#but in russian... we can easily make sentences out of swear works connecting them with prepositions

[goldenpinof]

i wonder if i could outswear Dan in my own language

[the-darklings]

—𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒔;

pairing: john wick x f!reader

word count: 6.5k+

summary: “Tell me a story with a happy ending.”

warnings: strong violence, blood, swearing.

notes: oh wow, it’s been a hot minute, huh? I miss posting my writing on here but life has been hectic and pretty unkind this year so apologies for the inactivity. All I can say is that I got an urge to finally write for Mr Wick. This is set pre-first movie so any spoilers will be up to that movie only. For now, I decided to split this into two, so expect another part some time soon and enjoy!

children of ares series: .. | 02 |

“Tell me a story with a happy ending.”

“I can’t. People like us don’t get happy endings.”

. . . 

The first time you meet him, he points a gun to your face with a sharpness that makes your pulse race.

You’re just a second behind him, but you know perfectly well that it would have been a second too late. 

“Oh, for goodness sake,” Tarasov grumbles under his breath, waving his hand in irritation. “Will you two lower your weapons, we aren’t in the zoo.”

The man clad in all black does so immediately, and you idly wonder just how tight his leash is if he obeys so seamlessly. 

You watch him warily as you lower your arm as well, hesitating just long enough for Tarasov’s gaze to slide your way. While you don’t want to piss off your new boss, the man in black stands beside him with a stoic sort of calmness that makes your instincts prickle with unease. 

You know who he is. 

You’ve heard stories about him. 

Soft, terrified murmurs of his infamy—of his terrifying skill. You would rather not meet him at all, truth be told. 

Even amongst killers, John Wick’s name is spoken with a degree of reluctant respect and fear. 

“John, this is our newest associate. I wanted to introduce you personally,” Tarasov explains easily, pouring himself another glass of vodka. “I was rather hoping you will be able to look after her for a bit. Show her how we do business.”

You rather he didn’t. Truly. 

John Wick is tall, calm, and deadly focused on every twitch of your body. 

Underground world has some certains you can find in any corner of the world: money, blood, drugs, and high egos. The latter goes hand in hand with an inflated sense of self-importance and posturing. 

You’re used to that. You know how to handle people with egos. Know how to communicate with those who like the sound of their own voice a bit too much. 

Yet, John Wick somehow manages to be the most fear-inducing thing in the room without so much as making a sound.

His dark eyes appear almost black when they finally connect with yours. There is nothing but polite coolness to be found in his gaze. 

“Sure.”

Tarasov grins wider, saluting you both with his glass, “Excellent,” he intones in smooth Russian. “I do believe this is the start of something rather beautiful.”

. . .

Three months down the line, and you’re still unsure what to make of John. 

Anyone who kills people for a living should be easy to pindown. Sure, everyone has their own reasons, but at the end of the day, they’re all a little twisted. 

John is a walking contradiction. 

He’s cold, he’s stoic, he’s frighteningly efficient in his field. John rarely speaks, and getting more than a few sentences out of him at any given time seems like an incredible feat.  

But he’s also kind in the most subtle ways, thoughtful, and always—unfailingly—has your back on the field. 

Tarasov originally wanted you to do three missions together before he sent you on your own. But somewhere along the way, he seems to have concluded that you work better as a unit. 

It’s odd at first. You’re not used to working with someone, and you’ve never heard of John having a partner with him either. He’s the man they send when no one else wants the contract or they simply can’t finish the job. So working with him is as bizarre as everyone's reactions when they see you together. 

Most of the time, you’re not sure if he even likes you because most of the time, it’s near impossible to read him.

On paper you should never work, you know that much. 

He’s older. His name is known. He’s earned the respect of some of the deadliest in the world.

You’re a nobody from nowhere. Sure, your skills are finally being utilized and by merely associating with John and Tarasov, people are starting to take notice of you, too. But doubt still lingers in your mind as you go through one job after another. 

Truthfully, you’re still unsure if there’s a place for you here, in this shadowy circle of Tarasov’s gang. Though all the alternatives are so much worse you can’t even entertain the idea of a different life right now.

“A stick of gum?”

John is silent for a long time, and for a second you worry that he may not have heard you over the sound of the wind, but you don’t dare to lift your gaze from the scope in front of you. 

Patience you know well. It’s one of the very few areas where you and John are equals. 

“Realistically, one,” he finally mutters, his voice low to a point you have to strain to hear. Blinking, you suppress a grin, adjusting your position as you wait for your target to appear. 

“Just the one?” you repeat with obvious disappointment. “Huh.”

John’s breaths are quiet next to you, thoughtful, “Sorry to disappoint but choking is the only viable option,” he points out a little dryly. 

You hum contemplatively, trying to think of your own spin on this scenario. It has become a bit of a game between you. When you first started working together, John’s company was near painfully boring, especially on long jobs. So you came up with the idea of challenging him with ordinary objects and drilling him on how many people he can realistically kill with them. Of course, he has to fully justify his reasoning for each casualty—that’s half the fun right there after all.  

He still likes his space and peace to this day, but at least now you get him to talk with you regularly on jobs. 

“See if it were me,” you begin in an unhurried drawl. “I would put slow-acting poison in the gum. Maybe even add a dispersing agent into it, so anyone the target comes into contact with would die as well. Multiple dead, I won’t even have to break a sweat.” 

“Sounds dangerous,” he points out idly, but the challenge in his voice is clear. “And highly volatile. How can you be sure it won’t accidentally kill your partner or anyone else that needs to be kept safe?”

“Antidotes, John, c’mon now,” you shoot back playfully, your finger moving to rest against the trigger when you spot slight movement in the building opposite to you. “Oh, the party is a go. Target twelve o’clock.”

You both watch as the men file into the room, chatting and pouring drinks as both parties sit themselves down around the room. A typical setting for deal negotiations. Of course, Tarasov doesn’t want any negotiations to happen at all—hence why you and John are here, and ready to rectify that. 

“You have a clear shot,” John speaks beside you after a long pause, and it still unsettles you how composed he is during jobs and outside of them. It’s like nothing can ever affect him. With every job, every interaction, you begin to understand more and more why the nickname The Boogeyman is starting to catch on. “Take the shot.”

You do. 

Inhaling deeply, you line the shot and it pierces the air with a deafening whistle that shatters the hotel window to pieces. 

Panic reigns and the men scatter like cattle. Some try to find where the shot came from, but by the time they come anywhere near the window, you and John are already walking down the fire exit in a calm, unhurried fashion. The target is dead, and that’s all either of you care about.

“You’ve gotten better.”

It’s not praise, not exactly, more of a tepid assessment. But you take what you can get with John nowadays. In the beginning, it unsettled you, but now you just know that’s how he is. 

“Marcus is a pretty nice guy once you break past that prideful demeanour of his,” you joke with a slight laugh as you both get into his car. “I think he tolerates my pestering because of you, to be honest.”

You feel John’s curious gaze on you, and when you turn to glance at him one of his eyebrows is arched slightly. “That so?”  

“Drive on, Wick,” you say instead. “I’m starving. I wonder what it is about doing this job that always makes me so damn hungry.”

. . .

“You’re a pain in my ass, I hope you know that.”

John only grunts in reply. 

You half drag him with you through the front lobby of The Continental as you slowly approach the reception.  

Charon welcomes you with his typical placid smile and a polite nod of his head. 

“Mr Wick and Miss Vipress,” he greets politely, unfazed by all the blood covering you both as you stagger to a stop in front of his desk. “Pleasure as always. A room for two?”

You nod your head briskly, shifting on your feet till more of John’s weight is leaning against you. “Thanks,” you mutter, sliding the golden coin across the smooth wood. There’s still specks of blood on it, but Charon takes it without batting an eye. 

“Will you be needing a doctor tonight?” he questions with a tilt of his head, ever the helpful hotel concierge. 

You’re shaking your own head before he’s even finished speaking, and glance at the still dazed John beside you. He’s already looking better than he did fifteen minutes ago—less pale and clammy—meaning that the poison is slowly but steadily leaving his system. 

“We’ll be fine,” you say wearily. “But if you could send us up some X7 and Aspirin later, I would appreciate it.”

Charon hums, noting your request immediately in a notepad in front of him. 

“X7 will take a bit longer but consider it done,” he responds pleasantly, sliding your room key across the table. You grapple for it, clenching it tightly between your bloody fingers. “Enjoy your stay,” he adds as you turn to go.

You grunt some vague pleasantry back but your mind is only focused on getting John to the hotel room before his legs decide to give out on him.  

By the time you make it to your room on the third floor—Charon has mercifully put your room only a few doors away from the elevator, and you make a mental note to thank him for it tomorrow—your arms are trembling from the strain. John falls on the couch heavily, a harsh groan rattling free the moment he does, indicating just how bad he must be feeling. 

His dark, half-lidded eyes track your movements as you stumble towards the bathroom, grabbing the complimentary first-aid kit found in every room. A certain, intent sharpness you’re used to seeing is missing from his gaze and you snap your fingers in front of his face a few times. 

“Hey, you still with me?”

John nods his head and groans as he sits up, leaving you once again impressed with his silent strength. It seems like things that would kill ordinary men ten times over barely leave a dent on John. Some part of you can’t help but be slightly envious of the fact that he’s really as brilliant and as unstoppable as everyone makes him out to be. 

He shrugs off his jacket under your command, leaving him in only a shirt and a tie and you loosen it, hurriedly wrapping it above his bleeding forearm. 

“See, poison is a bitch when it’s not done by yours truly,” you mutter under your breath, carefully tracking his breathing patterns. “Aren’t you a lucky boy to have me on hand?”

His answer to your poor attempt at a joke is a half-hearted glare, and you smile weakly, grabbing a small blade from your boot to cut off his shirt sleeve. The white material flutters towards the ground and you grimace at the deep gash running at least eight centimetres down his arm. It looks angry and inflamed; a side effect to the potent poison the blade to make that cut was laced with. 

You brush the damp strands of loose hair away from his sweaty forehead, and press your palm against his skin. A pleased hum escapes you and you nod your head, satisfied, before turning to sanitize the needle you’ll be using. 

“The fever is going down,” you tell him when you feel his silent question hang in the air between you. “That means the antidote is working. You should be back to normal in another hour or so. Gelsemine though? Jesus. I miss the days when people used Thallium and thought they were efficient poisoners.”

You grab your belt, taking it off with a hurried jerk as you offer it to John who looks up at you in confusion. “For the pain,” you supply, shaking your hand a little.

“Just get me something strong,” he grunts, pointedly shifting his gaze to the table where a bottle of something that looks like whiskey sits untouched. 

Clicking your tongue, you shake your head, “Not if you want to start vomiting blood. The poison is still in your system. Alcohol will make it worse and likely kill the antidote too. Take it.”

John looks away and you roll your eyes, dropping the belt to the ground as you step between his legs to get better access to the wound. 

“Right, okay, this will hurt.”

John doesn’t say anything—not that you expect him to. You start with cleaning the cut first, and John’s fingers sink into the couch but he remains stubbornly silent. His eyes focus on a spot just above your shoulder as you work quietly. Cleaning wounds is meticulous work, and your line of work assures that you’re always meticulous. By the time the needle finally pierces John’s skin, it already looks better. 

His jaw clenches tightly as you move the needle in and out of his skin. You know it’s excruciating but he makes no protests aside from occasional soft grunt of pain. His blood is warm on your fingers and you work as quickly as you can without messing up, a slight tremor shaking your hand. 

“How,” he begins before clearing his throat. “How did you get involved in all of this?”

You make a small sound at the back of your throat, unsure if he’s trying to distract himself from pain or truly asking because he wants to know.

“How does anyone get involved with this sort of thing,” you answer dully, not taking the bait. “We’ve known each other for almost a year and you’re only asking about my tragic past now? Tsk, tsk.”

You feel his eyes focus on you, and pull on the needle harder, tightening the stitches much to John’s clear discomfort. 

You’re both silent for a long moment after that, and much to your surprise John doesn’t push further. Most people would. 

But John Wick is not most people, you’ve come to find. 

He’s the type of man who never tries to make passes on you, never makes unnecessary comments about you or your appearance, and always insists on two beds. If there’s no spare bed, he always offers to sleep on the couch or the floor—the only exception to this rule is if he’s injured himself. 

“My parents,” you speak softly before stopping. There’s a sudden tightness in your chest and throat as you swallow, gripping John’s arm tighter so you don’t slip with all the blood coating your hands. You feel his attention turn to you, and work to control your breathing. “They worked for Tarasov when he still ran his drug operation in Moscow. Everyone owned him. He practically ran the city. People were watched, police bought out. I didn’t know about any of it. My father was tasked with the export of drugs from and into the country. My mother worked directly in one of his drug houses. Keeping the books.”

You pause, breathing deeply, and grab the nearby towel to wipe away the blood on John’s arm. Hesitating, you glance up at him. He looks alert again, sharp, and you wonder if you should continue. 

This man is already lethal—the last thing he needs is leverage over you. 

But—

You move towards the desk where the bottle of whiskey is sitting while you wipe your own hands on a towel, hiding the visible trembling of your fingers as you resume your story. 

“They decided that it would be a good idea to have a side gig on the side,” you continue, your words flat, emotionless. By now, you don’t feel grief when thinking about your parents. Just anger. The destructive, bubbling sort of rage that festers under your skin every day. “My mother started adjusting the numbers. Little by little. Nothing Tarasov would notice. Never more than thirty thousand rubles per shipment. That may sound like a lot but actually, it’s less than five hundred bucks. Seems laughable now when I think about it. For us, of course, every month that kind of money made a big difference. We didn’t need many luxuries. But they say your greed grows as you eat.”

You turn back towards John, bringing the bottle over to him. Sitting down on the table in front of him, you pour some of the whiskey on a fresh towel and press the soaked material against his arm. John’s expression twists slightly but you can tell from the way his eyes focus on you seconds later that he’s listening intently to your every word. 

“They started taking a bit more every month,” you whisper, swallowing your anger, “More and more. Just a bit. But penny after penny and it all adds up. Tarasov eventually found out, of course. He gathered everyone who works for him and had my parents shot in front of them. That’s how you keep sheep in line. You scare them till they’re too afraid to do anything, even help. I don’t blame them though. Those people had nothing. Elderly. Orphaned kids. Immigrants. Fear and hunger are all they’ve known. And well, after...”

Your head dips, and you nibble on your lip for a second, tasting blood. For the first time in a long time, the coppery tang makes you feel queasy. 

“Tarasov came to our flat that same afternoon. Had me make him dinner practically at gunpoint,” you explain further, a sardonic smile twisting your mouth as you meet John’s steady stare. So far, he hasn’t made a sound. “We discussed my parents' debt to him. He could have just had me shot too of course. But he said he didn’t want that. He said that my talents with chemistry were too valuable for him to waste. So he gave me a choice. I work for him until my parents' debt is paid off or….”   

For the first time since you began your story, John speaks, “Or?”

You chuckle under your breath, removing the towel from his arm, and lightly press your fingertips against the tender flesh. 

“There’s many uses for a healthy, young woman, John,” you state flatly, your lips stretching into something that could never pass for a smile. 

You can’t exactly pinpoint his expression, but you know it’s not pity. Perhaps it’s sympathy or even compassion. Some deeper understanding that can’t be expressed with words alone. But for once you feel like John is looking at you openly and without that uncrackable armour he usually wears like a second skin. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, at last, his voice almost gentle. “About your parents.” 

You scoff, taking a swing from the bottle and wince at the stinging burn the drink leaves in its wake. “They were stupid idiots,” you deadpan harshly. “I love them dearly. But they were fucking idiots.”

John nods once because you both know you’re right, and you swallow shakily, blinking your eyes rapidly.

For a few minutes, it’s quiet between you. You expect it to be awkward yet somehow it isn’t. In fact, it’s almost peaceful. 

“Anyway, I made my choice and here I am,” you mumble, carefully pouring him a tiny amount of the drink. He should be fine to drink it by now. Probably. “Tarasov said that once the debt is repaid, I’m free to go.” 

“And you believe that?”

Your eyes meet as John takes the glass from your hand. 

“No,” you reply frankly, your smile pained. “But when you have nothing, you have to believe in something.”

. . .

You settle into an odd little routine, you and John. 

Tarasov gives you a mission, you go, accomplish the impossible somehow and get to go on breathing for another day. 

The longer you work together, the easier it becomes to correlate. Your only weakness—if one can even call it that—is that you’re both stubborn individualists. He’s a brute, relentless strength to your sly, vicious subtlety. That’s what makes the fact that character-wise you couldn’t be more different so stupidly hilarious to you. The only real arguments you have is the way in which the job should be approached.

That thought makes you chuckle and you wince in pain immediately after. The ice pack against your jaw shifts slightly, and you shift in your seat, trying to get more comfortable. Most of your body aches painfully, but your jaw feels especially sore. One of the idiots has managed to get three heavy hits in before John splattered his brain all over you. In return, you’ve been forced to kick John out of the path of a bullet hail. 

He’s the one who pressed ice against your jaw while you were busy cleaning his bruised and bleeding knuckles. 

Then you sat in silence, digesting another job well done, and basking in the tranquil air of the hotel room while the pain-reducing solution you’ve made works its magic. 

And odd routine indeed. 

“Hey,” John’s voice breaks the soft tranquillity, and you jerk up, realising that you’ve come dangerously close to dozing off. “Do you ever think about getting out?”

You blink slowly, clearing your head as his words register. Then, confusion blooms, “Out? Get out of what?”

John doesn’t look at you though. His heavy gaze focuses on something outside, out of your sight. The slopes of his profile have become familiar to you—the raven hair, dark eyes, the small crinkles that appear around his eyes on the rare occasion he does smile. He’s not standoffish in the way others often accuse him of being now. If anything he looks softer somehow, more human than a weapon Tarasov boasts of so smugly. More than a living nightmare so many fear. 

He looks like a man. Simple as that, and when he finally turns to face you, you see the fresh cuts and bruises on his face. Just a man. 

“Getting out of this life,” he replies slowly, his voice rougher from the lucky hit one of the guards managed to get into his throat. “Getting away from everything. From Tarosov.”

It strikes you then that John is asking from a genuine place of interest—something he rarely indulges in with you, considering nine out of ten times all conversations between you are started by you. 

The second thing that strikes you is a genuine surprise. John is not the person you would ever expect to hear this type of question from. It’s private, it’s raw; he knows about your debt, about the chain around your neck. Better than most, perhaps better than everyone. But because you respect him enough to at least give it actual thought, you consider his question for a long time. 

It takes at least five minutes until you finally speak and when you do your voice sounds hollow in your own ears, “I never wanted this life,” you begin softly, your voice thin. “I never asked to be involved in any of this. I didn’t ask for my parents to take me from country to country, never allowing me to settle down anywhere or make friends. When they kept secrets and were barely home. I didn’t ask for adventure, or danger, or even wealth, John. But—”

John stares at you, considering you, no doubt analysing your words, and you swallow the sudden lump in your throat at his show of keen interest. 

“But,” you repeat again, your tone harsher. “I’m here, and I have to make the best of it. I’ve never been good at anything in my life. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about myself in this last year is that I’m very, very good at this. I’m starting to think that violence is in my blood, and I don’t know what that means just yet but…”

You exhale, eyes fluttering shut and you only open them after counting to ten inside your head. Slow and steady as you meet his gaze straight on. “So to answer your question: no. No, I don’t think about it. Even after I’m finished dealing with Tarasov, I don’t see another path for myself anymore. It was taken from me.”  

John peers at you for a long, long time after you fall silent. You’re not sure what he discerns from your expression or what he’s searching for, but you doubt he finds it as his obsidian eyes eventually slide away from you and towards the window. 

The sun is rising in the East. 

Milan is beautiful this time of year. 

You sit together through the sunrise, not saying a word. 

Years later, you would look back on this as the last true moment of peace for an interminable number of years. 

. . .

Separation comes only two short months later like a punch to the face. 

Tarasov’s argument is simple: he needs two jobs done on different sides of the world. One requires the lethality John is infamous for, another requires the most subtle of touches; a snake’s slyness. 

Tarasov needs the Boogeyman and the Vipress but for vastly different things this time. 

John must sense your unease—this will be your first solo mission after all—and he stops you as soon as you’re both out of earshot of any prying eyes. 

“You’ll be fine,” he says so simply, effortlessly, with enough confidence in his low voice that for a second you believe him too. “It’s the perfect job for you.”

“Of course I’ll be fine,” you shoot back with forced nonchalance. “I’m not that helpless.”

Your smile is forced, and John knows it too. 

He doesn’t point it out because deep down John is kind—no matter how ironic it is for a deadly assassin to be that.

For once, you expect him to say something else but he doesn’t. One of Tarasov’s men shouts him over because his flight is leaving in three hours. John’s gaze lingers on you for an insignificant second but he still walks away, leaving a cold kind of silence in his wake. 

His name burns at the back of your throat as dread bubbles in the pit of your gut.  

But you don’t call his name out.

. . .

It doesn’t go bad. 

It doesn’t go well either. 

It goes thoroughly and wholly to shit. 

You grasp at your shoulder where blood is still pouring freely, and your eyes sting with tears of pain as you make your report to the silent Tarasov over the phone.

They have known. 

They have prepared. 

The target got away at the last moment.

You are lucky to still be alive. 

“Better you weren’t then,” Tarasov purrs in Russian, the letters curling like a death grip around your throat. “Report to me tomorrow.”

“But—”

The line goes dead. 

You pull the bullet out yourself. Through gritted teeth and sweat dripping down your forehead. You cry twice and throw up once before you pass out from pain and terror. Still, you manage to patch yourself up. 

The lack of John’s presence stings in an unexpected, violent way when you wake up, bleary-eyed and shivering.

You have gotten dependent on him and his help. 

Now it feels like a weakness. 

Now, you hate yourself for shaking in terror as you make your way to Tarasov’s new office in New York. 

You’re strong (but not strong enough), you’re smart (but not enough), you’re— 

You wonder if you should pray, or perhaps plead for help from some higher power. Tarasov as good as admitted that you will be dead by the end of this meeting. There is no helping you now. 

Sickness cramps your stomach and you dry heave in an alleyway behind his office. Your vision swims, your blood rushes in your ears and for a second you consider simply lying down on this cold, dirty ground and letting the world consume you.

You failed, you fucked up. First solo mission and you failed in the most spectacular way possible. The target got away. There’s no one to blame but yourself. 

You’ve considered poisoning him, but that seems so unlikely to succeed now. His lackeys will never allow you to walk through the office door without ransacking you, nor would Tarasov be stupid enough to let you anywhere near him. 

Death, now more than ever, seems like an inevitably. 

John will save me. 

A harsh bark of laughter tears from your throat at the sudden, invasive whisper of your mind. How pathetic. To mess up is one thing, to know that there’s close to nothing you can do to rectify the situation is another, but to actually hope someone else will save you…

Even if you are to allow yourself the overly indulgent thought, that still doesn’t change the fact that John is in Europe right now. Half a world away—too far away. 

John.

Knees quaking, you stand up. 

Squaring your shoulders, and ignoring the burn of pain in your left shoulder, you start walking. 

John would face this with dignity, with that same cool detachment he does most things. 

John would not quiver in some dingy alleyway. He would not cry like some pathetic idiot because of his own mistake. He would face it, and he would fight back. 

Your forehead presses against the freezing wall of the building as you pull yourself together piece by piece. 

You are no longer that same girl who wept over your parents because you have no idea where they are buried, or if they even had a burial. If perhaps their bodies have been thrown onto the streets, or woods, or simply fed to the dogs. 

That girl has been killed by your parents' stupidity. 

Now only the Vipress remains. 

Vipress who is a master poisoner, whose name is no longer whispered with mockery but with reluctant respect that’s starting to rival John’s.

With every step, you stand straighter, walk with more confidence. Your shoulder throbs terribly but you step into the building as through a fog.

Tarasov greets you with a glass of vodka and a wide grin. 

The hardness of his gaze is chilling though, and you try to keep your cool demeanour, emulating John as much as possible. Two other guards lurk in the dark corners of the room, and you still entertain the thought that you can take them if it comes to that. 

Your heartbeat is so deafening in your ears, you barely catch Tarasov’s words. 

“Sorry?”

His grin stretches even further, and he tuts, “My, my, I almost forgot. How’s the shoulder?”

He doesn’t sound like he cares. But not answering would be a stupid thing to do. “It’s fine, sir.”

Tarasov makes a small sound at the back of his throat before his fist strikes your shoulder with enough force that you crumble to the floor. A cry of pain manages to escape before you bite your cheek, hot blood flooding your mouth as you tremble on the floor before him. 

“Oh, my,” Tarasov comments in sharp Russian as if surprised by your predicament while one of his guards hands him his glass. “Seems like you’re not as ‘fine’ as you say. You’ve disappointed me, (Name). Greatly.”

Tarasov pats your head, the contact heavy and patronizing, as he jerks your head up. He stares at you with a hum, shaking his head as his powerful features rearrange into a look of genuine disappointment. 

“Stand up,” he orders sharply and lets go of you, allowing you space to stagger to your feet. “It would be undignified to shoot you like this. Believe it or not, my hopes for you were high and you’ve been rather useful to me. I at least respect that.”

The two guards shift in the dim room, and you bare your bloody teeth on instinct, lowering your blood-covered hand from your shoulder. If they want to fight...   

Tarasov laughs genuinely this time, loud and booming, suddenly reminding you of your father. “You’ve got fire, little viper. I will need that ferocity for our expansion. But you also fucked up. Badly. But you will never fail me again, isn’t that right?” 

You don’t answer, staring at him through a pain-fueled haze. Tarasov ‘tsk’s and the back of his hand strikes your face with numbing force. Your lip splits on contact, one side of your face tingling with raw pain as your head snaps to the side. 

Few droplets of blood hit the pristine floor, and you stare at it dumbly, breathing harshly through your mouth. 

“I grow impatient,” he mutters coldly in clipped Russian. “Isn’t that right? I expect an answer. What did you think I will kill you? No, no, my dear. Not yet. You’ve made a mess but it can be sorted. How severe your punishment is going to be, however, is entirely dependant on you.”

Swallowing thickly, you lift your eyes to his, “I won’t fail you again.”

Tarasov laughs again, and salutes you before drowning the half-full glass in one gulp. He exhales, looking rather pleased with himself. 

“Of course you won’t,” he hums pleasantly, and pats your injured cheek with heavy intent. “Because if you do, I will have John himself put a bullet in your pretty little head. Now get out of my sight and don’t come back till I call for you.” 

. . .

The knock on your door comes two days later.

You aren’t expecting guests so the first thing you do is grab your poisoned needles and your gun. 

Gripping the familiar weight in your palm, you cautiously approach the door, levelling the gun against the wood. “Who is it?”

“It’s me.”

Your hand drops instinctively, and you crack the door open, only to find a familiar pair of dark eyes already staring at you. Your fingers tremble slightly as you open the door fully and John’s familiar stocky frame comes into view. 

He, in turn, takes a good minute to no doubt take in your bandaged shoulder and bruised face. Even though you added ice the moment you left Tarasov’s office, one half of your face is still swollen. Ugly, blotchy bruises litter your skin and you swallow shakily upon noting the hard, near frightening intensity in which John is taking in your injuries. 

“Why did you come?” you finally force out, and clear your throat when your voice cracks a few times. “Didn’t you have—”

“What happened?” John speaks instead, and there’s an icy undercurrent to his words you’re unused to hearing from him. 

Turning away, you walk deeper into the room, and John follows you silently. 

“I figured you would know. I’m the talk of the town,” you mutter dryly, and feel a stab of anger at the thought.

When you turn to face him, John’s expression is still oddly severe though his demeanour appears as calm as always. You’re not quite sure what to make of it. 

“I do know what happened on the mission,” he replies, his mouth a tight line, and voice dropping into almost whisper. “I want to know about this.”

He reaches out and for a stupid—purely idiotic second—you think that he’s going to touch your face; maybe run his thumb over your tender jaw to soothe the pain. 

But John stops halfway and allows his hand to drop back to his side, patient and quiet as he waits for your explanation. 

There’s an odd tension in the air that you can’t quite pinpoint. The relief of seeing him, at knowing he cares enough to at least come and see you, is already enough. Which doesn’t explain why you feel a distinct stab of disappointment at the realisation that he’s not going to hold you or comfort you, regardless of how naive it would be to expect something like that from him. That hard demeanour of his is near impossible to crack through most of the time.

“Tarasov wasn’t happy,” you settle on the easiest explanation you can give him. “Reminded me that I will never fail him again or he will have you shoot me next time.”

John’s expression twists. “I—”

He cuts himself off and you smile sadly, wincing when you scabbed lip stretches too wide. You know what he was about to say. That he wouldn’t do it—that maybe he simply couldn’t. Even in the world of killers, there are grey areas no one likes to tread on. Friends, family, associates. 

But you also know the truth. 

You both work exclusively under Tarasov’s contract. John would have to do what he’s told regardless of his own feelings on the matter. And maybe even if he does care, even if he considers you an actual friend, it won’t be enough to deliberately place himself in danger by showing disobedience. 

“It’s okay,” you say softly, and you wonder why you sound so sad without even meaning to. “We do what we’re told. We don’t ask questions. We just pull the trigger, right? It’s who we are. We’re made for violence and isn’t that fucking sad? We don’t even question it anymore, John. Do you think—”

His head tilts, his loose hair brushing against his forehead. “Do I think what?”

You exhale slowly, shaking your head, and give him another tiny smile. Somehow even ignoring pain is easier with him beside you. 

“It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

For a moment, it looks like John will say something else but he stops himself at last second and nods his head as if accepting your words. 

The distance between you feels like a ravine even while you spend the entire evening in the same room, breathing the same air. But perhaps that’s just the endless paradox between you.

. . . 

It doesn’t happen overnight. Or days. Or even weeks. 

It’s slow. So much so that you don’t notice for a long, long time and by the time you do, it’s already painfully clear that there’s no going back. 

Much like the name John wears, much like the man himself, it creeps up on you. Little by little. Bit by bit.

There’s no groundbreaking moment, there are no fireworks. There’s just the knowing that sits deep in the pit of your stomach. It’s a foolish, idiotic thing. You brush it aside because you know better. Because you’re not naive enough to hope for anything in a world like this. 

Hope is a dangerous thing, and you’ve had yours broken too many times to rely on it anymore. 

So you don’t.

You know not to expect good things anymore, to never try and rely on anything or anyone. Every good thing you’ve ever had has either died or been taken from you. 

So you really should have known that this would never last. 

. . .

Tarasov’s imposed “time out” lasts for three months. 

It marks the beginning of the end. 

And it starts with an accident that turns into a tragedy. 

. . .

an: wooo, I hope you all liked that. I’m sooo rusty it’s not even funny but I hope you found some enjoyment in this. Also sorry for the very slowburn relationship I suppose? This isn’t super romantic. But considering the type of man John is (and the fact that he’s younger here) I actually don’t see him falling for someone immediately? Also, I love angst so....this is gonna be exactly that! Thank you for reading everyone!!

[shadowtongued]

long headcanon about the duality of love and the mahjarrat condition pertaining to it from his point of view. if you read all this babble i swear to god, i love you, i hope you have a good day. cw: sex addiction, child neglect, unhealthy coping, unrequited pains. reason for writing: hi i want to die bc of angst.

i think we all know even without playing medieval xp grind lore game, runescape, that sliske is old. very old. he tells us in endgame there's not much he hasn’t done with his life over thousands of years, even traveling to other planets and realms to just see what was out there and how far he could get. i’ve always projected his age as somewhere between more than 8,000 or even more than 10,000. we’re never given a timeline to how long the children of mah have lived. sliske has done a lot with his time; he’s killed a god, had quite a few elder relics in his grasp, SPOKEN to a elder god and managed not to die, mastered shadow magicks, has an excellent grasp on the shadow realm. he’s good with biology, chemistry, has a fair understanding of soul magic which is kind of a rare brand of knowledge, he’s tricked probably thousands into bad contracts to become wights in his army, understands the psychology and bad morals of people. he was a playwright, a high ranking officer, a spymaster. dude is just a determined polymath. you know what he hasn’t done? love. he’s never got to play with love.

mahjarrat are explained as having emotions, but dulled ones. they feel rage and pride apparently better than others. kharshai said after years of really believing he was a human, that when he came back to his true form he states “i  feel raw power coursing through my veins. i don't feel pain like i used to, and i'm sure my intellect has increased. but somehow there is something missing. a capacity for emotion that i can't quite put my finger on.” they aren’t equipped for the same range of positive emotions as others are. they feel it, but they don’t understand it fully, it has been said by developers. this whole bit is sadly funny considering in canon, sliske catches feelings. he doesn’t realize he’s attracted to the player character. it’s stated many times, in his journals, in dialogue, etc. he believes their fates are tangled no matter what. and the saddest bit is he probably doesn’t understand these feelings and it confuses him to the point of anger.  “ love! a mahjarrat in love? ... i almost wish that were true. it would certainly make the universe a more interesting place. ” “ so perhaps i have loved you. but that doesn’t mean i have to like you.”  sliske’s main goal started off as to take the players immortal, unable to be crushed by the divine, soul and give it to himself so he could live forever, as mahjarrats do not have afterlives, once they die they are done, evaporated into energy. but in endgame we learn something from him hidden in masks that refutes that;

“I love you for more than your soul.”

you STUPID fucker, you’re in love.

the remainder of this is a lot of NON-CANON, personal headcanon interpretation that pretty much only works on this blog. as a rough summary: sliske’s ol’ mum was not fond of her kids, half-brother wahisietel or sliske since she did not see them as powerful as herself and was disappointed that's what her legacy came out to. a short, beefy, average at magic son, she had another go and was still disappointed with this spidery, scrawny, gifted but absolutely annoying stick underweight child. his father, saw him once or twice in his life and that was it. dyeosuthua wanted nothing more than to make them disappear and try again until she got offspring she didn’t want to throw into a lava pit in secrecy, infanticide was against tribal law due to population issues. sliske’s mother’s neglect was so severe, ( by the absolute boundless joys of rp development and mutual heacanons ♥ ) that wahi and nabor had an attempt at raising him and keeping him from freezing to death. why is all this jargon important? because while all mahjarrats are raised by tough love, sliske’s attention deprivation from his mother was so severe, he grew up and still has a slew of reactive attachment, psychological, and social issues he still carries as an adult. several times she threatened to kill him and almost made good on it more than twice. when wahisietel had proven he was a survivor of the first ritual of rejuvenation, sliske became dyeosuthua’s  main target for abuse despite his gift for magic at a young age. nothing he did could impress her enough. and it left him constantly seeking approval and validation to an insecure mind.

the more he grew, the more confident he became mainly out of spite and to get attention. he’s loud, charming, makes you the only person in the room when he talks to you. he has an innate silver-tongued ability that persuades people to do just about anything. it was a front for his insecurities that he kept very very closed up. in the second age/senntisten capital, sliske had a pretty severe sex addiction as it was one of the few ways he felt validated and was able to get affection in a way he could digest. people with reactive attachment disorders often have sex addictions to fill the space of acceptance without having to commit.. easy, feel good intimacy without having to open up and let someone learn about your vulnerabilities and commit. it was pretty severe, considering mahjarrats find any kind of breeding or intimacies outside their ‘superior species’ as downright foul. sliske had always been the black sheep of the tribe and with his status as praefectus praetorio; head of secret police, really nothing put a damper on him trying to fill the void for affection he had. there wasn’t a species or individual he wouldn’t bed. he would easily take up propositions even for people who just wanted to fuck a mahjarrat because it was ‘exotic’ or because of his status as an officer, he now looks back on this and it bruises his insecurities even more that he allowed himself to do that. not out of pride for his species. but himself, being just a thing to be had because of rarity. azzanadra and his brother, wahisietel found out about it and while disgusted, partially understood what he was doing to negatively self soothe. at one point sliske and azzanadra, the champion of their god and head of the church, as well of one of the strongest living of their kin, had a lasting tryst for a few years and for awhile it made sliske feel very much self important in a way and alleviated his need to be needed so badly, this did not end well when sliske grew tired of their empire and wanted freedom. once childhood best friends and lovers had become absolute enemies once sliske became too unstable and azzanadra became too zealous. 

sliske gave up his sexcapades for a long time, thousands of years, his libido dropped when he became interested in other projects and self healing when he was hit with the idea that he hasd essentially allowed himself to be an exotic fling and still burned over becoming his god, zaros, scapegoat after all he had done for him. love was a weird concept to him and still is. despite being adamant love doesn’t exist for his kind, and his belief that he is flawed, unstable, and embraced the idea of ‘you want a monster? fine! i’ll be the monster!’. he expects no pity, not be forgiven to things he has done and even in game when you sycophantically try to cozy to him, he straight up calls out your text choice was awful considering some of the shitty things he might have done to you. to sliske, all attention to him is attention, whether you’re praising or insulting him. he’s on your mind, he exists, that’s all he wants.

backstory aside the real part of this headcanon is that sliske actually wants love. it’s the only thing aside from an immortal soul he hasn’t had. sliske actually has an attraction to humans because they are empathetic, curious, passionate, and determined. he has an easier time assimilating and being around them since he has ALWAYS had a better sense of humor, socializing, and happiness than his kin. he feels emotions a lot stronger than his fellow mahjarrats. it allows him to talk to and connect to humans and humanlike species better. others of his kind have told him there’s “something wrong” with him for that. he’s actually a romantic, even if he’s just mimicking romance stories, movies, and actions from others. he thinks the idea of settling with one person and loving them is both mortifying and interesting. opening yourself up to someone and giving them the hammer to smash your cherry-red painted porcelain heart and seeing if they do, to him might be the ultimate form of trust and biggest gamble of russian roulette. the stakes are so heavy he’s high on the idea. but it’s also horrifying. mahjarrat are prolific for not opening up, not allowing others in, vulnerability out in the open is a death sentence. they live in a kratocracy/meritocracy where they kill off the weakest link. it’s not pretty. being soft is a useless, unnecessary, weak gene to them. it dampers survival. 

but yet sliske keeps reading romance novels, writing his own confused poetry, and getting into unrequited one sided loves but practicing a backstabbing betrayal when one gets too close. i have to hurt them before they hurt me, betray and cut them down before they can do it to me. i think he wants to be loved. i think he kinda wants to be taught to love, for the emotions and the sake of knowledge. ( brb james newton howard’s ‘true love’s kiss’ from maleficent just came on spotify and i think i’m going to die bc i did not ask for background music thanks!!! ) he wouldn’t be the best at it, maybe a little too possessive with you, codependent, but very nurturing and fun loving. will sepnd a whole week spooning you.. people who hurt you past, present, and future may end up dead in mysterious ways or turned into a wight for you to beat the shit out of. but he’d try. he’s still got a broken child sitting behind his third rib. i think he would snarl the first few times someone genuinely got close to him, it would terrify him, being known on such a skinned, raw level. having gentle touches that are real and not a come hither to the bedroom. being known for something other than the confident, ego he has is death. he could be taught to be gentle for a crumb of consistent attention. might even cut down the murders and god killing down by 15%. love is not going to fix him, it’s not going to forgive the actual shitty things he’s done. it should never do that. but it will turn the lights on in a dark house.

love could really break him. i think so. i’d type more but this has gone on too long and i feel sad-happies. 

[weskerclones]

The Adventures of Charlie Wesker - “Saturn-Moon Matrix”

The man was VERY DEAD, and after some work and getting Custard to stop eating him - where Charlie got a Cerebus, Albert will never know - Albert knew who the man was and looked at Charlie, who is currently sitting nearby on a trash can, like a little kid, and popped a tablet that Albert can’t tell what type of drugs it is, but it’s obviously drugs.

“So what did this one do?”

“Huh?”

“Why were you in a back alley with this guy?”

“OH, man, he said he had, like, some great quartz that I couldn’t get from the holistic place I normally go to, and they said they knew this guy, but he’s, like, crazy, but they didn’t say if it was, like, fox-crazy or just crazy-crazy...like that crae-crae lady I know, you know the girl--.”

“CHARLIE.”

His clone-brother raises his hand. “I needed the quartz for some stuff, and I came to talk to him, and we did, and his vibes got bad, and then Custard bit him.” “Ate him.” “Custard only eats the parts with bad vibes, man, it makes the body cleaner so you can easily dispose of it.” “I swear if you don’t give me a good answer for why this half-eaten person is dead, I’m going to shoot you.”

Charlie gave him puppy-dog eyes, which didn’t quite work because it was obvious that even before he took the pill-thing he took, Charlie was stoned or high or something and Wesker didn’t want to deal with this right now. He had work.

“He said there was a Saturn-Moon Matrix.”

Albert felt a headache coming on, stronger than any other. “What?”

“So, like, he thinks the Moon is sending out bad vibes, and only the sun and earth are good, the Moon is full of...I dunno, reptile-people or something, which is weird ‘cause the reptile people don’t need to live on the moon, they have those hidden satellites I told you about - you know, the ones that stereotype Russian is trying to find out in his hideout, but you didn’t hear that from me, ok?” “Fine.” “So he thinks the moon is, like, evil or something, and it and Saturn vibrate, man. But Saturn is evil, cause, you know, Satan, and I think that’s just wrong, man, what’d Saturn ever do to you? It’s like those bastards that say Pluto’s tiny so it’s not a planet. It’s a planet in everyone’s hearts, man.” “And?” “And Saturn’s not Satan, man, but apparently, it vibrates, like it’s magic, and, like, it sends us messages through our DNA, man. It’s ‘cause of it that we’re all in a game man, and sometimes...” his voice got low, “sometimes, we’re a rail shooter.”

“...why do you believe that?”

Charlie looked offended, or as much as one could while currently tripping on whatever he’d taken. “Man, I don’t believe that.”

“You believe that reptiles run the government! You believe that ancient aliens came to Earth!” “yeah, but not, like, that they helped build the pyramids, man, I’ve seen you work, you don’t think we couldn’t, like, build the pyramids ourselves, man?” “YOU THINK THAT FORESTS HAVE SPIRITS AND THE TREES TALK TO YOU!” “...only some of them, man, and, like, it’s biology that mushrooms connect with all things, man.”

“Charlie...”

“Have you tried--.” “I’ll stab you instead and take Custard away if you finish that sentence. Focus, Charlie. Why did this guy die? What does this have to do with...” Albert wrinkled his nose, disgusted he’s even asking this, “the ‘Saturn-Moon Matrix’?”

“Oh, well, I asked him about that ‘cause he wasn’t giving me the quartz until I told him if I was silicone or not, and I told him, ‘no, carbon-man, like all man’ but, like, he didn’t like that, and explained that quartz and silicone is how we open our minds - which is not true, man, that’s a different type of crystal entirely, and you need, like, the right oils and chakra-cleansed, but at this point, I’m sure the quartz was, like, polluted with his bad vibes, so I told him I didn’t want it, but then he said I was part of the people who don’t Earth-walk or do the Sun-worship, which is bull, I do my Suns each day for yoga, man. But he said that the crystal was part of the great link of all ancient trees that are really mountains, and that to be carbon-based is to be with Satan, and hold his number, and I met Satan once...I think someone who knew someone who met LeVey this one time at a thing introduced us, but he also gave me some really bad stuff, and like, that was the first bad trip I ever had so he might have died being dragged into a pit screaming while multiple demons ripped him apart, I dunno, I know a box was involved and I don’t play with weird boxes into other dimensions, man, I got enough trouble without sadism getting into it. So anyway, I had some weird dreams that night.”

Albert pulled out his gun. “Charlie, I said I was going to shoot you if you don’t explain this to me.”

“OH...right...wait...yeah, right, sorry. Anyway, the quartz-seller said I could only join his group if I cut myself, and I don’t like guys who advocate self-harm, man, especially not to join with each other! And then Custard bit him. But, you know, while he was biting him, I realized I never asked what the hell that Saturn-Moon Matrix was, but he had some literature,” he pointed to a bloodied book nearby, “and I read it, and...it makes no sense to me, man.”

Albert’s trigger finger twitched. “You brought me here to explain it to you?”

“It makes no sense to me, and I’m, like SUPER high right now. I was VERY high before and I still don’t get it. Like, I get the Moon is, like, the satellite of the Earth and it forms a near-perfect rotation around us so it gives us, like, tides and shit, and also makes sure that comets and asteroids and other stuff doesn’t hit us as hard. And I get, like Saturn rotates super fast, but rotation isn’t vibration, that makes no sense, and I knew this girl, so I called her, and she does astrology - she did our horoscopes and stuff, and she found out that guy you like, he’s, like, super compatible with you, you want me to give you her number?” “NO.” “Fine, damn, that sucks, you’re like, the only one of us, he needs to get laid by one of us, get his aura to move more gray and not as right/wrong, ya dig? Anyway, she said that astrology kinda has matrices - that’s the plural of matrix, did you know that man?” “...no.” “So, she said that matrices were more math.”

There was a long pause before Wesker looked skyward. “AND?”

“...Like, you know guys, man. Could you explain math to me?”

“I’m going to shoot you now.”

[miss-lumiere]

Hidden Affection - Chapter Two

Sherlock x reader x Moriarty

Synopsis: Sherlock’s and John’s lives are about to drastically change, when John’s younger sister he hasn’t seen in years, appears at their doorstep. After living with the two for a while, Sherlock grows fond of the younger, intelligent woman. He feels connected to her like he never did before with another human being. But will the attention of a certain criminal mastermind get in the way? Wordcount: 3.5k A/N: Hey guys, I’m back with another chapter! I will probably update this series once a week or every two weeks and I plan to keep them around 2k - 3k words each. Enjoy the chapter and I would appreciate if you let me know how you liked it. :) Masterlist  Chapter One  Chapter Three The beginning of the end As John and you re-enter 221b a week later, shopping bags in your hands, you hear two gunshots being fired upstairs. The two of you had been grocery shopping together seeing as John still had issues with the machines in the supermarket. Sherlock was left at the flat alone, probably not the wisest decision. You instantly freeze, looking at an irritatingly calm John with a shocked expression. “It’s probably just Sherlock.”, he expresses with a shrug of his shoulders before continuing up the stairs. You were frozen to the spot for another second, before rushing after John, curious as to what was going on. Living with Sherlock was certainly more exciting then your former life and you’ve grown to enjoy the bickering between him and your brother. John was always so easily irritated or annoyed, a trait you had exploited when you were younger. The view that greeted you as you entered the flat makes you chuckle quietly. Sherlock is sprawled out on his armchair. He hadn’t dressed yet and was still in his blue silk robe, his hair slightly ruffled. In his left hand he held a gun which he now pointed at the wall on the right-hand side before firing it another two times. He didn’t even bother to look at his target. The shrill sound lets you flinch. That was the first time that someone fired a gun in your presence and you were sure it wasn’t going to be the last. Slightly scared you rush into the kitchen, dropping the bag next to the fridge. The groceries could wait. Sherlock was far more interesting right now. As you returned to the living room, you noticed what Sherlock had been shooting at: A big yellow, smiley had been sprayed on the wall. The yellow paint was now interrupted by bullet holes. Impressive, you had no clue he was such a good shot. But then again, it was probably dangerous not to in his occupation. The tall man fired a third and a forth shot, before John interrupts him. “What the hell are you doing?”, your brother inquired, removing his fingers from his ears. “Bored.”, Sherlock stated plainly, in a child-like tone. “What?”, John exclaimed in disbelief. “Bored!”, Sherlock replied, this time louder. And just like that they were back at bickering like a married couple. Typical. As Sherlock jumps up from the chair, John covers his ears again. You carefully step closer to your brother mirroring him. The curly-haired man fires a few bullets at the smiley face before putting his arm behind his back, firing from that position. “Bored! Bored!” As Sherlock lowered his arm, John rushed to his side taking the gun away from him and removing the magazine. Finally feeling a little less agitated, you joined into the conversation. “Don’t you have anything you could be doing? A case maybe?”, you ask trying to calm Sherlock, who had now moved to the couch. “Don’t know what’s got into the criminal classes. Good job I’m not one of them.”, the man responds “Well, taking it out on the wall will not keep you entertained for very long. Maybe try something less destructive and potentially dangerous?”, you try to reasoning with Sherlock while John puts the gun away. You should have known that it’s pointless to reason with a child once it’s angry. “Ah, the wall had it coming.”, he pointed out flopping down on the brown sofa. Moving closer to the wall to observe Sherlock’s work, you couldn’t hinder a grin from forming on your face. Sherlock certainly was a strange man. Weird, yes, but also more interesting than most. You had a feeling there was much more to him than most believed. No matter how long it would take, you already had set your mind to solving the puzzle that was Sherlock Holmes. “What about that Russian case?” your brother asked before making his way to the kitchen, probably to put the groceries away. “Belarus. Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time.”, you heard Sherlock respond as you followed John to the fridge. You intended to help out as much as possible since you were living with them for free. “Ah, shame.”, John added sarcastically, followed by you chuckling. John takes out a few things out of one of the bags, moving to put them in the fridge. As he opened the door of the fridge John lets out a curse making you look up from the bag. “What’s…”, you trail off after spotting the head that was placed in the fridge. You slightly back up, not being used to the look as much as the two men. “Sherlock? Why is there a head in your fridge?”, you asked a little confused after heading back into the living room. “And where are we supposed to store the food?! Whatever, I’m going to ask Mrs. Hudson if she had some space left.” A few minutes later you had brought the bags to the landlady, but not without having the older woman remind you of how she was ‘not your housekeeper’. You were somewhat happy of having been spared the fight that surely ensued between your two flatmates. As you walked back to the flat, you heard shouting coming from inside. The door burst open, followed by an angry John rushing down the stairs past you. “John?”, you asked him stopping on the stairs as he had reached the entrance door. “I’m going to stay at Sarah’s for the night.”, he simply replied before leaving. As you reached the flat, Sherlock was standing in the middle of the room facing the smiley with a smirk. “Everything alright with John?”, you inquired a little worried. “Sure. I don’t know what has gotten into him.”, he replied, oblivious to the fact that he was most likely the reason for John leaving. “Now that John’s not present I would like to ask you something.”, you said changing the topic, since you were sure the conversation was going to lead nowhere. “Will you teach me?” “Care to elaborate?”, he requested having turned towards you, his arms clasped behind his back as you started approaching him further. “How to shoot. I want to be able to protect myself, now that I am being associated with you.”, you explained smiling shyly while fidgeting with your hands. “Why are you not asking your brother?”, he asked tilting his head to the side. “You know how John is, he is way to overprotective. He would never allow it.” “But you’ll do it anyw – “ Before Sherlock could finish his sentence a blast knocked you both to the floor. Your ears were ringing and you could feel a stinging pain in parts of your body before blackness overcame you. As you came to your senses you were greeted by a familiar face. Sherlock was leaning over you with a somewhat concerned expression. You found yourself lying on some kind of bed in the back of an ambulance. “What’s happened?”, you asked still a little dizzy. “Supposed gas leak in the opposite building. It shattered the windows of our flat and knocked us to the floor.”, he explained. “You lost your consciousness for a few minutes, but other than a few scratches and bruises you should be fine.” You smiled weakly, sitting up slowly. Your chest hurt a little but otherwise you felt fine. Taking you under his arm, Sherlock helped you to your feet walking you to the rim of the ambulance where you both sat down. “John’s still at Sarah’s?”, you asked a little worried. “Yes, I already attempted to contact him, but he didn’t pick up his phone.”, he exclaimed putting a blanket from the ambulance over your shoulders. Bricks and pieces of glass where scattered all over the street and policemen where attempting to keep curious civilians from intruding the restricted area. A huge hole graced now the façade of the building opposite 221b. “(Y/N), What is the real reason you are here?”, Sherlock’s voice interrupted your thoughts. “Sorry?” “You surely didn’t just appear on our doorstep because you missed the brother you hadn’t seen in years. Something must have happened that made you decide to come to London.” You bit your lip lowering your glance to the hands in your lap. “It’s our older sister, Harriet, she’s – gotten worse.”, you replied hesitantly, not liking that Sherlock was so observing. “I will talk to John, I swear, I just – please don’t tell him!” “Come on, let’s get upstairs. John will certainly expect us to be there.”, he reasoned helping you up. “It’s alright, I can walk myself.”, you objected with a grateful smile. “But thank you, Sherlock. For looking after me.” Sherlock doesn’t answer you but instead smiles softly walking slowly towards the entrance of 221b with you in tow. Inside the flat you flopped on the sofa with a sigh of relief while Sherlock sat down in his armchair playing with the strings of his violin absentmindedly. He was dressed in a purple button-up underneath his trademark coat and proper pants. The colour actually suited him, you found, he was always dressed so classically. You loved your brother with his adorable jumpers, but sometimes you wished he would care more about his clothes. You decided to retreat to the bathroom to take a look at your wounds and to freshen up a bit. You had a few scratches on your forehead and bruises on your jaw, but they had already been taken care of. After trying to make your hair look presentable you washed your face carefully to remove the layer of dust that was still covering your face partially. As you left the bathroom and entered the living area, the first thing you noticed was Mycroft who had positioned himself on John’s armchair. “Oh, Hello, Mycroft.”, you greeted with a smile, knowing that Mycroft came because he was secretly worried over Sherlock. “Hello, (Y/N), you are uninjured I assume?”, he said turning in your direction. “Is that your way of showing your concern for me?”, you replied with a smirk. In that moment you noticed John, who must have arrived only moments ago and looked severely worried. As he saw that you were mainly unharmed his body visibly relaxed. You rushed towards him followed by him embracing you in his arms. “Are you alright? I just saw what happened on TV, my phone was off.” “I’m fine. A few bruises and scratches here and there, but apart from that I was lucky.”“John.”, Sherlock acknowledged his presence. “I came as fast as possible. Are you okay, Sherlock?” You decided to leave the gentlemen to their business, feeling the need to change your still dusty clothes. The suitcase that you had brought with you had been stored in the bathroom, so you always had access to your stuff. Entering the bathroom a second time, you opened your suitcase pulling out a new pair of jeans and a plain shirt. You changed into your clean clothes and put the dirty ones into the laundry basket. Mycroft was surely talking to his brother about a case he wanted him to look into, but knowing Sherlock, he would pretend to be busy, just to annoy Mycroft. Honestly, sometimes you didn’t understand their relationship. To everyone who was around the two a little longer it was obvious that both of them hid their worry and love for each other behind a façade of intellect. Sure they were both incredibly intelligent but not even they could detach themselves from feelings simply because they dreaded having a soft spot. As you left the bathroom, Mycroft had already walked towards the door so you hurried into the living area fearing you had missed something important. Mycroft turned towards you probably to say his goodbyes. “It was a pleasure seeing you again, (Y/N).”, he stated shaking your hand. “I left information to a case with John. I hope you two will convince Sherlock to look into it.” “I will try.”, you responded with a soft smile, finding their rivalry kind of adorable. After Mycroft left, you turned in Sherlock’s and John’s direction. “Anything I missed?” In that moment Sherlock’s phone rings, followed by him setting down the bow of his violin and answering his phone. “Sherlock Holmes.”, he said into the phone, his face lighting up after a few seconds.  “How could I refuse?” Sherlock ends the call and energetically jumps up from the seat, putting his violin away. “Lestrade. I’ve been summoned. Coming?”, he explained, having turned around towards us after walking to the door. “Should (Y/N) come too?”, John asked looking between you and Sherlock, unsure of what to decide. “If she wants to.”, Sherlock exclaimed looking at you expectantly. “More than anything!”, you replied excitedly. You were going to solve a case with Sherlock Holmes! After all three of you stepped into a cab, Sherlock in the front and the two of you in the back, your brother finally decided to break the silence. “So what have you been up to lately?”, he asked turning away from the window to look at you. “I just finished my dissertation. I’m almost a Doctor now.”, you explained excitedly with a grin on your face. “Not a medical one like I initially planned but a PhD nevertheless.” “What subject did you choose in the end? The last time I saw you, you were so keen on going to med school.” “Neurobiology. In the end, I decided I was more of a scientist. I always wanted to work in research and med school just wasn’t for me.” “If I had your grades I would have gotten into med school a lot easier. We could have swapped.”, he joked with a chuckle. “Yeah, haha. But then again, with your grades I probably wouldn’t have been able to study biology either!”, you snorted a playful smile gracing your features. “Tse, always the sassy one, you haven’t changed a bit.”, he exclaimed before turning to look out the window again.“Sherlock here studied chemistry.”, he added hoping to make the tall man join the conversation. “Really?”, you asked, happy to have found another person with a passion for science. “Why are you not working in that field?”“I could, of course. Though solving cases is far more exhilarating.”, Sherlock elaborated without turning around. “He means, he is no good at working with other people. ”, John elaborated jokingly to which Sherlock responded by giving him the deathglare.“I bet they were pissed off by his little “projects”, John snickered. “Maybe he stored a head in their fridge, too.”, you said giggling. “God dammit, we really have to get a new fridge…” “Are you quite done?” The cab came to a hold, meaning you had reached your destination. As you exit the cab your excitement grew: You would be working with New Scotland Yard on a crime, something you had always dreamed of. And the best part was that you got to see Sherlock use his brilliant mind. Maybe you could learn a thing or two. The boys moved closer to the entrance of the precinct where just now noticed a man with grey hair smoking a cigarette. He seemed to have been waiting for you, since Sherlock approached him. “What do you have for me?”, Sherlock asked a little bit to eager for your taste. “I will explain inside.”, the silver-haired man responded taking a last drag of his cigarette before letting it drop to the pavement. “Who’s your friend Sherlock?” “She’s John’s younger sister. Quite the smart one, she might prove helpful.”, the consulting detective explained making you smile proudly. Sherlock just complimented you. Certainly, a rare thing to hear coming from him. The man hesitated for a second before walking closer to you holding out his right hand. “Detective Inspector Lestrade. Nice to meet you. If Sherlock says you will be of help to us, you are welcome to join us.” “(Y/N) Watson, at your service.”, you responded winking before shaking his hand. You thought you saw a light blush cover his cheeks, but you have been wrong. “Follow me.”, the Detective Inspector instructed entering the building with the three of you in tow. As you walked through an area where many policemen where rushing about Lestrade spoke again: “You like the funny cases, don’t you? The surprising ones.” “Obviously.”, Sherlock responded. “You’ll love this. That explosion...” As you passed a certain desk that a had a card with the name ‘Detective Sergeant Donovan’ on it, a dark-skinned woman looks you up and down dismissively after exchanging angry glares with Sherlock. “Gas leak, yes?”, Sherlock elaborates. “No.” “No?” “No, made to look like one.”, the Detective Inspector clarifies as you reached his office. At that you exchange confused looks with John. “So this was not an accident.”, John exclaimed seemingly confused. “But, why? What do you get for blowing up an empty building?!” “Sherlock’s attention. He could simply wait for the right moment to blow us up, but he didn’t. His intention wasn’t to kill us.”, you deduced seeing how professional the whole thing was organized. Looking back to Sherlock you noticed a white envelope the words ‘Sherlock Holmes’ on it lying on a nearby desk, that the Consulting Detective was fixated on. “Hardly anything left of the place except a strong box – a very strong box – and inside it was this.”, Lestrade explained pointing towards the envelope. “You haven’t opened it?” “It’s addressed to you, isn’t it?” As Sherlock reached for the letter, Lestrade added “We’ve X-rayed it. It’s not booby-trapped.” The dark-haired man looked up for a second before hesitatingly taking the envelope in his hands. “How reassuring!”, he exclaimed sarcastically. Sherlock walks to a nearby lamp examining the envelope intently under the light. “Nice stationery. Bohemian.” “What?”, Lestrade dug deeper. “From the Czech Republic. No fingerprints?” “No.” “She used a fountain pen. A Parker Duofold – iridium nib.” He was able to see that just from examining the writing? Impressive. “She?”, your brother inquired, wanting to understand how he identified the writer’s gender. “Although it’s disputed, Graphologist’s find that a women’s writing is rounder and neater than a man’s handwriting which you can see in this example. I find those characteristics in my handwriting as well.”, you clarified quietly. “How do you know that?”, John questioned eying you suspiciously. “I read Sherlock’s blog. Maybe you should try it too, even if it is as ‘boring’ as you say.”, you deadpanned. Sherlock opens the envelope with a letter opener as John and you step closer, curious as to what was inside it. As a pink phone fell into his hand, John’s face lights up in recognition. “What is it? Have you seen this before?” “But that’s – that’s the phone, the pink phone.”, John proclaimed in disbelief. “What, from the Study in Pink?” “From the first case?”, Lestrade and you chimed in. “Well, obviously it’s not the same phone but it’s supposed to look like ...”, Sherlock trailed off before noticing what the two of you had just said. “The Study in Pink? You read his blog?” “It’s quite entertaining and I have a lot of time on my hands.”, you justified shrugging as Sherlock glares at you accusingly before turning to Lestrade. “Course I read his blog! We all do. D’you really not know that the Earth goes round the Sun?”, he explained. “It isn’t the same phone. This one’s brand new.”, Sherlock observed ignoring Lestrade’s question. “Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone, which means your blog has a far wider readership.”, he states looking at John accusingly. Sherlock turned the phone on and a mechanic voice started speaking. “You have one new message.”, followed by four short pips and a longer one. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Is that it?”, John and you asked confused. “There’s more.”, Sherlock responded showing us a picture on the phone that showed an empty, run-down room with a fireplace in the center of it. “What the hell are we supposed to make of that? An estate agent’s photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!”, Lestrade exclaimed in frustration. “It’s a warning.”, Sherlock explained absentmindedly. You took the phone out of his hands examining the picture closer. You had no clue where that was supposed to be. “But for what?”, you voiced before handing the phone back to the Consulting Detective. “Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that. Five pips. They’re warning us it’s gonna happen again.” Sherlock looks back at the small screen his brows furrowed in thought, before heading to the door. “And I’ve seen this place before.” “H-hang on. What’s gonna happen again?”, he asked trying to catch up with his flatmate. “Sherlock, what do you mean?”, you joined in rushing together with Lestrade after the two. Sherlock turned around making a dramatic gesture with his arms. “BOOM!” To be continued... If you would like to be tagged for the series, let me know!

[salmon2245]

Something they don’t talk about 01

Notes: this fic is kind of RPF but not a treditional one. Characters in this fic are mostly dancers from the R&J French musical tour cast. Some of them actually never worked together. Because the dancer crew are different every tour.

I wrote it in Chinese first and then translated into English. And I’m not good at English. There will be many grammar mistakes and sentence that doesn’t make sense. I apologize.

For now there are only four people mentioned:

Andrea, danced in the 2012 Japan tour, 2015 Korean tour, 2018 Chinese tour and 2019 Russian tour, as Montague

Cristian, in 2018 Chinese tour，as Montague

McCarthy, in 2015 Korean tour, as Montague

Julie, in 2015 Korean tour, as Capulet

The relationship between characters are mostly based on their performance on stage, but also mixed with what they are off stage in daily life.

I guess no one have any clue who they are here on tumblr 😂, but we do have a fandom of it in some Chinese R&J fans. Well. If anyone are interested in this fandom, feel free to ask me anything. About their relationship in real life and characteristics they show on stage. And photos. Like, too much photos. Cause these people, these talented dancers as well as actors, they certainly ship themselves.

This story still happens in Verona, but focused on normal people not the original Romeo and Juliette. They will be mentioned in the future, also Benvolio and Mercutio and Tybalt and Paris and so on. But they are not the main Characters, is all. Kind of living in the background.

ABO setting/rape/incest/basically everyone fucks everyone

Omega!Andrea, Alpha!McCarthy, Alpha!Julie

Cristian still a teenager hasn’t transformed yet

There are too much settings in the background but I kind of jump into the middle part and start writing whatever this is. Wish I could make it clear in the further updates.

Something They don’t Talk about 01

1

        "Cristian!" McCarthy shouted gleefully at the other side of the bar across the barren, "used to wet the bed when he was a kid! And it was me who have to save his ass every time!"

        The little boy stared anxiously, the bartender who he had just flirted with, heard it, couldn't help but laugh, and with love, took Cristian's furry head into her chest, rubbing it like a puppy rub.

        Damn, Cristian was forced to get closer to that white breasts because of this rub, and smelled the sweet fragrance from the lovely lady. He flushed, and can’t decide if he was shamed because of being shattered in the crowds, or because he was close to her breasts. This really is nothing at all. He has seen those girls who always wonder in the alleys of the shadow zone. Their lips are too red to be natural, and those faces unhealthily pale. Their eyes under the heavy makeup watching the potential customers passing by, wearing skirt with a low neckline can hardly cover the Soft chest. He should get used to this scene.

        When he returned to reality, the bartender had already gone to serve other guests. McCarthy held a bottle of wine in his hand and smirked at him. Cristian tightened his teeth, and then, the glass of wine was taken away by another hand.

        Seeing who that hand belongs, Christian turned his face into the shadow in a hurry. Who else can it be, only his brother. McCarthy didn't finish his surprising cry, and was pushed away by Andrea grabbing his elbow. The boy hid himself in the crowd, feeling a little frightened. Andrea didn't see him, did he? Montague boys who are younger than him these days can blow wine bottles to show off their great triumph against Capulet, and only Andrea has always written a ban on alcohol in their rules. With his brother beside him, Cristian can never get to taste even a drop of alcohol. Andrea rarely took him to the bar. Only occasionally, once or twice, Cristian was only allowed to drink sweet fruit juice bitterly when all of his friends try their best to get drunk.

        The wine in his own hands somehow lost his interest. Cristian looked at the remaining half of the liquid and poured it into his stomach in one shot. It was not bad to drink, but also not as magical as others have preached. Andrea didn't look at him, and in a second he had pulled McCarthy into the corner of the bar, can’t tell when he would leave. Cristian believed that he hadn't noticed himself, but he can never be too careful. He quickly put on his coat and walked down the secret path he had found to his house. If he arrives home later and is asked by Andrea, he will have to make up an excuse, which he really wants to avoid.

2

        The little area of skin where the arm was held was slightly warm, and McCarthy leaned against the wall along Andrea's strength. He watched as the wine returned to his hand and raised an eyebrow at the other.

        Andrea sighed and wrapped his hands around his chest. "How old are you," he didn't look at McCarthy, and he slumped against the wall with his heels. “too old for this trick, I believe.”

        "Hey, how dare you to stop me mention it,” The dark-skinned man swallowed his wine and shrugged. “after all, this is all done by your son. It can’t be more real, and I didn't lie about it."

        "You're vengeance, and some tiny stuffs over ten years ago can make you think of it now." There are smile hides in Andrea’s voice. He grabbed McCarthy's wine and gave himself a sip, then shoved it back into his hands.

        "That puppy pissed and vomited on my hand or chest more than a dozen times. I just avenged it, and it was bright and upright in the lobby," McCarthy said, pointing his chin to the bar. "Get the drink yourself, don’t try to steal mine. "

        Andrea shook his head, raised one hand to rub his neck. “I just need a sip. Drinking too much will make trouble in the coming days."

        The meaning behind this words was already too familiar to McCarthy. He recalled the overheating temperature on his arm and turned to look at Andrea's already sweaty forehead, and the smile on his face suddenly gone.

        "So you still need me this time."

        "I know, I know," Andre interrupted him, "I said, you have your life. I'm looking for you ... depend on what you want, you can refuse. I mean that.”

        It wasn't willing or unwilling at all, McCarthy rolled his eyes in his mind. He knows that Andrea doesn't trust any strange Alphas. In fact, it’s already quite brave for him to not mind having Alpha being close to his personal distance during the daily life. Consider what he had been through. It is impossible for him to pick anyone from the bar to solve his heat. If McCarthy doesn't help, chances are he will choose to go through it for days alone, in a very unhealthy way.

        At least they've tried alcohol, and it only makes the situation worse, so that’s not in the consideration.

        "The mark is obviously a better solution," McCarthy replied. "It's you who don't want it, not me."

        "Why, have you been so fucked up these years?" Andrea laughed at him, "has fallen to the point of binding me for life?"

        As if he cared, McCarthy thought silently. He had gone to bed with Alpha almost as often as with Omega, and most his lovers had no natural conditions for the mark thing at all. However, they did not continue the discussion. This time, like many previous times, stopped halfway with no results.

3

        Cristian never liked McCarthy, but the boy felt that the problem was not with himself. He couldn't figure out what was wrong with this man, always playing tricks on him, and making jokes that awkward him in the public. The elated looks on that man’s face just made his fists tighten. And his scent. It's not that Cristian hates McCarthy's scent, but there are times that the scent of him just raise his angry—especially when it is sticking on his brother.

        He knew that his brother and McCarthy were at the close of life and death. After his mother's death, thanks to McCarthy's help, Andrea got to raise him to the light without illness or disaster. If anything, McCarthy could have saved his life. When he was young, Cristian thought he was his elder brother's Alpha. When he grow up and know better, he find out that there was no actual biological connection between them. In theory, this is not a responsible behavior, but as he sees more around him, the boy gradually get used to it. It is natural to say that this is the case in Verona.

        That night, Cristian arrived home first, but until he got up the next day, Andrea was still not back at home. Cristian cooked oatmeal with more water than needed, and used it to wash down two pieces of dry toast. The Master Montague found him a job in the mill, and there’s only minutes before work. He left the bowl on the table, put on his shoes in a hurry, and locked the door. No matter where his brother was, Cristian believed that it’s nothing for him to worry about.

4

        When Julie met McCarthy again, he was driving a carriage on his way out of the city, carrying the goods that Montague is going to sell. She waved, confident enough that he would stop the carriage for her.

        McCarthy did park in front of her.

        "Wow," Julie sniffed. "I smell the scent of Andrea."

        The man in the driver's seat did not answer her, but just asked, "What are you doing here?"

        "If I said I was waiting for you, you wouldn't believe it," Julie made a polite smirk. "I know you are going to Vicenza, count me in, got some personal business there to be done."

        McCarthy didn't think to resist, he moved to the side of the seat, and Julie flipped up easily, with one foot up and stepping on the railing of the carriage.

        "So, how do you know I'm going to Vicenza?" The man pretended to be casual.

        "Oh," Julie said with a sincere smile this time, "Though I love you, Chris, there are some secrets that cannot be shared with Montague."

        McCarthy didn't ask, but mumbled some swear of Capulets, and start the carriage again. He didn't mind a partners on the business trip, not to mention that this partner was Julie Galopin. There is no Montague or Capulet in Vicenza. They could do whatever they wanted, and be whoever they want to be.