#I'm stuck in a bear trap and I keep chewing my leg off

[clonerightsagenda]

*crawls out of the Teams meeting covered in blood* I'm the HOA president now

[chocoholicannanymous]

Limited (Glee) Gravitation 'verse pt 3

This is a follow-up to "Close My Eyes and Leap" and "Take a Message Back from Me" taking place a couple of weeks after those two.

“Did Blaine get hold of you yesterday?” Kurt froze up a bit, because first of all, his ex wasn't exactly Kurt's favorite topic on conversation, and second, that tone of voice from Rachel? Rarely meant anything good for him.

“No, I haven't spoken to him since he called and whined about me not coming to the wedding.”

Thankfully, because Kurt might have agreed in a weak moment to keep communications up, but talking with his ex – or being talked at, more often – wasn't something Kurt enjoyed that much. In fact, he'd been pulling back as much as he could while still coming off as friendly. (The last thing Kurt wanted to do was encourage Blaine's barely hidden delusions about getting back together.)

Of course, if Blaine was going to try and get around that by having Rachel play messenger – and if Rachel was stupid enough to let him – well. Maybe it was time to stop playing friendly too.

“Why, did something happen?” Please, please, let it be nothing more than the usual whining.

“Not exactly, but he's thinking about coming up the weekend after next to look at his apartment – you know, get a feel for the place, get his bearings. So I thought we should get a couple of people from NYADA together, go for dinner, take him to Callbacks, you know. Make sure he feels welcome – that he knows he won't be lonely and left out in the fall.”

Like I did went unsaid, but Kurt still knew that that was what Rachel meant. He scowled, not liking the assumption that of course Blaine would be there in the fall, that of course he'd get accepted to NYADA without issue. (Unlike Kurt, which also was unsaid but loud and clear.)

And okay, maybe he was being petty, but spending an evening making nice with Blaine, making sure he got a nice, smooth transition to New York – taking advantage of the hard work Kurt and Rachel had put in – was not exactly on the list of Kurt's favorite things to do. (Or any of Kurt's lits, to be honest.) He preferred spending his rare weekends off with Adam, in private, doing more exciting things than going to Callbacks.

Only that was obviously not going to be an option – Rachel Berry wasn't one to accept “no” after all.

“Okay, I guess we could do that. Not sure how much time I'll have to see Blaine though, between school and work and vogue, but I know I have that Saturday free. I'll make sure to keep it that way.” And ask a few of the Apples to come along, to make sure he'd have some sane people to talk to. Rachel was his friend, yes, but the crowd she ran with at NYADA made Kurt's skin crawl. Being stuck having only them and Blaine to talk to for an entire evening?

No thanks. The mental images accompanying that reminded Kurt of a trapped animal trying to chew its leg off.

He'd ask Adam to come as well, of course, but... Well. The Brit worked as hard as Kurt, but he also had every reason not to want to spend an evening with not only Rachel and her “friends” but Kurt's ex as well.

“...so Sophie from my voice class is letting us borrow a cot, and I thought we could put it in your part of the loft, keep him and Santana from killing each other.” Wait, what?

“What? Rachel, don't tell me you told Blaine he could stay here!”

“No, I didn't.” Thank god. “I wanted to make sure I could get an extra bed first.”

Oh, hell no.

“I'm sorry you went through that effort for nothing, Rachel, but Blaine is not staying here.”

“What? You can't forbid me to have friends stay here, Kurt! This is my home as well!”

“Yeah, it is. And that's why I haven't had Finn come stay here like, half a dozen times already. Because it is your home as well as mine, and I thought having your ex-fiancé staying here would make you feel uncomfortable. Now, if I'm wrong about that, then great, I'll let Finn know he can come visit any time.

“But that doesn't change anything about this situation. Blaine can afford a hotel for the weekend, you know he can, and so there's no reason for me to suffer. That's it.

“Or well, I guess you can insist on having Blaine stay here, but then you will be paying for me to stay elsewhere. And just so you know, that won't get you out of hauling that cot all over town, because there's no way he's sleeping in my bed. Also, you're responsible for keeping him away from my belongings – he doesn't touch a single thing.”

“But Kurt...”

Rachel was pulling out all the stops, making herself look as much as a kicked puppy as she could. Normally that'd make him fold – had, too many times to count – but not this time. Not when it came to this.

“No. I realize that's not a word you're that familiar with, but I don't care. I am not comfortable with having my cheating ex-boyfriend staying in my home, and if you really are my friend then you need to respect that. So, what's it going to be? Me or Blaine?”

Rachel backed down a lot quicker than Kurt had expected after that, though maybe she picked up on the fact that he really was serious when it came to his ultimatum. She didn't back down gracefully however, and it was obvious things would be tense at the loft for a while as a result.

And that was... Well, Kurt was used to it, after all. Rachel made things difficult more often than he cared to think about, for reasons both serious and silly, and for the most part Kurt had learned to navigate around it.

He was not, however, willing to navigate around Blaine. Not any longer.

For years Kurt had given in to whatever Rachel, and Blaine, wanted from him. There had been no limits for what he'd allowed them to get away with. Things were different now though. For the first time in his life Kurt had developed limits, some hard ones even, regarding not only what he'd do for others but also what he would allow them to do to him.

Adam had helped him do that – as had Blaine too in a way, seeing as he was the cause for more than one of Kurt's new hard limits.

In the end though it didn't come down to Blaine, or to Adam for that matter. It came down to Kurt, and what was best for him. And for the time being? That was living with limits.

~The End ~

[heresathreebee]

The One Where She Got A Dog

Yelena Belova X Reader

Summary: how Yelena became a dog mom Masterlist Part 2

Tags: E | 1.8k words | scary movie, winter, secret pasts, sapphic

AN: Black Widow movie really got me in my feelings about those characters, Yelena in particular. I havent watched The Thing in almost a year please look the other way if movie events are out of order.

Pretty Russian girls are not usually your type, but fuck if you weren't absolutely obsessed with this one. You laughed when she told you she was from Ohio.  She laughed when you said you were too. 

Aquavit and your grandma's biscuit recipe brought her into your cabin on the edge of the world where she admitted to you she had never seen John Carpenter's The Thing before. You turned it on just as the snow storm set in and wrapped up in your thickest blankets with her. You're trying not to get your hopes too high but she's not shy about asking you to scoot closer. 

"Skäl," you cheer just as the ominous opening credits end and they find the mysterious ship in the frozen wasteland of antarctica. 

"Have you ever been?," Yelena asked. 

You grimace at the strong taste of aquavit. It's like vodka but with caraway for 'flavor'. You look at her from the side and poor yourself a second shot. "Been…?" 

"There." She points at the screen. 

"I have actually," you admit in a way you hope is flat and uninteresting, "have you?" 

Yelena shook her head. It's possible she might think you're being sarcastic (you cross your fingers under the blanket and hope she does). She's smiling at you, thinking something (but still watching the screen with interest). 

She drops the subject until you have to pause the movie to pee. You unwrap yourself from the cocoon of blankets and as you stand she asks you another question. 

"What were you doing there? in Antarctica, I mean." 

You sigh and pretend to brush something off of your pants. "Science trip with my parents. Shitty vacation for me I'd rather be in the Bahamas." 

You resist the urge to look at her. After taking care of business, you come back just in time to put the biscuits in the oven. You hear Yelena lean into the kitchen archway as the floors creak immensely here. 

"No timer?," she asked. 

"No timer," you confirm. "I use the timer of my heart." 

Yelena scoffs. "Please don't burn them, I'm curious about these… what are they– pastries?" 

"Something like that." 

The two of you went back to the movie just as the gang on screen is trying to decipher who is human and who is not. You feel like something between you has changed and sadly not for the better. 

But she can't know. 

"I hate this part," you say, making absolutely no move to avert your gaze. 

Yelena is startled when the doctor's arms become trapped in the bear trap belly mouth of the "man" on the table. She quickly covers her eyes and giggles manically, slapping your chest for the vague and unhelpful warning. You realize she's not as close to you as before…

There's 20 minutes left of this movie and you haven't seen a single thing on screen. Yelena stopped asking you questions when you stopped being coherent with your answers. All you can think about is telling her. 

But you can't tell her. She would never understand. You barely understand and it's about you. 

"I lied." Your heart beats in your throat as you see her face you but you can't look at her directly for fear of losing your nerve. "About the science expedition? That's not why I was in Antarctica…" 

Yelena seems to wait for you to continue but… 

"Eh, no offense but, " you gesture with your hand, "I don't really know you like that." 

Yelena gave your reply a single nod. "I suppose that's fair." 

You can't help but fidget in your seat. "Idliketo" 

"What was that?" 

You cleared your throat. "I said… I said I'd like to. Know you like that, I mean…" 

Yelena gives you a smile. "I would like to know you like that, too." 

The movie ends, the biscuits are not burnt but buttery soft and golden brown, and the blizzard outside has subsided some. It's still going but at least it's not buffering the doors and windows like before. 

"How can you watch that film in a place like this?" Yelena cannot get enough of those biscuits, stuffing them in her mouth 2 at a time. "Does it make you paranoid?" 

"Yes it does," you say, putting your coat on, "I think that's what makes it so much scarier–  looking outside and being scared every person you come across ain't who they say they are. Sometimes its not a bad thing though... I think it is rather… poetic, too." 

Yelena's eyebrows furrow. "Where are you going?" 

You put on your boots and hope the duct tape stays on the hole you covered earlier. "Dogs are out in the shed. It's heated and they have food, but not for days and I'd rather have 'em in the house where I can take care of them." 

As you finished your sentence you reached for the door,  but stopped when you noticed Yelena getting dressed too. She gives you a nod as soon as her hood comes up, and you give this brave thing an appreciative once over. 

The snow that nearly all melted before is up to your knees now. Fresh, white, and fluffy. It muffles sound like the world's sidelong turning. The odd snowflake wafts lazily from the sky, but for the most part it's died down. You teach back and take Yelena's gloved hand to keep from staying too far apart. 

"You know I always wanted a dog," she said. She could have said it in a whisper from 100 yards away and you still would have heard her–  that is how eerily quiet it is. 

Yelena squeezes your hand and you squeeze back. She's probably remembering the movie. You try to distract her by saying, "Oh yeah? You can have one of mine then." 

Yelena laughs, then stops. "You serious?" 

"As a heart attack." You finally reach the door to the shed and unlatch the door. A chorus of barks begin and you charge forward to nudge them back to give Yelena space to come in as well. "I do some breeding up here–  just a side job. They're usually working dogs but they can be pets too." 

Buck licks your face from chin to forehead and you push him back. "Down, boy! Show some respect!" 

Yelena has two of the mongrels circling her, sniffing all her clothes and demanding to be pet. "That's Burt, Barney, and Bella. Buck's my stud, but these heathens are going to a farm. They've got sheep to watch." 

Yelena chuckles as her hands get covered in slobber. "I love them." 

They're almost grown, three quarters the height of their father. Buck didn't even look in Yelena's direction because he knows you give him treats. You take your scarf off as the heat of the shed threatens to smother you and search your pockets for jerky.  

"She's in there with the new puppies." You point to a darkened closet. "Don't get too close now, she's still a little protective." 

Yelena creeps closer. You see her look at you from the corner of her eye. Probably terrified by the morphing dog scene from the movie. You give her an encouraging smile and tell her where to find the light. It's a pull cord and it bathes the room in a warm golden yellow light. 

Yelena's heavy, controlled breathing turns into a coo. Mama dog is laying on her side watching the newcomer closely. There's a pup asleep in the nest of her legs, another chewing on the hay that litters the ground, and the last one is biting their mother's ear. Yelena looks back at you with an adorable pout on her lip. 

"So cute…" 

You chuckle and put your arm around her. Buck knows to steer clear of mama dog and slinks off. You make your guest walk closer with you to show mama she's got your confidence. 

"Yelena, this is Beyonce." Mama dog's ears perk at the sound of her name. "Beyonce, this is Yelena. Be nice." 

You reach down and scoop up the hay eating puppy at your feet. "This one's always hungry." 

You put the pup in her arms and scoop up the biter. "This one likes to play. All the time. Got more energy than the blue Energizer bunny actually." 

The pup in question is literally trying to wriggle out of your hands in its eagerness to climb you and eat your hair. 

"And that one sleeps a lot?" Yelena nodded her head at the last pup. 

"Pretty much." You put the writhing excited puppy down before it hurts itself and look up into the rafters. "And then there's the climber…" 

You both turn your heads when you hear a tiny bark. A cute little face stares down at you from the rafters and there's a feather stuck to its nose. You shake your head knowing this pup got it from ripping up pillows in another part of the dog house. 

"Better go get her," you said, not moving an inch to do so.  

Yelena sees your challenge and rises to it. As if trained to do exactly so, she assesses the wooden interior for foot and hand holds. You can see the wheels turning in her head as she calculates what will and won't support her weight. In the sweep of a single moment, she rises from the door and swings herself into the rafters using a build up a momentum to propel her fast in an upperward direction. She completes the climb and balances with ease, reaching out to collect the happy wagging miscreant from her mountain top, tucks her in her jacket and climbs a different way down. 

You stare at her. "Were you raised by trapeze artists?" 

Yelena laughs. "I thought everybody was." 

The pup is safe and happy and eager to explore its new friend. Yelena lets her lick, sniff, and scratch at her skin, her clothes, her hair. The pup catches Yelena with a tiny lick right on the tip of her nose and Yelena looks back at you with adoring eyes. 

You smile. "Got a name for her already don't you?" 

"Yes," Yelena whines, "no, are you sure about this? I should probably tell you I've never had a dog before…" 

"I can tell your good people," you reply. "And smart as a whip. You'll adapt, just call me if you ever need anything." 

~

Three weeks later you get a phone call from an unknown number. It's Yelena giving you an address and making you swear never to tell anybody about it. You don't have any friends so it's an easy secret to keep. 

You drive a few miles south and stumble upon a stationary trailer in the middle of nowhere, nothing but clearings and trees and sky. Actually very similar to your own home. 

The door opens and Yelena greets you with a beer and the pup under her arm, already almost a foot bigger than she was before. 

"Her name is Fanny." You both laugh yourselves hoarse and pile into the trailer to puppy proof the place. 

[honeysidesarchived]

WHERE THERE IS NO TEMPTATION, THERE IS NO GLORY.

⊱ a santino d'antonio / oc short-fic

pt. iii: tra i due litigante terzo gode ( read on ao3 ) ( masterlist )

words: 3.6k

warnings: mentions of animal death (canon-typical), clown on clown violence.

rating: m/t

notes: putting this little project of mine up on the internet for strangers to see was incredibly nerve-wracking, but i have been so lucky to be received so kindly by folks! thank you to everyone who reads, it really means the absolute most to me.

i don't know if i mentioned this before, but you can find translations for the (google-translated) italian at the bottom of each chapter on my ao3. i know it's a hassle, i'm sorry!! just can't find an easy place to put them here without spoiling what's going on in the chap ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ

thank you as always to my lovely beta @starcrier, my lover my life my shawty my wife; this could not be done at all without you. ♡ and to @belorage, who loves euphie enough to send me the cutest message that managed to kick my ass into gear to get this chapter edited!!

Two days after the engagement party, when Santino has finally made up for his delay and lateness, is when he ruins it all again.

Later, Euphemia will think that he can’t help it—he is destined to be a wrecker, a ruiner, even if it’s for himself. It’s not his fault, not really, she’ll say. Ignoring that he is a perfectly autonomous adult means that she can excuse his thoughtlessness and not call it selfishness.

One of Santi’s men tries to tell her that he’s busy as she strides through the museum, heels clipping the floor with a strict, stark cadence. The smell of the doctor’s office is still stuck in her palette. She feels a wad of anxiety, anticipation, coiling deep in the pit of her stomach, a black stone dropped there to torture her with its heaviness. Santino will be happy, she thinks absently, chewing the inside of her cheek as she moves. He’s always wanted this.

The man is keeping pace with her well enough, despite her long legs and the purpose with which she walks to one of the back rooms of the museum.

“Bella,” he says, reaching to stop her, “per favore, he is in a meeting.”

The words put a sour taste in her mouth. Busy, the man is trying to say, too busy for you, for this, right now.

“Trust me, Gianni,” she replies dryly, “he’ll want to make time for this.”

She takes two steps into the room past the other guards, who don’t bother trying to stop her. The room is marked primarily by a high ceiling, which allows all of the paintings to be hung in it in their varying degrees of size. Euphemia recognizes Santino sitting on the bench first, and then another man that he’s talking to. The man looks like he’s just come off of the streets, his hair dark and the scruff that she can see on the side of his face manicured enough to look like he just hasn’t bothered recently.

It takes Euphemia’s brain a few seconds to register the facial features of the man who turns to look at her over his shoulder. He would be nothing, mean nothing, to her if she didn’t see the way his expression flattened, his gaze sweeping over her—calculating. Measuring. Identifying.

He looks dirty, unshowered, covered in soot, and she thinks back to two nights ago when Santino showed up to their engagement party smelling like fire and gunpowder.

Santino stands abruptly. He might be angry, or perhaps worried; it’s hard to tell the difference with him. But she can’t look at him, anyway, her gaze fixed on the stranger who is not much of a stranger at all, who she knows because of the scary stories. The rest of the world may as well be melting down around her, some sick Van Gogh painting, and she can’t look away.

John Wick has dark eyes. Shark’s eyes, she thinks. Black, soulless. Like the glass eyes on a teddy bear. She feels her stomach lurch as fear washes over her in a slick, wet wave, reminding her that she’s already received one bout of stressful news this afternoon.

He watches her. She’s sure he’s sizing her up—that is what John Wick is made to do—but after a second, he glances to Santino, gauging his reaction. If he thinks she's any kind of a threat, he's not letting it show.

“I told you not to let anyone in,” Santi says angrily to Gianni, helpless behind her—because Gianni would have never dared to grab her arm to stop her, would have never thought it acceptable to handle her like street rabble.

“Santi,” Euphie says, feeling very small and very far away and somewhere that her body isn't, “who is that?”

She knows, but she wants to hear him say it.

He steps around the bench, excusing himself from his conversation with Wick and crossing the space between them to guide her out of the room with his hands on her arms. She lets him, not because she isn’t burning with rage but because if Santino doesn’t show her where to go, Euphemia will just stand there, fear driving icy-hot spears through her chest.

He takes her as far as around the corner of the room, maybe to put as much space between her and John Wick as he can afford, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. She starts to shrug his hands off of her, and oh, there it is—the shrieking, panging fear, and fury, boiling inside of her. Venomous, indignant. Her mind is a mess of color and noise and she’s vaguely aware that maybe she should be working hard to keep her voice down, but it no longer matters.

A lot of things shouldn’t have happened that did. What’s one more?

“You brought him here?” She can feel her voice bordering on hysteria. “Are you a fucking idiot, Santi? What part of I don’t want John Wick near my life—”

“Euphie, Euphie, Euphie,” Santi says, trying his sweet-talk; condescending, like he’s speaking to a child. “Lower your voice, tesora, and we’ll talk about it.”

Her hand moves of its own accord, a knee-jerk reaction to Santi sweetly telling her to shut up, and she slaps him. Hard. As hard as she can manage. The second her palm connects with the side of his face, and the needles start stinging in her palm, she thinks that she regrets it: but all she can really think about is the pure fear and rage coursing through her body, pummeling adrenaline through her bloodstream until she feels like she’s going to be sick.

And, a little, too, a warmth blooming in her chest: satisfaction.

Santino's head doesn't turn back to her right away. There is a heartbeat of a moment where only silence reigns, where his fingers reach and touch the place her palm had made contact with, like he can't believe she did it. Maybe he can't, but then he'd be a bigger idiot than Euphemia thought.

He turns to face her again and holds up a hand—perhaps to call for a moment of inaction, or to be prepared for a second blow, she’s not sure and she doesn’t care. Santi begins, his voice a low threat, “Do not do anything else you're going to regret, Euphemia.”

Anything else you’re going to regret, he says, as though she will regret having done this.

“Fuck you,” she snaps, her voice rising in volume further yet. The poison reverberates on the high, smooth glass ceiling, bouncing off of the marble walls until it’s all echoing around them. “He knows what I look like, what—what I sound like, he knows my name, Santi, you—”

She's pushing him, hitting his chest; an impatient and weak battering. She wants both to get him away from her as much as possible and keep him close. Santi catches her wrists with bruising force, trapping her and making her look at him.

“Euphemia, basta—if you had waited,” he bites out, “then—”

“I’m pregnant!” The words leave her in a visceral, furious shout, her heart thundering in her chest, her flight or fight demanding one or the other. She rips her wrists from his grip. It feels like her entire body is vibrating. “You fucking idiot—I was late, I just got back from the doctor, and—and you’re not supposed to have him here anyway! You promised me, Santino D’Antonio, you promised me!”

There is a heartbeat of time, of space, where her fiance stares at her like he doesn’t quite think that she’s real. Red blooms on his cheek where her hand made contact and the dark of his pupils has all but swallowed up the beautiful green of his irises. Finally, something seems to kick the gears back into motion, and he plunges on, catching his footing.

“Euphie,” Santi says, reaching for her again, “Euphie, listen to me. John came to me, I didn’t—”

“I don’t need a fucking history lesson, Santino!” Euphemia spits, brushing his hand away from her arm. Blood is rushing through her head, louder and louder, demanding she raise her own volume to be heard over it. “I told you to leave him alone. You insisted, and I thought that was the end of it—you came late to the party that night because of him, isn’t that right? So why is he here, Santi? Why is John Wick near me and my baby?”

Santino stares at her. She can see the flex of his jaw when his teeth clench, trying to maintain what shred of control he has. He swallows, lifting a finger, to indicate one minute, and it takes all of her self-control not to scream at him that he doesn’t get any more minutes. But there is some pleasure in seeing him a little ruffled; to see the way his eyes dart over her face, trying to keep everything collected neatly in his mind, filed away for premium use. She wants to shake him until he is really rattled.

“It may have taken more persuasion than I anticipated,” Santi says finally, at last.

Euphemia makes a sound something like wrecking, like grief, because she knew this was going to happen and he told her it wouldn’t but here they are anyway. It’s a death knell, ringing in her ribcage, in the cavity of her chest. Dead, dead, dead, we’re all fucking dead now, don’t you see it? You, and me, and now our baby, dead like stones.

He continues quickly, over the sound of her agony, “But that doesn’t matter—cara mia, listen to me, it doesn’t matter because now John will do what I ask him to, and we don’t have to worry about anything else. Euphie, Euphie—come here, we'll talk about this.”

She’s going to be sick. The doctor’s words are still rolling around in her head; avoid stress, make sure you sleep and eat well. Can’t be worrying that baby, can we, Miss Volpe? Make sure your fiance does all the work, hm?

“It does matter. It matters the most, Santi, I—I told you to leave him be, I told you, and you said that you would only ask and that would be it—”

She’s grieving, now, lamenting the loss of her happiness, the hysteria taking a melancholic edge in her voice as the sorrow sweeps over her. Santi keeps reaching for her, to try and ground her back to him, and for the first time since she met him she just can’t stand to feel him touching her, saying her name, trying to sweet-talk her. His hands sweep her shoulders, coming up for his thumb to brush the nape of her neck; instinctively, her shoulders scrunch up to disembark them, arms shoving his off of her.

He says, “Tesora, we can talk about this—”

“You did exactly what I asked you not to,” she manages out, taking a step back from him. “I ask you for two things, Santi. Helping my mother, and not putting yourself at war with John Wick. I do not—you should not have asked him at all!”

“Euphie—”

By the time Santino reaches for her again, she’s turning and walking away, her steps unsteady. She’s sure that she’s sweating, or crying, or maybe both or neither and her body is just kicking into overdrive with gut-wrenching sweeps of grief rocking through her body now that she’s got Baba Yaga fifteen feet from her. From her and her baby.

“Euphie!” Santino’s voice echoes down the main hall of the museum, lighter now. Almost like they never argued at all. “We’ll talk when I get home, si? Mi amore?”

Euphemia is certain she’s never heard a sentence more infuriating in her entire life. It sparks something violent in her. It had been dormant, had stepped aside for her mourning, but it catches fire the second Santino says, we’ll talk when I get home.

Incensed, she turns and slides the engagement ring off of her finger, throwing it as hard as she can at him. Gianni had been trailing her, certainly at Santino's behest, and he tries to stop her—but it's too late, the fury inside of her forcing her to move more quickly than Gianni anticipates.

He catches her around the waist and she considers, briefly, the logistics of wrenching Gianni's arm off of her to go and slap Santino again; instead, she watches the expensive engagement ring bounce off of the front of Santino's jacket and clatter on the floor.

The way he tilts his head, as though expecting her to lob it at his face, and the irritated expression that comes over him is almost as good as actually having hit her original target of that pretty face of his.

Then, it’s pure, sheer, furious indignation that crosses Santi’s face, but she has no time to think about what that means for her.

“Fuck you, Santi,” she bites out venomously. “Fuck. You. Don’t fucking bother coming home.”

“Bella,” Gianni says, “we should get you back.”

Euphemia debates slapping Gianni, too, but it would be unfair; in his defense, he did try to keep her out of the room. She turns and marches her way out, the doors slamming shut behind her and the cold air of New York in the fall washing over her. As Gianni speaks on the phone and calls the driver around, she glances up at the sky; gray and soft as wedding silk, it stretches, endless, cut in pieces by the skyscrapers parsing it out.

A fool, she thinks. Santino has always made a fool out of me, and this is no one’s fault but my own.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

Two hours later, Euphemia hears him enter the loft. He lets the door click shut softly behind him, not slamming it, not storming through. She expected no less; Santi so rarely lets the anger really take hold of him, so rarely lets himself scream or yell or throw something. I’m marrying a fucking sociopath, she thinks, but there’s no heat to the thought; only exhaustion, only a tiredness that goes bone-deep

Even now, she still thinks of it as present tense: she’s marrying a sociopath, as though she didn’t try to hit him in the face with the engagement ring he picked out for her just hours ago, as though in the end, she will still be his. She will.

“Are you calmed down?” Santino asks, in the way that only he could manage—condescending, and soft. Euphemia can’t withhold the vicious scoff that rolls out of her the second he talks.

“I told you not to come home,” she replies tartly, “but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You are apparently as deaf as you are stupid.”

“So no, then.”

“What do you want me to say, Santi?” Euphemia demands, looking at him now. She’s got a suitcase out but there’s nothing in it; she can’t bring herself to pack, to think about going back home to Tuscany where her mother is waiting, barely sober because she can only stay sober for about a month at a time before she falls back to her old habits. “Why don’t you invite our friend John Wick up for dinner, hm? I’m sure he’d like that, after you did whatever you did to make him show up here. Perhaps you took a page out of that idiot Iosef’s book and killed his new dog?”

“He owes me,” Santino insists, glossing over her needling, “and I will get what I am owed.”

She has to resist the urge to roll her eyes. “Do you know how fucking stupid you sound?” she asks, incredulous. “If I die before telling you how incredibly, disgustingly stupid you sound when you say that, then I will—”

Santino kisses her. He does it because he knows that she’s not expecting it, and it has its desired effect; she stills, all of the furious energy like bottled lightning capped again. He kisses her softly, with no rage, but she can feel it woven into the sinew of his posture.

She thinks about slapping him again. But he probably knows that, because he grabs her hands, gripping them in his; the pressure is more relaxing than it is infuriating, which almost drives her mad, but it does what Santino always does. It pulls her apart until all that’s left is the hurt, the fear, welling up inside of her like a tidal wave crashing into the shore.

“He’s doing what I asked,” he murmurs. “And then we’ll be done with John Wick. Mia piccola volpe, look at me.”

“No,” she says, trying to sound angry but it comes out an agonized sound; she’s crying before she can stop herself, tears burning the edges of her eyes and a big, wet gasping breath necessary for her to keep going. “No, I don’t want to look at you anymore, Santi—”

“He’s doing what I ask, and then I promise, you and I will be done with John Wick forever.” His voice is urgent and insistent. “The three of us, tesora. Isn’t that right? You weren’t just saying that to get back at me?”

She nods, numbly. They had been careful, because she’d said she wasn’t ready—but mistakes happened. Pills got forgotten. She wishes that she could have lied about it and kept it secret. Maybe he’d be acting differently now if she wasn’t carrying his child; maybe his face would be something else.

“Euphie,” he whispers, taking her face in his hands. “My perfect, gorgeous Euphie—my greatest piece of art.” He kisses her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. “And the one with the most bite, too, even when you are so ungrateful for the things that I do. My face still hurts.”

“Good,” Euphemia manages out, her voice wobbling. “You deserve it. Idiota.”

“Maybe,” Santi replies. He tucks her against his chest and kisses her hair. “I never thought I would piss you off enough to get you to hit me—and you did cause quite a scene in front of Wick.”

“Stop.” Just the sound of that monster’s name makes her stomach churn. “Stress is bad for the baby.”

He laughs, the first real laugh in what feels like days since he’s decided on this path with John Wick. “Fine, I will not mention him again. But know that after this, it will be done. Permanently. Forever. Si? Tell me you understand, Euphie.”

She’s so tired. She’s so tired down into her core, the kind of tired that doesn’t go away with a nap or a cup of coffee. “Si,” she replies, closing her eyes. “Capisco, Santi.”

Somehow, Santi’s words that things will be done “permanently” with John Wick only manage to make her more uneasy.

She can’t remember what exactly carries her through the rest of the evening. She remembers calling her mother to check on her, to ask if she’s keeping up with her meetings. She can’t bring herself to come clean about the surprise pregnancy; it’s early, anyway, and her mother would only stress her out more.

“Sei la mia stella più preziosa,” her mother says. “Ti amo, Effie.”

“Yes, mama,” Euphie sighs, unable to say the words back. “Buona notte.”

She hits the red end call button on the phone screen, setting it face-down on the countertop and leaning her palms against the marble. God, she knows that she’d fucking kill a man for a drag of a cigarette—but she could never. Not now. Not when she has—

The sound of paper on the countertop stirs her from her half-bent position. Santino slides it across to her, setting a pen down next to her hand. It’s their marriage certificate. He’s already signed it, and while she stares at it numbly, he takes her left hand and puts the engagement ring back on her finger, but this time with the diamond wedding band he’d picked out as well.

“Santi,” she starts, but he tsks his tongue, quieting her. She’s too tired to be offended.

“Sign the certificate, amore,” he says. “Do not fuss. You’re going to stop throwing this ring at me, yes?”

There are a million reasons not to sign it: but the words that came out of her mouth are, “We don’t have the witnesses or the officiant.”

“Do we need a witness or officiant greater than God himself?” Santino replies. He leans against the counter from the other side, watching her. He is polished, pristine. Any remains of her earlier transgression against him are now completely gone, at least the physical marks. She’s sure that he won’t forget very soon that she raised a hand against him. “Sign it, Euphie, and be my wife.”

She stares at the paper. She feels like she’s melting; her life can’t be real anymore, not when John Wick was, just hours ago, feet away from her, and she’s pregnant, and now Santino is asking her to sign their marriage certificate right now.

The implications fill her with dread. What’s the rush? If nothing’s wrong, if they’ll be done with John Wick, what’s the rush?

“You said that you had nothing before me,” Santino says, breaking her out of her eerie, absent-minded disconnect. He brushes the hair from her face. “You will never have nothing again.”

Euphemia signs the certificate in a haze. It doesn’t feel any different after; she doesn’t feel different and neither does Santino in relation to her, and the realization that they had felt married for a few years now sinks down on her.

Santino rounds the counter to her, taking her face and kissing her; her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, the corner of her mouth and eventually just kissing her. His hand smooths over her stomach, admiring, and he brushes their noses together.

“Perfetto e tutto mio,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. “Isn’t that right, Euphemia?”

She replies, without thinking, “Si, sono tuo.”

Always, she thinks, always yours, whether I like it or not.