, “the academic job market is brutal” or “it took me years to get an academic job,” I want to be clear that I am not searching for an academic job. I made an attempt at the academic job market in the (northern hemisphere) fall of 2018, applying for about 15 postdocs, short-term though multi-year teaching gigs, and tenure-track positions. My expectations were low, so I was not really surprised when absolutely nothing came of these.

So, when February 2019 rolled around and the thesis due date drew near, I turned my attention to what had been my realistic plan all along: re-enter my former career in higher ed administration. Given my decade-plus experience in the field and wealth of contacts, I didn’t think this would be too terribly difficult. I knew that job searches in higher ed take forever and I had saved accordingly. I also knew that mid-level jobs (in between entry-level and assistant vice provost level) are harder to come by, but I was/am willing to be flexible geographically. (For crying out loud, I applied to two jobs at the University of Wisconsin! I would freeze my ass off there!) But, I never in my wildest dreams imagined it would possibly take this long.

It’s not that I’m directionless, a young professional trying to find her niche; I know exactly what my field is. It’s not that I’m being too choosy; I’ve applied for 60 admin jobs. It’s not that I’m choosing inappropriate jobs for my experience; I’ve had phone interviews for over a third of the jobs I’ve applied for. I’ve been a finalist for two jobs (neither one of which I got, obviously). My application materials are good. I’ve been to this rodeo a number of times before; I know how to do this. Still nothing…

I have friends who try to offer explanations and, while I know and appreciate that they’re trying to be supportive, their explanations don’t help because they, much like the process itself, are nonsensical and contradictory. I’ve been told, “it’s all in who you know.” Well, again, I fucking know everyone at Duke and, after nine applications there, I’ve only had two phone interviews! I’ve been told, “you have to leave Duke and come back to work your way up.” Silly me, I thought moving to the other side of the planet for 3.5 years was leaving Duke. I’ve been told that my PhD is holding me back, never mind the fact that many of the jobs I’ve applied for are PhD-preferred or -required. And never mind the fact that a big part of the reason I decided to do the PhD in the first place (even though I had my eyes wide open about the state of the academic job market) was because I was told again and again that I would need a PhD to advance much past my former position. In fact, my former position was PhD-preferred. I was the only one on the team without a PhD and I had to endure all sorts of snide comments about “non-intellectuals” (to be clear, not from my colleagues but from higher administrators and faculty). Since I wanted to do the PhD anyway, just for myself, I decided to go for it. Not having the PhD held me back, but apparently having it also holds me back?

Well, you see, one helpful explanation goes, I chose to do an academic PhD, in a discipline as opposed to an EdD or PhD in higher ed. What the fuck? First, I sat on several hiring committees in my last job in which people with higher ed degrees were sneered at. Secondly, I chose a discipline because that’s the subject that interested me enough to devote three years of my life to it. I love working with undergraduates, but I don’t want to study the little bastards! Oh, but don’t you see, since you have an academic PhD, hiring managers will assume you’re not serious about the role and will leave as soon as you get an academic job. FFFUUUUUUCCKKK MMMMEEEEE! That’s not going to happen! There aren’t any academic jobs!

As much as I want to dismiss this no-win point of view on the PhD, I know that, at least at times, it’s completely true. People in administration seem completely oblivious to the casualization crisis in academia. This blows my mind, since we all work in the same damn industry. Even so, I’m prepared for the “why did you do a PhD” question and have my polished (and completely honest!) answer prepared. And that was the verbal answer I gave to one particularly annoying iteration of that question, but my mental response was quite a bit different. The question was posed along the lines of, “I see you just got a PhD. I want to make sure you understand that this is not a teaching job.” The polished answer came out of my mouth while the snarky, bitchy, fed-up Mel voice in the back of my mind responded, “Yes, I know that. Because 1. I can fucking read. 2. I wrote a whole cover letter which demonstrated I knew exactly what the job is. And 3. There are no teaching jobs!”

I feel frustrated even when talking to people who support me. The frustration brought on by hiring managers is exponentially worse. If you follow me on Twitter, you’ve seen a number of frustrated tweets about the lack of follow up after interviews. Of that one-third of the jobs I’ve applied for in which I’ve had phone interviews, only THREE hiring managers have done me the courtesy of emailing me to let me know I was not advancing to an in-person interview. One school didn’t send me my generic rejection email until eight months after my phone interview. Two places I had phone interviews (both in 2019) still haven’t contacted me at all. Now, reader, don’t give me any bullshit about the number of applications received for the average job or how busy everyone is. I’m not complaining about the mass rejection email from HR I get for jobs I don’t get an interview for. I’m talking about a hiring committee doing 6-7 phone interviews and inviting three of those people to campus for an in-person interview while never bothering to send 3-4 emails to the other interviewees! It does not take much time to send 3-4 identical emails that say, “Thank you for speaking with us last week about the position. Unfortunately, you were not selected for an in-person interview, but we wish you the best of luck in your search.” See? I just did it! That took like 30 seconds! By November, I was over this shit. Two weeks after a phone interview, I sent a polite email asking for a status update. Which was completely ignored! On what planet is that acceptable?

Here’s another little lesson in human decency for hiring managers: don’t call people’s references unless you plan to offer them the job. Because when someone’s references are contacted, they assume they’re about to get a job offer. Those two jobs I was a finalist for? They were at the same school and they contacted my references twice. Same people, 1.5 months apart! If you feel so compelled to call references on multiple people, be transparent. Send an email to the candidates saying , “FYI - we’re checking references on both of our finalists.” (And btw, where are you getting all this time to make all these phone calls, anyway? I thought you didn’t have time to send 3-4 emails to the rejected phone interview candidates!)

Piled on top of my frustration, despair, rapidly eroding self-esteem, and bank account anxiety is guilt. Guilt over being annoyed with my friends who are incapable of cheering me up in the face of a hopeless situation. Guilt over assuring undergrads in my temp advising job that they will be able to find jobs after they graduate (I know it’s my job to calm them down, but seriously, how hypocritical can I possibly be?!). Guilt over that panel on non-academic jobs I organized at the 2018 AHA. The one where I told everyone that administration jobs are rewarding and realistic. Ha! If I, with all my experience, can’t find a job, can a newly minted PhD in his/her mid-late 20s who went straight from undergrad to grad school really expect to find one? Without being dismissed as only wanting an academic job? I apologize to all the folks at that panel. Your post-grad rep (unwittingly) lied to you!

I am obviously in a very dark place right now. That’s not to say I regret doing my PhD. Not at all. Not for a moment. This was the best three years of my life. I’m proud of the research I did. I am an infinitely better person than I was four years ago. But someone just needs to give me a fucking job.

[samuelfields]

Be Rich, Not Famous: The Joy Of Being A Nobody

When I first started Financial Samurai, I was proud of finally creating something. For too long, I had just followed orders. Yet, I couldn’t tell anybody about my hobby because I was still employed. I was afraid if my employer found out, they’d tell me to shut it down or at the very least, dock my bonus for being unfocused. After all, the site was started in the middle of the financial crisis and they were always looking for reasons to cut costs.

When I finally engineered my layoff three years later in 2012, I still felt it was unwise to tell anybody about my site even though I was internally beaming with pride about the site’s growth. I felt like a new parent who wanted to annoy the crap out of all his friends by cooing about every milestone their child hit.

But because I had five years of deferred compensation on the line, even if there was just a 1% chance my old employer would withhold payment, I didn’t want to risk losing six years of living expenses. And so, I kept my mouth largely shut until I had a decision to make on 4/21/2017, when my last severance-related payment hit my bank account.

In a way, the five-year time period when I was collecting my deferred compensation was like a mental jail. Like Andy Dufresne in The Shawshank Redemption reaching for the stars as rain spatters his face, full emancipation only came years after leaving Corporate America.

With nothing holding me back in 2017, it would seem like finally, I could brag to everyone that I had created a website large enough to support a family in San Francisco. With some publicity would come growth. But alas, I felt it was much better to keep a low profile.

For those of you who are thirsty for attention, let me share some thoughts about being a nobody for so long and why it may be in your best interest to do the same. 

The Joy Of Being A Nobody

1) You focus on what truly matters. Whenever you create something you’re proud of, there’s a natural tendency to want to tell everybody about your success. Look at me. I am so great! The more you share, the more addicted you become to the attention and the less you focus on the work that made you proud in the first place.

There are people who are trapped in a cyclone of self-validation, e.g., constantly posting selfies of a new look on Twitter, showing off a new car on Facebook, or writing about yet another fabulous vacation on Instagram. Think about it. If your self-esteem is strong, why do you need to tell anybody about anything you do?

We all need some sort of attention or validation. I get it. But moderation is the word. Don’t let such need to be recognized get out of control.

Not being able to publicly disclose I ran Financial Samurai for eight years made me focus on the only thing that mattered to its growth: writing regular content. I couldn’t leverage my network of entrepreneurs and financially savvy folks. I couldn’t leverage my resume. I couldn’t leverage my Asian heritage. Nor could I leverage my fabulous good looks to get on TV (ok, not really).

The only way I could grow was to compete on quality of content. Could I tell an interesting enough story that kept people engaged? Could I write valuable enough content where people could learn and grow their wealth and happiness? Could I write a post so polarizing that it would turn off a bunch of readers, but attract a bunch more because they saw the reality in what I was saying?

These were the challenges that I focused on every single week for years. And due to the focus, this site grew.

2) You become impervious to insults. After you’ve been called a loser, an idiot, a dumb ass, arrogant, out of touch, shameful, a dickhead, a chink, and the many other epithets, your mind turns bulletproof. After all, when you’re already a nobody, nothing can be any lower.

And because I’m a nobody, even the smallest words of kindness are meaningful. Today, I get more joy from a nice response to my private newsletter than I would if I was a public personality being lauded with praise all the time. I also developed the ability to ignore or instantly forget anybody who shows hate. It’s like having the super power of selective amnesia.

Developing a thick skin can really help the relationships that matter most to you. For example, let’s say your husband or wife comes home from work extremely grumpy one day. If you’ve been able to develop a thick skin, you’ll more easily brush off his or her boorishness as a temporary phase.

What’s also interesting is that while insults no longer hurt as much, they still very much act as motivators to keep on going. I often use negative feedback to create new posts, thereby buttressing the survival of Financial Samurai, which in turn allows my family to continue living free.

3) You can live your life in peace. Being famous is a curse. Yet, for some reason, kids seem to have an insatiable desire for worldwide attention. What the hell happened? Is it due to social media or bad parenting or both?

When you’re famous, many people want something from you, mostly your time. And given time is more valuable than money, being known robs you of your most precious asset. Thank goodness I’m not famous. However, FS has grown large enough to where I get emails every single day asking for help without the person ever attempting to build a relationship first. If this scale of inquiry frequency were to transfer into the real world, I probably wouldn’t be able to step out of the house.

For example, one day my friend blew me up while we were soaking in a hot tub after tennis at a club. He asked me, “How is Financial Samurai doing?” in front of five other fellow soakers, and one of them perked up and began asking me at least 10 questions ranging from whether she should buy property to whether she should go back to grad school. She had been a reader of Financial Samurai for three years.

Of course I had to be nice and answer her questions. I’m always honored to meet a long-time reader. But after 2+ hours of grueling tennis, all I wanted to do was soak in the hot tub, drink a beer, and relax.

Now imagine if you were actually famous, and didn’t just have some small-time website. You would never be able to do anything in public in peace. Every single move you make would be questioned. Your words will be twisted to fit an agenda. You’d never be able to be yourself.

4) There are no expectations of you. When you’re a nobody, nobody expects you to do anything or do anything special. Therefore, you can regularly surpass expectations.

As a 5.0 rated tennis player, I’m supposed to readily beat 4.5 rated tennis players. If I do, nobody cares. But if I lose, as I’ve done before, it’s a disaster. I’d much rather be a 3.5 tennis player and beat up on 4.0s, 4.5s, and 5.0s instead. This is why there are so many sandbaggers in any competitive activity.

Think about all the celebrities out there who are expected to always look good in public. What a drag! Most of the time, normal people just want to put on some comfortable clothes after washing their faces, and go for a leisurely walk without anybody taking their picture.

What about if you are a Harvard alumni? You are expected to do great things because you were so great in high school. But the sad reality is, a significant majority of Harvard alumni end up doing the same thing everybody else does in society. What a let down.

It’s no fun having the weight of the world on your shoulders. Life is so much better when you can surprise on the upside and be judged based on what you do.

5) You allow your children to be their own people. I feel sorry for the children of celebrities who find themselves in the limelight because of parental transgressions. Children shouldn’t have to suffer due to the sins of their parents. Nor should children be forced to feel the pressure of matching their parent’s success.

If you’re always posting pictures of your kids who aren’t old enough to consent to public exposure, consider slowing down. You’re exposing them to public scrutiny which they haven’t asked for. Please don’t exploit your children to further your ego or business interests.

Protect them until they are old enough to make rational decisions for themselves.

Be Rich, Not Famous

All this desire for fame and prestige is truly a waste of time. Get your 15 minutes of fame to satisfy your curiosity. Maybe get 30 minutes just to be sure.

Unless you’re a completely insecure person, you’ll realize the attention you seek is really just a band-aid for some deeper problem that needs fixing.

Work on accumulating enough passive income so you never have to listen to anybody again. Accumulate at least 20X your annual expenses in liquid net worth so you can start feeling the joy of financial freedom. The only things that matter are your friends, your family, and your freedom.

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Related:

The Rise Of Stealth Wealth: Ways To Stay Invisible From Society’s Rage

The Stealth Wealth Compendium Of Useful Phrases To Protect Your Freedom

Are You Smart Enough To Act Dumb Enough To Get Ahead

Readers, why do you think people seek so much attention nowadays? Why do people pick fights with others and say stupid things over social media if they still depend on a job to survive? If you want to be famous beyond your circle of people that matter, please explain why. What are some of the positives of being famous over being a nobody?

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