ENTRY HOLES &.

( 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚜: 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎, 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚊𝚖 𝚒 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒 𝚊𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐?, 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢, & 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 )

ALTERNATE UNIVERSE MITCH RAPP (HEADCANON-BASED SET IN THE WORLD OF JOHN WICK, WITH SOME INSPIRATION FROM THE BOOKS).

INFO ⁽¹⁾   ||    VERSES ⁽²⁾   ||    PLOT IDEAS ⁽³⁾   ||   SIDEBLOG ⁽⁴⁾

" i work at stark industries. " air is loud around them, so pepper leans in close to @noretribution to make sure she can hear him and he can hear her. " did you say you worked for the cia? or used to? sorry, it's a little hard to hear. " SC.

    to  take  roost  in  one’s  wounds.  to  fester  in  cleaved  skin  and  muscle,  live  among  the  flies  which  burrow  in  bloody  meat  and  bear  their  spawn.  he  wears  his  like  a  commemoration,  ink-black  wings  enswathing  in  attempt  to  hide  his  tired  bones  and  contracting  heart  but,  in  trying  so,  thrusts  them  to  the  surface.  this  city,  for  all  her  mystery,  is  an  expert  at  revealing  the  contusions  that  weigh  her  people  down;  she’s  a  pool  of  stagnant  memories,  laden  of  blood  and  bacteria,  that  one  must  tread  through,  open-wounded,  and  gasping  for  life,  and  feeling  the  infection  born  from  their  own  hands.

    above  the  stridulation  of  chasing  crickets,  the  rattle  of  chains  can  be  heard  a  few  houses  down.  dogs  at  their  ends,  already  agitated  from  the  moaning  of  a  man  long  since  leaked  to  death,  had  been  barking  with  the  ferocity  of  cornered  animals  since  first  sight  of  the  phantasm.  the  canines’  feverish  baying  had  run  spit-slick  and  hoarse,  their  jaws  snapping  down  with  the  instinctual  hunt  of  creatures  long  before  their  lifetime.  and  how  weighed  down  they  are,  by  leashes  with  which  cannot  be  escaped,  fighting  against  all  odds  in  desperation  to  protect  what  is  theirs.  he  suffocates  on  the  irony.

    his  eyes  drop  to  meet  the  pallid  corpse.  the  violence  had  stopped  flowing,  leaving  only  the  scent  of  death  in  its  wake.  the  dissonance  of  sickly-sweet  and  copper  and  sulfides  lingers  in  his  nose  just  enough  to  reveal  that  the  man’s  life  had  been  snipped  not  long  ago.  and  he  rots  among  the  carnage.  he  rots  among  the  death.  to  take  roost  in  one’s  wounds.  to  live  as  this  man  died.      ❝    i’m  not  asking  you  to  get  back  into  the  business,    ❞      he  grunts.  his  voice  is  quiet,  rumbling  from  the  base  of  his  throat  with  a  rare  sense  of  resignation.      ❝    i’m  asking  for  a  favor.  the  people  need  protection.    ❞

they  don’t  have  the  luxury  of  redemption.    mitch  sits  in  his  quiet  life  with  his  quiet  home  and  his  quiet(ing)  wounds,    and  it’s  not  enough.    will  it  ever  be?    because  yeah,    fuck  yeah,    he’s  left  it  all  behind.    there  aren’t  bounties,    there  aren’t  rules,    there  aren’t  expectations  that  meant  life  or  death.    but  there  is  his  name.    and  there  is  his  reputation.    and  there  is  the  ever  -  looming  presence  of  a  past  not  so  easily  escaped,    no  matter  how  quiet  the  present  pretends.

❝    fuck.    ❞  mitch  swipes  a  heavy  hand  down  his  face,    rubs  especially  against  the  shadow  at  his  jaw  grown  itchy  between  shaves.    he’d  been  growing  it  out,    before.    diana  had  pretended  to  like  it.    he  thinks  about  what  he’s  become  since  the  last  time  he  was  in  the  business.    since  the  last  time  his  hands  were  this  rough,    battered,    stained.    the  bat  hasn’t  been  given  attention  again  since  his  contemplation  and  he  thinks  if  he  looks  now,    it’ll  mean  that  he’s  agreed.    and  he  hasn’t.    he  hasn’t.

❝    𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒅.  𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕…   ❞       she trails off a bit,    this time unsure of how to proceed.      the bracelet sits against his wrist in the snug way she had expected,    and she worries briefly about the thorns snagging his skin,    mouth coming loose a bit at the feeling of him against her   –––   even if just for a moment.      the slip of paper burns in her pocket;     she speaks slowly,   gently:    I had a speech for all this.     a deep inhale  (  sharp and steady  )  is taken before she looks back up to him,    allows her gaze to rake itself against his features,    another moment of trying to memorize him as if he were fleeting.      ❝   it was silly.    last - minute,    just in case i felt as if i needed to  (  …  )   oh,   Gaea…     the point is this:    we have been seeing each other for some time.    the way that i feel around you,    it is much like seeing Helios’ rays for the first time.      it is as if i am forever being warmed by the sun,     comfortable and ever - present.      let us pretend that makes sense,    yes  ?❞

there,   a chuckle spills from her mouth   –––  bell - like and clear.      ❝   you have become someone who is quite important to me,    Mitch Rapp.     i hope you understand that this,    the bracelet and necklace,    it is not done without a great deal of consideration.     i am serious about this  (  …  )    you may ask any questions you have,   now.   ❞

maybe  foolishly  he  is  sure  that  nothing  about  this,    about  her,    is  fleeting.    maybe  worse,    he’s  right.    nothing  about  diana  will  go  away,    nothing  about  these  feelings  either;    the  same  cannot  be  said  for  mitch.    he  doesn’t  think  about  it  though.    he  thinks  about  her  hands,    against  his  throat  and  against  his  arm.    he  thinks  about  her  hair,    curled  big  and  falling  around  her  shoulders  when  she  bends.    he  thinks  about  her  mouth,    intentional  yet  (  for  the  first  time,    he  thinks  )  nervous  as  she  speaks.    he  thinks  about  that  knot  in  his  chest  right  this  minute  as  he  looks  at  her;    that  knot,    which  he’d  been  so  scared  of  when  it  had  squeezed  for  the  first  time  when  he’d  thought  about  her  (  for  the  first  time  ).    without  thinking,    he  rubs  his  knuckles  briefly  to  his  sternum,    as  if  to  settle  it  as  much  as  himself.

𝒊𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒔 𝒂𝒔 𝒊𝒇 𝒊𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆, 𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒆𝒄𝒌, 𝒑𝒊𝒕 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕 𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒏.     if this were any other moment,    her fingers would linger against him a bit longer…      she raises her gaze to meet his and sees nothing but a swarming of what she hopes is love,    what she thinks is similar to what she  [  in this moment,    in this silence,    ]    feels as well.     the Ambassador then leans forwards at her own waist,    finger still wrapped around and pulling the nectarine seed away from his skin;     a kiss is pressed to the seed,     words in the Amazon language muttered:      «  That thou art full of promise…  »        and she leans back in her seat,     careful in her movements,    gentle in her touch.        he speaks and she allows herself a pause from ritual;      a huff of laugh leaves her mouth.      ❝   you are welcome.   i enjoy your traditions.    your flowers   (   …   )    think of this as similar to that,     me asking you the same question.    the only difference is that if you accept my courtship,    and until it is mutually agreed upon to form a lasting relationship,    these items must never leave your person.   ❞

next is the bracelet,    delicately lifted from its sitting place.    thorns wrapped in ribbon of gold and blue and red.        ❝   the thorns may prick you,    but not for long.    most of them are on its outside   –––   bring me your wrist.   ❞       the bracelet is offered,     and again in her language,     «  That thou shall know the heart of another…  »       

he  tells  himself  to  keep  his  mouth  shut  now  because  this  is  important  and  he  is  a  patient  man.    the  questions  that  he  has,    the  inquiries  about  each  step,    and  the  desire  to  understand  are  far  outweighed  by  the  care  he  holds  for  her.    her  foreign  words  are  received  by  a  wider  smile,    an  endearing  sort  of  reception  in  the  warmer  look  to  his  face.    already  he  wants  to  break  his  promise,    his  jaw  unhinging  with  the  part  of  his  mouth  in  the  shape  of  a  question,    but  his  reflexes  are  quick  enough  to  swallow  it  down  before  he  interrupts.    rather,    he  curls  those  hands  on  his  thighs  into  fists  to  still  the  need  to  touch  her  when  she  bows  closer  and  watches  her  simply,    silently,    with  dark  eyes.

—   for:  @noretribution​    |         𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆'𝒔 𝒂𝒏 𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔, 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒔.    a certain way this must be done,    and must be done right.      always one for ritual,   this is one she cannot  ––  will not  ––  back away from:     the gifts are unloaded from her case one by one,   handled delicately and gently,    and the paper she has memorized  (  read over twice - fold,   thrice even  )  is slipped from her back pocket,   regarded,    then put back.      His table is set for dinner,    though she’s sure her appetite has escaped her.      this man  [  as strong and sturdy as her…   half as witty and twice as kind,    she’s come to learn   ]    sits across from her as she works.      she clears her throat,    sets the stage.

❝   we’ve been…   seeing each other for some time.     i thought it was appropriate to present you with these trinkets,    as according to a tradition from home.    ❞     there is a pause,    a moment of waiting,     and then she continues:      ❝   we will begin with this.❞    she says,    the first gift of a coconut presented and opened.   inside its hollowed core is a nectarine’s seed strung on a chain and a bracelet,     the first of which she lifts upwards and offers.       her eyes shine with expectancy,    anxiety underneath.      ❝   a bounty,    hoped for and not yet achieved   (   …   )    here,   lean forwards  –––  let me put it on you.❞

the  table  is  set,    but  he  does  not  touch  the  food  yet.    there  is  that  look  in  his  eyes  as  he  watches  her,    a  look  that  has  lingered  there  for  some  time  now:    a  fondness,    a  hunger,    a  longing,    all  at  once.    diana  inspires  much  in  him  and  all  of  it  feels  so  large,    he  thinks  he  could  die  from  it,    blunt  force  trauma  or  internal  bleeding.    how  much  has  he  endured  all  these  years  to  be  finally  taken  out  by  these  feelings?    it’s  laughable,    really.    he  is  the  age  -  old  cliche,    a  human  machine,    yet  worse,    the  soft  -  hearted  cynic.    the  proof  is  in  that  look  in  his  eyes.

if  he  believed  in  much  of  anything  outside  of  his  own  capabilities,    he  might  be  thanking  some  higher  being  right  about  now.    but  all  he  knows  about  religion  anymore  is  the  feel  of  her  smooth  skin  under  his  rough  hands,    the  taste  of  her  in  the  mornings,    the  way  she  laughs  when  he  is  on  the  receiving  end  of  it.    so  mitch  thanks  her,    as  much  a  god  in  his  life  as  anything  really,    with  the  reciprocal  press  of  his  mouth  to  hers,    the  three  piece  squeeze  of  his  hands  down  her  arms:    biceps–elbows–wrists.    only  a  small  part  of  divine  worship.    she  makes  the  promises  for  later  after  all.

he’s  grinning  when  she  pulls  away,    something  wild  and  undone  that  isn’t  actually  wild  at  all.    no,    no,    she’s  softened  that  otherwise  harsh  glower.    mitch  is  looking  at  her  with  fondness,    with  love.    ❝    baby,    ❞  says  her  man,    his  palms  pressing  to  her  palms  now,    ❝    if  that  was  just  the  appetizer,    then  i  can’t  wait  for  the  rest  of  the  meal.    ❞  mitch  leans  in  again,    looking  for  another  kiss.    ❝    maybe  i  need  another  taste  test.  .  .    for  good  luck  in  the  new  year,    you  know.  .  .    ❞

𝟏𝟗:𝟏𝟓    𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍  𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐃  𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄        //        𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍:        𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃.

mitch  has  a  plane  to  catch  in  exactly  five  hours  from  now.    it  won’t  take  him  an  obscene  amount  of  time  to  pack  because  he  never  brings  more  than  he  needs  to  get  through  security  and  customs  (  no  checked  luggage  ),    but  he  is  nothing  if  not  over  punctual  and  meticulous.    every  detail  is  planned,    every  paranoia  avoided  as  best  as  possible.    so  he  should  be  back  at  the  safehouse,    rechecking  the  duffle  bag  he  takes  with  him  everywhere  for  the  fifth  time  and  scheduling  a  cab.