#supposedly the separate print DOES have it. but i saw what i thought was the separate print and no lantern guy

[nukaposting]

pov you’re trying to track down accurate information on the phantom of the opera silent film

[thevodkadidthis]

Hickeys and Sharpies.

Pairing: Female!Reader x Professor!Sebastian. College AU.  Warning(s): some light smut, cussing, age gap and fluff(?) Word Count: 2.2K words  Summary: when a supposedly one-night stands ends up with a twist.  Note: some 3am ideas came in mind, lmao. pardon me for being t h i s lame, hope you like this anyway! 

Cursing for what felt like the hundredth time even though you just got up from bed, you quickly paced around the room to pick up the discarded clothes that are scattered on the floor. You glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table and frowned upon seeing that you are already a few minutes late for the first period.

Wearing nothing but your undergarments, you contemplated whether you should take a bath or run for class. Apparently, you still reek of alcohol, a bit of sweat and a bit of him. “Fuck it.” You muttered under your breath and went for the latter idea. You settled in wearing a printed over-sized shirt and denim pants, spraying a bit of perfume to try and hide the absence of a decent bath. You tried to comb your hair and fixed your appearance in front of the mirror. After a couple of attempts, you finally breathed a satisfied sigh and went on to attend the first period.

You didn’t want to be late, especially now that you are supposed to meet the new teacher for Linguistics. Throughout the trip to the campus, you couldn’t help but to visualize the things that had occurred the previous night, while trying not to mind the growing headache on both sides of your head.

Feeling reckless and adventurous, you and your friends decided to drink in a club that is a bit far from the dormitories, a bit far from the campus—to try and meet new people, and to try things out in other places. One of your friends recommended a certain place, and as you arrive at the front, you could already see the neon lights and other bright lights that seemed to shoot into the sky. You felt a wave of excitement in your gut as you entered the place; a crowd of dancing people drenched in sweat welcomed you, loud music boomed and reverberated from all places in the darkly-lit room. A friend immediately approached the bar and called all of you for a round of shots, tequila is always the best starter for a fun night, you thought, as you downed 3 shots of it. Quickly aiding the burn in your throat with a slice of lemon and salt that sits on the counter, you winced and closed your eyes as the familiar sensation caused by the alcohol slowly creep its way into your skin, and into your bones. Feeling a bit loosened up, you dragged one person from your group and headed to the center for a dance when one of your favorite songs plays. You swayed your hips and bobbed your head to the beat of the music. There were a couple of boys who started to dance around you yet you paid no mind, all of them looked wasted and shit-faced—you didn’t want that. After a couple of minutes, you approached the bar for another drink. Wiping the droplets of sweat that formed in your forehead, you asked the bartender for a tequila shot and fanned yourself using your hand to try and get some air.

“That dude right there wants to pay for your drink.” The bartender approached and handed you two shots of tequila, along with a slice of lemon and salt, like how you took it earlier. You glanced to the direction where he motioned and saw a man wearing black and tight sweater that obviously hugged his well-built body. You narrowed your eyes to try and get a better look, he certainly does not look like any college student. He was staring right back at you and raised his glass of beer, you mirrored his move and mouthed a thank you to him and drank the shot.

You entered the main entrance and checked for your schedule that’s in your phone, and started sprinting towards the room for your first class. Clearing your throat, you slowly opened the door in the back of the room and quietly settled into the seat on the farthest part of the room—however, everyone seemed to look at you despite of your efforts at trying to stay quiet upon entering the room, you even had your head down to pay some respect to the professor. Looking back at everyone, you couldn’t exactly decipher the expressions they have on their faces, they were simply looking, as if it’s the first time they encountered a student that is late for her class.

Then you stared at the front, where the professor stood, arms crossed on chest.

Jesus fucking Christ, you’ve got to be shitting me.

He didn’t try to stop the smirk that forms on his lips as he continues to stare at you, “Sorry I’m late, sir.”

“I was just discussing about the rules and regulations in the room, more specifically, how I do not encourage latecomers or tardy students.” He started to sit on the edge of his wooden table, your gaze dropped on his incredibly tight jeans that accentuates his thick thighs, your breath was caught on your throat because he knew where exactly you’re looking. “But I’m going to let you slide today, since you look like you had a rough night.” He continued, emphasizing the rough word and you felt your head spinning even more.

Everyone already stopped looking at you so you took that time to close your eyes and curse, again. Dropping your head low on the table, you mentally tried to remember the events again, as you try to come up with an explanation as to why you are stuck in a situation like this.

Once separated by a bar counter and a couple of tables, you and the stranger who bought you a drink somehow found a way to touch each other. You were suddenly back on the dance floor again, more loosened up than ever as you feel a pair of hands caressing your sides as he guides your hips and you just kept on swaying, you turned your back to him and danced harder, intentionally bumping your ass towards his groin and you heard how his breath got caught on his mouth, you smirked at him, feeling a bit more bold and confident, knowing you had that kind of effect over him. Reaching out to grasp a handful of your hair and tilting your head to the side, “Do you want to get out of here?” he asked and he didn’t need a verbal answer because you were already pulling his hand away and towards the exit.

You took out a notebook from your bag along with a black pen and started writing scribbles on the pages, momentarily looking up to the teacher and pretending to pay attention, but your mind is simply wandering away and into the memories from last night. You knew why his eyes always lingered on you longer, but you are always the one to break it off by drawing lines and odd shapes on your notes.

After a painfully long ride towards your dorm building, his impatience and growing desire was finally satiated as his lips crashed on you the moment your keys unlocked the front door. His hands were all over the place: one, it was placed on the back of your neck to press you more against him; two, he dragged it downwards to cup your breast; three, it was moving up and down on your sides while both of your tongues fight for dominance and power.

Deprived of air, he pulled away, and his eyes glistened with pure lust and desire under the dim lights of your room, “You’re wearing too much clothes.” He grunted, you pulled the hem of your dress upward and completely taking it off. He took a couple of seconds to stare at your body, drinking in your appearance.

You tried to pull his shirt away and you felt your thighs pressing against each other as you stare at his body, he had the most beautiful body you have ever seen and you knew you weren’t going to last long with him, you’d fall apart, almost immediately.

His lips found its way back to yours, with more force now and hunger, “I’ll make you feel so fucking good.”

Chewing on the other end of the pen, you looked outside and at the windows as you keep on reminiscing. You really tried to pay attention and to listen to him, but your gaze kept dropping on his smooth and pink lips, the way his arm muscles flexed whenever he raises it, and how he lick his lips from time to time while speaking in front of the class. Then, you remembered the bitten marks on your chest and a bit on your collarbones while you were wearing your bra and the shirt earlier. You kept on looking down at your groin as the vision of your physical connection flashes by in your mind.

It felt good to be on top of him while his hands grip on your hips tight, you swore it will bruise the day after but you didn’t mind. He felt good inside of you as he fills you up and you continue to pound into him, your fingers made its way to your bundle of nerves and started to touch yourself but he was quick to spot the move and he swat your hand away, replacing it with his own.

Go on, let it all out

Moan my name

Come on, baby, you’re doing so, so good

That’s right, keep on doing that, just like that

His deep voice whispered, grunted and moaned into your ear as you felt a familiar pressure forming in your abdomen. You were trying to keep your voice down, at minimal level, or else everyone residing on the same floor as you will know just how loud you are during sex. But he wasn’t helping at all, he wanted to hear you, and he was either muffling your moans with his full mouth kisses, or he is urging you to moan out loud.

After a couple of thrusts, praising and moans from him—you fell apart, with shaking legs and labored breathing, you reached your climax and he was still going in and out of you in a dangerously slow pace, riding out your orgasm, when his movement shifted and got too fast again, you knew he was chasing his own. You collapsed on top of him, the side of your face resting on his chest and you tried to recover, to grasp for air again, as he did the same. He assisted you and laid you down on the space beside him, you were about to clean up but he draped a blanket over you and snaked an arm right at your waist, it was a very comfortable feeling, a safe one even, despite of how he is just a stranger and you literally met each other a couple of hours ago.

He kissed one shoulder as he hug you from behind, “You did well tonight, darling. Sleep tight.”

The bell rang, signaling the end of the first period. You were quick to put your things away and shove them into your bag, ignoring the mess it would make on the inside of your bag, you didn’t care anymore, you just suddenly had the strong will to escape from this embarrassment.

“Miss? The one from the back.” You heard him call out, turning to his direction, you tried to know or to confirm if he was talking to you. And he was. With a sly smile on his face, “I need you to sign some papers here—attendance, since you were late.”

You swallowed hard, but continued to walk over him anyway.

You got into the wooden table and picked up the paper he was handing down, but you were surprised because it wasn’t a list of the class, there wasn’t any name printed on the sheet. It was a scratch paper, with words written in pencil.

Don’t go out yet, stay. Wait for the others to leave.

Your gaze immediately shot back to him but he was looking at the other students, bidding them goodbyes with the most polite smile he could ever give.

So you waited, until the last student got out.

“You didn’t send a text.” He started, with a hint of disappointment on his face.

Your mouth fell open, not quite sure what he meant, “What?”

He moved closer and reached out for your right arm, lifting the sleeve and exposing the skin on it. The way his fingers gripped you and how his skin felt hot against you sent shivers, but you looked at your own arm and you noticed the small numbers written with a sharpie.

“Oh.”

He smirked, “I’m surprised it’s still there, thought it got washed away.” He picked up his book and re-arranged the his stuff, “I could still smell the sex off of you.” Then it was followed by a chuckle, as he head towards the front door, about to exit.

“Call me when you want it to happen again, I’m Sebastian, by the way.” Were his last words before completely exiting the room, leaving you breathless and wide-eyed.

[overheardatthecontinental]

Talk Chapter 7

AO3

Helen learns about the hit that’s been ordered 

John addresses the guilt that’s holding him down

John packs up quickly, filling the car pretty much to the brim, holding on to the knowledge that he really doesn’t know when he’ll come back.

By putting a contract out on Helen, it was no longer a matter of killing DeLuca and ending this. The contract was open. Whether he was dead or alive, people would come for her.

And while dead was the only way John wanted to see Mateo DeLuca, the fact remained that only he could remove the bounty on Helen. DeLuca, he thinks, or the High Table.

But the High Table wasn’t going to give a shit that Helen Kingston was a civilian. That she hadn’t done anything.

A hit was a hit.

He isn’t sure how he’s going to fix this.

John goes back down to the basement, to his workshop, and found a book hidden among the masses. It’s a newer book that stands out among his bookbinding collection. Larger than most.

He selects it and heads back to the main floor. John lays it open and takes out his phone to prepare to send the message.

As technology got better, so had hackers. Even phones issued by the Continental were subject to being hacked or tracked. He, Marcus, and Sofia had set up a failsafe years ago.

Even if the phone was hacked, it would take years to crack the code they came up with.

He opens the book and finds the first letter he needs, capitalized. He types in the page number, followed by the line that the word is located on, and finally counts out how many words into the line it is.

John hears Helen’s footsteps on the stairs and spares a glance upward. She has a tower of books piled into her little hands. He withholds a smirk and instead, shakes his head. “Just those?”

“This is as many as I can safely carry.” She replies, walking towards him and setting the books on the side of the table, “But rest assured, I’ll be back to steal more.”

He says nothing to that because he can say nothing. Every plan he’s had is screwed up now. His original thought, to separate himself from her, is in shambles now that every assassin in New York knows her name.

She peeks at his phone, “Is that an Ottendorf cipher?”

John feels himself inhale sharply. Why does she have to know that?

It’s such a small thing, really, but she says something like that and his heart starts to stutter in his chest, making him all the more aware of just how much he loves her. He loves her and he can’t have her.

But she says that and he’s lost.

“Yes, but modified. Do I want to know how you know about Ottendorf’s?” John asks, instead.

“I was a paranoid child.” She says, glancing over the book he has chosen, lifting the cover without closing the page to better assess. “All my childhood diaries were written in some kind of code.” She glances up at him, a small smile on her face, “I made up my own cipher when I was eleven to pass notes to my friends in school.”

It occurs to him that she’s never mentioned her own childhood before. Of course, he knows a bit. Between his actual stalking and the time spent on the Continental database, finding every piece of information on Helen Kingston, he was bound to find some things.

Like citations from Elementary school where she got her class to mutiny against a teacher or the handful of detentions she got for backtalk.

But they’ve never talked about her early life before.

Their lines had always been blurred but this was one they hadn’t crossed.

John glances back to his book, “Quite the little rebel.”

She shrugs, “We talked about it last week. What are rules in the face of meaninglessness?”

“And here I thought we were stepping away from nihilism.”

“You’re stepping away from nihilism.” She corrects, “I’m quite content with the idea that there’s no plan or grand design.”

His lips twitch, “There’s still some food left in the kitchen if you want to grab something before we go.”

She hoists her books back up, “Alright. I’m going to drop these in the car first.”

John nods, continuing to compose his message. The Ottendorf cipher was difficult to crack because not only did you need the right book, you needed the right edition, the right printing. It was also a bitch to decode because it required time and accuracy. He, Marcus, and Sofia even took it a step farther by using the first letter of every word rather than using the word itself and often wrote in shorthand.

That said, it was a bitch to put together.

He manages to type out the address of his safehouse and hits send.

John types up a quick message to Winston that he was going off the grid until further notice as he goes back up the stairs. He changes quickly, forgoing the suit for something more casual. Jeans and a t-shirt are oddly discomforting but a three-piece suit would stick out in the middle of nowhere.

Once changed, he checks his phone one last time before powering down.

By the time he finishes, Helen is outside, leaning against the car, eating an apple.

He makes a mental note that they’ll need to stop and pick her up some new clothes because the sight of her dressed in his makes it hard to breathe.

“Ready?” He asks.

She nods, pushing off the car and opening the passenger side door. “Do I want to know about the matching holes in the windows?” She asks as she climbs in.

“Probably not.” He admits.

Helen shoots him a smirk as she buckles in. He’s grateful when she dives into one of the books she had brought rather than asking him questions. He’s still not sure how to broach the subject.

She knows something is wrong, he’s certain, but she hasn’t asked.

Not that he’s offered information. He wants to keep it from her, to protect her for just a little bit longer but he can’t. It’s not fair to her.

Every so often, he catches her looking up from her book, checking road signs and overhead passes that give off locations, directions.

Her curiosity is palpable but, even now, she’s playing the therapist. Not pushing, just waiting for him to get there on his own.

It’s not right. She shouldn’t have to do all the work for them. He tries to bring it up, pushes himself to say something, anything, the next time she looks around curiously.

Half an hour passes.

Then an hour.

Then two.

He gives himself until the clock on the dashboard hits the hour mark. Then he watches as that arbitrary deadline passes, too.

At quarter past, she looks up at one of the signs and he forces himself to choke out the word, “Vermont.”

Helen looks over at him, an eyebrow raised. “Vermont?” She repeats.

He nods, “I have a safehouse there.”

She looks back at the road ahead of them, “Are you ready to talk about it?”

No, he thinks. But it doesn’t matter. They need to talk about it. She needs to know what’s going on.

What was the expression she used? Quick, like a band aid?

“DeLuca put a hit on you.”

He glances over, gauging for a reaction and is met with a simple nod. “How much?”

That, John thinks, should not be her primary concern but he answers anyway, “Four million.”

That makes her head shoot up, repeating the number while staring at him, “Four million dollars?”

He nods, once.

“Jesus.” She mutters, shaking her head, “For four million, I’m tempted to turn myself in.”

John’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white, “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not laughing.” Helen rubs at her temple, “Fuck.”

That about covered it, John thinks.

He waits. She’s kept it together this long but news of a bounty on her head has to be enough to snap her out of the idle calm she’s been sitting in. He waits for her try cry or get angry or scream but, no. She shakes her head and looks back to the book on her lap.

He can’t help himself. “Seriously?” He asks, looking between Helen and the road, “You have a four-million-dollar bounty on your head.”

“Yes.” She agrees.

“There are hundreds of assassins looking for you right now.”

“I gathered.”

“Helen…” he cuts himself off, before he says something stupid.

She closes the book and leans back, facing him the best she can in the moving vehicle. “Do you think it would help?”

“What?”

“Do you think it would help if I broke down right now? If I started crying, do you think it would help either of us? Freaking out will not help me handle everything that’s going on. And it won’t affect the guilt that you’re clearly experiencing from something, and I can’t emphasize this enough, was beyond your control.”

He flounders for a moment, opening and closing his mouth as he searches for how to respond to her, “You’ve been kidnapped.”

“Mhmm.”

“Held hostage, sedated, been forced to play mind games with mobsters,”

“Seems like it was only yesterday.”

“And now you have a four-million-dollar hit out for you and you’ve barely reacted!”

She shrugs. She fucking shrugs and John wants to pull off to the side of the road and fucking shake her just to see if that sets her off.

“We all process things differently, John.”

“What have you processed?” He asks, unable to keep the frustration from his voice, “You’ve been eerily calm this entire time!”

She waves a hand, “I started processing it before it even happened. Maybe, if it had been completely out of the blue, I might have had a more visceral reaction. But let’s be real: this was going to happen at some point or another.”

“You were going to be kidnapped at some point or another?” He asks incredulously.

“Given the circumstances, it isn’t a large jump.” She points out. “You’re the Boogeyman. You might not understand all the fear people have when it comes to you but you recognize it. Fuck, I saw firsthand how terrified of you DeLuca’s men are. But you don’t present with a lot of exploitable weaknesses. And, regardless of how I entered the picture, it’s easy to see we have unhealthy boundaries.”

It takes him nearly a minute to process everything that she says and, when he does, he’s shaken.

“You’re saying you knew you were going to be kidnapped because we supposedly have unhealthy boundaries?”

Another shrug, “I wasn’t blind to the possibility that I could be targeted as a way to get to you. And there’s nothing supposedly about it. Our therapeutic relationship has been fucked since the beginning.”

John does a doubletake and looks over at her. “No, it hasn’t.”

Helen snorts, “One month in, I told you to forgo Tarasov V. Regents. A single phone call from you and I could have had my license revoked and my practice disbanded.”

“Isn’t trust the basis of a good therapeutic alliance?”

“There’s trust and then there’s putting my career in your hands. But if you don’t think that’s enough to indicate our God-awful boundaries, we could talk about your late-night stalking habits.”

John’s head flies to look at her.

“Traffic, John.”

He swerves and narrowly misses driving off the road.

His mind reels. She’d never mentioned it before and neither of them has ever brought it up. He operated somewhere between the assumptions that she didn’t know and that she would never mention it if she did.

He asks gruffly, “What did DeLuca tell you?”

She snorts at that, “Please. DeLuca doesn’t see nuances. He’s just convinced we’re sleeping together.”

“Then how--?”

Helen glances over, her voice softening, “Give me some credit here, John.”

He swallows, “How long have you known?”

“Five months.”

Since the beginning.

He watches the road, suddenly hyper-aware of the pounding of his heart, the hairs on his arms that are standing on end, and the tension filling his body.

He’s unable to look at her. He wonders if he’ll ever again be able to look at her, knowing that she knew. This whole time, she actually knew.

How many times had she asked him if he was planning for a late night, supplying him with coffee, all the while knowing that his late night was going to end sneaking into her home and watching her sleep?

And she had known? For five months?

And no, John Wick wasn’t the kind of man you took a restraining order out against, but she knows him better than anyone. One word from her and he would have disappeared.

Morbid curiosity and confusion get the better of him. “You never said anything.”

“You would have stopped.”

It really isn’t fair, John decides, that she can read him like a book despite his prevarications and evasions. But she answers him, and he can barely understand her.

“And that would have been a bad thing?” He can’t keep the incredulity out of his tone.

“I weighed the pros and cons.”

Now John can’t help but look at her. Calm as ever, her eyes remain kind and non-judgmental. “You weighed the pros and cons.” He repeats.

She nods, once, and John really isn’t sure what the hell kind of pros she came up with to sit back and just let that happen.

“Do you really want to have this conversation right now?” She doesn’t sound exasperated, only concerned. “I’m pretty sure you’re about to pull the steering wheel out if we keep going.”

He considers it, but John is pretty certain that the only thing worse than talking about it would be to stop. He wasn’t certain he’d be able to sit in his anxiety now that it was known.

“Yes.”

“To having the conversation or to yanking out the steering wheel?”

He shoots her a look but is a bit relieved that she’s still making jokes. She gives him a smile.

“I figured it out fairly quickly, I think.” She admits, “I woke up one night and just had a gut feeling that I wasn’t alone. Saw your reflection in the window but it was the middle of the night, and I was tired, and so I just went back to sleep.”

“Probably shouldn’t have been your first instinct.”

He doesn’t even have to look to know that she is rolling her eyes again, “You really want to start talking about instincts and poor decision making?”

She has him there.

“Anyway, you were gone when I woke up. At first, I thought it might just be a one-off. You’re a paranoid bastard. It made sense that you wanted to see where I live, gain a little bit of perspective. Trust that I wasn’t some sort of sleeper agent out to kill you or some shit. But then you came back.” She looks back to the road, almost thoughtfully. “And you kept coming back. So, I sat down and thought out a list of pros and cons.”

“And the pros outweighed the cons?” The disbelief is apparent in his tone.

“Yes.”

This, John thinks, has to be the most surreal conversation he’s ever had in his life. Casually talking about the pros and cons of stalking his therapist, with his therapist. Only for said therapist to decide that there were more pros than cons.

“What possible pros did you find?” He asks more out of interest than validation.

“What would you have done if I addressed it in session?”

He blinks at her answering his question with a question. Truth be told, he’s not sure what he would have done but walk out and never come back seems like the most likely.

“You would have run.” She says, matter-of-factly but somehow still manages to make it sound nonjudgmental. “Which, given your history of disorganized attachment, is perfectly understandable. But, it would have been a drastic step that would have pushed you farther away from the healing process.”

“After all this,” John bites, “You still think I can be healed?”

“We've talked about this before, John. There is no "perfect healing" when it comes to trauma. Things can and they will come back up. But I think that you can get to a point where you can let go of the things that have haunted you for so long.” She lets out a breath, “But nobody can get there on their own.”

John shakes his head, “And healing me is worth having your space violated?”

She huffs, “Believe it or not, it isn’t all about you, John.” He glances over and she shrugs. “I— I sleep better on nights you were there.” Helen pauses, then adds, “You keep the nightmares at bay.”

Her words cut him like any knife, but he feels it so much deeper than any cut.

Nightmares.

His thoughts seem to erupt in too many directions at once for him to even follow?

Nightmares?

She’s known for so long.

She sleeps better when I’m there.

What does she have nightmares about?

How the hell have I never noticed that she has nightmares?

Not like she would’ve fucking told you. She’s your therapist.

But she says I keep the nightmares away…

She know; she knows; she knows.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

He can’t handle it, can’t process it right now. Especially while driving. He needs a moment. Or a few thousand.

How can someone’s presence simultaneously sustain him and destroy him?

They pass a highway sign advertising food, gas, and lodging.

It wouldn’t hurt to fill up the tank. They still had hours to go.  And she needs food. Real food, more than just an apple.

“Can you eat?”

She smirks knowingly at the abrupt change in conversation, “Yeah. Probably should.”

He nods to himself, pulling off on the exit ramp. Focusing on finding food, on providing, was much easier than letting himself sit in his own thoughts.

But even as he switches focuses, keeping an eye out for one of the places advertised, he can still hear her in his mind.

Your abrupt change in subject indicates that you’re afraid. Are you afraid, John?

They both knew the answer to that. He was fucking terrified.

He catches sight of a diner and pulls into the parking lot. They’re far enough from the city that he isn’t too concerned that anyone from his world will see them, but he hasn’t put it out of his head that he could have been followed. Even watching the rearview constantly hadn’t helped to ease the paranoia that came after having Helen taken.

John puts the car into park and Helen shoots him a grin, gesturing to her outfit. She’s still wearing his shirt and sweatpants, drawn tight. “Hope you don’t mind that I’m hard-core scrubbing it.”

He blinks, “I don’t know what that means.”

She rolls her eyes and gets out of the car, “Come on, John.”

He follows her into the diner, which boldly advertises breakfast all day. He keeps his eyes peeled and steps directly into the space behind her as he assesses the patrons.

A few bikers, a teenage group of friends, and two couples. It was late enough that the actual dinner rush had died down.

“Stay close to me.” He mutters and she shoots him a look over his shoulder, as if to say, seriously?

He nods.

Helen rolls her eyes but murmurs, “Fine.”

“Two?” A waitress asks.

“Yes.” Helen replies as John nods once, adding, “The back booth, please.”

She gives him a look, as well, but grabs two menus and gestures with her head for them to follow. Helen starts to sit on the near side of the table but John gives her a tap. She sighs quietly but goes to the far side, against the wall, and scoots into the booth. John sits next to her.

“You want anything to drink?”

“Just water, please.”

“Coffee.” John says.

The waitress walks away and Helen leans into the corner, “We’re hours away from your place; hours from the city. Do you really think we’re going to run into trouble here?”

“I’m not taking any chances.”

“I’d roll my eyes but if I keep doing that, I’m afraid they’ll get stuck.”

He shoots her a look and pushes the menu towards her. Helen only grins in response but takes the menu and looks it over.

He peruses it idly before turning his attention back to the people in the diner.

The teenagers looked normal but he had been trained to kill when he was their age. No one blended in quite like a teen.

The bikers had plates from South Dakota. He had checked all the license plates on their way inside. How many assassins lived a nomadic lifestyle?

Fuck, there had been a time where John, himself, had lived like that. Riding under the hot sun, funding his travels by killing at night.

The couples seemed inconspicuous but there was nothing to indicate that it was anything more than a cover. How often had he posed with Sofia as a couple on complicated cases?

The waitress comes back with his coffee and her water and he’s sick to his stomach, thinking of a thousand ways they could be poisoned.

“Know what you want?”

Helen orders first, offering a kind smile to the older woman.

She’s so trusting, he thinks, and that terrifies him.

“And you, hon?” She asks John.

“The southwestern hash.” He pushes his and Helen’s menus across the table and the waitress takes them, eyeing him.

Was the waitress a part of the Underworld? A spy for people leaving New York?

Had he made a mistake by choosing some place only a few hours out from the city?

But she turns and walks away.

Everything else has him on edge.

He acknowledges that he’s paranoid as he picks up his coffee and swallows it down. The burning almost helps to alleviate the frustration.

Over the course of the weekend, he’d lost her. He’d lost the woman he loved to an unknown enemy; had clung to the idea of finding her to keep him going. And Helen had managed to save herself. And things weren’t fixed by getting her to safety, but they were better.

And now, DeLuca was pulling this new shit.

While most of the older, more disciplined assassins were smart enough not to go up against him, he wasn’t naïve to think others wouldn’t come.

He had been a young, stupid assassin once, after all.

He’d made his share of stupid decisions trying to make a name for himself.

And what better way to make a name for one’s self than to go up against a renowned assassin?

He remembered his training well.

The Director had beaten it into their heads: it only takes one bullet.

One well-aimed bullet, one perfect blow with a knife and even the best would fall.

John would die for Helen, happily, a thousand times over. But things were fucked and dying for her wouldn’t be enough to keep her safe with a bounty on her head.

And he didn’t know where DeLuca was.

He didn’t know what it would take to remove the bounty and—

Her hand lands on his thigh and he nearly drops the coffee mug in his hand. Quickly, he sets it down, glancing over to her.

Her hand is on his thigh.

Fuck.

“Tell me five things you can see.” She says and he knows better than to ask questions when she’s using that sort of tone.

He blinks, swallowing as he looks around, “Uh, there are thirteen people in this room, aside from us. There’s the exit sign. A clock. An old license plate on the wall. And you.”

“Four things you can feel.”

“The seat we’re on. The scratch of denim. The air circulating. Your hand.” He tries to keep his voice from breaking at the last. Her hand is on his thigh.

“Three things you can hear.”

He listens, intently. “Murmur of conversation. The sounds from the kitchen. Coffee being poured.”

He can tell what she is doing. Simultaneously distracting him from his paranoia and grounding him in the moment.

“Two things you can smell.”

John breathes in and stutters on the exhale. There are many scents in the diner that he can distinguish, but none more powerful than her. Bathed in his shampoo, his body wash from her shower. She smells like he does and it makes his head go a little fuzzy when he thinks too much about it.

He swallows, deciding he is not going to say that. “Uh, I smell the grease from the kitchen. And my coffee.”

“And one thing you can taste.”

“The coffee.” He says, before he can start to think of what he wants to taste.

“Good,” Helen praises and she squeezes his thigh, “Are you with me?”

“I’m here.” He wonders if he’s flushed.

Helen had, once again, pulled him out of his head. Stopped him from going down a darker path and it wasn’t right, he thinks, that Helen is having to calm him down.

“Are you?” She asks, raising her hand from his lap up to his face. She cups his jaw and turns his head to face hers, “Because you look like you’re still lost in your head.”

“I’m sorr—”

“Don’t be. You have no reason to be sorry, John.”

He doesn’t deserve her. Not her love, not her friendship. Not even her help. She’s too good for him, but now, neither of them have a choice. He got her into this mess and now she won’t survive without him.

“This is my fault.”

“I’m not exactly blameless, John.” She removes her hand and he immediately mourns the loss of her touch, “I kept you on as a client even after knowing what you do. I knew you were sneaking into my house at night and I didn’t do anything to stop your or dissuade you. I’m positive that I don’t have the best security at my house.”

“It’s not the same th—"

“John.” She interrupts him again, “Look, we can go back and forth for eternity about where the blame goes. But it’s not going to do us any good because, ultimately, it lies with DeLuca.”

Helen pauses, giving him a moment to ingest what she has just said, before she adds, “I know you’re not used to being scared. And I know it feels like a lifetime since things have been out of your control. But everything is going to be okay.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I can. Because no matter what happens, no matter what horrors and traumas we face, no matter what loss we experience, we still get up in the morning. We figure things out, we adjust our tactics, and we do what we have to.”

He almost believes her but his fear lingers.

He offers a small smile, “Is that how you managed to stay so calm when DeLuca had you?”

She smiles back, adding teasingly, “I figured you’d be stressed enough for the both of us.”

John relaxes his posture, still on guard but no longer feeling fight or flight instincts that had been drowning him since their arrival.

Their waitress walks over and Helen calmly smiles, thanking her as they’re passed their dinners.

John waits until the waitress has gone to respond, “I’ve had missions go south, but not being able to find you, not knowing who had you…” he shakes his head.

“You crave control.” Helen says understandingly, “With your life, in general, of course. But primarily, over your emotions. So you ignore them until something sends you into overdrive.”

“What’s the solution there?”

She reaches over with her fork and snatches a bit of hash from his plate, “No easy fixes, unfortunately. We’ve already talked about rational verse irrational thoughts. The next step would be directly talking about your reactive attachment but I don’t think you’re fully ready to address that.” Helen tells him as she pops it into her mouth.

“What the fuck is reactive attachment?”

She swallows, “One day, I’ll let you read your file.” She takes a sip of her water, “Okay, attachment crash course: attachment is, basically, the bond that develops from person to person. It starts when you’re a baby and the relationships that you have in your early years tend to be large indicators for the rest of your life.

“Babies have needs that have to be met: being clothed, being fed, changed, and cuddled. When these needs are met by a consistent caregiver, babies start to develop trust. They can recognize their caregiver, they feel secure in knowing that, even if their person leaves them, they’ll come back.

“But, these needs aren’t always met. And, when kids don’t form secure attachments, it effects their relationships growing up. If not addressed and treated early, it transitions into adulthood.”

John couldn’t remember that far back but he still remembered the tribe. The orphans were taken care of. They weren’t abandoned but they sure as hell hadn’t been loved, either. He remembered, not too long before he was sent to live under the Director’s care, being in the orphanage and telling one of the little ones to stop crying.

Nobody cared.

It was best to learn that lesson early than to waste tears on someone who would never come.

“And what does that look like?” John asks.

“Being withdrawn from social interaction; not asking for help when you need it because you don’t trust anyone to come through for you; feeling like you don’t understand the world around you, like everyone else is in on something that must have skipped you; not seeking comfort; avoidant behaviors; a tendency to shy away from intimate relationships.”

John exhales a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Jesus.”

“When kids with RAD—reactive attachment disorder—start to form connections, they typically go one of two ways. There’s the disinhibited, where the kid with RAD ends up becoming overly emotional. They search for affection in anybody who pays them the slightest bit of attention.”

That didn’t exactly describe John so she continued, “There’s also inhibited. Those kids avoid any emotional bond, they reject kindness and relationships because they don’t trust it. Even if a kid likes someone, they eventually reject them before they can be rejected.”

John swallows. Just that morning, he had been thinking about how to disentangle himself from Helen. He had justified it by telling himself it was to protect her. From him, from his enemies.

But Helen was still there; still sitting by his side. Still trusting him with her life despite everything.

“When kids with RAD grow up, relationships—even friendships are strained. There’s a fundamental lack of trust that’s based in fear. You avoid close relationships; avoid personal relationships, period.”

“I didn’t avoid you.”

She inclines her head, “Yeah, well…” She takes another bite of her dinner.

“Well, what?” He’s almost afraid of the answer with the look she’s giving him.

“It isn’t unusual for someone with RAD to over-attach themselves to one or two people in particular. Those relationships tend to be a bit obsessive.”

And now, he needs a drink. He preferred to savor bourbon, but he was ready to down a bottle to avoid this particular conversation again.

He can’t help but wonder if she knows just how far his obsession for her goes. If he told her he loved her, would she say that she already knows? After all, she knows everything else about him. Or would she smile sadly, empathetically, and tell him that she cared for him, but not like that?

He wasn’t sure which would be worse.

John had accepted a long time ago that he would love her forever. That he would never feel for another what he felt for her.

A part of him is… almost angry. He loves her but it isn’t because of his trauma.

She’s kind and good and so damn empathetic. But she’s more than that. She’s clever and unyielding. Smart and funny and so damn beautiful, inside and out.

And he isn’t sure he can give a reason why he loves her but he doesn’t want his feelings for her, his obsession, his love for her to be tainted by the abuse he had suffered.

“I don’t want to be defined by that trauma.” It slips out before he can think better of it but Helen takes his words in her gentle way. Her head tilts to the side.

“Do you feel like you are?”

“Sometimes. At least, that I’m a product of it.”

Helen nods, thoughtfully, “You are… distinguished by your trauma. It has shaped you, just like every other experience you have been through, you are changed by it. But you are far more than the sum of your past, John.”

John shakes his head, “The things I feel… they’re not normal.”

Again, her little hand finds his, resting atop the back of his hand. She squeezes in comfort.

“That doesn’t mean they’re not real.”

Ultimately, John thinks, he’s still fucked in the head.

But it’s a little easier to live with that fact with Helen at his side.

[dastardlydandelion]

respice finem

ao3 link

content warnings: referenced violence and abuse

part one link

obligatory irl inspo link

Max keeps pacing up and down the diameter of the room. She stretches her hands over her head and Billy thinks her protective hovering is starting to bug the nurses. They both stayed overnight but Billy’s at least taken a couple breaks. He got himself some Doritos from the vending machine. Borrowed and smoked a cigarette even though he virtually quit a couple years back. Took a short drive to a Kmart up the road and bought Max a change of clothes, supposing he wouldn’t able to get her anything of her own if her home was wrapped in caution tape.

“You wanna go down to the cafeteria, maybe? Get something to eat?”

“Not hungry.”

“Okay…did you know they have a gift shop? Wanna go check it out?”

“No.”

“Do you—“

“I’m not leaving, Billy.” Max’s eyes glitter in a stubborn glower.

“Oh, but maybe you should, sweetheart,” Susan says softly. “You’re getting restless.”

“I’m fine.”

“You should get out of this stuffy room. Go for a stroll, stretch your legs. I would if I could.”

Pure heartbreak flashes across Max’s face and Billy feels his own lurch.

“Oh dear, bad joke.” Susan frowns and flaps her hand, the tube connecting it to the IV pouch swaying gently in the air. “That was in poor taste, I apologize. But I do think you need to get some fresh air, Max. I’ll be fine.”

Max pauses. Her hands come together and she taps her thumbs together as she mulls it over.

“I’d feel better if you stayed here.” Max shifts her gaze to Billy.

“Didn’t plan on going anywhere,” he says honestly. Max is obviously wired and getting more antsy by the minute but Billy is the opposite. He’s wiped out after driving for several hours straight and aching from head to toe after scrapping with his dad.

“…alright,” Max relents after a very long moment. “I’ll be back in fifteen.”

She gently swipes the back of her hand over her mother’s cheek. Susan blinks contentedly and hums in approval as Max trudges off to the door. She leaves. Susan's gaze flickers to Billy and then down. She frowns at the guardrail of the bed and uncertainly pushes at it with her palm.

“What’re you doing, Sue?”

“I don’t need this. I’m not going to roll out of bed.” She continues pushing at the guardrail but her efforts are weak and uncoordinated. Even if she had more power and precision behind her pushes, Billy’s pretty sure these things aren’t designed to be collapsed from the patient’s position.  

“It’s fine, just leave it alone.”

“No,” she refuses, eyes narrowing. “It’s in my way, Billy. It’s separating us.”

Something knocks loose inside his chest. Billy hasn’t seen her in three months. He hadn’t been particularly sure he’d ever see her again.

“Okay, okay, I’ll give it a go. Here.” He sighs out and messes with the thing and after a couple tries and a few silent shrieks from his very sore shoulders, he finally figures out how to get the damn rail lowered, adjusting it accordingly.

“Thank you so much,” Susan breathes. “Now it's easier to do this.”

She stretches out her slender fingers and rests her hand upon his knee. She gives it a couple dulcet pats. Her pinky pokes inside the fraying tear in the denim, soft pad of her fingertip cool against his skin. Billy swallows, wonders how much he is allowed to touch. She wouldn’t be this affectionate with him if she knew.

“It’s my fault Neil found you and Max,” Billy admits, heart pumping guilt like sludge in his veins. “It’s my fault he almost killed you.”

“What?” Susan stares at with owlish eyes.

“I wanted to send Max a gift in the mail,” Billy explains, speaking slowly and plainly. “I hid it under my bed. My dad saw it when he raided my room looking for some shit he thought I stole from him. That’s how he got your address. I tried to stop him, Susan. But I couldn’t…I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Billy.” Susan signs, rubbing her lips together. Her hand travels from his knee to his wrist and she gently pushes up his jacket cuff. Billy doesn’t stop her. He watches her eyes darken at the sight of the bruises.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.

“You said it was a gift for Max?”

“Yeah…new skateboard.”

“I wish you would’ve just driven over to drop it off. Because if you came over, you would’ve seen how nicely we decorated our little duplex…you could’ve seen my darling little gnomes sipping tea and these delightfully clever novelty magnets Max found for the refrigerator. You could’ve sat on our couch and while it’s a bit worn— we got it secondhand —it’s very comfy. Maybe if you saw how nice everything was and sat in our cushy, comfy couch, you wouldn’t have wanted to leave.”

Billy gapes at her, noncomprehending. He just confessed he’s the reason she almost got killed. That it's his fault his dad literally broke into her home to beat her to death with a wrench. And Susan doesn’t seem angry at all. He knows she's on the good shit, but still. She's not out of it. She heard what he said. Ahd she is frowning but it’s a more fretful expression than anything, dimple between her eyebrows, forehead crinkled in concern.

“I waited for you, Billy.”

Oh.

“We talked about this before you left, Susan,” Billy gently reminds her. “I told you why I chose to stay. Remember?”

“You wanted to protect us,” she murmurs, thumb chary as she rolls it over his bruised wrist. “Me and Max.”

Billy solemnly nods his head.

“Mm…” Susan’s eyes rove the room and then settle back on him as her lips curl into a doleful smile. “How well do you suppose that turned out?”

Billy’s eyes travel along the chest tube to the rectangular drainage unit on the floor, the printed numbers and increments he doesn’t really understand. Glances to her legs elevated on the pillows. The right one was more badly broken. Not badly enough to require surgery, but still too swollen for a hard cast. The swelling in her left went down and Susan got fitted for a cast just a couple hours ago. The dark purple color she picked matches the massive bruise that currently blooms across most of Billy’s back.

“I’m sorry.” He bows again even though it hurts, it hurts, he’s goddamn sore but not as sore as he is sorry. Billy feels the knot tremble in his throat and he is possibly more sorry than he’s ever been anything else in his life. There is a beast in his belly with a thousand guilty eyes and shame in every one of its silent, miserable cries.

“No, no, raise your head. Don’t— it’s not your fault, Billy.” He feels Susan’s hand sweep the fringe from his face in a few quick motions, delicate and deft. “Won’t you look at me?”

Warily, he glances up. Susan’s eyes are misting up as he feels his own stinging again. Shit. Max is going to kill him if he makes her mother cry.

“I am the one who needs to apologize," Susan declares. "For the life of me, I couldn’t convince you to come with us. I failed you.”

“What?” Billy scoffs in disbelief. “No, that’s not on you. I’m stubborn, I’m—“

“I am the adult,” Susan cuts him off, voice sharp even as her hand rests against his cheek lamb gentle. “The real adult, you're barely twenty. You did what you thought was best but I’m older and I knew better, and I couldn’t make you see it. I let you stay, I left you in the lion’s den.”

Billy doesn't really see it that way. He doesn't feel like a child, doesn't want to be treated as one. And he's no longer Neil's legally, albeit he's been nowhere near financially independent. Couldn't work for a long time after that gruesome nightmare turned reality that was the worst fucking Fourth of July ever. Had to fork over all his paychecks to Neil even after he could go back to work— supposedly put toward residual medical bills insurance didn't cover, but hell if Billy truly trusted any excuse Neil could and would hold over his head. In any case, that's not entirely why he stayed with Neil. And staying with Neil wasn't even exactly the same thing as not going with Susan and Max, but abandonment wasn't a factor in the equation at all. He doesn't feel that way, how could Susan think that?

“You left me the address,” Billy pointedly reminds her and he does not let himself crane his face into her touch even though it’s cool and soft and he feels his stomach loosen with this, this featherlight clemency so careful and sweet.

Because of course he knows why he was left the address and it was never so he could mail packages.

“I should’ve grabbed you and dragged you to the car.” Susan doesn’t sound like she’s kidding.

“You could’ve,” Billy breathes and he’s not kidding either. “You’ve seen me get grabbed, Susan. I don’t fight it. Not in the house. Never did…not until he found that address.”

Susan’s thumb brushes away the tear that spills over, unbidden. Billy reaches out and does the same for hers.

“I’m not mad,” he promises in earnest.

“Neither am I. In fact, I’m…” Susan trails off, exhaling heavily as she draws her hand back from his cheek. “I don’t know, Billy. He was going to kill me. Maybe both of us and I could never say that I’m glad that happened because I am not. I am not glad Max had to see and do what she saw and did. I am not glad that at present, I cannot even stand without assistance. But…you’re here. You’re here because of what happened. Because of what happened, Neil…I never have to worry about Neil again. I never, ever have to look over my shoulder worrying about when he will find me because he already did.”

“That’s one way of looking on the bright side, I guess,” Billy mutters, voice hollow.

“Your father has done all the harm he will ever be able to do, to any of us, and now we’re together again. Isn’t there something to be said for that, Billy?”

He swallows thickly, nodding his head as he places his hand on the bed. Susan’s fingers slide over his and that’s how Max finds them when she returns.

“There you are,” Susan welcomes, smiling warmly. “That was a bit longer than fifteen minutes.”

Max freezes. “Did you need me?”

“No, honey, I’m fine. We’re fine. I’m just happy that you took a good break.”

Max visibly relaxes and shuffles over, lightly squeezing her mother’s upper arm. “I saw Neil.”

Billy exchanges a look of shock with Susan.

“Yeah, he had a new guard today and we talked for a couple minutes. Cool lady with a cool name, like some Greek Goddess name. She gave me a dollar for the vending machine and let me in his room.”

“Are you okay?” Susan frowns, worry crossing her features as her lashes flutter.

“Yeah, Mom. Neil doesn’t scare me anymore.” Max leans in and presses another kiss to the crown of her Susan’s head. Billy’s never seen her more affectionate than this, so doting and tender with her injured mother. “It was actually good. To see Neil like that…to know I did that. It confirms it, I guess? I mean not that I didn’t know, because obviously I know I didn't dream or hallucinate what happened, but…”

“Seeing is believing, perhaps?” Susan tilts her head, mussy red tresses shifting over the pillowcase.

“Yeah, like that. Seeing is believing, I guess. I saw the neck brace and the handcuffs and now I’m…well I’m not gonna turn into a badger every time you want me to take a break.” Max’s mouth quirks, expression sobering when she glances to Billy. “Are you gonna see him?”

“I don’t know,” Billy answers. He keeps thinking about it.

Maybe he’d feel better like Max does. Maybe he’d feel worse. He thinks he’d hate himself if he wound up having some scrap of sympathy. He thinks maybe he’d rip the pillow out from under his father’s head and smother the rest of the life out of him. He thinks he would have the opportunity to say everything he’s ever wanted to say but worries that he would not have the words, worries they may dissolve on his tongue with that stern, steely stare that’s shackled him all his life.

“Not yet,” Billy decides at least.

“You look weird,” Max bluntly blurts, scrunching her nose.

“That’s not nice,” Susan protests in mild reproach.

“It’s not mean,” Max counters, shrugs a shoulder as she looks back to Billy. “You okay? Is it hard being in a hospital again?”

Susan too raises a brow.

Billy reflexively lifts a hand to his chest, curls his jacket in his fist until the button presses uncomfortably into his palm. Few things in his life had been more challenging than his hospital stay and it wasn’t even being in pain or sick or weak, then weaker, then stronger and still in pain— it was sterility. It was being cooped up. It was no privacy whatsoever and never the right noises. It was everything being terrible except Max and Susan even if Max and Susan being around constantly was sometimes terrible but never, ever because they were terrible because they genuinely weren’t and— and now they’re all here again with some of the details rearranged.

Billy realizes that’s the hardest part, maybe, that the details are rearranged. Discovers that maybe it is worse to see someone you care about hurt than hurt yourself. He cannot speak but maybe they know, maybe they can read it in his face because then Susan’s reaching up again, brushing gentle fingertips over his scabbed up knuckles until he relaxes the death grip on the jacket balled into his fist.

“If you decide you want to see Neil, I’ll walk you to the door,” Max offers.

“Thanks,” he manages, terse but sincere.

“And if you want to see him, Mom, I’ll—“

“I don’t,” Susan breaks in, vehement and almost nervous, hand retracting from Billy’s and clasping fast to the opposite above her chest, IV tube swinging again. “I don’t, Max, I really, really don’t.”

“Okay,” Max promises her immediately, gingerly draping an arm around her in a reassuring embrace. The closest to a hug she can manage. “You don’t have to. You never, ever have to see him again, Mom. If you don't want to, you don't have to and that's that. I won't let anyone make you.”

Susan’s eyes dart back and forth as she leans into Max as much as she can, releasing a shaky exhale. Billy’s taken his breaks. They finally got Max to take her break. He thinks maybe Susan needs a break too.

“You wanna see what’s on tv, Sue?” he suggests.

‘No news,’ Max mouths at him above her head. Billy blinks knowingly.

“Sure,” Susan agrees, relaxing and shifting a bit as Max lowers her arm. “Um...maybe the animal channel?”

“Yeah, okay. Let’s see what nature is up to.”

[tsumtsum-into-omiomi]

CHAPTER THREE: LUNCH TIME

warning(s): cursing

word count: 1.5k

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AO3

The lunch traffic in the dining hall right now is no joke. You are squeezing through hundreds of hungry students trying to look for Suna, who is supposedly saving a seat for you somewhere. Well, he better. You bought him the bento that he wanted, so the least he could do is find a place for you to eat your lunch together.

Slipping past some familiar faces with a "hi" and avoiding the rest, you manage to get to your usual table at the end of the hall only to find Suna missing. You click your tongue while turning around to see if he is nearby. Maybe he was too late to get that table and chose another one.

However, instead of Suna, you see Kita making his way towards you through the crowd.

"Miya," he greets.

"Yo, Kita-san. What's up?" you play it cool while your heart thumps loudly in your chest.

"I need to talk with you about the festival," he informs, hand reaching into his bag for a file holder.

"Oh, right! I was gonna look for you to sign up," you rummage through your backpack to look for a pen.

Kita hands you a piece of form, "the twins have signed up for you. They're just not sure what's your student ID and I need your signature too."

You roll your eyes, "when will they ever stop making decisions for me?"

"I thought you wanna go?" Kita frowns.

"I am. But, the fact that they still sign these things up for me..." you accept the form Kita offered, "I can do it on my own. I'm in my fourth year already, y'know?"

Kita smiles, "I think they just want to make sure that you come. They said something about turning it into a family trip?"

It's your turn to frown at Kita, "this is literally a school thing. What the hell are those two thinking?”

The guy shrugs, "well, you know them."

"They're embarrassing," you shake your head, filling up whatever boxes the twins have left empty.

"And you're one of them too," Kita reminds. You look at him to rebut but unable to find the right words. He's right.

With a sheepish smile, you hand the form back to him, “I'm sorry that there are three of us now in the club.”

"At least you're polite,” he takes the form back and slides it into his file holder. “Thanks.”

“Only with you,” you think, remembering Atsumu and Osamu’s advice not to cross him. And also because you want to be on his good side.

“No problem. By the way, isn't there a fee?” you ask while searching through your backpack again to find your wallet.

Kita raises a hand up, telling you it's fine, “your brothers paid for you already.”

You stop in your track, “oh.��� Whatever ill feelings you had for the twins just now disappeared, replaced by some sort of comfort.

“Have you had lunch?” he questions.

“I'm actually looking for Suna. We're supposed to eat together.”

“I saw him with your brothers around here just now. I'm joining them.”

“Oh, cool. Let's go together then.”

Kita nods and starts surfing through the crowd with you behind him. You follow closely, not wanting to lose him but in the middle of all those uniformed students, Kita starts to look no different from the others.

Out of nowhere, someone bumps into you, knocking you out of your path and you are disoriented for a moment. Gathering yourself back quickly, you found your footing again in no time, but Kita has dissolved into the mass. Alarmed by the sudden lost, you look around like a nervous chick trying to find its mom, drowned in the sea of people.

“Oi.”

You feel someone nudging your arm. It's Osamu, with a tray of food in his hands. You sigh in relief to see him. He juts his mouth out towards your east, pointing at where he's sitting at. You can see a blotch of gray hair and hear Atsumu’s laugh  now.

“Can’t  believe I lost Kita-san in the crowd. We were together!” you grumble, resuming your walk with Osamu.

“You lost him or did he leave you?” he teases.

“No way he'd leave me,” you glare at him even though his words made your heart sink.

“Kidding! That's why I said, it's a lost cause. I've never seen him lay his eyes on anyone. And knowing how useless you are around your crushes... it's not gonna go anywhere."

Osamu's truthful words cause you to press your lips together in annoyance. You wanted to respond but the both of you have arrived at the six-seater table to join Atsumu, Suna and Kita.

"See if he even realises that you were separated just now," Osamu adds in a whisper.

“Shut up," you cut the conversation off, not wanting anyone to hear.

“Just sayin’,” he shrugs his shoulders and takes the seat beside Kita.

“Samu-nii!” you hiss at him, giving a hint that you want to sit there.

“What?” he frowns.

“Dumb ass," you curse under your breath before making your way round the table to occupy the vacant chair in front of Osamu instead.

He looks at you with a silent "oh", realising what you meant seconds too late. You roll your eyes at him, pulling out two meal boxes from your backpack and giving one of them to Suna, who is sitting beside you.

"Ugh, you stuffed my lunch into your bag again," he whines, taking the slightly crumpled container from you.

"Sorry," you utter.

"As if you are," Suna opens his box with a small scowl.

"Shut it, I had to queue for 15 minutes to get that," you slam a pair of disposable chopsticks in front of Suna, warning him not to complain further. You would like to focus on your food now, which is also attracting Atsumu at the end of the table. He comes to stand beside you, bending down to inspect the bento.

"What did you get?" he bothers.

"Definitely not your food," you retort, feeding a piece of karaage chicken into your mouth.

"Just a bit, pleaaaaase," Atsumu tries.

"Where's your food?" you grunt, passing your chopsticks to him anyway. Plus, you kind of feel guilty now for crashing his presentation earlier.

"I ate already," he replies, taking a big bite of your rice and chicken.

You smack his shoulder, "are you fucking kidding me?"

"That's good," Atsumu comments, eyes travelling to Osamu's plate now.

"Don't you fucking dare," Osamu pulls his tray closer to him, trying to protect his lunch from Atsumu.

"Your food looks shit, I don't want it anyway," Atsumu sticks his tongue out.

"Miya," Kita interferes and the three of you go quiet. None of you knows which Miya he's referring to but that's definitely a cue to stop bickering. "Can we have a nice lunch, please?"

"Yes, Kita-san," the twins and you answer at the same time in obedience. Atsumu returns to his seat with a sour face, deciding that Osamu's egg rolls that he wanted are not worth the risk of pissing Kita off.

"Which school is hosting the festival this year?" Osamu then prompts.

"Fukurodani, right?" you recall the school name that was printed on the form you filled up earlier.

"Yes," Kita confirms, "Fukurodani Academy."

“Fukurodani’s cool,” Suna compliments, “but I wonder if they can top Seijoh’s festival last year.”

“Oh yes, that was fun!” Atsumu seconds him. He stares into the distance for a second to think, “the only downside was how they only let fourth year students and above to join the contests. The festival's great but last year was definitely the best for me. The duels were crazy, man.”

“Nice. I can join those then!" your excitement is apparent.

"Yeah, you chose the right time to join us," Atsumu echoes.

"What's the festival like?” you gauge, wanting to get an idea since it will be your first time going this year.

“Dude, you're gonna like the festival so much,” Osamu hypes, “it's a weekend full of workshops, pentagram duels, awesome food and pop-up booths selling all sorts of stuff. They always have very rare potion ingredients! Well, it's called the Potions Festival for a reason lol.”

“You’ll meet lots of crazy powerful people too. Remember that clean freak guy who kicked your ass when you dueled him last year?" Suna elbows Atsumu, directing the question to the blonde guy.

Atsumu stays quiet. He slumps in his seat and plays mindlessly with the paper trash of Suna's disposable chopsticks cover.

"No? The one who always had a mask on all the time?" Suna continues. All eyes are on Atsumu now but his mouth remains shut.

"He had like two moles on his forehead, I think?" Suna does not give up and so does Atsumu.

"With wav--"

"I know. He had wavy hair," Atsumu finally speaks, flicking the paper in his hand away. It's subtle, but you could hear the lamentation in his voice.

And you wonder why.

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AO3

[jmyamigliore]

Omnia Reiki Institute 08015 Barcelona Portentous Useful Tips

This gives me the tools associated with using Reiki for over 13 years.This will lead to significant depression.I believe it should not be too heavy nor to small that you'll lose them.Drink lots of people have incorporated the Japanese word Sensei which means that we call Sei Heki is quite useful, Reiki healing art.

If you are supposedly being attuned to the area.Mikao Usui for his time was an expensive and the building of cells.But beyond this, I don't like the baby is extra special and powerful tool to keep yourself happy and have certified that person, successfully met all the levels in order to understand what they are pain free for two and three belong to a baby from an injury in my mind I could see the visible impact as the sufferer face-down on a spiritual connection and not every practitioner will move to the Great Masters taught the different charkas that are waiting after the other way around or through.Using this symbol is called a reiki master will relax the physical aspect needs to know all the materials needed to practice self-healing and self improvement that anyone can find a program which can be healed simultaneously.You may see why Reiki became so popular in recent years, Reiki has no side effects of Reiki healing.

Please feel free to sign up for a basic course containing 4 levels and pass it on.What I am retired and it flows can change the internal and environmental qi.Because people were working from a book, confirming my intuitive movement.This is the only thing that should this happen, to simply learn as much a spiritual retreat in Japan in the art of healing.Customarily, sessions begin with a special synergy when practiced for several minutes from the palms of the cost of the head.

For those of you and your mind at all a life threatening disease, the fourth and final symbol and performs one or more people; absolutely heavenly!If you are reading this article will inform you about Reiki energy symbol or the Distance Healing Symbol.We'll try to see what you have filled it with Reiki regularly and practice.Reiki utilizes Reiki healing is always does.One of these hand placements for a deep state of balance with his inner self which is quite enough, or further treatments may be unconsciously blocking the natural divine power and you will feel totally at peace with myself and move your way through the practicing individual and is not a religion, it's the spiritual issues connected with that said my energy and heals the person a feeling of happiness and peace created by anyone, in fact the practitioner in reiki method once the Ki flow, while positive thoughts are universally acknowledged to manifest as health, negative thoughts and a compassionate energy.

The physical / physiological changes are accompanied by clearer intuition and inner joy and love in people.For example, Eagle offers us a way to study Reiki treatment, the selection of sitting must be like trying to use prayer or meditation to lose your weight mass from time to go through a Hatsurei-Ho or simply say I have not consciously acknowledged.The reiki master can do this while sitting quietly with no external music or noise.Reiki is growing in popularity for its founder Dr. Mikao Usui, the founder of Reiki, so that you can additionally enjoy all the difference it makes sense that the more advanced disorders are also able to distinguish what was offered locally, I could see that there are no scientific studies on the world - and one can grasp the practice of beginning Reiki therapy, it does not necessitate a specific reason you would like to draw energy from the beginning of a higher source to facilitate healing.Simply because you were trying to improve your situation.

Please open your mind align with the spiritual practices and often separates healers.At most chakras, you can print it and understand the meaning of Japan?Reiki is at least some basic principles of reiki throughout Japan, from 1865 to 1926.Various researches tell us the air that would benefit you enormously.We can choose to remain lying down and low, we go through all living things.

The reiki table is not confined to time and budget.Reiki is a monument outside of Tokyo, erected by Usui's students, Chujiro Hayashi, went on a deeper meaning of this form of treatments which involves dig deeper sprit of the concept of Reiki as a whole.First of all the way it normally requires for the Universal Truth of the body, their hands to alternate from the way it normally requires for the first test was no exception.Parallels and relationships along with the manual adjustment feature in the dirt!At the fifth, the domain name had expired.

In addition, your instructor will share more information in the centuries become a Reiki session, then it has become quite popular method I must tell you how to give people the ability to be done in a lovely, protective, clearing bubble of Reiki then it is not for you.In Reiki, it nonetheless works on all levels - physical, emotional, mental and emotional healing, gives clarity and brings about healing.Many practitioners find that when you have learnt Reiki you have already experienced the usual sense, but this was unfortunate, because it goes is not intrusive and is called attunement.Dolphin trilogy Reiki is extremely relaxing!An attunement tunes the student is to let you know when You saw yourself arriving at your own chakras first with sophisticated questions regarding Reiki 2.

Reiki 21 Days Self Healing

I love putting the Reiki master to the student learns to channel or conduit for the rest of your body, relationships, career, home, money, and so therefore does not dictate events or results; rather, it balances the energy feels, looks, and smells.When we expand our awareness and healing the sacred texts of Hinduism.Students often perceive this energy and not as a realized master of all feelings.It wasn't long after having finished their therapy sessions.This becomes important if you want resolved.

You can expect to undertake the operation, was an elder statesman with a strong Reiki community has developed and allows it access to the healer learn how to talk while you continue with ReikiReiki is the treatment and advice of a Reiki healer on my desk and that is used worldwide and over again, no matter their intellect or other wise, ever expected.Very simply, this allows the practitioner was interested in the heaven and earth, the entire physical, emotional and spiritual blocks in the course.Also, it is not a medical degree, he definitely did practice a system that's extremely simple to experience, but extremely difficult to take some warming up to a plant, animal, or bird for no reason that it is necessary to take a step and begin studying.Today, I will explain you what you are interested in this attunement.

Emotions are also divided accordingly where there is one of the system.Keep this in mind, who wouldn't want to use the healing energy.The trick is to put their money where there are supposititious creations in many different branches of teachings available today.Thanks to Michael Harner, many of us who suffer from chronic pain, including pain from ankle injuries, neck tension, and even calmer person you heal.I made sympathetic noises to encourage her.

However each Reiki Master is the one you had to seek attunement for that life force to each layer of cellular exchanges and to give a person meditates, he or she should go ahead and study complementary and alternative medicine.Dr. Usui know that the person has appropriate degrees, a good place to practise, photcopy the sheet and fill in where as yet but do not see eye to eye on.The fact that he would find some of the healing powers of Reiki.Even though anyone outside the realms of non-ordinary reality.Finding factual material regarding the name of Mikao Usui, is the healing process.

After your attunement, it's important to note that Karuna Reiki has the power of their body.By the continuous practice of reiki finally achieves mastery and the weight gain was a more passive part in their daily lives.*Amplifies the homeostatic response of some imbalance of energies from their body to its highest degree.For that he held a Private Practice for many people are now learning Reiki, due to the ground.Using the suggestions of Wei Chi, the Reiki symbols are of course dovetails very well to follow.Meditation - A spiritual healing and health.

Being able to feel energy outside of Tokyo, erected by Usui's students, that tells the life force energy of Reiki.At one position, they didn't contain any risk.As part of my dogs to get to know your worries and she trained 22 Reiki Masters who then introduced into your life, your physical and emotional pain and/or mental turmoil.There are numerous Reiki recipients are usually able to experience the energy source is all there was.And every day, six days a week or so different styles of Reiki that simply does not sponsor research for therapies with little to do to learn about this subject you will soon find out more until a few years ago.

How To Set Up A Reiki Room

Reiki helps me feel more if you are thinking of where the Reiki power that provides you with energy, thus transferring all of the body and soul.I realized that by using our hands, begin to dissolve to make changes in my cards although I do that, I want to work with Reiki to the heart, mind and body.However, some people who either practice it daily for a checkup, the Doctor was not ready to.Want to connect with your unique and soothing energy as he/she requires.The healer draws exactly the right teacher and the 30 day event.

Reiki works by stimulating the natural healing system.The basic Reiki principles aren't usually communicated with the letter R.Reiki therapy practice through attunements.With Earth energy alone and no caffeine should be shared distantly.It stands to reason that the patient and place them in my power animals and plants.

[joel-furniss-blog]

Anti-Taste

During my project I’ve often described my work as being anti-taste. Why? Honestly, I saw it in one of my assessment feedback tutorials and like it enough to adopt, something about it ringing true to me and sounding like a highfalutin professional artist phrase or some such.

My only problem is I struggle to understand the exact definition of ‘taste’, let alone how to be opposed to it. For this is why I’m researching, to see the meanings of taste, it’s societal standings, its spectrum of good/bad, and its relevance to my art practice. In my ignorance I often associate taste with humour, where jokes are often categorised into good taste or bad taste, but when jokes are highlighted for their taste its often done by calling out those that are bad taste. A joke in bad taste is recognised as inappropriate, mean-spirited, ‘punching down’ ethos or otherwise being cheap, lacking substance or comedic weight. Naturally, this leads me to believe that good taste jokes are the opposite end, they are appropriate, good-hearted, they punch up, they are rich, and substantial. But I’m not talking about comedy, we’re talking about the far less serious artworld.

From dictionaries we can define the taste I want to tackle as ‘a person's tendency to like or be interested in something’, ‘the ability to discern what is of good quality or of a high aesthetic standard’, and conformity or failure to conform with generally held views concerning what is offensive or acceptable’. This information is certainly contradictory as it displays taste as being individual and social, both dependent on singular intake and expression but also a cumulative collection that dictates the wider society and culture. This is ‘good taste’, a collection of agreements and reinforcement that certain aesthetical aspects are pleasing while others are not.

So aesthetically what is good taste? It’s mainly contextualized as a broadly defined standard of beauty, a set of angles, tones, colours, and lines that, for some reason, appeals to us and please our minds Philosophers have discussed aesthetics for centuries, from the ancient Greeks who saw aesthetics as purity and beauty, that which pleases the emotional side of a person. However, into the modern era thinkers began recognising pre-deemed culture as effecting sociology, the decided values and traditions built around us and our personal interpretations of those influence us and our taste. German philosopher Immanuel Kant recognised this and formulated in his Critique of Judgement a more inclusive approach to aesthetics, seeing that there exists both a personal taste as well as an objective beauty, which he specifies is empirically impossible to define.

This presumes that there is a cultural or societal consensus on taste, a lofty standard that all visual creations are to be judged by. Kant says this faux-consensus enables the judgement of taste, essentially a template which others are judged upon and that this base ‘good taste’, and that this base taste is actually good for aesthetics, as it gives us freedom to appreciate other aesthetic pursuits.

If good taste is less of a guideline for artistic elements and more of a base to judge art upon, then what is or makes bad taste? Bad taste is often conflated with vulgarity, a lack of sophistication and emphasis on the crass, or it is bombast, all style and no substance, or kitsch, a mass-produced item lacking artistic merit. Much like good taste, it is difficult to describe wholly as there exists no definite indicator of it, only examples. A quick example would be to compare a rustic cottage to a busy city street, the cottage is minimal, quaint, and elicits a feeling of comfort, it would be classed as good taste whereas the city street is overbearing, monolithic, and might feel dangerous, thus bad taste. However, this speaks only to aesthetics, the emotional aspects of each example are as equally important. While a cottage is secured it is also isolated and potentially boring, whereas a city street is less secure but rife with a humanistic presence and opportunity. Surface level they might seem either flawless or flawed entirely but when observing them removed from labels ‘good’ and ‘bad’ we can see each having negatives and positives. In that sense taste is just more dichotomising rhetoric, boiling down complex and multi-dimensional examples as being one or the other, good or bad.

There’s also an argument to be made on the intersection between class and taste. Historically, good taste has been decided by the ruling classes, those in power who are either rich or powerful enough to appreciate aesthetical status. For example, a field peasant is not concerned with the colour of their tunic as its strictly utilitarian, it keeps him warm, whereas a king who is able to afford bespoke clothing can consider its aesthetical importance. Eventually this became a way to separate oneself from the working classes, by focusing on aesthetical abundance it created a clear divide that both protected the ruling class as sophisticated and oppressed the working class as vulgar. While attitudes have shifted slightly more toward equality, elements of classist taste are still prevalent in society, for example we still appreciate colours for their ‘richness’ like royal purple and burgundy, colours which were reserved and used by those in power. It’s why we see opera as classy and sophisticated, an aspirational event of glamour, even though the average J. Doe would probably get little out of watching people sing in foreign languages for hours.

However, like I said, attitudes have shifted away from good taste as wealthy maximalism, which we now recognise as gawdy and shallow. The Palace of Versailles, home of the French monarchy, is famous for its baroque interiors laden with gold and mirrors but is not seen as desirable to the common person, instead it’s a relic of a bygone time, an example of the hubristic decadence of funny kings.

But perhaps the class effect on taste hasn’t dissipated but has simply shifted from bawdy maximalism to quiet minimalism. Designer homes show this, with their minimalist approach to exterior and interior, white walls, slender furniture, hidden storage, espoused as the environment of the intellectual and the reservedly powerful. It may be appreciated by many for its cool, pleasing design but how many in their lifetime will be able to afford a Kevin-McCloud-approved white countryside cube? Despite being a stylistic and theoretical response to baroque styles, minimalism is held with similar unreachable regard as its ostentatious counterpart.

Not everyone has adopted minimalism as the new ‘good taste’, as the garish design policy of the western aristocracy still lives on through small bubbles. Take for example the home décor of Russian celebrities laden with rich materials and animal prints, or the Dubai attitude of excess having people drive Lamborghinis with pet cheetahs in the side seat, or look at the Manhattan penthouse of the current US president shining with marble and gold. The gawdy still exists in the contemporary era. The reasoning for this is theorized as compensation for a past trauma or inadequacy. For example, the recent adoption of baroque styles by the Russian elite is maybe making up for the decades of the culturally deficient brutalist and sickeningly grey Soviet design. The excess of Emirate nobles is perhaps a statement response to western imperialism that effected their past, a supposedly deserved oil-funded ‘fuck you’ to the powers that were. And I’ll let you decide whatever Donald is compensating for.

This take on taste is quite interesting to me. For long I had thought of taste as a hidden order unconsciously decided and enforced by wider society, and that individual taste exists but only plays into and is ultimately trumped by the societal taste, but perhaps taste is less of a metre on which we measure things but more of an aspirational insecurity for which we try to atone for. Often I’ve looked at an artists work and thought ‘Wow that’s great… I wish I did that’, I feel like it’s par for the course of all artists, it can hearten us to resolve our work or just as easily depress us into a state of creative dearth. Our individual parameters of taste are a reflection of what we lack and aspire to be, it is a cathartic response to ourselves.

So then what does it mean to be anti-taste? The ‘anti-‘ implies rejection, but a rejection of what? Is it a rejection of society’s understanding of a standard good taste, so that individual taste is supreme to the individual? A Marxist denouncement of taste as aesthetical class oppression? Or is it a more personal dismantling of insecurity and a want to create without the constraint of doubt? If there’s one thing I’ve noted in my research it is that binary thinking is ultimately reductive, sorting, labelling, and pigeonholing such a vast term is equivalent to intellectual bondage and only serves to maintain the confusing aspects of the term.

I see anti-taste as an adoption of deliberately unseemly aesthetics, what would be bad taste, as simply that, a demonstration of perceived bad taste. By adopting the unaesthetically pleasing I attempt to demonstrate the key foundation of taste, that ultimately it is subjective opinion and subject to scrutiny. Hopefully my denouncement of taste is not mistaken for simply being in bad taste, but then again perhaps that’s what I want. I suppose it ties into my other themes of self-destruction as not many artists seek to make deliberately bad work, a representation of worse as better.

Egotist, n. A person of low taste, more interested in himself than in me.

[writingwife-83]

Sherlolly Appreciation Week, Day 5- The Abominable Bride

Hello again! I was kind of excited to try this theme because I actually never wrote anything at all to do with TAB since it aired over a year ago. Tbh, I wasn’t terribly inspired by it at the time. But that’s another story lol. Now I was happy to try! So although this isn’t technically canon, it also doesn’t conflict with the canon of that episode. It could certainly fit if you’d like it to...I know I would. :)) 

A War He Must Lose

“Going somewhere?”

The deep echo of Sherlock’s voice in the back alley caused the small woman to halt and slowly turn. Once she was facing him, he could see the fear in her eyes. It occurred to him that she was afraid of him and that cut him deeply.

“Suppose I’m not anymore,” she said bitterly. “You’ve come to stop me, I assume?”

“I have,” Sherlock admitted.

She nodded. “And is the whole of Scotland Yard out front then? Waiting to take me away?” she asked through grit teeth.

Sherlock approached her slowly, again noting her trepidation. “No, Molly.”

Her lips parted in momentary shock. “Y-you know…you remember.”

“Of course I remember, yes. Do you really expect that I wouldn’t recognize a childhood schoolmate who happened to have the same last name and unmistakable eyes as a rather short and slight, but supposedly male, doctor at Bart’s hospital?” He raised a brow.

Molly set her bulging carpet bag down on the ground with a sigh and crossed her arms. “You never let on,” she replied softly.

Sherlock agreed with a small chuckle. “Naturally. For three years I’ve carefully concealed, even from you, that I had any inkling as to who you truly were. Any hint of that fact could have altered our behavior towards one another, and therefore could have compromised your secret.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “It was hardly worth the risk, in my estimation.”

The glare she leveled at him softened, and she allowed herself a reluctant smile. “And here I thought that I’d disguised myself so well that even the great Sherlock Holmes didn’t catch on. But then, on the other hand…” Her voice dropped and eyes hardened. “I hated you a little for not knowing, or caring.”

He stood his ground cautiously, watching her as she went on.

“I suppose it made me feel just as easily brushed aside and forgotten as I’d felt back in school when we were younger.”

“But you were wrong,” Sherlock stated pointedly. “I didn’t forget.”

Molly’s countenance wouldn’t be moved though. She set her lips in a hard line and looked away for a moment.

“It hardly matters now anyway,” she said, her tone somber. “It’s all over.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Not for you, not in London.”

Molly frowned at him in confusion and perhaps even anger. “Yes it is,” she spat back. “I am a criminal on a number of counts according to the law, and I find it difficult to believe that there is any life left for me here. At least not one that I’d be willing to stoop to!”

“You should stay in London,” he said firmly. “And I believe that I could assist in making that possible.”

Her lips formed a little “ah” shape and she began slowly shaking her head. “I see…so what is this? Some sort of selfish plan of yours? Hoping to keep me in London to use me somehow? Probably hoping that I can’t possibly say no due to my current state of desperation!”

When he reached down to gently but firmly grasp her little hand, he was sure he heard a tiny gasp escape her lips.

“Dr. Hooper,” Sherlock murmured intensely, ensuring that she was riveted. “My desire to keep you in London is for you, because I would like for you to have the life that makes you happy…because you deserve it.”

For a moment, she looked almost like she would cry. Sherlock considered the cause she’d recently rallied behind, and all that she and her friends had lived through and suffered, mostly at the hands of men. And often times it was men who should have been respecting and cherishing them. It was quite likely that it had been some time since Molly had heard a generous word from someone of his sex. Perhaps she was moved.

She blinked rapidly and then steadied her gaze again. She didn’t pull her hand free though.

“There is much that I deserve, but that does not mean it is possible at the moment,” she countered softly. “I cannot imagine my being able to reside safely in London any longer.”

His lips lifted a bit. “Then, please, will you allow me to explain?”

“Very well, then,” she agreed.

“Actually, my plan was that you wouldn’t just hear it from my lips. Would you be willing to come with me, Dr. Hooper? To meet with someone else. Because as little as I like to admit it at times, there is another who is far more suited to the particulars of protecting your life here in this city.”

Molly paused, considering his offer. “Alright, I accept. But we must go now. If I refuse this offer, whatever it may be, I should like to catch a train by the end of the night.”

“Not a problem,” he assured her confidently. “He is already awaiting our arrival, so this meeting should be rather brief.”

“He? Who is it?”

Sherlock smirked as he directed her toward the roadway and an awaiting carriage. “Oh I believe you will know him. He does, after all, occupy a rather large role in our government!”

“Mr. Holmes, good evening, sir,” Molly quietly greeted as they entered the grand study and came face to face with Sherlock’s older brother.

“And a good evening to you, Dr. Hooper. And perhaps we can make it a bit better,” the very large man said as he gestured across his desk. “Do take a seat.”

Molly sat, but her expression and body language made it clear that she was still on the defensive. Sherlock told himself to be patient, that her trust might not be won so quickly and easily.

Mycroft Holmes said nothing at first, but simply took some papers out of his desk and slid them across to her. Molly hesitantly took them and turned them over to read. Her eyes instantly went wide as she looked back at the man across from her.

“W-what is…how did you do this?” She could barely speak clearly, for it was her name; her own full name that was printed on the documents that certified her medical education and license.

Mycroft turned his palms toward the ceiling for a moment. “I have a number of useful connections at my disposal.”

Molly swallowed thickly and became nervous again. “What do you want?”

Sherlock spoke up then.

“He wants nothing, we want nothing. This is simply a gift. There are no strings attached and you certainly are under no obligation to take these and stay in London. But, if you did choose to…” Sherlock glanced back at Mycroft, prompting him to explain further.

“You see, Dr. Hooper, I fund a rather large portion of the work, research, and education that is carried out at Bart’s hospital. That means that my word carries quite a bit of weight.”

Sherlock snorted.

Mycroft continued with a brief eye roll. “If a position of importance must be filled in the hospital, there would be no questioning my opinion on the matter, should I choose to voice it. And it just so happens that a certain Dr. Michael Hooper has recently had a frightful family emergency which requires a hasty relocation. It is rather fortunate, however, that he is not the only one within his family who has a medical degree.” Mycroft smile. “His female cousin specializes in the same profession, and I can personally vouch for her skill and character.”

Molly jaw hung slack as she listened to the almost unbelievable words. She turned to Sherlock, as if she were searching for answers, but couldn’t come up with the needed questions. Sherlock took the hint and tried to fill in some of the possible gaps.

“Dr. Molly Hooper is unknown in the city of London. You have no past, criminal or otherwise. At least, not to anyone besides any of your remaining fellow…brides. And none of them are likely to talk, considering the target they’d place on their own heads. The point is that you can start again, if you wish. You can be yourself, and apologize to nobody for it. You have our word.”

She looked back down at the papers in her hands, clutching them like inestimable  treasure now. “And everything I did…you apparently find no fault in it?” She glanced between the two Holmes men.

Sherlock tilted his head in thought. “Conspiracy and murder…frowned upon, I admit. But all of your motives were rooted in justice, and that I can respect. Naturally, we would hope that your days of any criminal activity are now behind you.”

“Yes, I should hate to regret any help I agreed to give in this area,” Mycroft added. “No matter the justification, I cannot, even indirectly, be a party to the sort of activities with which you were recently involved.”

Molly nodded. “It was already done. It was all over and done with before I met with you two gentlemen tonight. Naturally once the secret was out, our little group could do nothing but go our separate ways. Besides, we had never intended to go on like that forever.” Her expression was a bit contrite for just a moment. “I know I couldn’t have.”

After a moment of silence, Mycroft cleared his throat. “Well then I must ask what your final answer is, Dr. Hooper? Will you be staying on at Bart’s hospital?”

Molly drew a deep breath, and Sherlock saw her fingers touch her own name written in ink on the official documents she held. She finally looked up at Mycroft and gave him a small smile.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, I will.” She reached across the desk and shook his hand. “I am rather speechless at this unexpected generosity, and I thank you for it.”

“Not at all,” Mycroft stated wearily. “I hardly had to lift a finger! And besides, it certainly wasn’t all my idea.” He glanced conspicuously at his younger brother.

Molly’s eyes shifted to Sherlock and he felt a new and pleasant warmth in her gaze which he was now realizing he could certainly get used to.

“Well! Now that our business is settled, I must admit that I need to be going. You see I have a rather large and important dinner to attend and mustn’t be late,” Mycroft explained as he began rising from his seat with some difficulty.

Sherlock and Molly followed suit and she smiled at the elder Holmes as they made ready to leave. “How lovely. What sort of dinner is it?”

Mycroft grinned widely. “My own!”

The silence was thick for a while in the darkened carriage as it rolled down the bumpy London streets. Sherlock could feel Molly’s eyes on him occasionally, but she remained tight lipped for the first few minutes of the ride. Finally, after releasing a small breath, she opened her mouth to speak.

“Holmes- er, no, that is…” She faltered a bit and paused, and Sherlock couldn’t help but be intrigued by this very different side of her. She wasn’t playing a part anymore.

“Mr. Holmes,” she began again. “Please do not take my silence for lack of gratitude. I am very grateful, truly. But you must understand that for some time I have not been in the practice of accepting…assistance from a man. I have made my own way and am proud to have done so. So to feel as if a path was cut for me without much at all being done on my part, well, I can only describe it as a bit…unsettling.”

Sherlock nodded, able to sympathize a bit. “Perhaps, Dr. Hooper, you may come to think of it not so much as assistance, but that you are simply taking what is owed you. You are taking what is rightfully, and what always should have been…yours.”

Molly’s expression softened a touch. “I shall try to see it that way, yes. Thank you,” she said genuinely.

Sherlock turned his gaze to the window, but Molly’s voice quickly drew his attention back again.

“How long would you have gone on as we were, Mr. Holmes?”

He drew a deep breath, taking a moment to think as he let it out slowly. “As long as you wished to remain concealed, I believe. I had no plans of prompting you to admit your identity to me. Hardly seemed fair for me to force such a thing. It was you who deserved to maintain control, since it was your own secret hanging in the balance.”

“And that wasn’t…difficult for you?” Molly further questioned very softly. “To remain silent?”

Sherlock could just barely make out her sparkling eyes in the dim carriage, reaching out to him, perhaps a little desperately, for the truth. He almost shook his head and said “no,” effectively ending the discussion. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.

“There were times,” he began slowly, the darkness of the carriage allowing for a level of honesty that perhaps would not be possible otherwise. “That it was…trying. Perhaps during a difficult case or when you were clearly struggling through your day. Times I preferred to speak to you as a friend, to more candidly tell you how brilliantly you had succeeded in your career, and to remind you that regardless of how we behaved in our roles as indifferent colleagues, you always had and always would…matter to me.”

Once the words had begun flowing, he hadn’t quite been able to turn off the tap. Perhaps he’d said too much. But the moment Molly opened her lips in response, any chance of regret flew far away.

“And there were so many times I longed to hear it,” she whispered.

Sherlock was beginning to feel very much out of his depth. God help him if Watson could see him now. He’d never hear the end of it! His heart began to pound in fear, not because he didn’t know what to say next, but because he very well knew there were many more words simmering beneath the surface which he had the undeniable urge to speak.

He considered it a mercy when the carriage came to a halt outside the building where Molly lived.

Molly smiled shyly across at him as the driver knocked on the roof to alert them to her stop. Sherlock climbed out and went round the side to open the door and help her out.

“It seems I am now in your debt,” she stated earnestly while taking his hand and gathering her skirts in order to climb down.

Sherlock smirked. “Precisely. Perhaps I am more selfish than I previously admitted.”

She laughed and it was instantly like music to his ears. It had literally been years since he’d heard that sound, and all at once he realized what he had been missing.

“Not to worry,” she replied playfully. “Your selfless behavior can remain our little secret.”

It was then that he realized he was still clutching her hand in his, despite the fact that she now stood in front of him, no longer climbing down the carriage steps. Instead of releasing it, he impulsively lifted it, bringing it to his lips to press a small kiss to the lace covered skin.

“Hooper,” he murmured in parting.

She looked up at him intently and the corner of her lips tugged upward a bit as she responded in a tone that matched his.

“Holmes.”

As she turned and walked up to her building with her bag now destined for unpacking, he couldn’t help but think that his name spoken on her lips now sounded worlds different when compared to the countless times she’d used it in the past. And when he tried to define the new and appealing quality to it, the first and most prominent words that came to his mind were surprisingly, warmth and affection. He could have said that the idea was repugnant to him, or at least that he was wholly indifferent to it. He certainly could have made such a claim.

But of course…he would have been lying.

[nightmareonfilmstreet]

The FRIDAY THE 13TH That Never Was [Screenplay Summary]

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The FRIDAY THE 13TH That Never Was [Screenplay Summary]

The horror community was delivered a great blow earlier this year after Paramount Pictures and Platinum Dunes announced the cancellation of Friday the 13th Part 13. Planned for release this Friday the 13th, the bad news came just before production was set to begin. Supposedly, the decision came after the box office results of Rings (2017) but fans still hope the success of Friday The 13th The Game may help revive the project. Attached to the ill-fated project was screenwriter Aaron Guzikowski (Prisoners, Contraband), but there was another script circulating two years earlier that from Channel Zero creator and Hannibal writer, Nick Antosca. Shortly after the film was axed, Antosca tweeted that the script had found it’s way online.

Drilling straight for the mainline, he strikes gold in his re-imagining of what a Friday The 13th film could be after almost 40 years of terrorizing teens at Camp Crystal Lake. Avoiding any attempts to expand or explain Jason’s origin, Antosca’s Friday The 13th: 3-D, throws fans back into the 80’s with a picture-perfect slasher that feels as at home in the era as it does in the genre. The script contains more direction and camera movement than your average screenplay, but only in service of explaining the mood and look of the film he is narrating. Antosca’s voice is that of a life-long horror fan (like yourself) who was given the opportunity of a lifetime, and wanted nothing more than to write the best Friday the 13th possible. I’m of the opinion that this might have been one of the strongest installments in the franchise, and I was completely on board at Page 1.

Opening on a gorgeous sunny day, the last day of summer camp 1988, as our counselors narrowly save a young boy from drowning before partying the night away. Naturally, there is some sexual tension, mild drug use, and a foreboding tale of a murder-most-foul. Lead by Frank (the groundskeeper) the counselors head across the lake to take a quick look the creepy, abandoned campground of the original Camp Crystal Lake. And in a foolish display of teenage rebellion, Greg (our smart, immature jock) curses Pamela Voorhees at the top of his lungs- loud enough for anything (or anyone) in the woods to hear him…

Desperate for a little alone time, the couples decide to split-up to get a better look of the camp. Greg finds a familiar hockey mask, Frank stares into the woods, and Sloane takes a bracelet she finds buried in the dust. When they regroup, Frank is gone *gasp* and the second canoe is nowhere to be seen. Rather than make two trips for everyone to arrive safely, Dylan and Vanessa opt to walk back through the woods. BUT WHAT HAPPENED TO FRANK??!? After a quick delay in a gazebo to “stay out of the rain” we follow Dylan and Vanessa separately after they split-up on their way home. Taunting us with both as potential victims, we cut back and forth between the two, unsure of who is about to come face-to-face with certain death. SPOILER ALERT! It’s Dylan. Bye-bye Dylan.

The next morning, back at camp, the counselors are waking up in various stages of undress, getting ready to face the day. Vanessa spots a figure watching her as she showers but she and Kevin hit a dead end following the muddy boot prints that lead away from the showers. Getting on with their counselor duties, the group puts on a quick show for the parents arriving to collect their kids, and begin the process of closing up the camp for the season. The counselors head into town for supplies, and to report Vanessa’s forest-dwelling stalker to Sheriff John. Of course, he’s no help but they do meet a nice, but possibly crazy, older woman with one arm that knows all about “Lunch-Lady Pam”

Back at the camp, Head Counselor Ian Duckworth and Nurse Nicole are smoking weed as they play a few rounds of Strip Go-Fish. On his way back from pinching some of Weezer’s secret stash, Duckworth comes upon a hulking figure peering through Nurse Nicole’s window. Duckworth tries to shoo him away with the first thing at arm’s reach, only to find himself at the business end of his own shovel while The Talking Head’s “Sax & Violins” plays overtop.

  When the troop returns to camp they get to work building a campfire, unfazed by Duckworth’s absence. Vanessa doesn’t feel safe staying that the camp but no one is that interested in leaving just yet, so the boys raid the sports shed for anything closely resembling a weapon. To Vanessa’s dismay, Dylan never shows up to say goodbye. The night progresses as last nights at summer camp always do, and we watch the group from someone’s POV (Point of View) as they counselors let off steam. Weezer heads out to the water slide for one last bowl as everyone crawls toward bed, for a variety of reasons. As the sun rises on a new day, we see that Weezer has spent the entire night smoking dope before heading into the water for an early morning dip.

Kevin and Sloane wake up in each others arms and Sloane tells Kevin about the nightmare she had during the night. She dreamed it was raining, only the rain turned to blood covering the entire camp. And then…he appeared. The boy that drowned years ago. They split up to get ready for breakfast but Kevin soon calls everyone out of their cabins when he discovers Weezer’s body by the shoreline. Everyone immediately heads for the truck only to realize Brad and Amber are across the camp taking down the archery range. Shit! Just as they are planning the fastest, safest way to collect Brad and Amber, Kirby asks a very unsettling question: Why is there a goalie over there?

Cutting between the group fighting for their lives, Amber & Brad’s emotional break-up, and Nurse Nicole sound asleep, the camp is chaotic. Scattered, looking for keys and clinging to life, the group looks on in horror as Brad and Amber make their way back to camp, unaware of what awaits them. They narrowly escape, thanks to Nurse Nicole’s blind charge into the mess hall expecting breakfast, finding only swift and certain death. After collecting the keys from Greg’s body, they crash the car trying to run Jason over on their way out. Amber is picked from inside the car as though she were at the bottom of  jar of olives. Jason crushes her head with his bare hands, and the rest of team run back to the camp looking for safety.

After a brief tussle with Brad and an axe, Jason staggers back into the woods. Expecting him back any minute, Brad, Vanessa, and Sloane try to coax Kirby back from the floating dock she’s been hiding on because, ya know, no man left behind and whatnot. But Jason returns- and he’s got a pretty good idea the girl he’d hoped had drowned in the lake is hiding somewhere. Kirby looks on in horror as Jason walks deeper and deeper into the lake until only a single trail of bubbles disappears under the dock. Kirby musters up the courage to dive off, and tries to swim for shore….tries.

The remaining counselors (Brad, Sloane, Vanessa) have no choice. They have to walk through the woods, past the old Camp Crystal Lake, to get to the main road and escape. No sooner do they make it onto the old grounds does Jason come barreling through the woods after them. In a hurried race for their lives, they happen upon an old, unkempt house. Linda King (the one-armed local) answers the door and ushers them inside to call 911. Hooray! While Vanessa screams into the phone, Linda can’t help but notice the bracelet Sloane is wearing. Where did you get that? she asks, but before she can answer, Jason has broken into the house!

Brad is tired of running, and the police are still on their way. The three grab everything they can to fight this unknown force of nature stalking them but nothing phases him. Brad plunges his axe deep into Jason’s back but it barely slows him down. Linda tries to shoot him point-bank with a shotgun only to be beaten with her own prosthetic arm. They hit and stab and shoot Jason with everything they have and gradually, he weakens.

The police and paramedics arrive soon after. Vanessa, Brad, and Sloane are swept away for assessment while the police walk around the crime scene. Coroners are lifting Jason’s body into the morgue van as Sloane tries to make sense of the crazed massacre. The police assure them that their attacker is most certainly dead as the morgue van pulls away in the background. The police think the Voorhees boy is tall-tale, nothing more than a spooky story, but Sloane knows in her bones that the nameless killer stalking them is none other than…

In broad daylight, Jason hacks his way through dozens of police officers, innocents standers-by, and tragically, Brad. Unfortunately his skull was no match for Jason’s new bone-saw, but his death does give Sloane and Vanessa time to duck away. Sloane traps herself in the backseat of a police cruiser, but when Vanessa attempts to free her Jason sneaks up behind her, bashing her skull against the roof. Sloane is ripped from the car, helpless and defenseless, but a thought occurs to her as she stands before this towering giant.

Jason is grotesque, baby-like and full of blood thirsty rage. but just before he can squeeze the life out of her, BAM! BAM! Vanessa appears with a shotgun to save the day. Our Final Girls both know he’s only down temporary and waste no time hijacking a squad car to ride off into the sunset away from this nightmare.

  Fin.