John Wick (2014): Behind The Scenes

Not everything is myth and legend...

Please Help Iggy, My One-Eyed Cat!

 Hi Tumblr,

My name is Leah, and I am a university student living with her boyfriend and 3 animals. One of my cats, Iggy was taken to the vet on Feb 10, 2021 because he had been throwing up often that week. The worst possible situation had come true and the vet confirmed that Iggy had a blockage in his GI tract. On Feb 11, 2021 around 6PM Iggy had to go under emergency surgery to have the blockage removed. Brought him home on the 12th.

My fiance and I are both students and barely scrape by, especially due to Covid. We took out all our savings and used it to save Iggy. We do not regret it and would do it again, he is a member of our family. However, we are not sure how we are going to get by this because we are still making payments on the bill still…I do not contact with my family, they are not supportive of me and my choices in life…

I humbly ask that you can reblog or share this on this site. If you are able to do more, we ask for some assistance to help our family get by this month so we can try to get financially stable again. 

I do have bill amounts and pictures set up on GoFundMe as evidence and on this post. They are imagur links as GoFundMe limits picture sizes. Thank you very much for your time. 

I also made thank you cards for the donors, if you would like one please PM me here and I will send it to you. We really appreciate your time. Thank you.

https://gofund.me/a846679d

https://imgur.com/LqgLQ6D

https://imgur.com/hT21EEx

Sam Witwer in Apprentices to Outcasts: Kenobi and Maul (Star Wars Rebels Season 3 Blu-ray featurette)

“Tell them....I’m coming...”

We should on January 5 tweet NBC and ask what would it take for them to restart Hannibal.

What an interesting idea! The program is an aesthetic work of art. Deeply psychological and yet ceaselessly beautiful. Unfortunately, if the studio decided to cancel further production after Season 3, it would have been for technical reasons. I'm certain the cast, crew and creative teams would highly appreciate the loving support they have received from their fan base. NBC is a large entity, I would likely recommend sending a letter to Mr. Bryan Fuller himself.

| Whoever decided the birds are free? |

Remember. Your. Roots.

It wasn’t just a puppy.

He didn't let her finish.

He didn't want her to.

In that moment,  something inside him snapped free entirely. He had no means with which to rationalize his behavior and no desire to sympathize with anything other than the young woman's alluring invitation. He watched her for a moment, then another, then another after that. That look in her eyes. He remembered it. It was a look that he thought she'd likely never bestow upon him again. His mind was a whirlpool of hungers and unrequited desires that he could no longer internalize. Why was she doing this to him? Tormenting him like this? His heart hammered within the confines of his chest, cutting off his ability to breathe. He ached. Every inch of skin she'd touched against her lips or hands burned. His body responded on sheer instinct.

He attacked her.

Mindless, mad in the heat of pure, unbridled lust, he tore at her body, taking hold her hips and forcing her slender form to mount him anew as he sat upon his black leather office chair. When their lips met it was with sheer, carnal instinct. An explosion of force and fury set off sparks behind his eyes. He pulled at her lips, demanded her tongue in a way he ensured she was powerless to refuse. He needed her. He needed this. Her excuses and rebukes, her boundaries and her ignorance of his needs physical or otherwise were entirely inconsequential at that moment. Nothing overpowered him so much as the near galvanic urge to make her his.

He tore at her clothes, uncaring for the damage the garments suffered. He was a whir of motion, aggravated grunts and heavy Italian curses for every moment that her flesh was not revealed to him. He froze... she wore deep violet lace. That... That was something special.

"Hai pianificato questo." (You planned this.) It wasn't a question, it was a statement.  And the scent of her arousal drove him over.  He lifted her bodily atop his desk, a smattering of papers and notebooks coming heavily onto the floor. His slender fingers tore the underwear from her hips and thighs. She did not struggle, nor resist. He had consent. Consent he'd not seen in months since London. Weeks since touching down in Rome.

Mechanical muscle memory overtook his judgment. Before he grasped reason, he'd separated her thighs and plunged his length within the tender confines of her pulsing, heated womanhood, taking her in deep, almost aggressive strokes to the very hilt. The world faded away.  She encapsulated him entirely, commanded him with a depth and passion he could not resurface from. Her breathy cries at every pounding thrust came over him like music. In this moment, he needed her deeper than he'd ever needed a woman before. In that moment, Santino was lost to the primordial need that came from chasing sheer physical pleasure with a willing lover. And his willing lover, was obsessively, Lalienna.

|||

For two, painstaking weeks prior he'd done nothing more than fall victim to the isolating techniques his High Guard forced upon him. He raged, in fury. He'd argued with them bitterly for they forced him away, denied him access to her bedroom, guarded her relentlessly. Until it was all finally too much. He knew, deep in his heart that something was unequivocally, irreversibly wrong with his lover.  He'd heard her screams, her wailing, the piteous lies that she told or refused to tell for the sake of protecting herself. Except he began to reason she was protecting the truth from him. He'd no basis for making this accusation, but the way in which Ares cast him away, the way in which Christov and Hector backed him down, coiled a viper of doubt in his belly.

He'd demanded doctors attend her day and night, for those screams he heard were unnatural.  Hector overpowered him, shouted reasons and placations advising the young woman was likely having yet another of her episodes, similar to that which she had experienced those months prior after her first meeting with Airoldi. That he needed to remain patient with her. That they would personally ensure a doctor attended her but he was to wait outside and let Ares attend her alone. That between her and the maids, the women were best suited to this kind of trauma. Couldn't he see? None of the other males had access to her rooms. They were as shut out as he was. But to not worry for her. It was simply an extremely bad turn of illness, coupled with an exceptionally poor menstrual cycle. That if he was to leave her be but a few days, she would recover her wits about her fully and be more accepting of his company.

What choice did he have but to comply? He'd tried threatening them. They simply glared at him and his insults, entirely unmoved. He'd considered brawling with them, bare-fisted knuckles pounded directly into their faces, for they seemed to be less arrogant when he had them bleeding at his feet. But what would this achieve? Further distress and lack of harmony. Hector was right. None of the men were permitted entrance to her quarters, and that included him until whatever agony overtook her passed. When she returned willingly to his bed and he'd made to ask her sincere questions, she'd shut him down and shut him out.

That little puppy was her constant companion but the baby animal did not have the strength he'd prayed for in terms of pulling the Spaniard free of her depression. His concerns grew deeper. She would not come down to the dining room to eat. Most of her meals were brought up to her by maids and returned to the kitchen practically untouched. He'd demanded Panchelli maintain her plates exactly as they were returned to the kitchen so as he could personally inspect how much she had consumed. His heart dropped as the days passed. She was barely eating anything at all. So he requested Chef make blended fruit juices with protein powders mixed into them. He was heartened when the glasses came back empty. That was a start. If she would not consume solid foods then at least tempting her with pureed fruits was a good start.

He'd cornered Ares on the fifth day and demanded information. The mute young woman who was being remarkably responsible in Cerberus' toilet training, used her fast hands to explain at great length that Lalienna was recovering. That she was in fact suffering from a bout of homesickness and displaced depression. No, she didn't think the dancer would need hospitalization. No, the young woman was weak and tired and spent most of the days sleeping with her puppy and the reason for her sending back her plates untouched was due to what appeared to be a rather nasty stomach infection. No, another doctor would not need to attend, for whilst he was out, she was already seen by an in-house practitioner that prescribed her antibiotics and fluids. That he should make sure Chef kept the fruit juices coming, they were doing her well. She'd return to solid foods in time.

On the eleventh day he was met by Hector whilst he was smoking on the balcony.  The Guard Commander lit up his own cigarette and started with what he thought was amicable conversation.

"She's starting back on solid foods again, boss."

"Quanto sangue perde una donna durante un aborto?" (How much blood does a woman lose during a miscarriage?) Was Santino's pensive enquiry. The question was so profound it struck Hector like a blow to the chest.  What in God's name?! Impossible... Santino couldn't possibly have guessed?!

"Woah... uh... random, boss... Uh... I dunno. I've never known any ladies that have lost kids before. I-uh... Never really thought about it to be honest." He put his head down and sucked at his smoke, taking in the rich Turkish tobacco and praying he had a few shots of strong vodka to chase it with.  

"Why you ask?" He dared. Dreading the response. He turned to meet Santino's eyes and grew relieved when he saw the Prince of Rome was miles away. He didn't answer for a long time and when he did, it was with vacant eyes.

"Me lo diceva, no? Se avesse mai portato la mia bambina?" (She'd tell me, wouldn't she? If she was ever carrying my baby?)  

"Jesus Christ, Santino!" Hector exclaimed, a tremor in his hands. The clutch of nerves sending tendrils of ice water in his veins. He wasn't expecting this. But he wasn't about to let Lalienna down. So he hated himself and played the game.

"You were careful with her, weren't you? You're both young, healthy. Accidents can happen in a fraction of a second. That's what condoms are for, Signore, fuck... You'd be crazy to do this to her now. She's so young. "

"I agree." Santino replied. His eyes narrowed as he took in the stars. The nights were growing colder. He got up, crushing his cigarette butt into the mother of pearl ashtray on the patio table before blowing out the last plume of smoke and returning indoors, leaving his shell-shocked commander behind.

|||

The blinding walls of release struck him from all sides at once. He'd barely had time to process his lover's powerful contractions of silken heat before he came undone in a guttural cry of animalistic pleasure against her throat. He was vaguely aware of her whimpering pleas. A string of nearly unintelligible curses as she fell apart beneath him, clutching at his clothes and hating them for denying her his skin.  When they both had a moment to recover from their dizzying high, they merely took in one another's eyes. His breaths coming laboured and erratic. A bead of sweat gathering at his brow. The room was entirely too hot. And she felt glorious as she stroked him intimately. He laughed. A chuckle first. She reciprocated. And then it built, more and more as both lovers were in a peel of merriment. Panting, laughing. Tears stung at the corner of his eyes. He loved her entirely. He told her so. He kissed her plumped lips, murmuring against them.

" Nulla che io possa mai fare sarebbe nemmeno una frazione importante quanto amarti, tesoro." (Nothing I could ever do would be even a fraction as important as loving you, darling.)

"Papi... we'll draw atten-" Two sharp knocks at the office door cut her off.  Knocks that was characteristic code:  It's not important, but can I come in?

"Fuck, Ares." He cursed, smirking to himself before calling out. " Stiamo bene. Qualunque cosa pensassi di aver sentito, avevi ragione. Ora dacci un po 'di privacy o sei licenziato!" (We're fine. Whatever you thought you heard, you were right. Now give us some privacy or you're fired!)

He listened, the bark of the puppy and the sound of receding footfalls as the pair made to retreat until at last the lovers were alone again.

"Come on, amore. All your appointments have just been cancelled for today." With an unwilling groan, Santino separated himself from his Mistress and took a moment to tuck himself away to appear at least semi-decent.

"Pick those up, bring them here." He whispered hoarsely, gesturing to her discarded, lust-soaked violet lace. The young woman slid her bare-bottomed self from the desk on shaking legs, seeking to comply with the request almost wordlessly. Whatever protest she meant to make as she handed over her slightly moist underwear was promptly silenced by the heat in her lover's eyes.

"Papi?"

"Open your mouth."

"Wha?"

"Open. Your mouth. Right now." The dancer seemed to hesitate for a full heartbeat. However, the curve of his brow and the edge in his tone lead her compliance. Her lips fell apart and her eyes grew wide as she watched. Santino twisted her underwear tightly in his hands then pressed the lace into her mouth.

"Bite down." Was his command. Hot, clipped words. Perverse and filthy, perhaps. But he didn't care. And when her teeth finally took purchase of the lace, he purred in shimmering satisfaction. She was perfect. He wanted her to taste the evidence of her arousal. To acknowledge that she had willingly complied to baiting the dragon as she had.  Her eyes clouded over. Her breasts rose and fell heavily, but she did not let go of the underwear in her mouth.

So he lifted her, bodily into his arms and carried her as she was, nude from the waist down, from his office, up the stairs and into his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. A mercy. They did not meet with any domestic staff or other Camorra guards on their journey. Although he had no doubt in his mind that Ares would now go gossiping to anyone that would even remotely acknowledge her frantic sign language gestures.  This knowledge in and of its self sparked a glow of satisfaction within him. It was progress. Progress he thought he deserved to be rewarded for. He'd won her back. And he had every intention of giving the young woman in his arms reason to want a full course meal by the time he considered himself done with her.

Alone as they were, in the confines of his luxurious bedroom, he stripped his lover naked. Her clothes hit the floor and were followed by her eyes. He corrected her sharply, tsking her with his tongue. She meant to spit out the lace in her mouth but again she was met with his correction. For Santino shook his head silently no.

"When I say, bella mia. And not a moment before." The order seemed to have the effect he desired, for she quickly forgot about her top and bra, biting into the fabric harder, her thighs caressing each other as though she meant to suppress the building heat that had not yet been entirely quenched at her core.

She whimpered as he kissed her cheeks, her forehead, her shoulder. His fingers attending to buttons and zips as he stepped out of his boots and socks, shrugged out of his shirt and let it hit the plush Oriental rug underfoot. A deviant twinkle in his eyes. He took hold her hands and placed them against his belt with a quirk of his brow.

"Sai cosa fare." (You know what to do.) He teased, licking at his upper lip suggestively. Minx! Even in her arousal, she was unabashedly playful.  She freed him of his belt, buttons and fly but not before taking a moment to palm his heated arousal, stroking his length against the fabric and drawing a hungry purr.

His previous exhaustion and professional frustrations with his sister, entirely forgotten. He was alive once more. Pulsing, hot, wanton in his need to not just make love to the woman before him. But to fuck her. Properly. To somehow make up for months of deprivation that self-satisfaction did little to ease.

As he stood finally nude before her, he put out his upturned right palm.

"Rilascialo." (Drop it.) He demanded.  His lover complied, spitting the violet lace into his palm with a grimace that she smothered with a whimpering giggle.

"You'll play gently with me, won't you, Papi?" The question was phrased innocently enough, but the heat in his glare and the sharpness of his commands was enough to make her second guess. She'd tasted his passionate aggression in London and feared its resurgence. She'd confessed her fears to Hector a fortnight prior. While her primal hungers urged her to submit to his darkest carnal needs, a foray into a mistimed Scene was well above what she considered herself capable of.  Though he didn't appear to glower threateningly, her fears were banished when he murmured,

"Of course, amore mio. What am I to do with broken toys?"

She watched through heavy lashes as he laid her underwear like an offering upon the ottoman at the foot of the bed.  And when at last he returned his attention to her, it was with the heat of his lips. His hands, his skin.

He walked her back to the bed.  Guiding each footstep with one of his own until at last she sank against his black linen.

"Let's see if we can't do something about your appetite, amore."

The hours rolled by to the sound of Rome's many belfries chiming out in the distance. The warm Roman morning gave way to a glorious, pink and violet-hued afternoon. And twilight set in thereafter, with the glitter of the first star in the evening sky. The day cascaded into the deep velvet of night.

And all through those long hours, Santino loved her.

Deeply.

Repeatedly.

Over and over and over again.

From one dizzying high to another, he forced her body from extreme to extreme. At his fingers, his tongue, the power of his length. In her mouth, her maidenhood, her feet... he even dared to massage and oil her heated flesh and let her taste the first lash of deeply intimate anal pleasures. Fleeting at first, so as to not frighten nor intimidate her. But enough that in the heat of the moment, he assured her,

"If you want it... you'll beg for it."

Minute after minute, hour after hour he shackled her to the smouldering heat of his passion. Three, four, five times in a row he had her hit the sheer wall of screaming climax. When his own body could no longer meet her demands, he took her overheated flesh with hot oils and passionate embraces until at last she grew exhausted, over-sensitized, aching. She begged release of a different kind. He had conquered her completely. She could take no more. And at last... she begged.

"Papi...please.... Please Papi... I'm actually starving now."

He laughed in absolute triumph and collapsed beside her. His body drenched in perspiration expended by hours of heated passion. They both coiled together, awaiting the slowing of their heartbeats until at last, Santino rose from the bed and crossed the room to serve his lover a glass of water from the pitcher at his sideboard. Himself another.

"Two weeks you deny yourself solid foods, evade my company, suffer alone with a stomach virus, struggle with your cycle. Two weeks you drive your poor Santino almost to the brink of insanity so that I brawl with my men and women in your name as they fight like dogs to protect you and now... after a single afternoon... and evening, in my bed, you tell me you're actually hungry?" He shook his head at her knowingly.

"You mean to tell me all of this could have been averted if only you'd let me give you a good, hard, fuck...hmm? Amore?"

Laughter shook his chest.  She looked so innocent as she averted her eyes, pouting and making pretty excuses.

"Come on, bella... Let's get showered off. Get some clean clothes on and then we can go downstairs and see if Panchelli has kept a few plates warm for us in the oven. Can you bear to sit with us as a family like you did at breakfast? I'd recommend it. If you let me have you alone, I can't promise you I won't consider force-feeding you dessert, eh, tesoro?"  

He blew a kiss to the air, paired it with his most disarming wink. His emerald eyes shimmering. His russet curls a dishevelled mess. He made a show of swallowing down the last of his water before setting the glass aside and padding off to the ensuite bathroom.

Part One.

Across the oceans, as the sun had set on a wet English afternoon, Judeth Clayton had arrived by private car and been deposited upon the street at the doors of The Continental London. She wore a magnificent floor-length ebony evening gown designed and hand made in Persia with flowing caped sleeves. Her dark hair was pinned in elegant coils and waves about her head. From her ears, she wore singular white pearls, a set that complimented their matching necklace as it adorned her décolleté. Upon her feet, she wore spectacular black Christian Louboutin heels whose timeless red soles were Judeth's absolute trademark. The picture of refinement. The car door was held open for her exit and as she was escorted along the red carpet that led to the hotel doors that were also held by doorman for her arrival. She was flanked by two guards. A man and woman in immaculate black suits. They were inescapable and silent. And they watched the Hand Maid like a hawk. Before leaving the White Tower of London, they had searched the contents of her evening clutch, checking her phone for unsolicited messages and calls. Rifling through her belongings where they displaced her lipstick, pen, tampons and other inconsequential trifles that were typical of a woman's evening purse. Her belongings were insignificant to their interest. What they searched for were pills, hyperaemic needles, and morphine vials. For that was the source of their employment in this mission.

Master Karth Piaf had made it clear that they were to ensure the woman was at no time left unattended or be remotely permitted to interact with, engage or otherwise fraternise with anyone or anything that even remotely looked like they were capable or allowing her to indulge even in the illusion of narcotic use. The pair that served her now were one of two sets of four total guards from Athena's security detail that were assigned to monitor the Hand Maid day and night without fail. They worked in 12 hour shifts between them, rotating at 6AM and 6PM respectively. Their tireless routine was not once interrupted. They had attended to this uneventful and tedious duty without fail or incident every day for the past two months. Karth paid them a generous four digit wage and a single gold coin for every shift they completed where they could report back that Judeth had not evaded their notice or succum to her visceral urge to inject herself. Yes, it was a mindlessly boring task watching the 38 year old woman day in and day out attend to a monotonous routine. But they did not mind entirely for it kept them from the field of battle and off the streets. They were breifed that if questioned as to why they kept up this peerless duty, that the lady was on "death watch". Athena forbade her Hand Maids the luxury of suicide and Judeth's mental health had deteriorated greatly under the strain of high-functioning depression since Lalienna's banishment from the Iron Fortuna Syndicate. The misinformation was readily accepted. The four rotating guards were paid to keep the true meaning of their duty absolute secret on pain of death. They were hand selected by Karth Piaf for their loyal and unshakable qualities amongst hundreds of possible candidates from Athena's Black Guard. They knew what Karth was capable of. Iron Fortuna was revered and feared for its brutal human torture techniques. They weren't about to rock the boat.

Thus, when their search of Judeth's purse revealed nothing that they considered incriminating; they handed it back with a wordless nod. She snatched the designer clutch with abject fury. Her patience was running short with this ridiculous facade. Karth had kept to his word. She was never given a moment's privacy. Not to eat, sleep, work, pray, study, bathe or relieve herself. She had done everything Karth had demanded of her, handing over her list of street and professional drug dealers across the city of London. Her rooms were searched daily. Her phones, laptops, email accounts, text messages and files were scrutinised without mercy. Twice daily she attended Doctor Tanis's treatment rooms to have herself injected painfully with detoxification substances that were administered to reduce her borderline biblical morphine withdrawals. To the rest of the world she appeared outwardly normal. In so much as her removed and cold exterior could facilitate. She only ever showed any semblance of sincere human emotion when in the presence of her son, Philip, who adored and embraced his mother, singing her praises and demanding her attention as he revealed all he'd learned in his school rooms. Those moments of matriarchal tenderness were short lived as the boy was removed from her presence to attend his studies and she forced to attend endless council meetings with the Queen and her advisor's facilitators, debtors and underlings. Athena had denied her permission to return to the field on any further espionage missions until Karth and Doctor Tanis cleared her of being a danger to herself. A concept she found repugnant and laughable.

Alas, she was forced to submit to Karth's will, for he held her son a captive pawn over her, threatening to reveal her addiction if she relapsed. His goal was clear and unquestionable. He'd hide the sin of her drug addiction from the world at any cost, but in turn she would get clean. Karth was never a man that made idle threats. She'd tasted his tortuous wrath more than once. Even if his intentions were pure, it was clear that he and the deceased Gregory Piaf had very much been brothers. Both of the men were disposed to monstrous acts of sinister violence against women.

Judeth was left without a choice. He meant well for her. She knew this. But she didn't expect this surveillance mission to prolong more than a month before he'd get tired of his little game, acknowledge her good behaviour and return her freedom. As the weeks rolled on in London, she realized she had been sorely mistaken. And wondered to herself, how much longer he'd keep this bullshit up for?

Alas, she was escorted by these guards into the familiar glittering warmth of the hotel. It's lobby fireplaces crackled happily to keep out London's Autumn chill and a dozen or more patrons looked on admirably at the statuesque woman and her security detail. Wondering as to who she was and why she appeared so important. Judeth kept her eyes forward and walked the length of lobbys red carpet with elegant strides approaching the grand marble desk and being met by the tender smiles of the Iris twins that beamed at her happily. It was almost 8 o'clock.

"Welcome back, Lady Clayton!"  Began Chantelle

"To The Continental London!" Finished Chervonne.

"Sir Sable is expecting you in the dining room." The blonde ladies trilled together. In perfect pitched unison. The words spoken in stereo.  They were still positively feline in their elegant mannerism and reminded Judeth very much of a pair of sleek Siamese cats. Their deep blue eyes alluring and twinkling with promised mischief. 

Completely beautiful. Judeth offered the ladies a disarming smile and nodded politely before turning off to the right and following the marble floor to the famous hotel dining room. Still flanked by her guards that walked three paces behind her at all times and would not deviate no matter what.

Closed off from the other diners, Judeth was led by the attending maître d'hôtel to the exclusive and private dining quarters of the hotel concierge. The prestigious and decadent 'Table Twenty One' was a positively royal affair with a floral centerpiece adorned with white tiger lilies, tulips, carnations and roses; bordered by a sterling silver candelabra that bathed the white linen, its luxury china and sparkling cutlery in the glow of four candles. Together this complimented the low light of the dimmed chandelier above them. The dining chairs were overstuffed French provincial elegance. Two black and white uniformed waiters in white gloves stood to discreet attention in the corner of the room with their silver meal carts and exotic culinary delights freshly prepared and covered over by silver serving domes. All of this was positively majestic in terms of elegance and refinement. But none of the grandeur of the private dining room held a candle compared to the man that stood at the head of the table and stalked his way around it to stand at proud attention in a faultless silver-grey three-piece dinner suit. That was The Continental London's concierge, Jermey's personal retainer and confidant. The gentleman was known to the London criminal underworld as Sable.

He was breath-taking to behold. His chestnut brunette hair combed delicately away from his statuesque features.  His eyes were the deepest blue and his beard and mustache were the picture of masculine elegance.  The scent of his cologne arrested her senses. Exotic dark spices, rich Italian leather, mid notes of Winter rose and top notes of sandalwood.  Her breath caught in her throat. He was everything a classical male Adonis could captivate. He didn't say a word, but his eyes filled with a sincere and intimate joy as they took in her regal beauty. She was as glorious and arresting to him as she thought him to be of her. He came forward on elegant strides and she met him, raising her right hand and presenting her emerald and gold ring. His lips found the stone, sighing quietly as he bent his head in reverence to the arresting woman before him. He dared... his lips found her knuckles, she did not retract her hand as his kiss rested warmly atop her bare skin. He heard her sigh... inaudible, she suppressed a shudder but he noted the intake of breath as her breasts heaved beneath the plunging neckline of her gown. It was all she could do not to swoon in his presence. He was purely glorious and entirely disarming. And when at last he rose and smiled at her it was with tenderness and complete sincerity. He'd not seen her face since the day he had delivered the blood oath marker she had requested to burden Lalienna with at the Tower. He noted, her eyes appeared colder. Her beauty sharper... tempered into a super models near otherworldly, exiguous charm. There were shadows and dark secrets, endless suffering under the veil of her sea green eyes. Her cosmetics had been applied by a master's practiced hands. But that did not detract from what he saw reflected just beneath the woman's determined veneer. Hunger... sufferance... He'd seen it at the Tower. He'd seen it build in her over the years for every time she entered the hotel and sought safe harbor in his walls. In his private rooms.  She was, detached... disconnected from the world around her. Something about her demeanor always suggested she was both looking at you and through you at the same time. Reading between the lines, off the page... into your soul. The cracks were starting to come through. He'd been one of her morphine suppliers for extended periods of time after battles and altercations. He'd injected her personally. Directly into the vein and watched her chase the dragon. He'd received her message two months ago that said she wished to make a reservation for M. Holt. That was a coded arrangement of words exclusively understood by them alone. It meant her addiction had been uncovered. The repercussions would be devastating. He destroyed any evidence of her supply that linked back to him. He did it instantly to protect her. But he knew what would come its place would be devasting.

He greeted her warmly, tender tone from his silken tongue. And did not fail to note the guards at her back. Two. One male, one female. Hired muscle with a mission. Athena's security detail. The Black Guard. Elite pawns, but pawns none the less. Expendable. He'd not tolerate them in his presence infringing on his privacy with this woman in his own hotel. They had to go.

" Alex Rothman and Margaret Styl, am I correct?" He addressed the pair sharply.

"Aye, that be us, Sir Sable. A good evening to you." Replied the man named Alex. Margaret nodded in wordless approval. Sable continued,

"And tell me, Sir, Madam, what brings you to our fine hotel this evening?" Pointless question. He knew exactly what was going on. But he wanted a confession.

"We have orders from Master Piaf senior to keep Mistress Clayton under twenty-four hour surveillance, Sir. Under no circumstances is she to leave our sight. Thus we escort her to your fine company this evening. We beg of you, dine and enjoy yourselves. We will be as silent and inconspicuous as flies on the wall. You needn't concern yourself with our attendance. We are merely here to monitor the Lady's behaviors and ensure she does not deteriorate." Answered Alex Rothman in fluid, Welsh accent. His companion Margaret nodded in approval.

"I see." Sable returned, nodding his head curtly. He smiled at Judeth politely, almost apologetically and returned his attention to Alex Rothman.

"And tell me, Mr. Rothman... how has your wife been keeping? I'm given to understand the dear lady birthed your...what was it... second child this May, if I'm not very much mistaken?"

He'd chosen his words carefully... and watched, entertained as the colour drained from Margaret Styl's face. She fought to maintain composure. This... this had been news to her. She shot Alex a withering glance. Alex... began to sweat at his brow.

"I...I... Uh... that is..yes... Yes Sir Sable, she is well. T-thank you for asking, Sir..."

"And, tell me... Has she become privy to your evening affairs with Miss Styl at your side there?" Sable pressed... ruthless. Like a blade. Margaret looked infuriated. Positively sick to the stomach.

"You never mentioned you had a wife, Mr. Rothman." She snapped at last, her brows arching high.

"No Miss. Styl, I wouldn't concern yourself. I dare say there are a great deal many things in this profession of ours that Mr. Rothman is likely to keep from you if it means you'll continue to warm his bed on the cold and lonely evenings of the coming Winter. I dare say you do it far better than Mrs. Rothman ever could, encumbered as she is with two baby boys."

Sable's words fell like a revelation upon Margaret's lap.

"You fucking bastard!" She erupted, turning slap Alex fair upon the mouth. Rothman took the blow with stunned ignorance, turning his head back to register the shock.

"Margo... please... you need to let me explain." Alex stammered out

"Why use words Mr. Rothman? I have a perfectly good video of your indiscretions that I'm certain Miss. Styl would be all too pleased to witness." Sable drawled dispassionately. His eyes twinkling in sadistic amusement. They were like insects to him these creatures, these lowly guards.

"And I will show her.... even if she has to be tied down to the chair.... For you see Miss.  Styl, you are not the only woman whom Mr. Rothman makes good his affections with. Our video surveillance shows many private visitations to and from The Red Door with... frequent abandon."

"Sable, you fucking bastard! You're going to ruin me, man!" Alex snapped.

"Nonsense Mr. Rothman, you've rather already done that for yourself. I merely had the opportunity to witness your fall from grace. And your repeated rutting of Miss. Styl in our hotel car park. You really should lock your doors, Mr. Rothman. It's a rough crowd out there, in the dark."

Now Margaret was whimpering, her eyes flooding with tears, her hand flew to her mouth in abject horror as she looked the man at her side over and shook her head no. The words died in her throat.

"What the fuck do you want from me Sable? What's it gonna cost me to keep you fuckin' quiet about this?" Rothman was distraught. Furious in his anger, he paced forward and Judeth stepped out of the way, disinterested in being caught in the crossfire of this argument.

Sable smiled however. And it was the smile of a shark that knew he had his prey on its dying breath.

"How much is Master Piaf paying you to guard Judeth Clayton?" He asked.

"Two thousand Pounds a week, a gold coin per shift for every time we report no incident for her." He bit out vehemently.

"I'll double it. " Sable replied. "I'll give you four thousand Pounds and two hundred gold coins. Plus, I'll destroy the videos of you and Margaret fucking in my hotel if you turn on your heel, and attend the bar for the duration of Judeth's stay in my company. Whatever menial task Karth has put you up for, I can assure you I'm more than a thousand times equal to. Now... take Miss. Styl with you and buy the poor woman a drink. She looks as though she may either spit fire or suffer nervous collapse. Do not leave the hotel grounds. You may collect Lady Clayton when I decide to release her back into your hands for return to The Tower, when and only when I see fit. Do I make myself clear?"

Alex was beside himself, Margaret was openly weeping in infuriated shame. He glared poison daggers at the hotel concierge but relented, dragging his colleague and lover out of the private dining room.  The maître d' shut the door behind them.

Finally, Judeth and Sable were left alone.

His attention returned to the White Woman who rested her hands on the back of her dining chair and looked at him with an intensely satisfied smile.

"Well played, Sir Sable... Well played indeed." Invigorated, Sable helped the lady into her chair before rounding the table and taking his own. The moment they were seated the waiters came forward to immediately grace the table with wine and their dinner plates. Sable thanked and dismissed the wait staff. The moment the door closed... Judeth realized, she and Sable were finally safe...and completely and entirely alone.

"It's been a very long time since I laid eyes on you last, Lady Clayton. I propose a toast to our eventful reunion. " Said Sable, raising his red wineglass in invitation.

Judeth met it with own, a clink of approval as the glasses kissed before both came away and deposited their blood red contents into the lips of their respective holders. The toast complete. The glasses were set down.

Sable and Judeth talked. Over dinner. Three courses, two wines, sparkling Italian mineral water and finally, dessert and coffee.

Sable leaned forward with his brass lighter igniting the lady's cigarette before attending his own. They were comfortable in each other's company. In conversation and in silence. They were old friends. Very old friends. With history. Deep history. Dark history. Intimate history. They knew things about each other they weren't certain they understood about themselves. It was stimulating, enlightening exchanging wits, ideas, ideologies, theories, hopes, dreams and desires with one another. The way only solid companions with a similar wavelength and rich mentality could encapsulate and platonically adore one another. For those two hours, over that sumptuous French dinner, Judeth and Sable danced with words. Complimented each other. Finished one another's sentences. They were both very much alive... and Judeth... for once...she was very much present. In the moment. Fully focused. Everything in sharp detail and attentive comparison. She came alive. Truly. Fully. And it was not the wine. It was not the detoxant that protected her internal organs from catastrophic failure. It was him. Sable. His presence, his very existence was doing this for her. Drawing her, like thread through a weaver's table and building her into a tapestry of rich ornamentation. She didn't need artificial stimulants to get this high. She was alive and had a living breathing son. That was enough for her. In this moment. He was enough for her. More than enough.

So he took his chance. Now that she was in bloom. A flower whose petals were opened before him.

He came to her, words like the wings of a passing butterfly.

"Judeth.... Darling... What are we to do about your Lalienna?"

She exhaled the smoke she held from her lips, the plume billowed into the air and disappeared floating away. He watched her shudder and immediately regretted his decision. He didn't want to watch her fade.

"I don't want him to have her, Sable. I don't want anyone to have her. Save for you and Jeremy. You're the only people in this entire fucking world that I dare trust with my life. And hers."

"You know this time would come though, surely? A blossoming young woman like Lalienna was always going to draw attention. Unwanted or otherwise. We could only ever host her as our ward indefinitely."

"She didn't last a single night, Sable. Not one... The moment she walked through your doors, that bastard D'Antonio and his gang of Italian street thugs had their claws in her. They're vultures, the Camorra. Animals."

"They're steadfast, Judeth. If nothing else, they're loyal to the crown. Loyal to us. They believe in family, solidarity to the death. They'll protect her."

"He fucked her."

"Santino?"

"Who else?"

Sable nodded. He knew the truth. He'd seen the video. It was almost as though he'd filmed it himself. He wouldn't let Judeth know what he knew though. He sighed heavily. Refilling her wine glass and then refilling his own. This was their second bottle of the night. He felt they'd need more for what was likely to come.

"I think, you need to let go a little, darling. And stop playing the wounded martyr all the time. It doesn't suit you."

"Don't insult my intelligence, Sable, I'm not in the mood for your cuts at my tarnished humility. There's nothing martyr-like about grieving the loss of a daughter, in marriage, separation, adoptive or otherwise. "

"That's not what I meant and you know it. But if you're going to force my hand-"

"I'm always interested in forcing your hand," She returned sharply,

"Then.. listen to me when I tell you, you've done the right thing. Having Lorenzo draw up this contract for her probation was a masterstroke. Very clever indeed. But it's not going to last. Lalienna is peerless if she was trained to be a faction of what you're like. He's never going to let her go. And sooner or later you're going to have to admit defeat, Judeth. This is outside of your control. You need to accept that and stop letting it eat you alive. The moment you make peace with this realization is the moment you stop taking to the needle to silence the demons in your head. "

His words seemed to cut at her. He didn't mean to. He was the last person in the world that wanted to watch her bleed.

"Judeth... Darling... You can't go on like this. Destroying yourself. Over things you can't control. Things you'll never control. There's hope while you breathe, while you live. But what you're doing... You're not living... You're barely existing. You've lost control. Of everything. Including yourself."

Silence between them. Judeth smoked... and watched his eyes. Warm... delicate, sincere. Those eyes saw through her. Into her. She was aching.

"So what do you propose?" She asked at last.

"Come back to me. Here... right now. Leave the dead in their graves where they belong with the ghosts and the ashes... But come to me. Like you once used to."

"Don't... do this to me, Sable... I can't."

"You can."

"I won't."

"You will."

"Sable, for God's sake have mercy... My husband's just been killed."

"You never loved him, Judeth. You took his hand in marriage because he promised you shelter he didn't have. He promised you a daughter and retirement from servitude to Athena... But he only ever had his own interests in mind. You know this."

"I know."

"It's not too late to break free." He pressed her, drawing his chair closer now, around the table so he could sit with his knees to either side of her thighs. Close... So she could drown in his presence. He was overwhelming her. Intoxicating her. And he was being cruel about watching her suffocate.

"Athena won't ever let me go... Not until Philip is married to her daughter."

"In what? Ten years time from now? When he's twenty four and you're a hollow husk of subdued madness screaming against the chains of your enslavement? Fuck that! Fuck them, Athena included. Judeth... come to me. I want you. I've always wanted you. You should have never married Gregory, he was a demon to you."

"Sable, please... I didn't have a choice. I had my duty."

"Fuck your duty. You had me and you know I could be twice the man he ever was. He raped you, Judeth... You married him, lost his daughters in torrents of blood and he still fucking raped you. Repeatedly. And you let him do it to y-"

His words shocked into silence, for Judeth threw her wine in his face, horrified... then rose and pitched the glass with such force it sliced through the air like an arrow and exploded into a hundred shards as it impacted against the back of the dining room wall.

"Don't.... do this to me.... Sable.... please.... Please... I'm begging you." The tears came. Slipping over her waterline. He watched them track a path across her cheeks and disappear away onto the floor. He dropped his eyes and wiped at his face with her linen napkin. Irritated. Red wine stained Italian silk. He'd have to take his clothes to the laundry as quickly as possible to ensure the damage would not be irreversible. This outfit had been hand-tailored and cost a fortune in imported luxury fabrics.

He met her eyes again. His heart was breaking in his chest. The light had gone from her eyes... He'd had it there. For a moment. He'd seen it. Ignited like fire. Pure. Beautiful. She was so alive. And now... crushed in her fury. In her depravity. In her loss and suffering. She was empty again. Hollow. A reflection of what a woman could have been. Would have been... If only her ex-husband had not treated her so badly. She might have survived her traumas. Like this. She wasn't surviving. She was dead.

So then what attracted him to her so powerfully.... if not his ravenous desire for necrophilia?

He got to his feet. And launched for her. His hand at her throat, she gasped, frantic as he pinched at her airwaves for a moment then spun her around, forcing her hips to butt against the dinner table. Trapping her between the timber and his body. And she flung out her arms, meaning to dislodge him, but he was faster and had drunk less wine. He caught her upper arms and pinned them back against his chest with one arm, the other, with its free hand took her throat again and brought her head back forcing it to rest against his shoulder. And he felt it... The rush of power take him. Flood his veins. Soak his mind. Drive his libido with something sadistic, twisted. His hot breath in her ear. She was tense... ready to react. To respond on basic instinct because she was a fighter, a warrior. And he knew it. He knew she could have come up with at least a dozen different ways to break out of his grip right now and break his arms, his face and his ribcage if she wanted to. But she didn't. She didn't. She let him hold her... subdue her like this. Dominate and control her. She shivered against him. Feeling the heat of his manhood as it pressed into her rear. Feeling her restraint fail her. Too much suffering... Too much red wine. He was weakening her... Overpowering her with every passing moment.

"Stop fighting..." He whispered, against her earlobe. "Give in to me..."

She tensed... struggled. He held her tighter... Watching. The way her breasts rose and fell against her gown... Intoxicated by the surge of power that radiated out of her skin. His lust was ascending. For her flesh... for her blood.

"What do you want from me, Sable?"

"One night...." He breathed. "In my bed."

"I can't... Please.... Don't make me do this."

"One night... Judeth... Just come with me... Taste it... Against your tongue... Against your skin. One night is all it takes to remind you,  you're still human. You're still alive. That his memory won't be the tombstone that marks your departure from this wretched world."

"It won't be me... You'll be taking." She breathed the words. Barely an echo. Her lips moved but her body was betraying her. She was losing the will to resist him. He was kissing her now. Her skin sparked where his lips touched her. He wanted her. Needed her to submit entirely. To give in. To give way. To let him in. Not just inside her body... inside her head. Even if he had to make her bleed. Under the kiss of his whip. Straining against the bonds of his black velvet rope and insatiable passion. He'd have her this night. He'd tasted her blood before... And he wanted more.

"Beg for me...." He breathed... Lacing the edges of his teeth to her shoulder edge of her neck, just before the junction of her shoulder. She shuddered against him. A roll of electric current exploded like fireworks against her spine. She sucked in the air... But he was drowning her.

"I can't... do this.... Sable... Please... please..." She weakened against him entirely, it took every ounce of strength she had. She said the words he needed to hear in that moment.

"I'm begging you... Sable Ducourt... Release me."

That was enough. It was all he needed. She wasn't ready. And he wasn't about to rape her the way Gregory had. He loved her. Had done so for years. Suffering in silence. She wouldn't let him save her. Even though he begged her to. She wouldn't let him save her now either. He let her go. Stepped away. She deserved her freedom. Precious flower. Black swan. Dark Angel.

She turned to face him.

They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Until she came forward of her own will. Surrounded him in her embrace. She yielded her lips to his.

She was alive still.

Very much so.

In the depths of that kiss.

She was drowning him now.

And he was letting her drag him under.

Tears formed in her jade eyes, lip quivering slightly. She held back a sob, taking a breath.

“You…you never wanted me?” It felt as though her heart was breaking. Literally. The strings of her cardiac muscles were snapping, leaving her in the worst pain she’s ever felt… and she’s felt a lot of shit. She’s been through the worst, through hell. But this…this was worse. She couldn’t catch her breath. Her lungs wouldn’t produce the oxygen needed to stay alive. God, make it stop. Stop it! She couldn’t handle it. She clutched her heart, squeezing the fabric of her shirt in her fists. Her eyes broke. They relayed how she felt. So so so so ruined. So torn. So…worthless. Thrown away.

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@f0rtis-fortuna-adiuvat // here is your angst. Do with it what you will. ;) have fun, my angel of sadness.

tiny library ♥