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Joker || Fracture

Readers Please Note: Joker || Fracture may contain spoilers for the film. Read at your own discretion. 

|| SIX ||

Time is flux.

The days rolled into weeks, leaving behind October and greeting November with sharply declining temperatures. Gotham woke every morning to frigid, cutting winds and frozen sidewalks. The radios, televisions and newspapers continued to bemoan the state of Gotham’s garbage crisis as the sanitation strikes rolled into their second consecutive month.

Meanwhile Thomas Wayne began his campaign for city mayor beseeching the people to hold steady for the future. It seemed his speeches were poorly received by the under classes who began to protest boisterously in the streets. ‘We are all clowns.’ Their bitter demonstration posters read. Such was the way of the wealthy. So disconnected from their workforces it appeared they weren’t listening to the people they hoped to govern at all. Even a man whose best intentions were on display was not immune to media misinterpretation. Misconstrued messages manipulated out of context.

Arthur was reminded sharply of how little attention people paid one another in this city. Everyone walked with a weight on their shoulders. Slightly hunched against the wind and rain. No one seemed to smile anymore. Not even the children as they walked holding their parents’ hands, tearful at the school gates. Fearful of a world outside the comfort and routine of their private homes. It was rough out there. They’d learn soon enough. They’d grow up like everyone else. Without a smile.

His latest visitation with his psychologist had not gone well.

“Arthur, I have some bad news for you.” He braced himself. When the blow finally came, the realization that the public health system would now be closed to him and his medication paid for at a premium that he clearly would be unable to sustain – it was like a wave had struck him in the face, tearing the air out of his lungs all at once. He’d been taking his medication for so long now. How would he function without it?

Meanwhile the Regale Theatre had opened to a full house. The musical production had performed without a hitch as a dozen or more stage hands, Arthur included, ran a series of fast paced checks ensuring audio, set and lighting were beyond reproach. There were reviewers for Gotham Times in the audience and Lauretta was not about to take any chances. Tensions ran high and Arthur found himself in the unfortunate position of having to defend his work more than once.

Early in the season he found himself party to an unwanted argument. He’d argued with Fay bitterly and broke into an agitated fit of laughter that resulted in the aspiring comedian taking a hard slap to the face. Fay had stormed away, bursting into angry tears and refusing to return to work for two whole days after. Arthur wasn’t even given a chance to explain himself. Even Freddie who witnessed the disagreement had come to Fay’s defense.

“Jeeeesus, Mary and Joseph, Artie! Where’d they teach you be such an asshole? You done deserved that slap boy! Look at ‘chu. Still laughin’? Whatcha being such a jerk for, huh?”

His disappointment purely crushing. It felt as though ice water was being pumped directly into his bowels. Sick to the stomach but unable to control the cackling peels of rib shaking laughter that plagued him. He reached into his trouser pocket and simply placed his apologetic card upon the closest table in the break room, ensuring all eyes were on him, before turning on his heel and marching away. They’d work it out themselves. He’d answer questions later if in fact he was asked any ever again. The atmosphere always seemed to change when people witnessed the otherwise docile comedian decompile into a fit of painful, choked, near sobbing laughs.

Agitated, revolted, Arthur continued his duties, attending the male dressing rooms as was his routine instruction. The play costumes had returned from the dry cleaners and it was his duty to ensure each one was returned to the correct rack in performance order before the actors returned for the evening show. No sooner had he entered the empty dressing room with its light framed mirrors that his aggression swirled and bubbled forward.

His painful laughing fit had passed but his surging aggression was uncontrollable as the scene replayed its self in his mind’s eye. He stalked the empty dressing room, furious, humiliated, hurting. Why was he always the fuck up? Why could he never find the words to defend himself when he needed them? He’d tried to explain but even so, Freddie seemed in no mood to hear excuses. And he knew he only had himself to blame. If he only rang Fay through their walkie-talkies sooner this whole mess might have been avoided. Everyone was simply trying to do their job.

He hadn’t meant to upset Fay.

It happened when Freddie had told him to move a heavy road case out of the way and into the orchestra pit. Freddie hadn’t seen or known about the microphone cables gaffed to the ground connecting to the expensive master PA amplifier rack that outputted audio for the entire theatre.  Arthur knew Fay was working on settling the orchestra pit. He’d meant to tell Fay not to attempt to move the road case until the sound engineer gave him the all clear to take it out into the loading bay. There was nowhere else to move the road case until then.

It had all gone terribly wrong.  

Arthur had turned his back for just a moment to take some cables out of the way. It was then that he heard Fay being abused by the conductor for having unsightly equipment intruding upon his work space. Irritated, Fay muttered a curse and rolled the case out of the pit crushing and tearing the audio cables underfoot in two.

A disaster!

Show time was less than two hours away and this costly mistake meant the audio team would have to frantically rig new cables to amplify the show throughout the theatre.

The blame game ensued.  Freddie had argued with Fay, Fay exploded at him and they both erupted at Arthur for failing to communicate properly.

“Christ, Arthur, this fuck up is entirely your fault! When Lauretta hears about this she’s gonna rip us all a new one!” Freddie had snapped angrily.

“She won’t if you just let me explain-“

“What?! How you cost her a sold out fuckin’ show? What’s the point of a fuckin’ musical if half the people in the theatre can’t hear the fuckin’ music- eh?” Freddie snapped, cutting Arthur off mid-sentence.

Defeated, Arthur chose to walk away. A barking cough erupted from his belly, smashing through his ribcage in a crippling peel of breath-stealing laughter that he fought to choke back. His eyes stinging, his insides burning for air. And there he found himself now, in the empty dressing room. His pain soaked eyes and contorted reflection looking back at him pitifully from the illuminated mirror. His rage overtook him. A chair was in his hand and hurtled across the room, impacting upon the mirror and shattering it into hundreds of out-blown shards with a stunning explosion of glass and noise.

He watched the wrecked glass as it lay cracked and hanging haphazardly from its frame with numb composure. He hated that man in the mirror. Hated feeling this empty sense of disconnected futility that followed the encompassing wave of crushing anger.

The cacophony had jolted nearby staff into action. Footfalls rushing across the floor. The seamstress surged through the dressing room door with Greg and two other crew members at her heels to find Arthur searing in fury. His hands shaking violently. His eyes bloodshot as he stood in partial darkness amidst the ruins of shattered mirror glass and detonated light bulbs.

That evening had not gone well.

Lauretta had heard about the argument and phoned Fay entreating her to return to the theatre. The younger woman refused in a fit of tears, humiliated at being laughed at by Arthur and belittled by the conductor. It took the theatre director the better part of twenty minutes to calm her down and explain Arthur’s unfortunate condition.

“Fuck, Laura! Why’d you have to go hire such a freak?!” Fay cried.

The words stung. Lauretta may have had personal reservations about certain members of her staff, but her rigid British up-bringing prevented her from voicing them in a professional capacity. Instead, she opted for neutrality.

“C’mon now, Fay, give him a break.” She soothed, “He didn’t mean it. This whole episode is a great misunderstanding. I’m sure Arthur would apologize if you gave him half a chance. He’s harmless, honest. A little peculiar perhaps, but deserving of an even go, like anyone else.”

“How could you just defend him like that? He humiliated me in front of everyone!” Fay wept bitterly, throwing herself onto her sofa cushions and kicking her shoes across the room.

“If I don’t, who else will? Now, you take the next two days off if you must but I expect you back for Friday night’s performance. I’ll have you, Arthur and Freddie in my office before then. We’ll talk this out. Goodnight, Fay.”

No sooner did she hang up the phone than she sent for Martha to fetch Freddie and Arthur. The two men were marched into her office and door closed behind them. For the first time in weeks, Lauretta sat behind her desk, lit a cigarette and quietly demanded the men explain exactly what had happened.

They left her office an hour later, their heads hanging significantly lower.

The broken mirror and light globes would come out of Arthur’s wages and both men received a formal warning for misconduct. They would be made to apologize to Fay personally upon her return. Arthur’s affliction had been ousted. The theatre was relatively quiet for the rest of the night. The crew spoke in clipped hushed whispers to one another. No jokes were cracked over the walkie-talkies and the only noise to be had were the claps and cheers of the audience as the performance went ahead whilst the crew sweated and swore under their breaths.

Somber and muted, the crew could not wait for the audience to empty the theatre. Shut down was as fast and efficient as ever. Staff attended their lockers and wished each other a goodnight whilst Arthur distanced himself as early as was prudent.

Without realizing it, he’d found himself hovering about the foot of the stairs that led up to Lauretta’s office.

She was up there, writing her reports and calculating her losses. She was almost always the last one to leave the theatre at night and the first to open the doors of a morning.

That meeting was the first time in two months of employment that he’d seen the warmth in her eyes fade. Her features become hard and her words cold. She was furious in the way a quiet storm might exact its wrath upon the earth, under an incessant torrent of heavy rain. So different to the shouting and yelling of his previous bosses. Arthur struggled to make sense of his feelings until he decided, this treatment was worse.

So much worse.

In spite of this disastrous episode, come Boxing Day, Lauretta had kept her promise and allowed Arthur the opportunity to perform as a roving entertainer for the Boxing Day Theatre Gala held at the Gotham Centre for Performing Arts. A lavish party that featured the board of directors for the theatre whom Lauretta paneled with were present. With them came a whole host of actors, writers, directors, stagecraft students, their families, friends, members of the media and general public. The gala highlighted excellent opportunities for students of performing arts to meet an array of teachers to discuss the following year’s courses and training programs. A busy and lively party of which Arthur was invited to entrain for two sets.

His first set would commence shortly after the opening speeches. The auditorium was outfitted with three small elevated round stages that highlighted talented performers, Arthur occupied one and was splendid in his costume. The theatre seamstress, Italian woman, Paola Midici took inspiration from the 18th century Italian comedy. When asked to fashion Arthur a great costume for his gala performance, she spent a great deal of time looking into his eyes.

“Are you happy, Arthur?” She had asked, deliberately and without preamble. Italian accent heavy still.

“What does that have to do with-“

“It was a simple question, young man.” Paola interrupted briskly. “Are you happy?”

“I suppose-“

Paola cleared her throat sharply, cutting off the aspiring comedian yet again.

“Not really, no.” He found himself admitting quietly. It was strange to say the words out loud to a stranger no less.

To this admission Paola nodded her head approvingly.

“It’s in the eyes, dear boy. Always in the eyes. Now stand still, let me take your measure.”

Now Arthur stood upon his elevated stage, in his element as a crowd gathered round him to watch as he performed classic mime, juggling and magic tricks in silence. He wore a magnificent costume styled in the fashion of the classic historic clown, Perriot. His puff sleeved shirt, waistcoat and trousers divided evenly in an array of black and white large satin diamonds. His buttons a deep, wine red. An Elizabethan ruff made of lace and tulle adorned his neck. On his head rested the tri-horned hat of a royal court jester. Spectacular, like a crown in black and white, adorned with red and silver bells that jingled musically for every time he moved his head.

His face however was of spectacular contrast. In delicate black and white greasepaint the left half of his face was painted in a great upturned smile, the right however, pulled down low in a miserable frown. Neither comedy nor tragedy. But a vision of both painted in homage to the theater he now served.

His audience was intrigued, pointing and clapping at his jubilant gestures and exaggerated dancing. He made flowers appear from under his hat and brightly coloured silk scarves were handed to a passing lady who had the good grace to laugh when she found they were tied together from his pocket in a seemingly endless string. A blue rose tied to the last one. Around her the gathering clapped and cheered. Arthur, court jester as he now fashioned himself, bowed smoothly and pointed to his cheek, wordlessly requesting a kiss. Embarrassed, the lady shuffled on heels, hesitating. Arthur frowned deeply, hanging limp and sad. The audience broke into an exaggerated cry of: “Awwwwwww!”

Pinched by the pressure, the lady thought better of her station and came forward bravely, pecking Arthur upon the cheek. Joy! He straightened and clapped happily, a merry jingle of his belled cap. The gathered crowed cheered and clapped. A far better outcome!

The lady curtsied and darted away to her giggling friends whilst Arthur bowed deeply. His performance a success. The set was complete. He bounded off the stage and made for the cluster of other performers milling about behind a red roped area reserved for theatre staff beside the bar.

“Arthur!”

Upon hearing his name he turned to find Lauretta dressed in a beautifully fitted black evening gown that trailed to the floor. Her hair gathered in an artful array of curls. Her lips the most striking shade of red that contrasted sharply with the blue of her eyes. She was stunning to behold. And smiling. At him.

Arthur removed his hat slowly, running his fingers through his hair. He strode forward and offered his hand that the director took, watching warmly as he kissed her knuckles just as he’d witnessed so many gentleman do in those old black and white films from Pinewood Studios, London.

“Arthur, you were wonderful out there, really!”

“You were watching?”

“Intently. Every sway and trick brought delight to your onlookers. You should be very proud of yourself. You have true beauty in your movements.” Lauretta replied earnestly, fixing him with a tender, appreciative smile.

“Thank you. Really. I-You look lovely tonight.” Arthur offered warmly, taking a step back to admire his employer more completely.

“As do you! Paola really has done magnificently with your costume. And your face paint  - the crème-de-la-crème to be sure. Are you enjoying yourself? Not nervous at all?”

“A little, I’m not used to performing in front of this class of society, but I am having a lot of fun. This is incredible, honest, it’s like a dream come true.”

“I’m glad you think so. We’ll see if can’t establish you in the theatre a little more fully in the new year, you’re doing very well for yourself.” The compliment delivered with all sincerity. She had watched as he mingled with her colleagues, noting the way in which Arthur had not broken down into a fit of nervous laughter.

She’d witnessed a few fits rack the man most painfully in the months of his employment. Notably soon after he had revealed to her in private that his psychologist’s office had now been closed and his access to his medication subsequently revoked.

She worried for him. He continued to function, mindful not to be late on shift and engaged in his work. But there was something about him that wasn’t quite right. She’d made calls here and there until she located an office for social services across town that agreed to assess him with a referral letter from his doctor. There was administrative work to take care of, but if it meant bettering an employee who worked so tirelessly, then she agreed without hesitation.  Arthur had first refused her help on principle. Although his position in the theatre did pay a great deal better than his commission performances at Ha Ha’s, he could not yet afford health insurance to cover the cost of private consultations. Lauretta had insisted none the less.

“We can find a way, Arthur. If you need help-“

“I can’t afford to pay you back, and I have to look after my mother.”

“So let me help you both, Arthur. Don’t be stubborn. How do you expect to carry on looking after her if you’re not well enough to care for yourself?”

The matter seemed to be settled. Though he hesitated, there was something in her eyes that drew him. He appeared so displaced and vulnerable. Something inside him ached. Words would not come and instead he began to weep silently, so starved of affection and human kindness. He would have kissed her then and there he felt so overwhelmed and broken down.

She took him in her arms and Arthur lowered wordlessly into her embrace, breathing in the scent of her rose perfume. A cruel fit of laughter took him, coughing, weeping, and shaking him from within. His ribcage burning. Every ounce of him aware that in his arms he held a woman, honest and pure. Guilt welled in his gut, his fantasies of his neighbor, Sophie, haunted him. He’d followed her to her work place. Watched as she’d walked her daughter to school and hovered by her front door, meaning to knock but unable to find the courage to let his knuckles rap the timber.

Even so, Lauretta held him through his fit. One hand caressing his back with near motherly affection, the other stroking his hair.

“It’s alright,” She’d whispered gently, sweetly. “Everything’s going to be alright now.”

He wanted to believe it.

For many minutes Lauretta and Arthur chatted together amicably. She offered him a glass of champagne that he took graciously admitting he’d never tried the drink before. The possibility thrilled him as he clinked glasses with Lauretta proudly before taking a sip …and immediately winkling his nose in disapproval.

“It’s not for everyone.” Lauertta laughed gently, enchanted as she watched his eyes twinkle. The clarity and warmth of his features were not withdrawn by the layers of face paint.

It was then that she saw him standing not more than ten feet away. A handsome gentleman dressed in a fine silk suit of pin stripe navy blue. An elegant burgundy tie at his neck and a glittering diamond tie pin shimmered in the light. He caught her eye and held it with his own deep green gaze as he rose his glass in the air, a salute. Lauretta’s smile vanished setting Arthur off kilter. He whispered her name,

“Arthur, please excuse me.  I’m afraid I’m obliged to have a conversation with a colleague it seems.” Her focus returned to Arthur’s eyes who turned to see who it was that so efficiently erased Lauretta’s smile. A group of students here, a waiter, some ladies smoking over there. It was her hand on his arm that turned his attention back to her lovely features.

“You’re doing extremely well, Arthur, I look forward to seeing your second set in an hour. Mind you travel home safely tonight. I’m sure Fay or Freddie will gladly give you a lift. Excuse me.”

And with that she was away in a flutter of black fabric and sure footfalls. He called his good night after her wondering all the while who it was that could upset her tender nature. Arthur lamented her loss as he watched her recede into the crowd.

He’d wanted to ask her to dance.

Previous Chapters? Search Tag : #joker fracture

@smilewhatstheuseofcrying​ || @arthur-j-fleck​ || @daily-joker​

The Living Circus

- Tyler Amato

Summary:

The chemical processes of love are transformative and comparatively terminal. Can you forgive the beast that eats you alive whilst you look him in the eyes?

Special Agent Will Graham finds himself acquitted of criminal charges whilst The Chesapeake Ripper is still at large. In the midst of this cruel battle of minds, Dr. Hannibal Lecter receives a letter from an old friend. A decade of history between them sets the foundations for a devastating web of manipulation, seduction and murder.

Join the dinner table. This original novella invites the audience to experience a sumptuous and brutal cascade of erotica and violence.

They never doubted he was coming. Like the rain deep in the night. A storm. To swallow them whole.

JW. Blood of The Raven King.

Act Two. Coming Soon.

{[ Art: @rubydart || Graphic: @laserglassspider ]}

Any updates on when we can expect the next chapter to Saiyuki Shambala? Thank you! <3

Thank you for your patience, friend. Saiyuki: Shambala is due to resume shortly. Chapter 4 is currently in the editing phase. An updated link will be posted on this blog once the chapter becomes available to the public. Thank you for your support! <3

John Wick: Altum VI

He'd expected her hourly.

Even under the deluge of New York City's torrential rain. It had been like this for four days now. Constant, pounding. Flooding the streets and overrunning the gutters. The people scattered under black umbrellas determined to attend their duties and return to their homes, hot drink in hand. To rest before fireplaces or heaters so that they may somehow delude themselves into believing that the chill that swept through the city was purely due to this horrific weather. By God, they were wrong. He was the storm. Rolling thunder that reached out to explode across the very sky. He seared, flexing his back beneath black Italian silk, scotch glass in hand. His reflection diffused in the rain splattered windowpane by the dim light of the chandelier that glittered overhead. Winston had once more provided the finest Penthouse for his most illustrious, (or was it infamous?) guest. When the silver Rolls Royce pulled up to the Continental curb, he pushed himself away from the window frame, setting down the lead crystal glass he's nursed for an hour and absently sought to adjust his gold cuff links. Counting the heart beats, imagining the sound of her stiletto heels as they mounted the stairs and strolled the lobby, trailing footprints of rain water against Winston's expensive marble tile.

 When the black phone rang upon the sideboard, he expected it too and answered before the first ring had completed. Charon's richly silken voice proffered the information he had preordained.

"Sir, Ms. Canfeza Patrone requests an audience."

Silence... he was studying the cut upon his lower lip on the mantelpiece mirror. Only recently healed, he'd bitten at it unconsciously. Now it bled.

"Send her up."

He replaced the phone to its antique receiver and strode like a great, black panther across the Persian rug at his feet, settling himself upon the burgundy leather lounge the elegant room afforded; and slowly rolled his head from side to side. Feeling the tension in his neck and spine.

An Adonis upon his throne. He'd left the door unlocked on purpose.

A minute passed. Then another... and another after it.

There! The ring of the elevator bell in the distance, doors opening and closing with mechanical precision of purpose and footfalls across rich carpet. Yes... a woman's footfalls. Deliberate though hesitating. She didn't want to be here anymore than she had to. He knew too well what it was to know you were walking into the mouth of the dragon's den.

A knock at the door. He sighed hotly.

"Monsieur?"

"Penétrér." His choice of reply was as deliberate as the half lidded glare he fixed upon the door.

 Again, hesitation... a heartbeat passed. But she yielded. The way she always did for him.

Canfeza crossed the threshold dressed in a magnificent gown of red and black silk and damask that trailed to the very floor in a train that flared like the mouth of a lily. The olive flesh of her cleavage, throat and arms exposed. Black pearls adorned her earlobes, wrists and neck. Her russet hair, pulled back in a Grecian style, braided high away from her face. Those lips, full and sensuous, painted in deep ruby. Her eyes darted about the room as she shut and locked the door behind her.

'Good girl.' He thought. He'd only ever had to tell her once. They locked eyes across the room and he heard it. Quiet but audible as she sighed and shivered, stuck by his elegance, in awe of his grace. She averted her gaze to the floor and stood like a stone statue.

'That's right. You should be ashamed.' Whispered his thoughts.

 "Canfeza."The name slipped from his tongue like silk, he watched as her breasts heaved against the bodice of her gown. The woman looked up, taking in the lines of his face, the light as it played upon the fabric of his obsidian coat.

"Sir,"

"Is unimpressed." He finished, cutting her off before she could finish the sentence.

Again she dropped her eyes.

 "Come here." Quiet command, steel in his voice. Ice in his glare. Languished in elegance against the warm leather he reclined, separating his thighs as he sat, just a fraction further. The lady did not move. So he did, raising his brow slightly in question. That was all she needed.

She crossed the floor in swift steps; the room filled with the swish of her gown and the scent of her perfume until she came to a standstill at his very feet. Two paces away. Clever.

 "Please...." She breathed at last. Like a prayer by way of initiating her submission.

"That's twice you've kept me waiting." Her throat moved, he watched her swallow and continued.

"Well?"

"That blow was never meant for you, Sire." She began by way of apology. Her voice lilting. Honest. Faithful. He appreciated the tone. She continued, meeting his gaze fully.

"Believe me when I tell you I lost track of your shadow, I would.... I would have taken those bullets for you a thousand times over if it meant your lips were never marred by blood."

"I get it." He cut her off, again. "Too much noise, you get distracted and pull a strike that splits my lower lip. As if I've not got enough battle scaring, you feel the need to add to the canvas."

"No, Sir never!"

"Shut up." He snapped. The command like a whip crack of leather. She fell silent at once, her hand flying to her mouth to suppress a whimper.

"Rules and consequences." He voiced the phrase like a mantra. She replied the same like a hymen in a church pew, looking upon him as though he were Christ.

Never a messiah. But a fallen angel, his dark wings bloody and torn. He reached up then, his right hand warm though the room was cool, and took hold of her throat beneath his palm. Holding her a moment... feeling the pulse of her heart accelerate, her lips drop open, the shine of her hidden tongue. Her eyes screamed for mercy as he pulled her to him with such force, she had no choice but to fall to her knees. Her dress though elegant restricted her movements like the kiss of black rope.

His lips mere millimeters from hers.

 "Please..." She breathed, bridling beneath his fingers, "If I begged forgiveness...would you.."

"Forgive you?" His lips grazed her cheek. He held her steady resting his forearm against the tops of her heaving breasts. He could, if he wanted to. Break that beautiful white neck. She knew it. But his desires were elsewhere.

"Maybe." He whispered, his warm lips trailing to the lobe of her ear. His fingers loosening so that the blood began to flow again. The imprint of his dominance marred her skin a moment before returning to its ivory beauty.

"If you set the mood." He pressed, "I might change my mind."

He pulled away then, sitting back against the leather. His elbows seeking the back of the lounge, his body language open, the threat passed like a wave. He had her. Checkmate. She knew her place.

'Your move Black Queen'

She stayed on her knees, crimson nailed fingers weighed the plush carpet. She fought the desire to touch the black leather of his French shoes.

"I cannot... must not." She breathed feeling his eyes on her exposed spine, trailing the lines of the corset lacing of her designer gown.

"This is business." He pressed her, "Always has been, always will be."

"Then Sir, let me pay you in coin." She retorted, breaking the barrier, seduced by his flame, a great moth. She burned when her hands touched his knees over tapered black gabardine.

"I want flesh." He shot back. The admission stole the air from her lungs. Canfeza grasped him to steady herself now. The frantic whites of her eyes darting about the floor. Her panic rearing. How would she save herself from this man? This Master?

"Mine?" She whispered, tears threatening.

"Yes." A bullet.

"Now?"

"Next week." Two bullets. Loaded with sarcasm.

 In that very moment he was a blur of movement. He rose to his feet, a dancer across the carpet, reversing their positions. She was powerless against him. The way he touched her, before she could think he'd thrust her face forward upon the lounge so as she had no choice but to put out her hands to save her delicate nose from colliding with the leather.

"Stay." He hissed behind her. She froze a moment. Lowering her head just slightly. There on the leather she could breathe in the scent of his musky cologne. She steadied herself, though the rapidity in her breaths betrayed her excitement. My God. The shame of it...

'Please,' She prayed in her darkest thoughts. 'I want this.... I need it.' Her thighs squeezed together tighter beneath the confines of the silk and taffeta layers of her gown.

 And then she heard it.... That sound.... That glorious, incredible sound. The clink of metal as the buckle was slipped free. The hiss of leather as it was slid from the loops of his trousers' waistline.

Behind her, John worked the belt buckle into a loop around his palm, then brought the leather band back along his left hand, preparing the strike. Calculating.

He didn't ask for permission. He didn't need it.

The belt cut through the air like a knife. The crack impacted upon the peerless flesh of her exposed shoulder blades, kissing the skin in an instant then rebounding back to his waiting palm.

The cry that came after tore from her throat in a shudder of hot, wet pleasure. He waited, rearing as her fingers dug into the leather and she gave over to a shimmering sigh. Submission. To him.

This was foreplay. And he loved it.

 Again. Like lightening he struck her, watching her body resist the kiss of the belt. So satisfying. No crop or whip ever seemed to afford this kind of decadent pleasure.

SNAP.

 SNAP.

 SNAP.

 She moaned hotly, her body shuddering. Fingers set to claws as the tears that had threatened finally spilled over.

 SNAP.

 She collapsed with a galvanic peel of agony that left her raw throat like a tortured song.

Enough. He lowered his belt and surveyed the damage. So fragile, this flower. Fuck. He'd broken the skin.

An eye for an eye. She'd given him one blow.... He repaid her with six. Deep. No mercy. No regret.

This was just business.

 He turned away, sighing deeply. The coil of tension that had troubled him in the base of his spine released at last. Deft fingers replaced the leather to his hips. Vindicated, satisfied deeply, reveling in the sheer pleasure of release as he straddled the floor of his room and unlocked the door, holding it open.

"Thanks for your time, Ms. Patrone." Always the gentleman.

"Now get out."

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

‘John Wick: Altum VI’ was lovingly written in answer to a heavily desired ‘Ask’ request from fans posted on the famous John Wick blog: ‘John Wick Thirst Club’

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When you love till it hurts....

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.

Laundry festival🧺

John Wick (2014): Behind the Scenes