#been so tired I can barely stand my own writing but several moments tickled me - these two in particular | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gureishi · 4 years ago

Note

Wow...the prompts? They're all good. Can you write something angst for Jumin and a female MC, with number 11? I don't mind NSFW. Congrats on 100. You deserve them all and more! 💜😌

TruUUEE. You are too good to me as always. Thank you for saying so ♡

And thank you for this wonderful prompt, and giving me an excuse to write about vulnerable Jumin—my favorite Jumin!

This “ficlet” sprawled into an absolute monstrosity because I got carried away with tearful Jumin and then it got sexy and...oh dear.

eleven: i could only be myself with you around

JuminXReader, E (oral sex, fingering), words: 3887

Warning: NSFW (eventually, I swear)~ Don’t proceed if you don’t wanna read smut <3

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

When he comes home, his eyes are dark.

You look up from your book; you’re incredibly comfortable on the couch, a blanket tucked around your legs, a cup of tea beside you. There’s a fire in the fireplace and the room is finally just the temperature you like it. You were feeling sleepy.

You’re not feeling so sleepy anymore.

He shuts the door, too hard, and his posture is stiff as crosses the living room with a few purposeful strides.

“Hi, honey,” you say, and your voice comes out reedy and thin, because you know something is wrong.

He looms over you, and you don’t feel scared—never scared, not of him—but you can’t help but look down, fidgeting with the fringe on the blanket. He kisses your forehead and it feels cursory; you feel a little pang of annoyance. He still hasn’t said anything to you.

Briefly, his hand lingers on the top of your head, and momentarily, you’re comforted—this is a habit. But then he moves away, walking with that same fast, stilted pace. He’s still wearing his shoes.

“Jumin,” you say to his back. He hesitates, and you suppose you’ve taken him by surprise—he’s honey or darling more than he’s Jumin, and you know your voice sounds strange. But he is strange tonight; you’ve waited up for him, and on an ordinary day his eyes would light up, his face splitting into the warm, soft smile he reserves just for you. You feel its absence like a tug behind your ribcage.

“I need a moment,” he says at last, and his voice is oddly high-pitched, like he hasn’t caught his breath.

You kick the blanket off your knees, upsetting your book as you stand.

“What’s…”

He disappears into the bedroom, shuts the door.

“…wrong,” you finish, lamely.

What?

Suddenly, the room doesn’t feel so cozy; the off-white (“winter wood,” Jumin says it’s called) walls feel bare and too far apart and the ceiling feels too high and the perfectly-arranged furniture seems cold and uninviting. You trace his footsteps, silent in your stockinged feet.

You’ve only lived in this new house together a few months, and the excitement hasn’t quite worn off. Most days when you’re home before he is, he arrives in a hurry and sweeps you into his arms, dipping you low and kissing you earnestly. There have been days he’s come home tired, of course, or worried—and on those days, you’ve put on a record and shared a bottle of wine, hands intertwined under one of your many soft white throw blankets.

Today, he looks like he’s seen a ghost.

“Honey…?” You linger at the door, press your ear against it. Nothing. “You’re worrying me,” you say. You hear shuffling, the familiar sound of him removing his jacket, laying it on the pile for the dry cleaner. “I’m coming in,” you tell him, louder—because it is your bedroom, too, and your heart is in your throat.

Silence. You push open the door.

He hasn’t turned on any lights, and it takes a moment for your eyes to adjust. Your husband is sitting on the edge of the bed, his jacket off, his head bent, his face in his hands. He’s still wearing his stupid shoes.

You want to bend over him and kiss the very top of his head, tickle his sensitive sides till he smiles. But everything about him says stay away: the angle of his head and the rigidness of his shoulders. The way his sleeves are still buttoned as if he isn’t in his own home.

You take a hesitant step toward him and at least he doesn’t stop you.

“Darling, will you please talk to me?” you say. He looks so small to you then: vulnerable and afraid.

For a moment, he’s quiet, and you think that he may continue to ignore you. Then you notice that his broad, muscular shoulders are shaking. It’s barely perceptible, but you see it.

“I cannot be with you right now,” he says at last, his voice muffled by his hands. “If I am with you I will cry.”

That does it. Throwing caution to the wind, you leap onto the bed, jarring him a little. He peers up at you out of the corner of his eye and you’re shocked to see that it is, in fact, slightly red-rimmed.

“Then you should cry,” you say. “It’s what I’m here for.”

He hesitates, and you watch him do battle with himself for a moment, torn between instinct and impulse, old habits and new routines. You wait, letting him decide.

At last, the side of him that has been gradually unfurling since the day you met him wins. He raises his head from his hands and reaches for you, holding his arms out like the lonely child you know he once was.

And you are relived, because this is the man you married.

With perhaps slightly too much enthusiasm, you crawl into his lap, draping your legs to one side and wrapping your arms around his neck. It’s taken time for him to adjust to this kind of full-body contact—it’s as alien to him as it natural to you. Still, he rests his head against the crook of your neck.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and his lips brush your skin, making you squirm. “I would never want to make you worry.”

You play with the back of his collar with your fingertips. “Sometimes I will worry, because I love you,” you say. “Just please don’t hide from me.”

He tilts his head so he can—finally—look at you properly. His steely gray eyes are glazed over and you know this look, though you haven’t seen it in a long time.

“Tell me what you’ve been holding back all day,” you say, as he reaches up with a long finger to brush the hair off your forehead—another familiar gesture, which soothes you.

He adjusts a little so he’s cradling you, one arm over your shoulders, the other under your legs. He leans his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. He’s stalling for time, but you don’t mind��his chest is warm and solid through his perfectly-pressed shirt and you take the opportunity to bathe yourself in his warm woody scent. He’s working so much lately, more than usual, and sometimes when you’re home alone in the evening you spritz his cologne in the air so you feel less lonely. You don’t tell him this.

“May I ask you a question, my love?” he says. He still has that closed-off look in his eyes but he sounds more like himself, deep and warm and wonderful.

“Of course.”

“When you met me, was I…” He clears his throat, awkwardly fiddles with his cufflinks. You gently separate his hands, remove the cufflinks. Unbutton the sleeves. “Was I…not a good person?”

You drop the cufflink. It falls to the floor with a jarring clink. You’re not sure what you were expecting, but that wasn’t it. You bend over, reaching for the little piece of metal; he stops you with a firm hand on your shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Please tell me what you think.”

No, you almost respond automatically. No, I thought you were wonderful. But the look in his eyes begs a more thoughtful answer than that. With practiced fingers, you roll up one of his shirt sleeves. You run one finger up his forearm, from his wrist to his elbow, tracing the tense muscles there.

“When I met you, I thought you were frighteningly smart and stunningly beautiful,” you say. You roll up his other sleeve, carefully folding the silky smooth fabric. “I’d never met anyone like you before. I was impressed by you, and I also thought you looked like you needed a gentle slap on the face and then a really good, tight hug. Does that…make sense?”

You tug his perfectly-tucked shirt out of his pants. You can’t stand him looking too put-together at home. He can do that everywhere else; home is for comfort.

“It…does,” he says slowly. “But I think perhaps you were the only one with that opinion of me.”

You look into his face and are startled to see tears at the corners of his eyes. You’re not sure you’ve seen him cry since your wedding day.

“Will you tell me what happened today?” you ask, wiping away the tears with your fingertips. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath—he is breathing in your scent just as you did his, you think.

“In truth, it was nothing of note.” He goes for his sleeves again, realizes you’ve rolled them up. Instead, he settles his hands at your waist, threading his fingers through your belt loops. “I had lunch with a…former colleague. He is the president of a Chinese company, and I haven’t spoken to him in several years.”

Ah. “And you felt like the version of you he was expecting to see and the person you are now aren’t the same?”

Jumin actually laughs at that, his eyes growing wide. There’s a little of his usual ardor behind them now.

“You, my dear, know me far better than I know myself.”

“I know I do.”

You kiss his eyebrow and he covers both your hips with his big hands. You trail kisses down the side of his face, kiss away the last of the tears that have formed at the inner corners of his eyes.

“I felt as though he was speaking to a man who no longer exists,” Jumin says, closing his eyes; you kiss his eyelashes. “I felt the urge to tell him so. I felt angry. And then I felt…” He trails off.

“Grief?” you offer. You continue your trajectory, feathering kisses down the bridge of his nose. You kiss his cupid’s bow and he groans, low in his throat, barely audible.

“How strange,” he says. “Why should I feel grief for myself?”

“It’s normal to grieve the ways in which parts of you disappear over time,” you say. You lift a hand to his neck, undo his tie. It slips easily through your fingers; you’ve done this so many times before.

He exhales heavily, and it’s sad and relieved and needy all at once.

“And then I felt afraid,” he says. “Because I knew I would come home to you and feel the things I had been trying not to feel all day. Because that, my darling, is what you do to me.”

“Sounds like your feelings scared us both a little bit today,” you say. His tie is off; you toss it aside. It joins the stray cufflink on the floor.

“Feelings can be very frightening,” he says. He’s been still this whole time; suddenly, he springs to action as if he’s been waiting for his moment to pounce. His hands skim over your sides, grasp your shoulders, turning you firmly so you’re twisted in his lap—nose-to-nose with him.

“I would like to take a warm shower,” he says. His gaze is unwavering and you melt a little. “I would like you to join me,” he adds.

He doesn’t phrase it like a question, but you know it is. It always is, with him—his eyes ask for your acquiesce and his hands on your shoulders are tentative, waiting for your answer.

“Take me there,” you say. He lifts you easily, carries you in his arms as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. His knitted eyebrows say otherwise—he’s holding himself back, his hand clenching at your shirt as if it’s taking all his patience not to tear it off.

He sets you down gently on your feet on the cool, clear tiles of the master bathroom. He’s gone in an instant: dimming the light, turning on the shower. It’s such a huge shower—you were shocked the first time you saw the designs. It has three faucets and a marble bench for sitting, or shaving your legs, or…other activities.

“Do you want to undress me or do you want to watch?” you ask him, playfully striking a pose—knowing he loves the choice, loves to feel he has you in the palm of his hand.

He looks you up and down, pupils huge, hair delightfully disheveled—for Jumin, anyway—one stray lock hanging over his eyes.

“I want to watch,” he says, and there’s none of the coldness in his voice now, only chocolatey depth and unbidden desire.

So you undress for him, to the rainforest rushing sound of the shower’s many faucets, turning as you lift your shirt over your head, wriggling out of your pants slowly, revealing just a strip of skin at a time. You give him a cheeky glance of the lacy strap of your underwear, of your hips, of your ass, which (you know because you check in the massive mirror hanging over the door) is framed adorably by your gauzy thong.

“I am running out of patience,” he says—growls—and you feel a hot, wonderful flush creeping up the back of your neck.

“Then come get me,” you say.

So he does, crossing the large bathroom and unhooking your bra in one smooth motion. He tears it from you and throws it to the ground. He spins you to face him and his dark eyes are simmering, his grip on your shoulders tight—but still restrained, not painful. Never painful.

“Do you want to know what image I couldn’t get out of my mind on the drive to work this morning?” he whispers, and you shiver.

“I do.”

He slides your thong down your legs, planting searing kisses over your hips, your thighs, your calves, your ankles. He’s kneeling at your feet now and the sight of him there, his beautiful head bent, almost drives you mad.

“I’ll show you,” he says. Then he’s on his feet again and he’s unbuttoning his shirt—with much more patience than he claims to have—slowly, scrupulously, as if to torture you both.

“Now I’m impatient,” you say, and you go for his belt. He laughs as you struggle to unhook it and the laugh turns to a low moan as your hands graze his erection, straining against his fitted vicuña pants. You deal with the buckle and make quick work of the pants, draping them over the sink—you don’t care what Jumin says, these pants are much too expensive to throw in a heap on the bathroom floor.

Now you’re the one kneeling before him, and he does a double-take as he sees the position you’re in. Even now, after all this time, after getting married, after moving into your custom-built home, he blushes. It’s this—his unexpected innocence, his charming traditionalism—that never fails to bewitch you.

“I will if you want me to,” you say, slipping his Swiss cotton underwear over his hipbones with adoring hands. He stands absolutely still, but you feel his hips trembling.

“I want you to,” he whispers. So you take him in your mouth—just the tip at first, moving your tongue in a circle, running a hand down his length. He moans again, low, breathy. You feel his muscles stretch as he reaches up, grabs onto the top of the glass shower door.

You slide his cock further into your mouth, one hand still at the base, and he mutters something you don’t understand. You breathe in and out slowly, creating suction as you pull away and then take him deeper. It stirs something in you—the cold tiles on your bare knees, the power you feel in having him at your mercy. He exhales, low and slow, and you feel stimulated and little and somehow totally in control.

With one hand, you cup his balls, gently massaging. Your eyelids flutter shut and you feel your hips and pelvis moving along with your lips as you slide him in and out—your own body already feeling hot and tingly, craving friction.

He mutters again and you can’t quite hear him. You run your tongue along his length, and his body shudders. He tries again. “I-if you continue like this, I won’t be able to…”

You let him slip from your lips.

“Do you want to come right now?” you ask and he groans.

“Yes, but I—” You slide your tongue all the way around his tip and he stumbles over his words. “Of course, but you…I want—”

You take him all the way into your mouth again and he stops speaking, letting out a low growl, tensing as he grips the door. He’s close, and you want to make him come, want to do it like this, him a twitching, shaking mess looming above you—you at his feet with the power to break him.

You round your lips, suction harder, pull him deeper, and his hips give a telltale jerk. Ah-ha. Your own body feels floaty and loose—you can barely feel the floor under your knees now. He tries to warn you in a throaty voice and you ignore him, raking your fingernails over his ass. He comes, rocking into your mouth, and you open your eyes to take him in—he looks ravished, all restraint dissolved, all presence of patience demolished as he shuts his eyes and unabashedly shakes against you. You swallow everything, so hopelessly turned on by his unbridled pleasure.

He pulls himself out of your mouth with a groan and reaches for you, tousling your hair with a shaky hand.

“You look so beautiful right now,” you tell him, and he does—perfect hair unkempt, muscular shoulders glimmering with sweat.

“I still haven’t shown you my fantasy,” he pants, and then his arm is around your waist and he’s scooped you up again. You squeal as he slings you over his shoulder, and you feel warm water hit your back as he lifts you into the shower. He sets you down tenderly on the marble bench, and it’s slick and just the perfect temperature, already warmed by the water and steam.

“Open your legs,” he murmurs, and you do, feeling a clenching inside, your swollen clit demanding attention.

Jumin turns away from you and you whine in dissatisfaction. He laughs, low and wonderful; the water runs in rivulets over his toned back. He’s back in an instant, the detachable shower head in his hand, and you cannot help the little whimper that tears from your throat.

“I wonder what will happen if I use this to stimulate you…” he says, his deep voice trailing off seductively. Your thighs twitch in anticipation.

“I–I would also—” He runs a finger over your already-sensitive clit and you hiss. “—l-like to know that,” you manage to choke out.

He twists the knob on the shower head so the water flows gently, tapering toward the middle. He runs it over you from a distance and it’s warm and lovely; he moves it closer and closer until you yelp, feeling the water pressure at your core. It shakes you.

“Good?” he murmurs and you nod, shutting your eyes against the glaze of heat you feel building from within. “More?” You nod again and the water changes; it’s more tapered, stronger. You squirm, your hands scrabbling for purchase on the smooth bench beneath you. He sees what you need and suddenly his warm, slick fingers meet yours, entwining with them. He moves the faucet in a dainty circle and you feel like your eyes are going to roll back in your head. “More?”

You gasp a “yes” and the pressure ramps up again and you writhe, feeling like you will explode. You feel another, new sensation and your eyes shoot open—it’s his finger, slipping over your clit and then inside you. You cry out.

“Too much?”

“N-no, I…no…please…” You’re babbling, but he knows what to do. He moves the faucet closer, the pressure on your clit intensifying and the heat you feel nearly blinding you. Then his finger moves inside you and your back arches and you’re slipping, slipping, and you feel him move closer and you throw out your other arm and brace yourself on his chest.

“How does that feel?” he whispers, and you know he’s doing this on purpose, know he’s trying to make you talk to hear the sweet sounds you’ll make, know he’s aware how the multitasking makes your head spin.

“I—I…it…ummm…Jumin!” you manage, gasping as he curls his finger inside of you, flicking the thin, hard stream from the faucet over you again and again and…

“Tell me how it makes you feel,” he commands, and you stammer, gasping for air, and he curls his finger again, hitting your g-spot as the stream of water stills, focused directly on your tender, throbbing clit.

“Ah—!” is all you manage before you fall apart, your back hitting the shower wall as you come hard and fast, the ice cold heat at your core tearing you to pieces. Through the haze, you think you cry out again, and his finger moves incessantly within you and the water makes you see bright shards of white through your closed eyelids.

You gasp, coming down slowly, trembling all over. You squint your eyes open and his face is so close to yours, his eyes full of awe and lust and adoration. He slips his finger out and diverts the faucet away from you. You catch your breath, head swimming.

“So,” you say finally, when you have enough breath to speak. “You fantasied about making me come with the shower faucet?”

“Yes, of course,” he responds, tilting his head quizzically, the water from the main faucet cascading over his shoulders as he stands up straight. “Is that so strange?”

You laugh. “It’s not,” you say. He offers you a hand and you stand too, slipping and sliding until you find purchase on the grippy strips lining the bottom of the tub.

“Now,” he says in a businesslike tone. “Would you like to wash off, get dry, and then have sex in the bed?”

Your face breaks into a grin because that’s so very Jumin and god, you love him for it.

“Yes,” you say, and you reach for the soap, pouring a fragrant stream of it onto your hand. “But can I ask you a question first?”

“Anything, my love.” He adjusts the second faucet so it’s more accessible for you.

“Earlier, when you said you couldn’t be around me…”

“Ah,” he says—and his serious expression is somewhat offset by the way the water glues his hair to the sides of his head, somehow silly and sexy at the same time. “I meant that I’m able to keep up a façade as long as I’m not around you. As soon as you’re by my side, I feel.”

You press up against his back, letting the soap spill through your fingers. You kiss the smooth, warm skin there and he sighs contentedly.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and you almost can’t hear him over the rushing water. “Thank you for allowing me to feel.”

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

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themysteriousphoenix · 4 years ago

Text

Dawn Breaks

I have temporarily jumped ships because I fell in love with Colin and Penelope! I wrote a little something that is *gasp!* not Newtina. Should I write more of these two?

(Rated T for some kisses and skin)

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The first rays of morning light began to light the room and, unused to the dawn breaking through the curtains that she must have forgotten to close last night, Penelope blinked awake. She knew it must have been very early, and her thoughts were still clouded with the haze of sleep. Her body was tired, almost aching. She took a deep breath, intending to roll over and try to doze for a few more hours until her ladies’ maid came to wake her. Sleep sounded heavenly, indeed.

Her legs stretched out beneath the soft sheets, and it was then that she realized something felt different. The texture of the sheets, the softness of the featherdown mattress, the angle of the early morning sun cascading in through the window… She opened her eyes and her sleepy thoughts aligned almost immediately, jolting her awake. She was Penelope Bridgerton now. She had been married yesterday.

Colin laid at her side.

This was her life, but part of her still wondered if this was all a wonderful dream.

After years of loving him, after years of pining and waiting, dances of pity and obligation, standing to the side while every young woman of her age was married off... here she was. Colin Bridgerton had chosen her for his wife.

The part of her that still lingered inside, that child of sixteen who loved unconditionally without understanding what love was, wanted to pinch herself to make sure this was real. Penelope grinned to herself. This was very real. The past month had been real. Last night had certainly been real.

His hair was wild from sleep, it settled across his forehead boyishly and unstyled. His lashes were long and fanned across his still tanned cheeks as he slept. His lips were slightly parted and he breathed deeply, evenly as he slept. As Penelope’s eyes traveled down his form she realized that, while she had decided to don one of her delicate, ivory nightgowns from her trousseau chest before climbing into bed in the early hours of the morning, Colin had fallen asleep as he was following their wedding night activities. The white sheet had fallen to his waist, and she was privy to a very lovely view of his shoulders and back.

Her emotions began to overwhelm her as she took in the sight before her. She had never awoken next to someone before, and the fact that the person she was waking up next to was Colin was mind-boggling. Throughout their short engagement, she had been looking forward to the wedding night, for being in their own home, and loving each other openly without any barriers or worry.

If their first time together had been about their declaration of love for each other, last night had been about pure pleasure. They had not held back. Penelope, inexperienced as she was, had been curious and determined to give back to her husband every pleasure he had given to her. It had been a wonderful and memorable night. Both newlyweds had fallen into bed spent and giddy with happiness.

She could feel the tightness of her muscles, their pleasant ache after the exertions of the previous night. Stretching again, Penelope rolled onto her back and looked up at the ceiling. She smiled widely, still not fully believing that her life was reality. How, after so many years, did she end up here? The love she had for the man sleeping at her side overwhelmed her and she felt tears pick at the corners of her eyes. He may not be the perfect man she had dreamed of throughout the past eleven years, the Lord knew that she had seen many sides of him that she hadn’t known existed in the past several weeks, but it made him even more desirable to her. His perfection had always been overwhelming to her, but suddenly he was entirely human. He was troubled and conflicted, a bit spoiled, and had a fierce temper that ran under the surface, hidden away. He was a wonderful puzzle and, while their short engagement held many trials that had upended their emotions and caused tension, the moments in between had drawn her in.

She thought she fell in love with Colin when she was days away from turning sixteen. She learned what love truly was in the past month since Colin had reentered her life as a close friend. It was as if they had been given a new start, and in her heart, she knew that things had happened just as they were supposed to. They both drifted alone for so long, longing for the fulfillment that could be found in each other, a home together, the family they would become. They were truly lucky.

Penelope felt a tear roll down her cheekbone and into the soft hairs just above her ear. A soft whisper of fabric caught her attention and she looked over at Colin. His eyes were open and he was watching her beneath sleep-heavy lids.

“Hello,” he whispered softly, the corners of his mouth quirking into a lazy smile. His eyes blinked slowly as he watched her and he took a deep breath in and released it slowly. Penelope turned her head toward her new husband.

“Good morning,” she whispered back, rolling to her side and tucking a hand under her pillow. The movement caused the white, cotton sheet to fall away from her shoulder, exposing the delicate tie that held the garment on her body. Colin reached over slowly to tug the fabric back into place, but he did not remove his hand. His thumb caressed the small sliver of skin that was left exposed, sending shivers through her body. It was that sense of intimacy and familiarity that she was beginning to grow accustomed to. Whispered words, small touches, and fleeting glances, each reaffirming her decision to call this man hers and hers alone.

His green eyes were admiring her now, sleep had fallen away from his face and she only found contentment in his gaze. “It’s early, my dearest,” he said to her in a soft voice, “why are you awake at this hour?” He continued his ministrations and gooseflesh spread over her arm as her body responded to the slight tickling sensation.

“We forgot to close the curtains last night,” Penelope replied with a grin. Colin chuckled and his wide smile matched hers once he caught her double meaning.

“I wasn’t thinking of the curtains last night, I can assure you. I was rather…”

“-Distracted?” she offered cheekily, a faint blush spreading across her cheeks.

“Mmm...yes. That sounds accurate,” he quipped as he pushed himself up onto his elbows and slid over so that they were face to face, only inches apart. His hand that had been on her shoulder now found the curve of her cheek. His thumb ran over the fading tear track above her cheekbone and he leaned down for a kiss. Softly, tenderly his lips touched her own. It was far from the searing kisses they had shared the night before. This was an expression of happiness and contentment. She could feel the heat of his skin as his chest brushed her own, the thin layers of cotton and satin the only barriers between them. He pulled away slowly, gazing down at her with a smile. “I suppose I don’t mind waking early, at least this time.” Colin settled himself down to the mattress once more, his head falling ungracefully to lay on Penelope’s pillow, his forehead nearly touching her own.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” she replied. She lifted her arm to loosely wrap around his waist, holding his body lightly against her own.

“No harm done,” Colin leaned forward, the tip of his nose just barely touching hers, “this way I get a few more hours with my beautiful new wife before I have to share her with the world.”

Penelope felt her smile widen. Her heart fluttered as she tightened her hold on him slightly. The shift in her face caused a forgotten tear to fall down her cheek.

“Are you crying?” Colin asked, his playful mood shifting to concern as he leaned away slightly to observe her. He thumbed away the errant tear before running his fingers through the soft hairs at her temple. Shaking her head softly, Penelope leaned forward slightly so that they were face to face once more.

“No, not really,” she whispered. “I’m just a little overwhelmed this morning.” Her fingers trailed up Colin’s spine, her cold fingertips a contrast to his heated skin. She watched him close his eyes in response, not fully believing she could have this effect on him. “I woke up and I was...well,” she inhaled, the scent of vanilla and soap with a hint of musk surrounded her. She closed her eyes, collecting her words into a coherent idea before opening them to meet her husband’s concerned gaze. “I couldn’t believe that after so many years of wanting you, that you are here. I woke up next to you, you married me. I—I still feel like I’m dreaming and that I could wake up at any moment.”

Colin shook his head as he pulled away to look at Penelope’s face. “I was an idiot for not seeing you for who you were all those years…”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” she interrupted. “What I’m trying to say is that...I have yearned for this moment for half of my life, but... I am thankful that we came together when we did. Life never felt complete for either of us,” she reached up to slide her fingers into his thick, chestnut hair, “but we needed those years to find ourselves before we could find each other. As lonely as we have been, I’m glad to have you now.”

“It doesn’t mean that I don’t constantly wish I had realized that you were who I was meant to be with a decade ago.”

“Well,” she began, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him to lean over her, “how about instead of worrying about the past decade we concentrate on the decade ahead?” Colin, hummed in agreement, his eyes closing as her fingernails raked over his scalp softly. He leaned down to kiss her. This kiss was more pressure and feeling; his lips slid over hers in what was beginning to become a practiced dance. He captured her bottom lip between his own and his fingers began to work the knot on the shoulder of her dressing gown. As the thin strips of fabric gave way, her lips parted in a silent gasp.

“Can the next decade start right now?” Colin mumbled into her jawline as his lips trailed across her cheek and to the creamy column of her neck. Penelope’s eyes closed as she lost herself in the sensations.

“Oh, yes. Please,” she replied breathily. Colin chuckled into her skin in response as he began working the satin bow on her opposite shoulder.

“Excellent,” he replied as the second knot gave way. Some things, he thought, were worth waking up early.

The early morning sun continued to stream in the window of their bedroom as the light grew in the east over Bedford Square. The curtains were entirely forgotten once again by the room’s occupants.

#polin #colin x penelope #bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton fanfic #colin bridgerton #penelope featherington #newlyweds #honeymoon #morning after

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nicka-nell · 4 years ago

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Reaction to your ex-boyfriend writing to you

Pairing: Akaashi x reader, Ushijima x reader, Iwaizumi x reader Warning: none, just fluff

You’ve been in a relationship with Akaashi a long time, so you were very surprised when your ex-boyfriend texted you.

Hello y/n.I’m back in Japan. Would you like to meet me…? Just for coffee, just chat.

You didn’t split up in the bad, but you still don’t know what to do now. Sighing, you come home and sit on the couch tired. “Hey my love, how was your day?” Akaashi greets you with a loving kiss on the forehead and sits down next to you.

“My ex wants to meet with me, just talk…” Questioning and with his head tilted to the side, he looks at you. “Okay, why are you telling me this now?”, “Because I wanted to know what you thought.” Even if you wanted to meet with him, the first thing you’d want to know is if Akaashi was okay with it.

“If you want to go there, I don’t want to stop you. You’re an adult and you can decide for yourself, love. I would never forbid you anyth-” He can’t finish his sentence because Bokuto suddenly jumps out of your bathroom, only covered with a towel.

“AKAAAASHIIIIII!” he just shouts. “Oh God, Bokuto! What are you doing in our apartment?” you shout to him. “Oh yes, Bokuto’s shower is not working at the moment and I offered him to shower here.” Akaashi answers you calmly. Still confused, you look back and forth between the two men.

“Akaashi, you can’t let her go! What if her weird ex wants to take her back? What if y/n leaves you? I couldn’t bear to see you die, Akaashi. I’m not ready for my parents to split up!” Like a drama queen, he puts his hand on his forehead and waves air to himself with his other hand.

“Bokuto…y/n can do what she wants. I trust her fully. If she wants to go there, let her go. I love her, and I support her in everything she does. Besides, I won’t die, you’re not our child and y/n won’t return to her ex.” At his last words, you feel how his hand is lying on your lap, pressing you even harder.

Akaashi would do anything for you, even if he doesn’t like it or it makes him sad. He would never admit it, for your own good.

You’re still smiling as you reach for his hand. “I didn’t want to go anyway.” You whisper lovingly and give him a kiss on the hand.

A barely visible smile draws his face and in his eyes three words are clearly written: Thank you love.

Ushijima and you are like an old married couple. You can communicate without many words, and always know when the other person is in a bad mood. Just like today, because your ex wrote to you.

Hey y/n. I know I screwed up, and yes, this is probably already too late but babe… I miss you, let’s talk. Give me one last chance. The odd volleyball player doesn’t suit you, sweetie.

You don’t know why you’re even thinking about this message. After all, you’re happy with Ushijima.

“Hey, snow hare, the commercial’s over. Are you still watching?” He’ll ask you without warping his face. “What? Oh yes…” you answered him and looked at the TV again. But his gaze lingers on your face. “Is something wrong?” he asks irritated. “My ex wrote to me and wants to talk to me, he probably wants to make up for everything.” You just sigh and look at Ushijima.

“I understand.” his look and his voice are still calm. “You… You don’t mind…? You have no doubts?” you ask skeptically. “Why? I know you love me. I trust you.” his voice is still calm, but he turns his gaze away from you. “Besides… if you no longer have feelings for me and want to go back to your ex, I couldn’t stop it… You can’t force feelings y/n. If they could be forced, I would have made Oikawa come to the Shiratorizawa. Instead, he’s wasting his talent on Aobajohsai.”

Now you can’t help laughing. “You and Oikawa… A love story that will never end.” You mumble to yourself. “What did you say?” asks Ushijima, who didn’t understand you. “Nothing, but well… I don’t know if I should go yet.” You sigh and start playing with your fingers. Actually, you would have wished that Ushijima would come out more of himself. But of course you love him for his quiet manner.

He looks at you with an unintelligible look. Without saying anything, he bends over to you and supports his hands left and right of you on the couch. “Toshi?” you ask in wonder. “I don’t care if you meet your ex or not. But I want him to understand that you belong to me…” He whispers to you in a deep voice, while his gaze has now darkened.

“Toshi!” you groan briefly as you feel his lips and teeth on your neck. Loving but also a bit rough, he marks your neck with several hickeys. “You belong to me and not to anyone else. If you meet your ex, don’t cover the hickeys and… wear my jacket.” He whispers to you and slowly pushes his cold hand under your top to caress your skin.

“Do you want the smoothie with spinach or the one with strawberries?” asks Iwaizumi, standing in front of your blender in the kitchen with his sleeves up. “Ih! Of course, the one with strawberries!” You make a face in disgust.

“I knew you would. The sweet stuff for my darling and the healthy strong stuff for your strong handsome boyfriend.” he laughs loudly and shows his strong arms. But instead of looking at him, you’re looking at your vibrating phone.

Hey y/n. I know you have your own life but… I miss you so much… Can we meet? One last time? I want to see your smile again.

“Earth to y/n! What’s wrong with you?” Iwaizumi hisses. “What? Nothing…” you answer absentmindedly. “Oh yes? Then why are you looking at your phone?” he still sounds annoyed and leans forward to look at your phone.

“Who is this? What does this guy want from you?” now completely annoyed he clenches his hand to the fist. “It’s just my ex-boyfriend… He wants to meet with me.” Sighing, you roll your eyes. “You’re not going there, at least not without me.” He hisses angry and turns to his spinach smoothie.

“You want to tell me who I can and can’t meet?” Now you’re upset, too, because you can’t understand his possessive behavior. “Why do you want to meet your ex? That’s really shitty y/n.”, “And why?” you reply quickly. “Because you’re my girl. Because you’ll always be my girl. You’re mine. You belong to your big strong daddy.”

At his last words, he comes over to you and takes you from behind in his arm, just to bury his head in the crook of your neck. “Hey Iwa-honey, what are you doing there?” you giggle because his eyelashes tickle your neck.

“You know, I’m gonna show my little sexy baby how good a spinach smoothie is and how strong her good-looking boyfriend is.” He whispers to you, and with one jolt, he lifts you up. “Hey!” you laugh up and look him in the eye.

“I didn’t want to meet my ex anyway, I just have eyes for you.” you smile because he’s the only one who can make you happy. “I know babe, and I love you for that.”

#haikyuu x reader #akaashi x read #keiji x reader #ushijima x reader #wakatoshi x reader #iwaizumi x reader #hajime x reader

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the-darklings · 5 years ago

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—𝒆𝒙𝒊𝒕𝒖𝒔 𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒂 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒃𝒂𝒕;

—PART XII. | EXITUS ACTA PROBAT

pairing: john wick x f!reader x santino d’antonio

word count: 18.6k+ (🤡✊🏻)

summary: “It’s like everything in my life is unravelling right now and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

warnings: you will suffer

notes: 3 weeks in the making is the only explanation I have for the length aside from being a stubborn idiot and refusing to split it. We are also going to pretend like I didn’t write 60% of this chapter in the last 24hr. If you’re still reading this series, I love you! Enjoy!

children of ares series: 01 | …. | 10 | 11 | . . | 13 |

“You don’t have to do this.”

Blinking sluggishly, you brace a hand on your work table, pausing in your preparations.

A familiar vial lays before you and it feels like an insult, like another example of your many failures. It’s not ready. Years of work and research and trying and failing and…

Now that you actually need it, you can’t be sure it’s ready. Can’t be sure it will work. So close.

Your hands shake and you press your forearms to your sides to still them.

Dragging your gaze away from it, you return to packing.

Winston still hasn’t looked at you since his earlier statement, his back to you as he stares out of your hotel room window.

“What choice do I have?”

“Every choice,” he shoots back easily, and finally looks at you. His stare is hard, cold. “Johnathan knew full well what he was doing in agreeing to that Marker, and when he refused it. Mr D’Antonio, too, is no child. They are responsible for their own actions. It is not your job to fix their messes.”

You throw down the article of clothing clenched between your fingers, stepping closer towards the older man.

“That Marker exists because of me,” you snap, breathless with anger. “And it shouldn’t. John’s home is rubble because of me. Of course, they’re both equally as accountable for this but it stems from me. It’s my responsibility, too, and I have to make it right.”

“You can’t interfere.”

You know that. Markers are as good as sacred.

Once the terms are set, they have to be fulfilled. No one can interfere with the completion of a Marker, or risk invoking the wrath of the table itself.

You can’t save Gianna no matter how much you want to. Not without throwing away everything you have worked for.

“I’m not going to,” you tell him, struggling for air. “But Camorra will hunt John, and the least I can do is help. This will end in blood on both sides otherwise. I can’t let that happen.”

Your voice softens by the last sentence but the hard look in Winston’s eyes remains. Not that you expected him to show much sympathy for anyone in this situation. He’s a man of rules, of order. In his eyes, if John agreed to a Marker then he should have honoured it, and what he does after is his business. You can’t help but agree with that, too. But the dread you’ve felt since Winston told you about the Marker’s existence has only amplified since your conversation with Santino.

It stalks your every step. Accompanies every breath your draw into your lungs.

This situation—and all the factors involved in it—are a time bomb ready to blow, obliterating everything.

“You are terrified,” Winston voices suddenly, his narrowed stare stripping you down to your core. As always, he can see right through you. His words, knowing and incisive, wrap around your throat, squeezing it tight. “So terrified that you will lose them that you would willingly place yourself in the middle of this. Regardless of the consequences.”

You say nothing. You only stand in front of him and feel pathetically small under that unwavering, wise gaze. Winston exhales quietly, shaking his head slightly.

“What if it’s you that gets torn down in this little squabble for power?” he wonders but not unkindly. “What then, (Name)?”

How can you explain it to him? What words can you use to convince a man of professional, unyielding conviction that your actions are anything other than a desperate attempt to keep people you care about safe? What is this, if not completely irrational on all sides of this unfolding conflict?

You’re teetering on that edge again and Winston is right. You are terrified.

Everything has a price, and things always come full circle.

“Sometimes—”

Your voice cracks and you swallow thickly, looking away for a second as you force yourself to take a calming breath. “Sometimes I feel so alone it’s like I can’t breathe,” you confess in a tiny whisper, faint and fragile. “And it’s like everything in my life is unravelling right now and there’s nothing I can do about it. You, Santino, John—you’re all I have. I can’t lose anyone else, Winston. I can’t.”

The man’s expression eases, the light in his eyes softening just a touch.

But before he can say anything else your phone rings. Swallowing, you grab it off your table. It must be Santino—

But you feel yourself grow cold at the number shining back at you on the screen.

“It’s the Administration.”

Winston’s chin dips, his lips pressing into a stiff line, and he gives you a serious look. “Then you better answer.”

Rome is beautiful.

Over the last five years, you have grown to love it as much as New York.

You’ve spent many days in this city, in this country, due to your association with Camorra alone.

The architecture, the food, the cobbled streets and the energetic flow of Italian in the air. It mixes with English, French, Russian, amongst many others; and stepping back into this city is like being dragged into a dance, dizzying as it is warm.

Italy has—in many ways—become a second home to you.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I’m not here because I want to see you kill Gianna,” you speak tightly, not looking at the man beside you. On the flight here, you’ve barely exchanged more than a few words. He seemed just as preoccupied with his thoughts as you have been. All he did was give you a long, searching look and asked you if you’re sure about coming along. “That Marker exists because of me. It’s my responsibility, too. And—”

And you know Santino. You know Camorra.

“I’m your insurance policy.”

John turns after you when you move, and he almost looks out of place. This man in a dark suit and dark eyes, standing in a city of such culture and light, like an ink stain on a perfectly clean canvas. You hesitate, reading his desire to speak.

“You’re angry.”

You almost laugh out loud. In fact, a hysteric laugh tickles the back of your throat and you chuckle instead, even if the sound lacks joy.

“Yeah,” you intone flatly, looking up towards the clear, open sky above you. “Yeah, I’m angry, John. I’m angry at Santino. I’m angry at you. I’m angry that this bullshit keeps happening.”

John’s expression is guarded and you don’t quite understand the look in his eyes.

He’s angry, that much you do know. He didn’t want to be back. But when he looks at you there is something else there now; a weight, a question, a hundred unspoken conversations.

“I didn’t think it would come to this.”

You exhale through your nose, your expression relaxing with cold amusement. You’re so tired of everyone. Everyone and their insistence that they know what they’re doing.

Every nerve in your body feels raw, and you don’t try to hold back the acid in your voice.

“That so?” you contemplate softly, but the bite to your words is impossible to miss. “Then tell me what the hell did you think was going to happen, John? Did you think that Santino was never going to call in that Marker? You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever known but I really have to question your logic here. I’m furious at Santino for calling it in but what were you thinking when you refused it? A Marker, John.”

Santino wasn’t exaggerating. With John refusing to honour an oath, he easily could have taken this matter straight to the High Table. And the latter is ruthless in dealing with such breach of their rules.

No bloodshed on Continental grounds and every Marker must be honoured. Such simple rules, really.

John’s refusal alone almost ended his life.

Wanting to stay away from this world is one thing. But knowingly creating a Marker only to later refuse it—

It’s one job.

Better one last head dive into the abyss than being dead.

“What is he to you?”

You don’t hear this tone often—not from him, and not directed at you. This is the Boogeyman talking with that low, icy voice that is just a touch more insistent than the John you know.

Your eyes find him and for several moments you are both silent.

Rome is a buzzing anthill of life and joy and despair but you two are suspended in this moment, and your tongue refuses to work.

Santino.

What is he to you?

I’m not your anything.

But that was a lie, wasn’t it? A hurt driven, angry lie because you are—

“A friend.”

But this time, it’s not enough.

John speaks before your lips even close. “What more than that?”

The push is unexpected.

But if this is the path your old beloved wants to walk.

“When you left—” you start and pause, gathering your thoughts. John is unmoving and silent, waiting for you to continue but you see how the corners of his mouth tilt downwards. He already knows that what you will say next is unlikely to be pleasant. “When you left I had no one. No one to turn to, no one I could trust. Every enemy you ever had then turned their sights onto me. They hunted me, tried to capture me, poison me. Santino helped me. Offered me to work for him to keep Tarasov appeased. He kept me safe. Of course, he got plenty out of our partnership over the years but…”

“But you trust him.”

Not a question.

John’s expression is drawn, and it’s difficult for you to read what’s going on behind those eyes.

His loaded statement hangs between you, and you take a moment to think about it properly.

With everything that you have gone through in the last five years alone—

“I do,” you admit quietly, even though those words make you feel naked and vulnerable. Even when a tiny part of you still whispers that you are a fool for doing so. That Santino is just another liar in a long line of liars. “Which is why I have to ask you something, and you have to promise me that you will answer me honestly.”

I found you in six hours.

But did he really? Did Santino mean those words or did he simply exaggerate to make himself look better, to justify his own anger, his own bitterness and old resentments?

John only gazes at you, even though your confession seems to have dimmed something inside him. He doesn’t look surprised, however, and it makes you wonder what else he’s gleaned from this exchange.

“When I was taken in Tokyo,” you start after another uneasy moment between you. “How long did it take for you to go to Santino?”

The question that’s been plaguing you for so long now.

The question that immediately creases John’s expression with a muted, worn sort of sadness. Devastation.

You almost don’t want to hear his reply.

“Eight days. I—”

You interrupt him before he can go on any further, “And how long did it take for him to track my location?”

This time, John looks confused.

“Why—”

You inhale deeply and try to keep your composure. “Please, just tell me.”

He moves closer and for a moment you fear he’s going to try and touch you but he doesn’t and you’re grateful. You don’t need his pity now.

“A little over six hours,” he tells you, and your throat closes up at his words, a lump forming. “(Name), I’m sorry.”

You know he is. You know he didn’t mean for any of this to happen. In the place of that inferno that has raged and raged inside you for years, now only ash and embers remain.

You miss the inferno.

It made you feel at least a little secure in your emotions.

But John’s words tangle around your heart for a different reason, pulling on it harshly.

Have I ever lied to you?

Santino hasn’t. Seemingly even now when you’ve been so sure that he finally has.

“Why did you agree to that Marker?” you demand next, though this time your voice is thinner, less sure. You try to shake it, try to force iron and ice and discipline into your demeanour like your Master always told you is necessary. “You could have tracked me yourself.”

Because he’s John Wick. Because it would have been easy for him, even if it would have taken longer. At least he would have been free of the burden he now carries.

“Because I felt like I failed you,” he admits in a hushed breath and the pain in his dark eyes no doubt matches your own. “Because you were gone and I—”

You nod your head in understanding, and a pained, brief smile flashes across your features.

“You felt guilty,” you assume and know you are right by the way your words make him briefly close his eyes. “Guilt and pity. Seems like our relationship has that in abundance.”

Your tone is lifeless and distant and you don’t look at him, choosing to gaze instead towards the breathtaking architecture around you.

For a long moment, it’s silent between you. It’s not awkward or tense though. It’s almost peaceful. In a sense, you are getting the answers to questions a part of you has always clung to. In a sense, a part of you finally feels at ease.

“I wanted to save you. More than anything. That Marker…” he fades off. “The Marker was the fastest way to find you.”

Your eyes go back to him, meeting his, and you tell him one simple fact that he seems to have forgotten. “But you didn’t save me, John,” you remind with a slight smile but your words are not an accusation, they’re just words. “I saved myself.”

You crawled your way out of that pit on your own. And maybe you would have failed at the last hurdle. Maybe you would have been stopped or tracked down once the guards noticed something was wrong, but you had saved yourself. Killed Kishi yourself. Freed yourself.

You were alone in hell, and you had made it your own.

One person was dragged into its depths, and something else was spat back out.

You were forged in the violence and the despair of that darkness.

There is no shame in admitting that, or owning it.

John says nothing but the look on his face says everything.

“I need time,” you finally say, and try to control the fidgeting of your fingers. “I have a few errands I need to run. I’ll see you back at the Continental.”

He takes a step closer, his fingers grazing against the skin of your inner wrist.

You exhale sharply at the sensation, pulling back to look towards him instead.

His expression is torn, so you reassure him with a simple, “I’m not running from you. I think it’s finally time we have this conversation but I just—I need to…to think.”

To prepare for the inevitable pain. For tearing of the scars that have finally stopped aching after all these years.

You give him one last look, and you see the understanding there.

He lets you go.

It takes you till nightfall to return to the Continental.

Gianna’s coronation is tomorrow night and it cramps your stomach with nerves just thinking about it.

This is a ruthless world, and Gianna is a ruthless woman.

You know very well that she would do the same to Santino if it came down to a choice. But—

But you can’t help but blame Giovanni once again.

It’s his fault. He’s the one who made his children into this. Pushed them apart because only one could inherit his seat. Morphed them and shaped them into what he needed them to be. Stole from them the loyalty and the bond that should have been between the two siblings.

It makes you feel so helpless, so bitter with disappointment. Perhaps Gianna is not your favourite person in the world after what she did, but you did consider her your friend once. Once you believed it was mutual. You’ve shared time together, too. Bonded. Cared for one another.

She doesn’t deserve this.

You hate how unfair it all is.

Tradition, old hurts, resentment, fears.

They have all come together to set the stage for a tragedy.

“It is good to have you with us again, Vipress.”

Your attention snaps to the tall man walking down the stairs of the Rome Continental, his guards only a few steps behind him.

Julius greets you with a faint smile and a kiss on your cheek that prompts a smile of your own.

“Ciao, Julius,” you greet him. “You look well. Winston sends his regards.”

The man in front of you chuckles. “Ah, my old friend. How is he?”

You suppress a smirk. “Still Winston.”

Julius nods with a knowing look and leads you towards the reception. “The presidential suite has already been prepared for you as per Mr D'Antonio's old request.”

Santino.

God. You’ve tried not to think about him since you walked out of the gallery, leaving him behind. That look on his face has seared itself inside your mind. So much so, that it’s easier not to think about your goodbye. Easier not to think about the Lovers and how they might use your separation to get to him. Easier not to think about all the things you should have said to him instead.

Stop. Think. This is insane. This is not worth it. You’re smarter than this.

But you can understand his desperation, too. In a sense. Because if the situation was reversed, is there anything you won’t do for him, or John, or Winston? Ares? Any of your friends?

When you have so little, you cling to things that make you happy with desperation and hopelessness only few can truly understand.

But that does not excuse his recklessness, does not excuse his actions no matter how worry driven they might have been.

“I’m sorry,” you say immediately, assuming the worst, knowing how Santino can get when he doesn’t get his way. “Was he unpleasant about it? I—”

Julius gives you a brief, amused look. “No, he was rather...polite about it, actually. He learned from last time, I believe.”

Yes, last time.

Last time when Santino chewed out one of the attendants for miserving him. Every bit the spoiled mafia heir. You refused to speak with him for the rest of your stay in Rome. Once, not so long ago, you were less than that attendant who was only trying to make an honest living. You were less. One mistake did not give him the right to unleash his temper as he did. Did not give him the right to look down on them without knowing anything about their life just because he was richer.

Your silence, your dismissal and refusal to so much as acknowledge him, had stung deeply. He had acted prissy at first, too, but with days that passed in a tense stalemate, he mellowed.

Perhaps he did learn his lesson.

He apologised for the incident eventually, no matter how reluctant.

Perhaps he can still see the errors of his way now as well.

You hope he will.

“Oh. Thank you,” you say instead, and shift in your spot while you wait for the receptionist to give you your key. “John?”

Julius makes a thoughtful noise at the back of his throat, placing his palm on the gleaming dark wood.

“Yes, Mr Wick,” the man begins, his tone leading as he gazes in your direction. “I admit I was rather surprised to learn that you have come to Rome together on business, and not with Mr D’Antonio instead. I initially feared the worst.”

You almost laugh.

A slight grin appears despite your attempt to keep it at bay.

“Let me guess,” you muse, trying to hold back your mirth. “The Pope? Not this time, Julius.”

The man’s answering stare is so unamused, you chuckle under your breath. It feels good to smile, even if it takes considerable effort to do so.

Julius takes your keycard, but hesitates in passing it to you.

“I do hope that whatever business you two have in this city will not cause too much trouble, yes?”

Your slight smile falls and you break the eye contact, glancing away.

You wish you could reassure him and mean it. But that would be a lie.

“I can’t promise that.”

Julius doesn’t look surprised to hear it. He is a man who has seen a lot just like Winston. They’re old, wise wolves in a world of bloodthirsty beasts. He knows that your and John’s presence here, now, can’t possibly mean anything good.

“I wish you a pleasant stay as always,” Julius says, at last, holding out the card towards you. “Mr Wick is staying in room 459.”

You try for a smile again but it feels forced this time, empty. Giving him a grateful nod instead, you pocket the card and head towards the elevator, trying to pretend you don’t feel Julius’ gaze follow you the entire way.

Getting to John’s room takes only minutes, and you knock on the door once, balancing on the balls of your feet.

You feel so restless, it’s like your skin is crawling constantly.

You’re dead to the world, a sly whisper tickles against the back of your neck.

Shut up.

The voice still continues though, and you try to drown it out by counting louder in your head. Like placing bricks between you and Kishi’s ghost.

The door swings open and John’s face appears through the crack. You know he has a gun in his hand from one look.

“Don’t look so surprised to see me,” you tell him flatly and step closer, waiting for him to let you inside. He does and your eyes sweep over the room. An old habit that’s been integrated into you by the very man who now resides inside it. “I assume you made preparations already. I will need debriefing on your plan.”

You wander closer towards the table where you notice maps already laid out. John is methodical and you know he always plans.

“Are you sure you want to get involved in this?” his voice sounds from behind you.

Your fingers brush over the edge of the papers, humming, and you glance over your shoulder.

“The Marker must be honoured,” you state, your tone wooden. “Camorra lives by the rules even more so than other families but they will retaliate, and you will need every little shred of help you can get. Trust me.”

John comes closer, his expression thoughtful and you look back down towards the table. “Catacombs, huh? Smart.”

An easy way to get into the party and out without being seen.

You knew of the tunnels. The D’Antonio siblings have told you about them.

That gives you a pause.

Even if you were miserable back then, those months you’ve spent with them have been some of the happiest in hindsight.

“Santino told me. About what you did for me,” John speaks suddenly, like those words have been waiting to burst out of him, and comes to stand beside you. His stare is unwavering, latching onto you and your breaths even out. “How the only reason he helped me with my task is because you asked him to.”

You don’t say anything.

This certainly explains John’s earlier conflict—that heaviness in his eyes that said he wanted to ask something but couldn’t bring himself to do so.

“Anything else Santino tell you?”

You wish you didn’t sound so morose, so joyless.

John’s lips part and he exhales quietly.

He knows full well what he’s about to start.

What two sad people you both have become.

Wary of each other and the dense mass of unspoken things between you.

“Why would you do it?”

You scoff, turning away from him as you shake your head.

“Really John?” you wonder in disbelief as you turn your attention back to him. John is still peering at you, waiting for a reply. “Because I loved you. Because the alternative was you potentially dying and no matter how much you hurt me, I could never live with myself if that happened.”

His eyes lower, silent, and you can’t help but wonder, “Did you think that my feelings for you were a passing fancy? Is that it?”

His gaze flickers upwards, his dark eyes sparking at the carefully hidden hurt in your words.

“No. I knew that what we had was real,” he rebukes softly and steps closer. You look up at him and hate security that his presence always brings. “Thank you. For giving me that time with her.”

The sincerity in his voice hurts.

Helen. The beautiful woman you can still recall in your memories. Who stood and fit beside John so well. His other half. The woman who he chose.

That’s what it came down to, in the end, a choice.

You turn away from him, tugging off your pea coat and dropping it over the arm of a plush chair as you lower yourself onto it. Leaning back into the comfort of the expensive material, you tap your fingers against the armrest, staring up at the man who still stands beside the table.

“Tell me about her,” you request calmly, your fingers tapping, tapping, tapping— “Tell me everything. From start to finish.”

John blinks, his surprise clear before he masks it, turning to face you fully as you both stare at each other.

The tension in the room grows.

“Are you sure you want to do this now—”

You almost bare your teeth at him.

“Yes, now. You wanted this chance, and I deserve to know everything,” you remind him through gritted teeth, and press your palm against the armrest when his attention moves towards your restless fingers. “Because I am so sick of people presuming that they know what’s best for me or how I feel.”

You won’t be in this mess if people just stopped assuming.

If everyone just stopped and listened.

John pushes away from the table, walking towards the other vacant chair in the room with measured steps. He sits himself down, and every shift of his muscles is heavy, weary.

“Do you remember the Dublin job?”

“Yes, what about it?”

Dublin was the last time you worked together. The very last of your happiness before your birthday, before Tokyo, before everything that followed after.

A bar, thick smoke, rowdy singing and you leaning into his side—into his warmth. In a shadowed corner of that bar his hand had rested against your lower back, his fingers delicate against your warm skin.

He had smiled at your every joke, and you had fallen more and more in love with every twitch of his mouth. With him.

There—hidden away from the world—you had both been free to be happy.

However briefly.

“After we came back, Tarasov asked to see me,” John’s low voice drags you out of the memory you haven’t visited for years, and you glance at him. “He told me that he knew about us. He told me that he is willing to give me one last chance to make it right. Either I stop whatever is going on between us or…”

“Or?”

“Or he kills you,” he divulges and his tone grows strained. “I knew he meant it. He said that he couldn’t have my loyalties split. Either I put a stop to it myself or he will have me kill you. I—I pushed you back because I couldn’t let that happen.”

You swallow weakly, moving your eyes away as he speaks.

It hurts to recall this, but you let him talk. This is perhaps the most open he has ever been with you so you listen.

“Better to hurt you than—I couldn’t lose you,” he whispers faintly, folding his fingers. His golden wedding ring catches your eye in the dim light of the room. He still wears it. Maybe he always will. You know you would. “You meant too much. I wanted—I suppose it doesn’t matter what I wanted now but...I did it to keep you safe. The only way I knew how.”

You nod your head vaguely, and lace your own fingers in your lap. The skin beneath your knuckles strains but you force the rest of your body to remain motionless.

“And Helen?”

There is no resentment in your voice, just curiosity.

“After I rejected your feelings, you drifted away just as I expected,” John resumes after a lengthy pause. “I knew you would need space so I was prepared to wait. Helen…I ran into her by accident. She invited me for lunch. I don’t even know why I accepted. I suppose I hoped that it would take my mind off you. Help to make it…easier.”

Easier. You wonder which part of this was the easy one.

“I never intended for anything to happen between us. Not ever. But Helen she was—she was kind and gentle and so open.”

Oh, that one stings.

From all the things he’s said, this hurts the most.

Kind. Gentle. Open.

All the things you are not.

Because you had to kill and strangle those parts of yourself to survive.

Because you always wanted to be those things but couldn’t.

Helen must have been such an easy choice, and you can’t even blame him for it.

Who could ever want you? Without any catches, without judgement or reservations.

Who would when the world is full of wonderful, bright people like Helen?

John continues when you fail to respond. “I convinced myself that this would be for the better. That even if we tried, Tarasov would have killed you. That in the long run, we would both be happier. But maybe—I never wanted this life, (Name). But I wanted to do this differently. Properly. Then Tokyo happened and…”

He pauses, inhaling deeply, seemingly unable to continue on.

His head dips down and you watch his profile. Your hand lifts and you press your fingers to your lips, trying to smother the hurt that quakes your bones.

“There was not one moment during those days when I didn’t wish you needed me as much as I needed you, John. Not one,” you voice tightly and press your lips together when they tremble. John looks up at you, his expression crushed, his eyebrows tightly knit. “You should have told me. But you made the decision on your own. What if I wanted to try anyway? Wanted to fight for what we had?”

“He would have killed you—”

Something creaks, and then snaps.

“And you should have told me!”

It explodes right out of you, vicious and quick.

You practically jump to your feet, unable to sit still. But you don’t go anywhere, you simply stand there, staring at him wide-eyed.

John watches you for a beat before bowing his head. Something hot churns in the pit of your stomach at his continuous silence.

“I know,” he utters. “I know it was selfish of me but I thought I was protecting you.”

Protecting you.

He did. You know that. But in so many ways by protecting you from one demon, he left you alone to face an entire hoard of them. So many even more dangerous than Tarasov ever was.

The next question is so soft, so unguarded, you almost hate yourself for asking it.

“Did you ever, even for a moment, actually love me?”

John’s head snaps up to you so quickly, you’re surprised you don’t hear his bones snapping. “You know I did. You matter more to me than—”

His voice cracks and he rises to his feet with a frustrated sigh. The way he fidgets with his ring catches your attention before his fingers slip out of sight.

“Tell me about Tokyo,” you insist before he can say anything else in regards to your pathetic question. “Santino said that you broke a deal between you. What kind of deal?”

For a moment, you think that John will press further. But perhaps he realises how fragile this situation is. How easily it can all fall apart and he still has things that need saying because he indulges you.

“Winston called me one day. Said that he hasn’t heard from you in days,” he starts, uneasy, like the memory is painful for him. You can’t help but wonder how bad it will get if he looks so apprehensive already. “That something might be wrong. I went to Viggo and he confirmed that you have gone off the grid. A mission gone wrong. He wasn’t sure if you were alive or dead. I asked for permission to find you but he denied me. He said the potential power conflict wasn’t worth it if you were stupid enough to get caught. Winston couldn’t get involved so I had only one other option left. Santino demanded a Marker and—”

“And?” you whisper, your voice hoarse, faint.

John’s shoulders curve downwards. His voice now is raspy, both pained and hushed. A lump in your throat grows larger as he comes to a stop in front of you. Back where you started only minutes ago.

“And he suspected that Yakuza might retaliate just like Viggo did. So a deal was struck,” he reveals, tracking your reactions carefully. “If you’re still alive, he gives me the resources to get you out and I pass you to him. He would place you under Camorra’s protection until things settled. In terms of power, his family is one of the very few that could withstand any potential conflict. But when I found you—”

You were broken and cracked and destroyed beyond repair.

John continues and the pain in his voice feels like a stab right into your beating heart, twisting deep. “You were hurt so badly I—I couldn’t. I killed them all and had no intention of leaving you again,” he exhales heavily and meets your stare before adding, “So yeah, I broke the deal with Santino because I didn’t trust him. Because I worried that he might use your vulnerability against you. To manipulate you.”

Back then, you won’t have put it past Santino to do exactly that.

The sly, conniving man that he is.

But he reacted to Tokyo in a way you didn’t expect.

A part of you knows that neither did he.

“And you didn’t think once to tell me about any of this?” you pose quietly because talking is so difficult now. “To tell me about Helen sooner instead of hiding secrets? Instead of lying.”

You’re so tired.

So very tired.

You can’t help but wonder if you’ll ever find peace at this rate. Or if you’ll always be stuck in this cycle. Over and over again. Without end.

John reaches out and for a moment his fingers hover over your cheek. You’re grateful that he doesn’t touch you, though something in his expression tells you that he wants to. “You were hurt. I was afraid that if I told you—”

His fingers drop away.

“I wanted to do this right. Wait till you recover fully. Sit you down and explain everything,” he says softly, and his soft dark eyes watch you sadly. “I knew what this sort of news will do to you. I saw how much you struggled. It was never about keeping it from you. So when you found my phone, I knew you would hate me. I figured it would be easier for you to forget me if you did. Easier to let go, so I left.”

You look away, your eyes starting to burn no matter how hard you try to blink the sensation away.

“Left because I knew that you will recover and succeed in this world,” he states, and even if you can no longer see his expression, you feel his attention focus on you. “Because you’re the strongest person I have ever met. And I hoped that one day, maybe, we would meet again and I could explain it to you. That we could rebuild.”

Rebuild.

As if it could ever be that simple.

You want to. You want to believe in the idea of having him back in your life but—

But you don’t trust him.

And that’s the problem. You can’t trust him anymore.

That gaping hole inside your chest aches and your expression crumbles as you turn away from him. Pressing the heel of your palm against your eyes, you digest his words silently.

It’s quiet for so long that it doesn’t surprise you when John’s unsure voice finally reaches you again. “Say something, (Name).”

It’s a plea.

A gentle plea that rips and shreds whatever little composure you still have left. Whatever little self-control and discipline you have managed to gather over the years.

“What do you want me to say, John? That you hurt me? That it hurt when you left? Because I assure you did a lot fucking more than just hurt.”

You spin around to face him, your hand dropping away from your face and he inhales at the venom in your voice, at the way your voice weakens and cracks.

“You destroyed my heart,” you choke out harshly, and now that the words are coming out, that he’s in front of you, you can’t stop. It comes out as five years of fear, and anger, and hurt that’s been repressed for too long. “You tore my trust, my hopes and dreams, to shreds. You made me lose my way completely. Because of you, I had to fake a smile and a laugh for years. Because of you, I can’t let anyone else in. Because I’m fucking terrified that they will leave me too. That I will never be good enough for them to just stay. Because you never stayed.”

He tries to touch your shoulder but you jerk back roughly. You’re practically gasping for breath and his figure blurs.

Tears.

You can’t recall the last time—

“You taught me the lesson of never letting anyone close again, so I’m never hurt the way you hurt me,” you gasp loudly, and the words stutter inside your chest briefly. “I lived so long just—just hoping to forget you and everything that’s ever happened between us. Because of you, I’m empty, and I blame others for the fact that I can’t trust them but it’s me. I’m the problem. You took it from me. That hope. My—my ability to love and trust and dream. Why did you take it, John?”

The tears finally spill, hot and wet, as they trail down your cheeks and your hands press against your face, trying desperately to wipe them away, hide them from him.

“Why? Why did you have to leave me when I n-needed you so much?” you sob, your body shaking and everything crumbles and caves inside your chest. It’s like a glass that’s been filling for years finally overflowing. No matter how hard you try to turn off the tap, ebb the flow, it won’t stop. “Why didn’t you just stay? I loved you so much.”

His arms wrap around you. You try to shove him away, but he’s stronger or perhaps you truly are that weak.

Another sob rattles free from your chest, violent and raw, tearing from deep inside your throat. Your arms feel clumsy as you try to push against him but his grip only constricts, holding you closer.

“I’m sorry, (Name),” he breathes against your neck, his voice raspy with anguish. “You don’t have to forgive me, but I need you to know that I never—I never meant to do this to you. I’m so sorry.”

You stop fighting.

You let him hold you.

You’re so very, very tired now.

For a thousand things said, there is a thousand more unspoken.

Yesterday had been a big step.

A step in clearing the air between you and you know that it’s done you both good, even if the timing of it had not been ideal.

Emotions had to be pushed aside quickly to make room for preparations.

Still, John held onto you for a long time, and a part of you can’t help but wonder if it was as much about comforting you as it was about comforting himself.

The question burns at the tip of your tongue but now is hardly the best time to ask it.

The catacombs are as dark and cold as you expected them to be. The air is dense and dusty, almost heavy with lack of fresh oxygen this deep underground. Together you cut through the tunnels, both of you clad in dark suits that will hopefully keep bullets at bay.

Because you doubt there is any other way this can go.

The thought of what you’re walking into right now only exhaust you more, drains you more. The invisible edge beneath your feet crumbles just a little bit more.

Below, gaping darkness awaits.

You’ve been lost in that darkness once before.

You don’t want to go back.

Trying to push your dangerous thoughts away, you focus on counting your steps, the shadows dancing a menacing tango across the shallows of these tunnels.

“What is it?”

Your head twists towards John and even though his features are mostly hidden by darkness, you can hear his concern.

You’re distracted, restless, and it shows.

Every edge of your usually careful calm is frazzled.

“It’s nothing,” you lie smoothly because it’s so very easy to do so now. “It’s just…when you left. I stayed with Camorra for almost a year. Worked for them in exchange for their protection. Gianna and Santino have told me stories about the Catacombs. They said the tunnels were haunted by all their dead ancestors. It’s a bit surreal actually being down here.”

He digests your words, and you feel his intention to delve further into the topic but you don’t have the will to talk about the D’Antonio siblings right now. Not when—

The edge cracks just a little bit further.

“Come on,” you say before he can speak. “We should hurry.”

It only takes you another few minutes of silent walking to reach the party.

It’s loud and bright and extravagant.

Befitting Camorra though it clearly lacks the traditional edge these affairs usually have.

Camorra is all about soirees and parties very few are invited to.

Maybe Gianna is truly trying to bridge the gap between the two worlds.

Maybe inviting you was truly about waving a flag and calling for a truce. Perhaps, now that Giovanni is dead, her desire to see Santino is less about insulting him, belittling him for not getting the seat, and about doing their own rebuilding instead.

It’s a nice thought.

But you know Gianna.

Even if she does want those things, there must be some benefit to her. Of which there are many when it comes to the possibility of a renewed friendship between you three. Except once she had that friendship. Once, you thought that she and Santino can be brother and sister again. That with time you can help them trust each other again.

You stand beside John as you track the woman and her loyal guard across the immaculate lawn while music blares loudly.

Cassian.

You’ve been trying very hard not to think about what this will mean to him.

It makes you feel like a traitor just thinking about his reaction.

John looks towards you but you don’t meet his stare. Instead, you simply dip your head in agreement.

This is it.

No more running.

Everything has a price.

You are here because John is here. John is here because Santino called in his Marker. Santino created the Marker as a punishment towards the man who wronged you.

On and on it tangles—this endless web of pain and choices and consequences between you.

Following them is easy.

You are quiet as the shadows that hide you, watching Gianna fix her makeup in the bathroom mirror.

The space is vast and tastefully decorated with dark wood and golden accents everywhere you look. Muted lights illuminate the space and a large running pool of water sits in the middle of the room that you know runs hot water regardless of the time of day.

Right now, you’re grateful for the delicate trickle of the bathwater that drowns out your unsteady breaths.

Gianna shifts, straightening, every bit the deadly, brilliant woman you remember her as and halts.

For behind her stands the Reaper, his face full of regret and sadness.

“John,” she voices, her surprise clear and her eyes snag on the dark corner where you still linger, unable to move. “V.”

You hate the slow understanding already filling her elegant features at your presence.

“Hello, Gianna.”

You want to move but can’t, it doesn’t matter though. Gianna, as always, makes the first move.

“There was a time not so long ago in which I considered us friends,” she states frankly, turning around and her glittering gown sparkles like stars, her fur overcoat only adding to her stunning but deadly appearance.

You’ve always admired her. Envied her in many ways, though she always laughed softly at such admissions.

John moves closer, his steps heavy with dread but the grip on his gun doesn’t loosen.

“I still do.”

Gianna’s lips twist, the look in her brilliant blue eyes glacial. “Yet here you both are,” she says, unimpressed. “Death’s very emissary and the Serpent in the garden.”

Her eyes shift to you, still standing in the shadows of the lavish bathroom suite and your throat closes up at her scrutiny.

She stares at you as if challenging you to step back, to hide from her.

But you won’t. You are here because you respect her more than that, regardless of what may have transpired between you years ago.

You step into the light and Gianna’s cold expression eases a touch. Her chin tilts and she acknowledges you in her own proud way. Not that you would expect anything else from her.

“I know why you are here, V,” she says knowingly even though the scathing twist of her mouth doesn’t drop. “But the question is what brought you back, John?”

“A Marker.”

That gives her a pause. “Held by?”

“Your brother.”

Gianna’s coolly composed expression fractures for a moment. In it, you see her dawning understanding, all the remaining pieces dropping silently into place inside her clever mind. Her eyes drag from John to you again, and you already know what she will ask next. “Did you know?”

Your quiet breath is more of a wheeze. “No. I did not,” you mutter tightly. “Not till recently.”

She stares at you for a beat, no doubt weighing the honesty of your words before her attention swings back towards the man in front of her.

“Tell me, John,” she begins, her gaze thoughtful, her thoughts racing. “This Marker, is it how you got out?”

John shakes his head, and you speak before he can. “It was for me. For Tokyo.”

Gianna blinks once, her lips parting in understanding.

“Tokyo. All this, and yet you still left,” she goads, a touch smug. “For an outsider, if I’m not mistaken. Tell me, what was her name? The woman who is responsible for all this pain.”

John seems almost reluctant to part with it. “Helen.”

“Helen,” Gianna repeats mockingly, pitching her voice into an almost dreamlike tilt as she moves closer towards the Boogeyman. “This Helen…was she worth the price you now seek to pay? Was she worth all the pain you have caused?”

You’re not sure you’re breathing as you watch John hesitate before nodding his head once.

Gianna’s eyes slide towards you knowingly and you meet her stare, holding it for a few moments.

“Now, let me tell you what happens when I die,” she speaks calmly, seemingly completely unaffected by what she now knows is the end. Her end. “Santino will claim my seat at the table. He will take New York, and you two will be the ones who have gifted it to him. Though I suppose it is what you always wanted, isn’t it, piccola vipera?”

Your heart clenches at the old nickname she always used to call you.

You take a step towards them, and then another, every step as shaky as the last.

“I never wanted this to happen, Gianna,” you whisper weakly, trying to keep your expression calm. “I’m sorry.”

She almost glides towards you and you’re not surprised when she leans close, her fingers ghosting over your cheek. Just like her brother, she touches you freely because they seem to both believe in the intimacy of the most simple kind. Sometimes full of desire, sometimes of affection, sometimes of simple compassion and friendship.

“I gave you that invitation because I had hoped we can be friends again,” she says and you hear the accusation there, no matter how finely laced it is into her delicate words. “I had hoped but I was foolish. I should have done things differently, I see that now. Fought for your loyalty before my little brother managed to steal it. Tried to take you away from him before you started to care for him,” she whispers, her words growing colder as her fingers brush over your bandaged ear, and she adds a tart, “Hmm. No matter.”

Her expression stutters, any warmth in her eyes fading as she pulls back abruptly, pushing past John as she approaches the sinks. She stares at herself in the mirror before ripping her fur coat off her body and dropping it on the floor. Her hands rest over her waist, and you’re not sure if she’s simply angry, debating what to do, or if she is trying to hold herself together.

She turns towards the running bath, taking a few steps towards it before she reaches behind herself to unzip her sparkling dress.

John tracks her every move with predator’s intensity.

You stand a step behind him and watch silently as the scene before you unfolds.

The dress slips down, pooling at her feet, leaving the woman before you completely nude. Her hand slides inside her luscious dark hair, and she tugs loose the brooch holding her curls in place. She traces over the intricate design of the brooch as she steps into the bath, the water inside sloshing around her feet.

“What would you Helen think about this, John?” she wonders bitingly, coldly, looking up at the man. “What would your Helen think about you? Hm?”

She places the honed edge of the brooch against her wrist and drags it down.

“Gianna—” you gasp out, stumbling towards her.

Her eyes snap to you and you halt, watching in horror as she does the same to her other wrist.

Red rains down, falling into the water below like a river of rubies.

“Why?” John asks, confused, as he comes to stand beside you.

She turns towards you, folding her arms as her body becomes a canvas of scarlet, and gives John a look that is every bit her brother and father. That D’Antonio pride mocks him openly, wickedly, and her lack of fear only makes this harder.

“Because I lived my life my way, and I will die my way.”

She trudges through the water, her knees shaking and you hurry towards her, your arms locking around her as she stumbles, sliding down and deeper into the warm depths.

“I’m sorry.”

Your voice is a wrecked whisper and her fingers sink into your dark suit sleeves.

“Do you still hate me, piccola vipera?” she wonders faintly, her icy eyes finding your own as you hold her up, slanting over the bath.

John’s footsteps drawing nearer are distant as you focus on the woman in your arms.

“No,” you breathe with a pained smile. “I never did. I was disappointed. Hurt. Our friendship was real to me.”

A brief smile appears on Gianna’s face, her finger smoothing over the velvet material absentmindedly.

“I will not apologise for what I did,” she tells you bluntly and you almost laugh though you want to sob more. Just as expected. “I thought it was best for me and my goals. I know you understand,” she remarks before tilting her chin in your direction so she can see you clearly. “I always knew that you would side with my brother.”

But you only shake your head in reply; a sad, feeble motion. “That isn’t it. I was against this,” you tell her because she needs to know, needs to understand why things ended up as they did. Because she deserves better than to die not knowing revenge has been served. “But Santino didn’t call the Marker in just for the seat. Chicago, Gianna. Chicago all those years ago. That was us. Someone knows. The Black Dragon has marked us for death and sent the Lovers after us.”

An indistinct exhales slips free and her eyes spark with understanding, with ruthless sort of satisfaction.

“I always suspected,” she murmurs with a sliver of a smirk gracing her features. “It was about revenge.”

John lowers himself on Gianna’s other side but you can feel his eyes drilling into you.

“Swear to me,” the woman demands abruptly, her nails sinking into your arm.

“What?”

She’s always been strong. Perhaps not physically but in sheer will. So it doesn’t surprise you when she finds enough strength in her body to tug you to her, her lips pressing against your ear.

“Swear to me that you will not let my family name die. Swear to me that my line will continue after I’m gone.”

Her harsh, hushed words wrap around something inside your heart, yanking with a strength that makes you flinch. You pull back, staring at her wild expression.

She looks so pale, but her eyes rage.

“I will—”

Gianna’s lips twist into a snarl—a break in composure you have never seen from her.

“No. I am the blood of old Camorra. You will swear it,” she hisses with a laboured breath, her fingers trembling around your arms. “On your life, on your honour, on your name. I will not have any less than that.”

Your eyes close, squeezing tightly, before you open them again, giving her a serious look.

“I swear it,” you exhale, forcing the tremble in your voice to steady. “The word of old Camorra. From me to you. I swear it.”

You are not Camorra. You are in no real position to give to her this oath, and coming from you it means close to nothing but—

But Gianna knows that you would never swear something like this unless you meant it with your entire being. Because she knows that you respect their values. For her, for her family, there is no higher vow.

Her grip on you loosens, her stormy features easing, as if that promise has given her reassurance she needed to find peace.

For a few breaths, it’s quiet. The pool of crimson keeps growing.

John, who’s been silent the entire exchange, reaches out, gently folding his fingers around Gianna’s other hand. He squeezes her fingers between his own and a brief, cool smile flashes across the woman’s face.

“Good. It seems like Papi was right,” she notes, her words growing milder, tenuous. “He was right.”

You’re not sure you can speak, but John does.

“Right about what?”

Gianna’s lashes flutter a few times before she opens her eyes, slanting her head weakly in your direction.

“After Santino failed to bargain with my father…he went to Tarasov anyway. To demand your freedom like I told you,” she divulges with a cutting little smile. In power till the very end. “And I remember my father looked at me when he found out and laughed. He laughed, and he said, ‘He is more like me than I realised. He would let this whole world burn to ash, as long as she’s the one standing beside him in the flames.’ That tipped the balance and won me the seat. Because we do not know how to love by halves and father knew that. Our love burns brighter than the sun, and I warned you what will happen if you earn his.”

Did Santino really disobey Giovanni and went to Tarasov despite his father’s refusal? Did it cost him the seat—

A shudder rolls through Gianna’s body and she slumps slightly, making you tighten your grip on her. Your fingers find her hand, gripping them desperately between your own. Her hand is already growing stiff and cool and your stomach coils.

You hold her close, ignoring the way your sleeves sink into the bloody water as a result. She grows weaker with every exhale and your eyes burn when you bury your nose against her hair. Her favourite Chanel perfume tickles your nose and you choke on your breath.

“I’m sorry, Gianna, I’m sorry.”

Her fingers squeeze around yours, just barely, her thumb tracing a small circle against your skin. “Will you weep for me, hm?” she murmurs slyly, her voice barely audible. “Lovely, silly girl. Remember your…vow.”

And then she’s gone.

You cling onto her, your nose buried in her silky hair as you breathe heavily through gritted teeth.

“(Name).”

John’s voice is kind, patient, but you hear the reminder there. You’re here to do a job. You can’t linger for longer than necessary.

But it’s hard to let go.

Even if she’s gone now.

John’s fingers settle on your shoulder, squeezing slightly.

Your feet keep slipping from that crumbling edge. The darkness below hums your name. A mix of voices that blend together.

You will always make the same mistakes. You will always lose.

Stiff and reluctant, you let go, allowing John to tug you back.

Tears sting your eyes but you don’t let them fall this time.

Gianna would be disappointed in you if you cried.

Inhaling, you stand to your feet, turning away from the still body as you wait for John to finish this.

A trickle of water—

Bang.

Your eyes snap shut, your expression twisting.

It’s serene, the silence that follows.

“We should go,” you inform him without turning around. “Someone is bound to come looking soon.”

You start walking away but John’s fingers latch onto your sopping wet arm, halting you. You jerk away from his touch, biting out a warning, “Don’t.”

You don’t want to talk right now.

You don’t want anything right now.

John doesn’t try to touch you again, and you know that this is hard for him, too.

The deafening rhythm of music washes over you both the moment you exit the bathroom and you lead the way, your shoulders stiff and expression wavering.

“Let me go first,” you say, glancing at him fleetingly over your shoulder before hiding your expression again. “Make sure the path is clear, I’ll meet you by the entrance to the catacombs. Don’t linger.”

Before John can say anything to contradict your statement, you stride into the hefty crowd of intoxicated guests. Most are tipsy. Others have that familiar glazed look in their eyes that tells you alcohol wasn’t their choice of poison this evening.

The music pounds with the beats of your heart and your shoulder knocks against someone. You ignore the contact, pushing past the moving bodies blindly.

It’s so hard to breathe. You’re out in the open air but you feel sick.

Changing your direction, you head east—

And twist your body immediately, hiding your face in the swarm of bodies.

Shit.

Of course.

You shouldn’t be surprised to see them here. After the ceremony, they would have officially served Gianna.

The other half of Camorra’s Elite Guard stands ahead of you at the edge of the crowd.

Julian and Dario linger on the outskirts, chatting between themselves though their eyes lift on occasion, scanning for any threats.

Julian is shorter from the two, his frame more athletic. His dark hair is neatly styled back for the occasion, and his equally dark moustache twitches whenever he speaks. His hands are folded in front of him and even from this distance, you can see the gleaming Camorra rings and dark tattoos on his hands.

Dario, by comparison, is a mountain of strength and muscle. The length of his long hair is pulled back into a messy bun, a few strands brushing against his cheeks whenever his head turns from side to side every few minutes. His broad frame towers over most guests here as he stands with his hands in his pockets, and you slant your body downwards, using the numbers and the darkness for cover.

Unlike the rest of the security detail, they don’t stick out.

In fact, they could be guests simply having a good time but you know better.

These men are as dangerous as they are unremarkable at first glance.

Or they would be if they weren’t some of the deadliest you have ever met.

Step, at least, is nowhere to be seen. A small blessing. The youngest member of the guard seems to have a bizarre sixth sense when it comes to locating you just about anywhere.

They can’t see you.

This is not a confrontation you can afford right now.

Shoving the people out of the way, you trek back when multiple gunshots pierce the air deafeningly.

Shit.

People scream, scattering, and you push harder against the mob as you try to force your way towards the epicentre.

By the time the crowd spits you back out, you notice the back of Cassian’s powerful body disappear in the direction of the bathroom and your stomach sinks.

Oh no.

Guards dash east, chasing after someone, happy to ignore you in the chaos. For a second, you debate your choices before you peel after the guards.

Tracking John’s progress is easy.

You follow the trail of bodies he leaves behind.

It’s when you reach the catacombs that you suspect something is very wrong.

John is not here to greet you. Gripping your pistol in one hand and a sharpened blade in another, you cut across the darkened tunnels.

Gunfire explodes in the darkness ahead and you freeze, your eyes narrowing.

Moving quicker, it doesn’t take you long to stumble upon the first body. You use your foot to nudge the body over, levelling your pistol on it just in case.

You recognise that gear.

Camorra’s men.

Specifically those under Ares’ command.

“Fuck.”

This time, you run. Cutting through the tighter, side tunnels, you try to get ahead to cut off any potential attackers.

You’re grateful that yesterday instead of going to your room to be miserable and pathetic, you pulled yourself together enough to study the layout plans.

Pushing through a small opening, you round the corner—

A barrel of a gun appears in your face, and you throw your arm in front of you too, your own pistol ready. It takes a split second for the face in front of you to register.

You tackle him to the side, a bullet sailing past his head as you both fall to the dirty ground with a painful thud.

John is calm as always though, steady, and reloads his weapon smoothly. That cold calculation behind this calm used to chill you once upon a time. But not anymore.

His head rises slightly over the crumbling pillar and your fingers sink into his shoulder, dragging him back down with a furious scowl.

“Get down!” you snap, searching your pockets for the familiar coolness of your vials. “Go, now. I’ll handle this. Get to the Continental. Go, John!”

His eyes snap to you and the glimmer of anger you see there tells you that he understands what you’re doing.

That you know it’s Ares’ and her men attacking.

I’m your insurance policy.

You are.

But you will not let John slaughter the very men you know, either. Who might have helped you in the past, who you might have joked and talked with. Who you might know by name and face and life struggles.

You will certainly never let him lay a hand on Ares.

You’re his insurance but you are also a buffer. Between both sides.

John hesitates for a long moment and you know he considers refusing you in that instance, but perhaps whatever he sees on your face motivates him to nod his head and pass a spare pistol to you. You only shake your head, giving it back to him.

Few shots hit the pillar hiding you, and dense dust rains down onto your head and you frown in annoyance.

You roll the canister between your hands and gesture for him to go.

He hesitates again but ultimately listens, the entire exchange lasting no more than 30 seconds.

You wait till John rounds the corner before throwing two canisters over the side of the pillar, a stray bullet skimming over your arm but your suit holds, nothing but a faint tickle of pain following.

The vapour explodes with a hiss, the paralyser spreading through the cramped tunnels quickly.

Confusion follows, a few mentions of your name sounding before the paralyser robs them of their speech. You hear some fall back, an order clearly issued and you raise your gun, standing to your feet as you appear from behind the pillar.

You count at least six on the ground but they will be fine soon enough.

And there, on the other side of the tunnel, you just make out the familiar lithe frame of Ares. You can’t see her face with the darkness and the vapour but you know she is having the same issue. She raises her hand sharply—

An order to cease fire and retreat. But even though you cannot see her face, you can feel her hard stare digging into you.

She didn’t know you would be here. You didn’t tell anyone.

Not even Santino. Who no doubt still believes that you are safe behind the New York Continental walls, simply stewing in your anger.

The vapour crawls across the tunnel and Ares disappears from your line of sight, the rest of the men that are still unaffected following after her.

She knows how your paralysers work, she will come and collect the remaining immobile bodies later.

At least they’re alive.

Which they won’t be if you had allowed John to deal with them.

John.

Pivoting on your feet, you dash in the direction he disappeared in, racing after him.

He should be well on his way to the Continental now, if not there already.

You take longer than anticipated to get back. Your body is still recovering from the fight with Lucien despite your instance that you were fine. That deadly speed you’re so used to wielding as one of your most detrimental weapons has been dimmed.

You wonder how much of it is physical and how much of it is mental.

Racing up the stairs, you push past the doorman who opens the door for you and rush inside, looking around, trying to locate John.

As if that thought summons the Boogeyman, a crash sounds from the left, glass breaking as two figures crash into the foyer. They slide across the gleaming marble, struggling to get their hands around each other and you dash towards the two familiar men.

Cassian has an upper hand as he wrangles for control, trying to get a grip on the weapon between him and John.

John struggles for breath, his expression tight, focused, and you drag your gun up, pressing it against the side of Cassian’s head.

The man stills and relief shines in John’s eyes when he spots you from the corner of his eye, even if he clearly knows better than to look away from Cassian.

“Don’t even think about it,” you warn harshly.

Cassian angles his head slowly, taking a peek at you, his expression furious. “Would you shoot me, little sister?”

You press the barrel deeper into his dark skin.

“Don’t make me.”

The tension between you is suffocating as the man glares at you.

“Gentlemen!” Julius’ loud voice cuts through the lobby and you ignore the security that surrounds the three of you. “Lady. Need I remind you that there will be no business conducted on the Continental grounds?”

The older man sounds more than a little displeased.

Your jaw clenches but you lower your arm, stepping back.

Cassian does the same, releasing his grip on John as he rises, still staring at you.

John is the last to stand but moves to your side at once, placing himself between you and Cassian. Normally, the gesture might have come off as protective but you don’t linger on it.

“No, signore,” Cassian says, his expression rigid, and the deep rumble of his voice bringing back months worth of memories.

Julius’ turns his attention towards you and John.

“No, sir.”

Your eyes lower and you simply shake your head.

Julius sighs, whether in relief or in chagrin, it’s difficult to say. “Bene. Now, may I suggest a visit to the bar, so you can calm yourselves?”

His tone leaves no room for arguments.

Gin. Bourbon. Water.

They arrive in that order.

You sit slumped beside John as your drinks come. He sat down in the middle seat without a word, blocking Cassian from your sight. A part of you is grateful.

The look the other man gave you earlier—

The ugly realisation, the rage, the hurt—

“I had a Marker.”

Cassian doesn’t hesitate. “Whose?”

John lowers his glass, staring at the bar counter.

“Her brother’s.”

It’s so hard to breathe.

You feel like slumping down and not getting up again.

The air lightens somewhat with John’s confession though.

“I see. You had no choice,” Cassian concludes, his voice husky and your shoulders coil when you feel him lean down to look at you over John’s body. “Doesn’t explain why you are here, helping him.”

John’s expression grows colder at the accusatory tone but he doesn’t get involved. He knows better than that.

Exhaling lightly, you give him the truth. “The Marker was made because of me,” your words sound mangled, scratchy, but Cassian looks unmoved by your struggle. You understand. You do. The agony of his loss is still too fresh. “For Tokyo. I didn’t know about it, and I was against this. I didn’t want this, Cassian.”

The other man scoffs; a cold, pitiless sound, his anger sparking anew.

“Didn’t you?” he demands, his tone stony. “Even after what happened with Gianna?”

You turn to face him, your grip on the glass between your hands weakening.

“She was my friend.”

A muscle in Cassian’s jaw flutters and he swallows, his stare finally leaving you.

“Why did he do it? Her seat?”

John is the one who responds. “Yeah.”

Cassian lifts the drink in his hand closer to his face, taking a small sip.

“He’ll get it now.”

“Yeah.”

You don’t say anything.

Santino finally has the one thing he’s always desired above all else.

He is Camorra now. Once his coronation happens, he will take the second seat at the High Table, and very few will have the power to challenge him then. He’s carved himself into the perfect position of ultimate power.

Swear to me that you will not let my family name die. Swear to me that my line will continue after I’m gone.

A shiver crawls down your neck at the unbidden memory.

You have sworn to Gianna.

On your life.

Santino is all that’s left of the D’Antonio name now.

“So you’re free,” Cassian voices after a lull of uneasy silence, his words measured. “Both of you.”

John hesitates, staring at his drink before he turns towards the man beside him.

“Am I?”

Cassian’s reply is as flat as his expression. “No. Not at all,” he remarks easily. “You killed my ward. Someone I was close to and you stood by and watched.”

The accusation hurts when his dark eyes jump to you and your lips press together.

“You know I couldn’t interfere—”

The man lowers his glass to the wooden surface, the gesture too harsh to be casual. “But you could have stopped him,” he says point-blank, and you know he means Santino this time. Cassian has always believed that you hold sway over the heir. That you give him “good sense” as he once told you. “Did you even try?”

Does he really think so little of you?

Does he really believe that you could be so cruel?

“Yes,” you force out, your throat burning. “Yes, I did.”

John turns to face Cassian fully, hiding you from the man’s sight and it gives you precious few seconds to compose yourself.

Cassian makes a small noise at the back of his throat at that.

“An eye for an eye, John. You know how it goes.”

But no matter how hard you try to focus on the rest of their exchange, it feels like your head is being forced underwater again, the sounds around you blurring into a muffled, dull mess.

Don’t be sad, my vicious viper. I’ll be seeing you again very soon.

You gasp under your breath, your water almost spilling over your fingers at the sound of Tarasov’s voice in your ear.

It’s just your mind, you remind yourself firmly, it’s not real.

Tarasov is dead.

Kishi is dead.

They’re all dead.

And you are not.

Even if most days—lately—you feel like a walking, breathing graveyard full of ghosts.

“—consider it a professional courtesy.”

Cassian is standing, and he’s striding away—

You almost fall out of your chair in the haste to run after him. But a figure catches your eye first, and you halt in your step, staring.

Ares regards you with an impassive expression, her hands rising to sign, but you only glare at her.

There is nothing to say.

You know how Santino does business.

No loose ends.

Ignoring her, you hurry after the man who just disappeared through the doorway instead.

“Cassian, wait!”

He doesn’t so much as slow down.

“I have nothing to say to you.”

His emotionless declaration is like a slap to the face but you march after him anyway, quickening your pace as desperation pulls on your tongue.

“Please.”

This time, he stops.

He whirls to face you, open fury twisting in his expression and you hate the fact that you are partially responsible for the pain he now carries.

“You knew,” he says, his words bitter as he looms over you. “You knew what she was to me. What she meant. All this because Santino wants power.”

You’re shaking your head before he even finishes speaking.

“We’re being hunted,” you tell him hurriedly, your words rolling off your tongue because he needs to know. “Chicago. Almost four years ago. That was us. We were responsible and someone out there knows. He did it to keep us alive. I’m sorry.”

Realisation. Just like with Gianna. He, too, is connecting the dots inside his head. Unlike Gianna though, there is no understanding, no softening of his features.

“Revenge, then,” he states flatly, his voice a rumble. “Others suspected but never had proof. But you.”

He takes a step closer and stares down at you.

For the first time since reuniting with him, you see your old friend back. Your stern sparring partner. Your teacher.

“You, I considered as good as my own kin. A warrior spirit like my own,” he reveals, his words worse than angry, worse than hurtful. Cassian gazes down at you and looks disappointed. “I taught you, cared for you, protected you. And this is how you repay me, little sister? By taking someone I love away?”

The edge you are balancing on on crumbles further, your feet slipping and your expression falls apart.

“I never meant for this to happen, Cas. I—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“I believe you,” he says mildly, his expression deceptively calm. “And it’s because of that belief and what you once meant to me that I will let you leave this city alive.”

You only peer at him, stung.

He reaches out, touching the side of your face and bends closer, pressing your foreheads together.

An old, familiar gesture of respect, of kinship, of care between two people.

“But if we ever meet again,” he whispers softly, his words razor sharp. “I will kill you myself. Goodbye, little sister.”

He leaves you standing alone in the hallway.

Something inside your chest—the warmth, the happiness, the hope, you have painstakingly built up over the years—cracks, cracks, cracks.

The journey back to your room is a blur.

Your fingers trail against the walls as you stumble along, steadying yourself, anchoring yourself.

The door closes with a click, and you gasp for breath, the back of your head hitting the door as you slide down onto the floor.

Your hands press over your face and you breathe.

In and out. Uno, due, tre.

You’re dead to the world.

I’m not. I’m not. I’m free.

“I’m free,” you whisper, your words muffled by your hands. Fragile. “I’m free.”

Because the Administration has confirmed it.

The High Table has marked you down as an independent member of the Organization now. Viggo Tarasov is dead and so is his heir. By the table’s own rules, you are now free of your debt.

And yet, the leash around your throat has never felt tighter or more suffocating.

Your phone rings inside your pocket and you drag your palms down your face, blinking. Everything feels fuzzy and unfocused and—

Santi.

Your grip on the phone constricts, your hand quaking as you hold it close.

Gathering yourself, you croak out a strained, “Hello, Santino.”

For a beat, it’s still, but then you hear him exhale. “Are you hurt, bella?”

You can tell that this isn’t how he expected this conversation to start. Your voice, undoubtedly, gave you away.

“I’m fine,” you reply, though you doubt you sound convincing. “Why are you calling?”

It’s not a kind question. But—

You want to rewind to a few weeks earlier. To when things were simpler between you. When despite how he often got onto your nerves, you always found yourself looking forward to your next encounter. Even if you never admitted it to yourself back then.

“You went with him.”

It’s a statement; guarded and low.

Ares must have informed him.

Of course, she did.

“Why would you go?” he adds after you don’t respond.

Pulling your knees to your chest, you press your forehead against your legs.

Your sleeves are still soggy.

You want to be angry.

You want to shout and rage at him.

But a part of you just wishes he were here instead. That he hadn’t created this situation and was here to help you now that you need him.

After all these years only Winston can read you as well as he can.

“Because you made this my business,” you remind him, and know you sound unhappy. “Because that Marker never should have existed, Santino. You have no one but yourself to blame for this. Congratulations by the way.”

It’s silent for a while after that. You listen to his muted breaths and count with them. You’ve done this before, a thousand times, listening to each other breathe. Safe in the knowledge that neither has to say anything for things to be comfortable.

“Does it make me so awful, hm?” he ponders gently, thoughtfully. “Wanting to live. Wanting you to live. Power is a dangerous thing. You have to be willing to lose everything in order to take it.”

That last part—

This time, you do feel anger, your momentary tranquillity fleeing.

“Well done,” you hiss lowly, pressing the phone harder against your ear till you can feel the skin begin to turn hot. “I’m sure Giovanni would be very proud.”

“Do you think I wanted this?” he shoots back hotly in reply.

A sob burns at the back of your throat but you don’t let him hear it.

You’re not sure if you’re more furious or just devastated.

“I held her as she died,” is your impossibly sad murmur. “I held her, Santino.”

You know the naked pain in your voice hits him hard. The way the line goes utterly silent is telling enough.

“I always knew you would be against this, cara mia. I knew.”

His retreat. The way he was bracing himself for the inevitable in the days after your failed ambush.

“She deserved better,” you breathe, choked, and bury your face further into your lap. “Better than to have a bullet put in her head by her former friend.”

“I couldn’t lose you—”

“I’m not yours to lose, Santino,” you bite out, enraged. “My life…it’s not worth this. You’re destroying everything and you don’t even realise it.”

Neither of you says anything for a long, long time.

Something about this silence makes you sit up, makes you almost uneasy with nerves.

Still, Santino says nothing.

And nothing.

And—

“I was a fool. A fool to think that you could ever love me,” he admits and chuckles, his words warped, distant. “You’re right, (Name). You’re not mine. It was foolish of me to expect you to care. To ever place that expectation on you in the first place. I believed that if I just waited long enough…”

Your heartbeat kicks up a notch as you listen, biting your lower lip repeatedly.

“Hm. I’m not him. I will never be him,” he muses but it no longer sounds bitter or sullen. He sounds hollow. Like your conversation in Chicago, like when he came to you at the Continental after finding out he’s been made a Spare. Gianna’s words ring at the back of your mind— “Oh, (Name). I only ever wanted you to choose me as I chose you, bella. You are the only one I…”

Another pause.

“With this, I can finally give you the freedom you always dreamt of. It was worth any price for me,” he confesses before adding a knowing, desolate, “Even your hatred.”

He’s always expected the worst from this situation. He’s had time to prepare himself for this outcome.

“You can have it all now. You are free,” he intones lightly, forcefully so. “So hate me, abhor me, curse me but know that I did it because I wanted you to live happily.”

He breathes out; something like a chuckle, pained as it is haunted. “Even if that life no longer involves me. Addio, mia amata.”

You’re not sure how long you listen to the dead signal echoing in your ear.

“—and now what’s hers is mine. Pray, I don’t ask for more.”

He’s in a foul mood and biting, swift Italian falls from his lips moments later as he watches Mr Akoni’s assistant walk away with a pinched expression.

Order.

Power.

Camorra.

The power is in his hands now.

And yet he feels—

“You have been busy,” a familiar man voices by the way of greeting as he approaches the spot where Santino sits. Two guards are behind him and Santino tilts his head in consideration.

Winston.

He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised to see him. The manager is comfortable in his power, in the control he has over New York, and in the past, Santino has been happy to let the older man indulge.

For you.

Because you care for the sharp-witted old fool. Because you respect him and if it wasn’t for the fact that Santino knows the man is at least fond of you, too, he would be far less inclined to have this conversation right now.

For you, he tries.

Your soft, sorrowful voice scrapes inside his chest. I held her as she died. I held her, Santino.

He loved Gianna. She was his sister. But the devastation he might have felt at the news of her death…it doesn’t come.

A lifetime of scorn, betrayal, and mistrust lies between them.

Still, he wishes—

He doesn’t regret it. But he does wish there had been another way.

It’s true that he’s always intended to take the seat for himself. But he had no intention of it coming to such an extreme.

Everything has a price though, and he has paid his.

Even if the steepest price is yet to be paid.

“It’s a start,” he notes calmly, trying for a smile as Winston comes to a stop in front of him. The club is a buzz of activity, cleaners and attendants mixing with his own guard. “My sister has grown derelict in her duties.”

He stands to his feet then, ignoring the borderline vexed look Winston tries to hide.

Truth be told, Santino has never cared much for what the man thinks of him. Now that he has set his sights on all of New York, he can’t help but think that their fundamental differences will become more apparent than ever.

“There was some...dust to blow away,” he adds lightly with a dismissive hum, stepping past the man with a wave of his hand.

He’s trying but right now he’s not in the mood to try that hard.

He will make it right. With time, he will make it right.

You desperate fool, she doesn’t love you. She will never love you, a voice that sounds too much like his father hisses at him, and he strangles it the moment it comes.

He knows that now.

He...knows.

You still love him. Helped him. Forgiven him.

It will always be John Wick.

Always.

And yet.

And yet, it’s kinder to pretend that you love him as well. That you could.

Maybe he’s truly never stood a chance. Maybe he fooled himself into thinking that what he’s felt for so long wasn’t so one-sided after all. That in these last few weeks something hasn’t fundamentally changed between you yet again. That finally—finally—what he feels is being returned. No matter how small in capacity.

He thought he meant it when he said that he would be fine with you hating him.

But he doesn’t want you to.

He hopes you won’t.

He’s so used to taking, demanding, claiming that the concept of letting go is completely foreign to him.

It’s a lot harder than he ever could have anticipated.

So although he doesn’t particularly care as to why Winston is here, he starts leading the man into a more private spot to give them privacy to talk regardless.

He strolls down the stairs slowly, knowing that Winston will follow as his hands slip into his pockets. Whatever the issue is, he would prefer it to be dealt with quickly.

“You can’t change everything at once,” the older man states from behind him. “There is a such thing as rules.”

Santino almost laughs, then.

Rules.

There are a great many things Santino wants to tell the man he can do with his rules. What have rules ever done for him other than gag him and make him miserable? Rules have taken his mother, rules have taken his father’s love, rules have taken the loving sister he remembers in hazy childhood memories, rules have kept you leashed to Tarasov for years; broken-hearted and alone.

He fucking loathes rules. If he could he would set the whole rule book up in smoke and delight in the destruction of it all.

He hums, soft and mocking, and glances towards the man once before looking away. “Rules are meant to be broken, Winston,” he tells him dispassionately.

“Not to those who live by them.”

He knows Winston means you to an extent. Though a part of Santino can’t help but wonder how the old man would take the news of how spectacularly you shredded the rule book in Chicago yourself.

But more importantly, Winston means him.

Darling Johnathan.

For a brief second, Santino sees red.

The hard-boiling feeling in the pit of his stomach spikes and the taste in his mouth sours.

The assassin’s refusal to honour the Marker, his unfounded rage at the gallery when they both knew that Santino had every right to his actions.

John Wick might be a man of honour and conviction and rules, but he broke one of the most important ones with startling ease. Broke it even after Santino told him that it could help to keep you safe.

“We are not in your hotel anymore,” he states flatly, glancing towards the manager, and there is an obvious hint of ice buried deep in his words. “Do not speak to me like a child. I set the rules now. If I need room service or a martini, I’ll let you know.”

Winston leans back slightly at those words, a hint of surprise there but it disappears quickly, and the following understanding only makes Santino angrier.

He doesn’t have the capacity for civility right now.

He turns away from the older man, continuing his trek down the stairs.

“You have a problem with tradition.”

It’s not a question and Santino just barely holds back a scoff.

“Tradition,” he bites out softly. “Is the enemy of progress.”

But he will reforge Camorra into something better, stronger.

He will wield the power he now has to create something that will survive long after he’s gone.

“And here’s me thinking it’s the opposite,” Winston notes quietly but Santino ignores him.

He leads them into a private VIP lounge, sitting himself down on the sofa at once. The seat is plush and comfortable as he stretches his arms and folds his legs. He tries to relax his taut muscles, projecting an air of indifference because he abhors how knowing Winston looks whenever he glances his way.

The man in question strolls towards the giant Shiva statue, gazing at it thoughtfully.

One of Winston’s guards stalks forward, placing a familiar leather-bound book on the table before respectfully stepping back.

Santino stares.

“What’s this?” he questions coolly.

“He completed the task,” Winston says, his voice bland as he turns to face him again. “The Marker is over. Mark it.”

Ah, yes.

Sometimes it’s easy to forget that Winston considers John his friend as well, though Santino is aware that the relation has…cooled somewhat after John’s retirement. After what the infamous assassin did to you.

“If Mr Wick isn’t dead already,” he replies, his words clipped, but feels little joy at the thought. “He soon will be.”

Winston takes a step down the stairs, then another, and his expression is oddly familiar. That exasperation is one Santino has seen directed his way many times before even though this is far more refined. Professional.

“Will you mark it, sir?” Winston asks with a slight, mocking bow and a gesture of his arm.

Santino briefly considers taking the damn ledger and throwing it into the fountain just to see those pretty pages become thick and soggy with water. Decades of immaculately kept records disintegrating in a blink of an eye.

But he wants this done quickly, wants Winston out of his hair even more.

He has two psychopaths to hunt down, and a city to bend to his will.

He stretches out, grabbing the Marker and opens the device, staring at the bloody imprint there.

So easy.

It all could have been so easy if John had just honoured the damn oath.

Santino may not be one for rules but what weighty reason did John have to refuse? None.

One job and then Santino would have never approached him after that. Would have preferred to never see him again, in fact.

Now though.

Now it’s as simple as repaying for the hurt he caused and the disrespect.

You’re destroying everything and you don’t even realise it.

Santino licks his lower lip and presses his thumb against the tiny metal needle, feeling the sharp sting. He hesitates for a second, letting the ruby liquid gather before he presses his finger into the Marker and then the ledger a moment later.

Marker completed.

“Whatever did V make of your little stunt?” Winston wonders suddenly, moving closer. His question is airy but the older man seems already amused by the possibilities. “I don’t imagine she was much impressed by your actions.”

Santino stills, and that slight hesitation costs him because Winston notes it at once and makes a sound at the back of his throat. Disbelieving, almost derisive.

“My, my,” he begins mildly and Santino lifts his head to look at him. His own expression is strained and Winston’s amusement mounts. “You have no idea what’s coming, do you? Do you think she will let you do this? They may have had their issues in the past but don’t underestimate just how much she still cares for Johnathan.”

Santino’s mouth twists but it’s not a smile. “I am not,” he professes icily, and Winston’s eyes narrow at that, considering him. “But I have everyone in New York looking for him. I doubt we will see him again. So even if she hates me. It is done now. The Lovers will be dead soon enough as well and then…”

And then you are free.

Truly free.

Even if you never see him again. Even if you will spend the rest of your days hating him—

It will be worth it.

He has to convince himself he will be able to live with that. With letting you go. With you hating him.

Perhaps it’s for the better.

“Do you now?” Winston muses with a raised eyebrow. “You stabbed the devil in the back and forced him into the life he has just left. Incinerated the priest’s temple. Burned it to the ground. Now that he’s free of the Marker, what do you think he’ll do?”

Santino doesn’t reply but the fury he feels churns in his stomach. As if John Wick needs someone else to stand in defence of him. Poor, old Johnathan.

“He had a glimpse of the other side, and he embraced it,” Winston continues smoothly. “But you signor D’Antonio took it away from him.”

“He was already back.”

Winston releases a short breath. “Oh, he came back for love, not for you.”

Love?

What right does John Wick have to destroy in the name of his so-called love?

If that’s what love is, then he should set this world on fire for you.

“He owed me. I had every right,” he hisses lowly, rising from his seat abruptly and feels the rage like liquid fire scorching through his veins. “Or have you forgotten what he has done? How he has dragged her into his messes over and over again? Have you forgotten what his actions have wrought, hm? ‘If she continues on like this, she will die.’ Those were your words when you called me before the Chicago job. If it weren’t for what we did, she would be gone and it would have been his fault.”

“And what about (Name)?”

Santino exhales sharply at the quiet question, confused.

“What?”

Winston’s eyebrows arch and he stares at Santino for a few seconds. But there, carefully hidden behind that calm facade lays a question and a warning laced with piercing sort of ice.

“Should I be expecting a contract in her name as well?” Winston questions lightly with a slight curl of his lips. “You know full well that once she learns about this, she might turn against you. Grow to resent you for it. She will certainly not just stand by and let it happen. And if she turns away, betrays you, what then? Will you put a price on her head as well? If you can’t have her, no one can, is that it?”

Every word is merciless as it is piercing. Ruthlessly straightforward. Yet every single syllable rips at something inside him expertly, almost like finely measured knives sinking deep.

He’s been so focused on all the best case scenarios he has never taken a moment to consider the worst case ones.

Vengeance.

When John dies…

I think that if we met first, it would have been very easy to fall in love with you.

He wishes more than anything that had been the case.

He wishes he was back in that awful, smelly diner with you and half-melted, too sweet ice cream between you. He wishes he had said more than I believe it is because you adore me, no?

He wishes he could pause that moment and stay in it forever because your lack of denial, the slight grin on your face, the soft crinkling around your eyes—all those details have created one of the happiest moments in his life.

Second only to his last birthday.

No father, no titles, no Tarasov, no John.

Just you, his home, and no expectations.

“I would never harm her,” he says and doesn’t recognise the thick timber of his own voice. “Never.”

The memory of you being dragged unconscious from the rubble of those destroyed tunnels, bloodied and still, haunts every single one of his nightmares now. Haunts his every thought, too.

I’m not yours to lose, Santino.

He knows that too.

Winston is silent for a long moment, his judging stare drilling into him with such intensity it almost reminds him of his father.

The older man makes a small sound at the back of his throat as if weighting Santino’s words before reaching down and slamming the ledger closed, taking it into his arms.

“I’ll admit Mr D’Antonio,” he begins conversationally, glancing up and meeting his stare as he straightens. “When I first learned of your interest in V, I warned her against you. Repeatedly. I saw nothing more than another powerful, conceited man who believes that the world is his playground. Your track record tells a rather colourful tale of use and disregard, and she doesn’t need more pain in her life. I believed for a long time that your care has been nothing more than a well-crafted manipulation. A game. That you are in it for the long con. But now, I confess, you have even me wondering.”

Santino swallows, shifting under the man’s shrewd stare.

“For your sake,” he goes on coldly, tucking the leather book under his arm. “I hope that whatever you do have with her is genuine. Because right now she might be your only hope. If you have any to begin with,” he intones with an aloof expression and salutes him. “Adios, Santino.”

The man turns to go, and Santino remains standing in the same spot for a long time after he’s gone.

Hope is a foreign emotion to him.

He has grown up ruthlessly wringing it out of his heart.

Lessons about what it is to be Camorra, what it is to be an heir to an empire of bloodshed and death, were taught to him early. Ingrained into him when he should have been free to be a child. The very first came when he was still just a boy.

His mother’s screams—

“Why the long face?”

Santino blinks slowly, coming back to the present, and his head turns.

The smirking figure approaching him is at the bottom of the list of people he would like to see right now. Or ever.

“What are you doing here?” he demands harshly, not in the mood for pleasantries. “You haven’t been summoned.”

Hector’s smirk stretches, the familiar bright blue of his eyes practically glowing in the candlelight as the man takes another long drag of his cigarette. He moves past the spot where Santino has been sitting since Winston’s earlier departure, and throws the remains of the cigarette into the fountain before turning to face him again.

“Summoned?” the man echoes, amused. “That’s cute. I’m here on orders.”

“Whose?”

Hector strolls closer, undoing his jacket button before he drops on the seat opposite to him, stretching till his legs come to rest on the table separating them.

Santino doesn’t bite though. The disrespect scrapes against his already worn temper but he leashes it. He will not give Hector the satisfaction.

“Your sister’s and the council’s,” the man responds and blinks innocently, his amusement barely contained. “Oh. My condolences by the way. Or whatever.”

Santino sits up unhurriedly, a mass of simmering rage. “Use that tone one more time and I’ll strip you of your title.”

Hector might have been his father’s beloved little pet, his right hand, but he has Ares. He could never imagine trusting anyone but her to be on his side. Even with the brunette’s displeasure with the unfolding situation.

Hector, despite his many talents, is not necessary to him personally.

“Oh dear, someone’s in a bad mood,” Hector drawls lazily, his lips stretching in delight. “But leave the threat making to V, yeah? The wildcat at least sounds convincing. Though the fact you didn’t know I’m in town is telling. Had a little spat, did you? Not a lovers’ spat because, well, you’re not really lovers, are you?”

Santino keeps his expression steely, unmoved, but Hector digs deeper, not that he expected the leader of the Elite’s to do any less.

“Wow, how long has it been now?” he muses loudly, even though they both know exactly how long it’s been. “Six years, was it? No wonder you’re such an uptight little bastard. Biggest blue balls of the century.”

Santino’s mouth curves into something unfriendly, biting. “That’s the second time,” he notes mildly. “There won’t be a third. Don’t forget who you answer to now, hm?”

“Not you. Not yet.”

Not yet indeed. But soon.

“What were your orders?” Santino questions instead.

The man before him fiddles with the lighter between his large fingers, his Camorra rings clicking dully against the metal. “To make sure you don’t do anything stupid but…my bad, I guess, huh?”

The council no doubt.

He faced quite the uproar after the news of his vow to you reached the family.

Gianna’s reaction had been simpler, more surprising.

I’ve been expecting it, little brother.

“You have new orders now.”

The strong curve of Hector’s eyebrows quirks.

“Do tell.”

Santino wastes no time. “The Lovers. I want you to bring me their heads.”

Remove those deranged puppets from the game.

As for the Dragon. Oh, he has plans for them. Once he takes his seat, he’s going to tear the Dragon to pieces. He will find out who knows about Chicago and bury them all. One by one.

“What’s wrong with her?” Hector speaks up suddenly, still focusing on his lighter. When Santino doesn’t reply, the man lifts his gaze back to him and sighs, irritated. “Fine, let me rephrase: your pretty viper is better than those two French shitheads with loose marbles knocking around their heads. So what’s the issue? Why didn’t she just turn them into drooling goo?”

Because these last few weeks have been hitting you hard. Because he’s been trying to help you but that damned wall keeps him at bay.

Because there is a separation between you now.

“There were…complications,” he phrases cautiously, his voice thin, guarded. “Things are, ah, difficult for her right now.”

Hector stares at him, considering his words before he snorts and sits up too, dragging his feet down from the table. He rolls the lighter between his fingers as he peers at Santino for a charged moment.

“Difficult, huh?” he repeats, his gravelly voice twisting his words into something meaner. “Well fuck me. You would think her life being threatened would inspire her to stop her pity party.”

Oh, Santino can take insults just fine.

He’s been hearing them directed his way all his life.

But you—

“Careful,” he warns, his tone icy, as something volatile churns in his stomach. “You speak about her like that again, and I’ll do more than strip your title.”

Hector falls quiet at that. For some time, the two of them simply gaze at each other, sizing the other up.

“Tell me, Santi,” the man before him begins breezily, curious. “When exactly did you realise that you loved her? Hm? I mean, do you really think this story is going to have a happy ending? Your father adored your mother. Sun rose and set with her but their story still ended in blood and death.”

He’s had enough.

Santino rises to his feet, his hands slipping into his pockets as he stares down at the man before him with a stony expression.

“You have your orders. And you will obey.”

Hector’s head tilts to the side and he rises to his feet too, stretching to his full height.

He’s taller, and stronger, and could likely kill him with his bare hands, too.

But Santino finds that he doesn’t care.

Right now, with everything going on, he feels like he could crush this world in his bare fist and delight in the savagery of it all.

“Why?” the other man asks, his voice bored.

Santino smiles.

That calm that he’s seen you use so many times—the mask, the construct of control—he grasps onto it now.

He lets it guide him, cooling the volcano of raging fury inside of him.

“Because I am Camorra now,” he states calmly, pleasantly, still smiling and something flickers across Hector’s expression. Surprise, perhaps. “Because I do not care if you like me or respect me as your new boss. You will obey because you are sworn to do so, yes? Because if you think even for a second that I will tolerate your disobedience, then you are wrong. You may believe yourself to be above command, Hector, but I am the command now and I say that you aren’t. È chiaro, hm?”

Hector straightens, his wide shoulders rotating back.

Then the Devil of Camorra bares his teeth at him.

“You do like to hear yourself talk, don’t you?” he says idly, his smile disappearing in a blink, leaving something more barren and brutal behind. “Well if you insist. Boss.”

The man brushes off invisible dust off the sleeve of his jacket and with another deride little smile turns to go.

You have no idea what’s coming, do you?

Right now she might be your only hope. If you have any to begin with.

“Hector.”

The man pauses with an exaggerated sigh of impatience, turning to look at him over his shoulder.

Santino meets his expectant stare.

“One more thing.”

“Are you okay?”

“No, John. I’m very far from okay.”

There isn’t enough strength in you to pretend that you are.

Yesterday was a nightmare that you want to wipe from your mind. So much so, that the usual joy you feel at being back in New York doesn’t come. Not even a whisper of it.

You’ve barely spoken more than few words to John on the flight back, and despite his silent worry, he’s been giving you room to sort through your thoughts.

You’re not sure what rests on your mind more heavily.

Gianna, Cassian or Santino.

It feels like a mix of all of them.

I swear.

But if we ever meet again, I will kill you myself.

I was a fool, a fool to think that you could ever love me.

Your head is pounding and no thought seems to linger for longer than an inconsequential second at the time.

This morning you asked after Cassian but Julius has told you that the man has departed already. Ares, too, was absent.

“If you need a place to stay—”

Your phone pings, cutting John’s words off and you frown. You’ve just switched it on minutes prior before pushing it deep into your pocket to give it time to turn on and catch the signal properly.

You pull it out, opening the message, a slight frown contorts your features when you spot the number on your screen.

Then, horror locks every single muscle in your body, making you stagger to a stop with a horrified exhale.

OPEN CONTRACT: JOHN WICK

7 MILLION USD

BY: SANTINO D’ANTONIO

“No. No, no, no,” you mutter, your mouth dry, and a roar in your head. “What did you do, Santino? What did you do? Why—”

John steps close, his hand coming to rest on your trembling one.

His wedding ring fills your vision and you flinch away from his touch.

“What’s wrong?”

You can’t look at him, clenching your phone tighter in your fist as you breathe harshly.

“Santino opened a contract. For your head.”

He’s quiet for several moments.

“How much?”

His voice is gruff and when you meet his stare that familiar grimness on his face chills you.

No—

No—you can’t—

You force your tongue to move. “I need to talk with him.”

“(Name),” John addresses you flatly, his dark eyes firm.

But you’re not listening because you know—

You know—

He will—

Why Santino? Why?

I can finally give you the freedom you always dreamt of. It was worth any price for me, even your hatred.

“Get somewhere safe,” your words are a croak, frayed and hurried. “Lay low. I can—I can get him to take it back.”

John reaches for you again, his fingers settling against your forearm as he peers at you. He almost looks regretful.

“You can’t. You know you can’t,” he tells you but you only shake your head. “He didn’t listen before and he won’t listen now. There is only one way to get him to take it back now.”

You wrench yourself away from him, stepping back.

“No. He will. He will listen to me,” you whisper, a touch frantic, trying to force yourself to believe it. “He has to—he—he will listen to me. Just give me time. Please, John. I need to talk with him. Go. I’ll find you when it’s done. Go!”

You stumble backwards with every step and ignore John calling for you as you turn in the opposite direction, heading towards the penthouse instead.

Your phone feels slippery between your fingers as you try to dial Santino’s number, half-jogging through the streets.

The line rings, rings, ring—

“Shit!”

Dread flows through your veins as you hurry to text Ares number instead.

Your shoulder knocks against someone and you move to push past them—

Heat erupts around you, the shock wave of the thunderous explosion ripping you right off your feet.

Your body flies to the side, and the impact of your body hitting the nearby car rattling through every bone in your body.

White burns behind your eyes—

Then everything goes dark.

Humming drags you back from the depths of inky darkness.

You suppress a groan, your body growing taut when you realise that you can’t move your hands or legs.

They’re bound.

A shallow, barely controlled breath escapes you at the vicious stab of a too familiar memory.

You’ve been in this type of situation before. None of those times ended well.

The feeling of disorientation persists but you try to drag it away slowly; little by little, to get a better grasp of what your situation currently is.

Inside your head you count obsessively like a mantra, trying to keep yourself steady, grounded.

The humming continues; a gentle, melodic sound that would be soothing under different circumstances.

The bones in your neck creak when you slant your head upwards, blinking your eyes open. The left side of your temple is pounding from the impact with the car and you suppress an agonised groan.

The humming ceases at your shifting.

“And the sleeping beauty awakens.”

Gritting your teeth, you slant your head forward, and glare.

“Hello, Lucien.”

. . .

an: I love me a good “everything goes to shit” chapter :D

leave it to john to say more in this one chapter than he likely did in this entire fic combined lmao. but the J/V scene has been long in the making (and one of the biggest reasons for the block with this chapter because I knew it had to live up to the expectation so I hope it did ahhhhh). I also hope it didn’t seem too OOC for him to speak this much but he certainly is a man who speaks only when necessary and I still tried to carry his blunt manner across. Keep his story to facts only.

as for santi, well, I dragged john’s character flaws through the mud and it’s only fair I do the same with him, too. santino’s actions are certainly justified but it doesn’t make them right.

and finally v. oh man, this has been building up for a while now but this is the chapter where you can really see the cracks starting to appear. she is in the worst possible position right now because she is directly in the middle of the conflict and has an emotional investment in all sides. she is quite literally being torn apart. please give her a hug. damn :/

wow, if you are still reading. thank you. thank you. thank you. these chapters are, as always, as much for me as they are for you. love you all lots and thank you for your support <33

#john wick #john wick x reader #santino d'antonio x reader #john wick fic #santino d'antonio #john wick imagine #riccardo scamarcio #keanu reeves #fic: children of ares

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loser-writings · 5 years ago

Note

Hihii you’re literally one of my fav Writers 🥺 could I get that one shot w Omega!Aizawa having a nightmare abt Oboro and the reader comforting him ?

This builds off of the Omega! Aizawa story I wrote a while ago! I hope you meant for the night I mentioned Aizawa having a nightmare in-between 2nd and 3rd year. If you meant adult Aizawa, please let me know! I’ll write a series of headcanons about how he deals with nightmares now.

WARNING: Spoilers for the Manga, Major character death, sexual implications

Nightmares || Young Omega! Aizawa

Oboro was gone. He had been for a few months now, but Aizawa wouldn’t have known that based on how frequent the boy appeared in his dreams. Always so supportive and kind, memories started to blur with his dreams which only caused more pain.

Then there were those nights. The nights where he went to bed with high hopes that Oboro would be there to reassure him once again that he was worth it. That he was worthy of being a hero and that he was good for something, even as an Omega, but it only reminded him of how time seemed to move so slow during that moment. During his death.

His voice was so clear too. The whole time he fought the villain after Oboro had been crushed, he swore that he had been cheering him on. Yet, he vividly remembered the bloody body bag as well. He was gone, and no matter what he attempted to do in his dreams, they always ended the same way.

He launched himself out of bed once again, scent burning as several distressed chirps left his omega. He placed his hand over his chest, trying to calm his heavy breathing as well as his omega before taking a moment to look around. He was in his bedroom. He was awake. He could feel the hardwood under his feet. He was acutely aware of how his pajamas rubbed against his body. He was breathing. He was alive.

His scent continued to burn as he slowly sat back down on his bed, resting his head in his hands as he tried to remember what exactly he did this time. The dream was already fading, but he swore it had something to do with those kids. God he felt so bad for those kids, barely older than pups and yet they already witnessed the cruel reality of the world.

Another chirp left his chest.

He groaned softly as tears threatened to spill and his breathing became uneven. He was getting in his head again. Overthinking. Oboro told him to stop that- Goddamn it everything brought him back to his friend. He needed a distraction.

He reached over to his phone and quickly turned it on, blinding his sensitive eyes as he clumsily turned down the brightness. After he could properly look at his phone, he quickly found your contact name and sent a simple text.

“Open your window. I’ll be there soon”

He pressed send before quickly gathering the bag he had prepared beforehand. Maybe he did overthink. Maybe he was in his head too much and overprepared, but that couldn’t have been a bad thing...Right?

He continued to ponder as he left his bedroom through his window, knowing he didn’t have to sneak out. His parents didn’t really care what he did, but he still didn’t want to risk waking them up.

Once his feet hit the ground, he started walking towards your place. Luckily, it wasn’t that far away and it gave him enough time to compose himself. He stopped crying and his scent wasn’t as bitter as before, but he was well aware of how animals seemed to flee from him and other people seemed to cringe or cover their noses as he walked by.

He never really cared for the coffee scent he had, finding it mildly ironic because of his disgust at the thought of drinking the bitter liquid, but you never seemed to mind it. In fact, it seemed like you were almost as addicted to the scent as a middle aged woman was to the actual drink. He smiled a little at the joke in his head before realizing he was almost to your house.

He noticed how your window was open and grinned a bit before knocking on the frame to alert you that he was there, only noticing you sitting on your bed in your favorite Pajamas after he crawled in the window and sat his bag down. Despite it being...Gosh it was 1 in the morning. Why did he wake you up? Well he might not have woke you up, you might’ve just been tired but how was he supposed to know-

“Shota.”

He snapped his head up at you only to see you with a small smile. It melted his heart and calmed his anxieties, seeing you look that way at him.

“Come here, Omega. Tell me what’s got you bitter.” Your arms opened wide so he knew you wanted to hold him.

He found himself quickly crawling into your arms, pressing his nose against your scent gland as you created a comforting scent to help calm him. His omega let out soft purrs as he felt your hands wrap around him, softly massaging his sides and hips while rocking him slightly. He found himself out of his head for once, completely focused on you and how nice it was to be in your arms.

“Omega, please talk to me” A soft kiss was pressed to his neck, above the scent gland, making him shiver and cling to you more.

“Just...A nightmare about him again.” His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, but you didn’t seem to mind.

You let out a soft hum and pressed your lips to his temple before moving one of your hands into his own. Despite the little time you both had been courting, only a few weeks now, he found out that you knew the answer to the majority of the questions you asked and often could tell what was wrong before his scent could change or a word was said.

His arms slipped around your neck as he hid once again, relaxing once you pulled him closer once again.

“Wanna talk about it, or be distracted?”

God he loved when you asked him that. You never forced him to speak about it and always gave him options. You let him think about the options for a second, but spoke before he could get too in his head again.

“Darling, You know you don-”

“Distraction. I don’t think I can talk about it without getting emotional.” He admitted and pulled away, not realizing how his hands slipped into your hair until he pulled them away to cup your cheeks. He grinned a little at how you seemed to lean into his hands as yours rested on his hips.

“Fair enough. Just know that you have every right to feel the way you do, he was your best friend.” His grin faded and his scent started to turn, but you quickly pulled him close and pecked his jaw, hands moving to his sides before your fingers started poking at him. He gasped and jerked away from you, glaring at you while puffing out his cheeks.

“Stop that,” He demanded as his hands moved to hold yours. “You know I can’t stand being tickled.”

“But it’s so cute. Hearing your omega chirp from the sudden poke.” You smirked and went to do it again but the Omega continued to wrestle your hands away from his sensitive sides until you managed to push him down on your bed. Neither of you thought about the position you were in, only that he was starting to giggle and smile again as he continued to wiggle, squirm, and fight you.

When you finally let him win, his scent had switched to a much sweeter and happy scent, something that made your Alpha boom with pride. His arms managed to wrap around your neck before he leaned up to kiss you. He hardly ever kissed first, so your eyes widened at the sudden action of the other. You kissed him back and noticed how his hands seemed to wander. Starting on your cheeks but moving to your hair, only to slowly move down your shoulders and arms as the makeout session continued.

His omega and your alpha were purring up a storm, enjoying the affection in the moment. Your hands caressed his body but the second his back lifted off of the bed, you pulled away. He whined loudly, pink cheeks and sweet scent filling your room.

“Whyd...you stop?” He asked softly, looking at you with lidded and lustful eyes. Your alpha wanted to devour him, but you held back before moving to kiss his cheek.

“I don’t want to get carried away, darling...You deserve the best and you might not be thinking clearly.” You mumbled before pressing a few more kisses to the mans’ jaw.

He let out an annoyed whine before cupping your cheeks and kissing you once again, but it was cut short when he pulled away.

“I asked for a distraction, so distract me. I promise, I’ll be okay and there is nobody else I'd want besides you.” He mumbled against your lips before pecking you again.

“You positive?” You asked, caressing your hands down his body one more time before meeting his gaze. He nodded and moved to hold your hand.

“You’re overthinking. I want you to distract me and make me feel loved. I know that you’ll make me feel loved and special, so please. Make me feel loved.” He spoke clearly, fully submitting to you but also giving you that push you needed to take the next step.

Safe to say that Aizawa slept like a rock after.

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jalebi-weds-bluetooth · 4 years ago

Text

ArShi OS: Illusion (Alternate Ending)

Warning: Angst, Mature (18+), Use of expletive

Prompt by S-A (sweet anon)

can you please write an alternative ending to the fake honeymoon night following their sizzling, possessive dance

Illusion

Perception of something objectively existing in such a way as to cause misinterpretation of its actual nature.

“Now don’t start seeing dreams,” He whispered, her hand firmly in his grip. She looked at him, wondering why he thought she would see dreams about him, about them?

“How can I attach my dreams to you?” She lied through her teeth, praying her eyes didn’t deceive the innumerable nights she spent seeing his face, smiling at her - or God forbid - doing things she could’ve only imagined.

Of course, her dreams, like her heart, belonged to another. Her words went down like a bitter pill, he hadn’t been warning her at all. Arnav only needed to remind himself to not see the dreams he had carefully woven several nights ago.

“I’m doing this-”

“-for Di, me too.” It was moments like this that shut him up. Why would she care about his sister? Slowly, he nudged her to follow his move. She followed him, attached like a magnet. She couldn’t bear to look at his eyes, not when she knew she’d drown in them and he would do anything but save her. Her spine stiffened as her intuition warned her of another pair of eyes.

Disgust crawled her skin. Her grip tightened.

Arnav looked across, and found Shyam staring at the two of them. Even though Anjali was in his arms, he didn’t hide how annoyed he was to find Khushi in Arnav’s. Arnav stopped swaying, a realization settling in his throat like bile.

Oh that explains why Khushi wouldn’t even look at him. Or why she wasn’t even aware that he had stopped dancing.

Shyam had no right to look at his wife. Arnav Singh Raizada’s wife.

Khushi frowned as Arnav lifted her hands, nudging her to dance - with him. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Nor his. That he remembered there was a time when they used to walk the same steps, hand in hand, skin on skin.

With one tug she was thrown back to their historic Teri Meri performance. These were the same steps. It was as if they weren’t even dancing in the same hall. All she could see were him, and his blatant grasp on her body.

Despite her mind’s violation, her body eased with his as if they had never stopped dancing since that night. When he pulled her across the length of the room, she snapped out from the reverie and into a nightmare.

A delicious nightmare. The one that left you soaked with sweat, heart pounding, and a lover’s name on your lips.

It was the same steps, but not the same man. Attraction was replaced by possession, love by passion, harmony by chaos, confession by silence. They were drunk, intoxicated from the memories of the last time they were so close, where his hand had slipped under her saree to feel her bare skin, where her fingertips had brushed against his stubble.

Tonight Khushi had made one mistake, to look into his eyes. Because once she did, she was unable to look at anything else. She was free falling, miles and miles into darkness, and everytime she thought she met death - she was pulled back into his arms.

Arnav gravitated towards her. What had started as possession was slipping into desire. God damn her eyes for latching onto his! He wanted to show she was his, but he only ended up rekindling the memories he thought he had forgotten.

No matter how many times he left her hands, she swiveled back into him, and for a fleeting moment he thought if she could feel the storm in him.

NO!

She crashed into him, hands gripping his shoulder, shaking. He looked at Khushi, confusions and questions pooling in those brilliant, hazel eyes. The eyes that stared at his lips.

Perhaps someone clapped, took them to their rooms - they don’t remember how they reached there.

———

Arnav stopped in the middle of their room. It was dark, illuminated by candles. The moon and pool lights shimmered through the glass windows. Roses filled every corner of the room. And on their bed. He swallowed a gulp, his heart hammering against his chest.

Khushi’s body was ablaze, she couldn’t bear to touch or even see him. He emanated a heat and hunger that had tested the waters of their relationship since forever. Her forehead rested against the cool, frosted glass door. Her fingers fumbled around the door lock. A tingle ran down her spine.

He was watching.

“Let me,” His breath tickled her temples. Her breath hitched, not knowing when he had come so close. His fingers brushed against hers as he turned the lock, and he remained there, pressed up against her.

Slowly, Khushi turned, keeping her eyes fixated on his chest. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, look at him. His hands came to a rest on either side of her face. They breathed, afraid to say a word which could break the trance.

Khushi didn’t take a step away, Arnav didn’t move his hands. They stood, her caged in his arms, with his eyes low on her lovely face, the sides of her anarkali clenched in her fists.

In their minds, the dance continued. When his hand gripped hers against her stomach, a fire coiled in her belly. With each movement, she memorised his sinewy muscles. He lost a breath when her jasmine scented hair brushed against his face. Or when she fell right into his arms, letting her lithe body rest on his.

Were they even dancing?

Especially when he lifted her against himself-

Khushi’s hands flew to his shirt, breaking their silence. She clenched the fabric, her nails scraping the hot skin beneath it. Arnav closed the space between them, keeping her pinned to the wall. His breath was harsh, blood roared into his ears. They could be standing, but in their minds their steps were more frantic, almost scandalous.

Leave his shirt, but she clutched it tighter. Step back, but he only stepped further, leaving her standing in between his legs.

Oh!

“Ar-” She gasped, his name dying on her lips as she looked at him. There was no tenderness, just an aching, raw hunger in his dark eyes. She was so sure everything had died. Except all the longing, desire, and potency had returned. In ten fold.

Her lips parted. His Adam’s apple bobbed.

“Arnav-” She stopped, unable to look away. Arnav let his hands fall and stepped behind. No, he cannot let himself go weak by a pair of pretty eyes-

His thoughts came to a sudden halt when she grabbed his wrist. It had taken every ounce of courage from Khushi to hold his hand, to stop him. She had wanted to do that so many times.

When he reluctantly attended Nani’s call after placing her bindiya on the mirror.

When he left for his home to continue the preparations of the wedding, right after he served her guests as his own.

When he escaped from answering why he had bought bangles for her.

When his lips were just a breath away from her, and stepped back.

It took less strength for her to overlook everything their relationship had become, and hold him back for a fickle dream, than watch him step back and immerse into reality.

Arnav, in all means, had a greater physique than Khushi but her one tug left him powerless. A man could only take so much before he could succumb to the one he loved.

Khushi was so tired of hurting that her pride took a deep fall, allowing her desires, dreams and courage to come to life. It didn’t matter if he was hers for six months, weeks, or days.

And today, he showed it didn’t matter to him as well. Somewhere, somehow, whatever they had had miraculously survived. Arnav turned to face her, searching her eyes for any lie amidst a blaring truth.

She wanted him.

Khushi took a step towards him. Her knees shook beneath her anarkali, her courage could only take her this far. She misjudged her step, twisted her ankle and fell right into his waiting arms.

And just like that, the darkness of the room was replaced by light of the blazing fire in their hearts.

She gripped his biceps, his hands splayed against her back, their lips were too close - yet too far. Neither chose to speak, words had never done any good to them. Khushi could only sense him. His woody cologne, warm breath and solid muscle.

He flicked his gaze to her glossy lips. Her tongue peaked out and swiped against her lips. His grip around her tightened. Whether it was magic, or intoxication, they didn’t know - love and lust had little boundary, especially to them.

Love demanded them to repair their broken hearts, but also seek refuge in those shattered pieces.

On trying to stand on her two feet, Khushi winced as her sore ankle tried to steady her weight. Before her ankle could give way, Arnav picked her in his arms and perched her on the edge of the bed.

Her fingers grasped his collar, refusing to leave it even after he put her down. He tugged her hand away, and bent to check her ankle. But she stopped him midway, holding his arm. The dull ache in her foot was nothing compared to the throbbing in her heart, and between her legs.

Gently, her hand traveled from his arm to his shoulder and she sat up on bed, her face a mere few inches away from his. His fingers loosened its grip from her calf and brushed its way to the back of her knee.

His eyes darkened, but his brows furrowed. Khushi touched his frown, soothing it away with the pad of her fingertips. Slowly, she traced the corner of his temple to his jaw. A shiver ran up her spine as she felt his rough stubble. Arnav gulped.

There was too much love than he could handle.

Forcing her last drop of bravery, she edged forward and brushed her lips against his. Before she could pull back, Arnav grabbed the base of her neck and deepened the kiss.

She moaned his name against his lips. His tongue met hers. With one hand he pulled her right into his lap. Reluctantly, he tore his lips away from hers and pressed bruising kisses to her neck. Khushi unfastened her dupatta and held his head against her neck as he sucked hard and sunk his teeth into the soft skin.

The sting was quickly replaced by pleasure as he laved the bite with his tongue. She threaded her fingers in his hair, and rubbed a soothing hand down his spine. Arnav reached for the zipper of her dress and pulled it down to her breasts.

This was hell.

Unable to bear the pleasure of his stubble against her sensitive skin, she yanked the back of his head for a deep kiss. The anarkali bunched up against her waist. His shirt had come undone. He freed her from her suit. Skin met skin.

This was heaven.

Arnav dragged a finger from sternum to the strings of her churidaar, which hung low on her full hips. He took a moment and brushed the back of his hand against her soft belly. Her eyes fluttered shut. In a few tugs he divested the remaining few clothes.

She opened her eyes to find his, intently watching her as his hands hesitated over the zipper of his jeans. Slowly, she reached for zip and pulled it down - never breaking the eye contact.

They stood on the bed, on their knees.

Her imagination had done no justice to his beautiful physique. Broad shoulders, toned stomach and a dark trail of hair that led to-

Khushi trembled at the sight of him. Naked.

Arnav raked his eyes over her form. She was beyond any fantasy he could ever dream. Her hair spilled over her shoulders like a waterfall. A flush spread throughout her fair, delicate skin.

But the wonderment in her eyes didn’t just convey her desire, but also a lack of experience. Hesitation stalled his hands. He didn’t know what to do. Nothing measured up to what he wanted to desperately do with her, only if she wanted it too.

“Fuck,” he breathed out as her curious hands traced a forbidden path down his body.

“Khushi, I… you,” he broke off, taking her in a swift kiss. Khushi looked up, pressing her forehead against his.

“Hum bhi,” she confessed. His touch was new, but not the pleasure. Her body had long been ablaze from his mere sight.

Emboldened, Arnav touched her, intimately, and she gripped his shoulders in a soft, surprised cry. She pressed moist kisses against his shoulders. This search for pleasure had agonized her for months, the throbbing finally had an answer. A release.

She looked down and found him stroking himself, the cords of his neck standing out as his own pleasure chased hers. A guttural moan left him when she held him, mimicking his pace.

“Khu-shi-” he rasped, bucking against her small hand.

“Arnav,” she whispered, biting his shoulder as her pleasure peaked.

They kissed deep, for a final time, as they desperately whispered each other’s names and saw the stars.

Spent, they finally lay flat on the bed, staring at each other in utter silence. Now?

There was no room for pretense, denial or illusions. A thousand questions brimmed in their eyes. Their unsteady marriage. Her apparent betrayal. His ‘hatred’. The contract. Six months.

But just one certainty. A hope.

Khushi brushed his hair away from his forehead. Arnav could only stare at her. Swallowing a gulp, Khushi leaned into the crook of his neck and closed her eyes shut before she could see anything else that could break her heart.

He did not move. And just like that, her heart, dreams and hope began to crack.

After a long moment, Arnav pressed his lips to her hairline, right where her smudged vermillion lay.

Khushi stiffened at the hesitant, sweet kiss. She curled further into his chest, listening to the faint thrum of his heart. He felt her hot tears against his skin as she tried her best to muffle her sobs. He wrapped his arms around her. Arnav blinked his own tears away.

These were tears of uncertain joy. Like a man lost in the waves of a violent ocean, had finally found land.

A land where no illusion could exist.

---

A/N: Hope you all liked this version of the one shot too! You can read the other version here. Thank you so much in advance for reading :)

#ipkknd #iss pyaar ko kya naam doon #ipkknd ff #fanfiction #Arnav Singh Raizada #Khushi kumari gupta #ugh my heart #sandesh knows my struggles #os illusion alternate ending #kyun dard hai itna

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lumikatdraws · 4 years ago

Text

#2: Sway

(Heavenly bodies that held her in their influence. “Let me help you.” Rating changes to "E." Multiple relationships, several snippets from pre-1.0 Calamity to [ShB spoilers] pre-patch 5.3.)

cw: 18+, consensual OCxOC relationship with [in other depictions, unhealthy] BDSM overtones; rough sex, mention of Zenos (scars and injury), Estinien & Samantha being actual animals. Otherwise fluff and feelings. Many POV shifts, mostly wide third-person POV with eyes belonging to: Raphael, Minfilia, G'raha, Estinien, Aymeric, and Samantha (WoL).

- - - - - - - - - -

- ✧ ☄ ☽ -

Rain pit-pattered the window.

She swallowed the breath of fragrant mist rising from her teacup—took a scalding, half-steeped sip. Past the glass, out in the garden, the rosebushes hung their pretty red faces, the downpour making the blossoms gleaming and leaden.

A hum from his desk—that soft, commanding timbre—and she looked up as though summoned or beckoned.

Bewitched, bedazzled, besotted.

He was thumbing through papers, grim-faced, unsmiling.

“Come,” he murmured. He sounded tired. The word fell from thinned lips like a drop of cool water from storm-laden petals. She rose from the armchair; padded, barefoot, past polished wood floors. Her long nightgown whispered behind her, a white, frothy slip of a thing—a gift from him.

He stirred at the sound of her subservience.

When Raphael Lemaitre lifted his eyes, Rosalyn Floravale was lost in them. They were green and golden and haunted with hazel, arcane and enchanting as the aurum of his hair. He wet his lips and tipped his quill in its stand; pushed his chair from the counter to allow her to perch in his lap. “Sit.”

Her heart stuttered with butterfly flutters as she climbed astride. He allowed her one rare moment of abandon, to stroke her hands through his long, flaxen hair. She pulled it loose of its ribbon. “You look tired,” she said, timid fingertips tracing his resplendent cheekbones. She cupped the sharp angle of his jawline; kissed the side of his mouth. “Let me help.”

He wrapped her wrist in his hand and closed his eyes. Raphael turned his face to press the hard slash of his mouth against the lines of her palm, the arch of his regal nose caught between her fingers.

“You always do,” he whispered. It was quiet enough to vanish—to disappear into the grumbling of the rainfall and the wind. Whether she heard him or not, before he could intercept it, she snatched the bridge of his glasses. Through his defenses slipped the first flicker of a grin; she cackled as he slipped very cold, very clinical fingertips up the front of her chemise, stiff against her skin.

Thumbs stained by ink moved directly to her breasts, his feather-light touch nonetheless kindling. She arched to fill his hands; to beg him, silently, to cast aside pretense. But Raphael Lemaitre was stern as a statue and nothing could sway him. As always, he looked up through bronze lashes, knowledge implacable, a stronghold unspeaking, unsmiling, unyielding.

After long hours lecturing students, he preferred quiet.

She writhed, impatient, in his lap. He watched a moment in silence. Hands primed for reading and writing moved, very slowly, down the outline of her body—found her hips and eased into a calculated shift. Their bodies moved together, and an ugly cry tore from her lips.

“Shh,” he hushed, unlatching his belt.

She held her lip between her teeth to stifle all sound as she watched him. Unbuckled, unbuttoned, he pushed the immaculate press of his trousers down just low enough to—

Her hot, greedy fingers snatched his length into her fist. Always so hungry to take him, she hitched herself up, and he hissed to see she was bare beneath the nightdress—completely unhindered.

They were practiced. So rehearsed, now, she knew the best fits of their bodies; made the frantic struggle of sex into something graceful and efficient. Her desperation always left him breathless, and in the midst of that rainstorm, his dignified lips fell soundlessly open as she sank to sheathe him inside in one stroke, riding him, unruly and ruthless.

Had her eyes been open in the blinding breath that he filled her—had they been open, not closed for the thrill—she would have seen incomprehensible adoration in his face; the brief, broken instant his chiseled façade collapsed. But the mask of power clicked back just as quickly—the need to restrain her, outlast her, and conquer.

She clapped her own palm over her own mouth to stifle her ragged cries and he kissed the valleys of her knuckles; let his eyes glitter like sunbeams in springtime.

Good girl.

- ✧ ☄ ✧ -

The Antecedent’s laugh caught, half-through her throat, and she stifled it.

“What?” Thancred’s scoff was both merry and biting. He stumbled to a halt, dragging the flabbergasted Hero beside him.

“The two of you look so—” Warde cut herself off. “Forgive me—” Her sky-pale eyes glittered, filled with bald amusement. The Warrior—Samantha—pushed her dark hair back with both hands, a fiery blush on her swarthy, sun-blemished cheeks.

“Are you laughing at us?”

A giggle escaped the Antecedent’s lips. She coughed back the cascade that threatened; pinned Waters with a gentle stare. “My dear Thancred—stand aside, if you please?”

Both of her sentinel's ash-blond eyebrows rose and he lifted both hands, play-acting a couerl-burglar at knifepoint. “Fair lady,” he drawled, reversing three paces.

Samantha watched in some blend of horror and unabashed fascination as Minfilia swept into the center of the room, reaching for her with unassuming, outstretched hands. “Allow me,” she offered, keeping her voice soft and tranquil, hoping it offered some solace. “Our friend here of course is an unrivaled tutor, but—” and she prayed her eyes, then, were soothing. Floravale was full of fire, but skittish, so much promise, so much wild. “Ascilia remembers the basics far better.”

From her guardian, she felt the heat of his exasperated affection—stern and probing cross-examination—and passed him a heartening glance.

Stay.

Samantha crept forward, still possessed of that caged-animal stare. “Ascilia?”

“My name,” she said, very quiet. A tiny smile curled her lips. “The true one.”

“But,” came the instantaneous mutter from the watcher, “If you so much as breathe an onze beyond this chamber—”

His interruption was disrupted. “I trust her,” said Minfilia, holding the Warrior in her eyes. Samantha had a fierce and determined appearance—a woman, to be certain—but despite over two epochs of namedays, the sorceress yet moved with self-doubt; exuded a muted and hushed lack of confidence that Ascilia, for all her abundant misfortunes, comprehended very well.

“That would be the Blessing,” offered Thancred, benevolently unhelpful.

“No.” Warde beheld Floravale with tender evaluation. They stood close, now; close enough to twine hands. “Somehow,” she wove fingertips together; locked eyes, light to dark, “I would trust her regardless.” Minfilia’s voice came out small and wondering, like a child.

Samantha responded in kind. “You would?”

Thancred cocked a resigned hip against the well-worn desk and sighed; watched as two would-be schoolgirls burdened by the weight of the known world swung into silent metronome rhythm, the Antecedent’s surefooted actions rendered clumsy by the Warrior’s ineptness.

Ascilia had been told, from the first of her years—admittedly mostly by Thancred, Twelve bless him—that the shine of her grin held the warmth to melt winters; that, perhaps, if she met all of Coerthas with her gladness, she could thaw even Dalamud’s harshest aetherical chill.

She aimed her finest smile at Samantha.

“I would trust you in twelve thousand lifetimes.” She used her chin to point to their toes, and Samantha tripped across the floor to follow. “Excepting yon loitering observer,” another admittedly unnecessary glance to reassure him, “Rarely have I met a soul I found—so suddenly familiar.”

Samantha’s complexion was olive, dark-freckled, but not deep enough to obscure the hot red of her blush. “I feel the same,” she babbled. “Familiar, I mean—as though I knew you long before we ever met.”

Warde spun the two of them to trace the empty Solar. “Marvelous,” she said gently, and Thancred’s eyes followed them both, serene and tempered. “We might make a proper friend of you yet.”

Minfilia pretended not to notice how her partner’s breath stoppered—looked away as Samantha cast a nervous glance to Waters. Warde was aware of the role he assumed on her arrival in Ul’dah; camouflaged the elation she felt at his aura of pride and protection. So you adopted her as well, my secret-keeper.

"Scion and associate,” he grunted, feigning indifference—though the look in his eyes was anything but.

The Warrior huffed. “I would love nothing more than your friendship,” she muttered, and the words were rough but honest. She was catching on to one bar of the dance—Tataru would be delighted. “But—” She laughed then, nervous. “How can I presume to join in?”

Her dark, delving stare flicked to Minfilia’s—smoldering and shy.

“Why,” and the Antecedent lifted both arms to guide her in a pirouette. “You join in the same as this.” The Warrior twirled and her uneven skirts whirled in tiers to hug her calves, catching on the buckles of her blonde spinner’s boots, tickling the trims of leather-embellished leggings.

Rosalyn and Ascilia met each other eye-to-eye, the hybrid mage no small margin taller—

And then the woman the Antecedent hoped might fill the old soles of an Archon tripped all over herself and they were entangled, slip to surcote. With an exaggerated sigh, Thancred bustled over to unravel them. “So much for hoodwinking the Syndicate.”

Above their sudden, wild laughter, Samantha barked. “I trained in natural magick, not parlor tricks.”

Minfilia was breathless. “I’ve been cured of misgivings.”

- ☽ ✧ ☾ -

His tail swayed back and forth as he looked at the Tower.

There in the distant yawn of that crystalline throne room, the Void yet stretched—and there beyond, through that rift in time and space and aether, Nero—

G’raha Tia balled his hands into fists and squared his center of gravity; felt the heft of eons past and future ghost to settle on his shoulders. There was something, something—something he was missing.

Something he yet needed to finish.

Like Nero, he hungered for Allag. For all G’raha knew that his colleagues might deride him—the lash of Scaevan sarcasm was, after all, something far harsher than biting—he almost, quite often, related to the defector; met cold eyes the color of midwinter mornings and saw something brittle tucked behind them.

Brittle, and bitter—substratum primed to crack.

“Raha?”

The barest sound of her voice pooled to tug at his navel. He turned before she could see the way the dense hairs along his tailbone stood up; loosed a casual grin like a mockery of an arrow. “You found me.”

“Of course I—” In the darkness, she almost looked frightened. The plucking sensation dropped inconveniently lower as she trudged up to glare down at his face, a worry line creased between her brows. “You—” She pursed her lips and spluttered. “After all that happened—” She flicked one frustrated hand toward the looming, glittering spire. “Tell me before you run off like that.”

Oh, she was furious—furious and terrified.

For him.

Pleasure stirred in his heart and down between his legs before he could ignore it. He raised his eyebrows. “Worrying after me?”

She scowled harder. “You—” Her hands were balled into fists so tight he could see every ridge of her knuckles and half-gloves. “Of course I worry after you, Raha.”

A tremor itched down his back and he ignored the sudden, feral urge he felt to pounce. “As you see,” he said instead, gesturing to himself. “Whole and hale.”

“Uncharacteristic,” she muttered. She thrust out one hand, flexing stiff fingers.

He had the choice, then, to continue to rile her—but he wove them palm to palm instead, following back to the outpost. A thrill marched up his spine as she all but dragged him to camp, his deepest, most animal instincts ecstatic to be chased and claimed.

He supposed he should have known, somehow, that things would shift—change being the crux of existence, the eternal pendulum swing. But had he known, even after; even granted the gift of both foresight and hindsight, would he have picked another way?

When he thought of it centuries after, he remembered a mirage. For what else could it be but delirium imagined, delusions he dreamt in the lifetimes he slept in the Umbilicus, the haze of his waking besides?

But wherever it came from, in no past, present, or future would G’raha rob himself of one memory: Her legs, a cage to bind him as he moved, slowly and carefully, inside.

- ☾ ❅ ☽ -

His growl was furious. “Let me help you.”

She squirmed away from him like an eel but Estinien chased her; pinned her down with the obstinate weight of his body. He was scalding hot, the gift he stole from Nidhogg affecting his temperature.

“Let go of me,” she growled, trying to kick him, but he curled in a way that placed his long frame at the advantage. His right hand was encrusted with scales of obsidian, vaguely monstrous, and where he touched her a tickling miasma of aether descended. Warped crimson and violet levin tangled down her body in gossamer cobwebs, and each felt the other flicker within—that strange place they were blended from sharing the Eyes—however swiftly her tenure had ended.

“Let me look at you,” he snarled, and just as the smoke of his eldritch magick found a crack in the light of her blessings, seeping in, he snatched her wrist in his hand and used the secret she taught him against her.

A cry tore from her throat—arse—and she crumpled, limp, to the blankets.

Then, with the skilled and ruthless fingers of a hunter, he stripped her bare of skirts and bodice and shucked her free of her chemise, much like he might clean an antelope carcass.

It was rare that Estinien was shocked, but his eyes went wide on reflex at the sight of the wounds on her body—fresh tracks and puckered scars, no few left by Ame-no-Habakiri. His scale-flecked thumb stroked a path by the lines left by the katana and he shuddered with a convulsion, consumed at once by rage. Again, both could feel it curl within, an actual, aetherical connection.

Death, came the inward rumble, not from her, but from Estinien.

I will kill him.

She coughed out a laugh. “Who can kill the unkillable,” she croaked, increasingly convinced that the prince was akin to a demon. “That man defies all rational definition.”

“Slag him,” Estinien spat, physically shaking. His eyes were frozen on the places stained by Doma, by Galvus—her flawed and magnificent skin— “How could you allow him—"

“I let nothing,” she hissed, the command of her magick returning. She huffed a breath to transpose the fire building in her chest and it came out an icy mist. “How could you allow Nidhogg?”

Hard, dark eyes caught her glare. They were locked for a handful of hot breaths and heartbeats. Estinien lunged, pulling the blow just before their browbones cracked together; nestling gently instead.

His voice rarely hitched, rarely fractured. “He told me to protect you,” he whispered, and in the depths of it she heard something shatter; a glacier’s melting edge.

Aymeric.

“You are,” she rasped, both hands on his face. “You do. You did.”

Thought evaporated. Tussle turned to whispers turned to snapping and biting. His clothes were gone, saltwater on his face. The source of the tears hardly mattered.

Samantha hooked her knee around his haunches, tossed her head back, and howled.

- ☾ ✧ ☽ -

The canopy of the Twelveswood swayed above.

He laughed, and a cackle of crowcall escaped her. “And here I thought,” she rasped, hoarse, “The Lord Commander was not the type to be prevailed upon.”

A crooked grin twisted his lips. He hooked his elbow to buttress her back; dipped her low so that the gleaming, star-white fringes of her blanched-bright hair swept almost to the ground. “But you, my Hero,” he exhaled, “Are prevailing.” He whorled her upright and was gratified to find her grinning, broad and breathless. “And I of course admit a certain bias in the case of our affairs.”

She unfurled against his arm and tossed her head; barked another wine-drunk chortle at the stars that glittered far above the boughs. The lamplight cast the stern angles of her face into shadows impossibly softer, framed by the intermittent pinprick-incandescence of fireflies.

Like them, her splendor shone foremost from within.

“Impolitic,” she teased him, “For a statesman to play favorites.” And then, without warning, she was deadweight in his hands. The Warrior of Light dragged the Speaker of Ishgard down to dewy cushions of moss and leaf-litter; jerked her chin toward the bottle long abandoned. “And to ply a weary Scion with drink, nonetheless.” She quirked a brow. “Are you trying to intoxicate me, Ser Aymeric?”

He was smiling down at her, beguiled—hers, helplessly, always. “Not on drink,” he murmured, brushing the tips of their noses together. “Though I concede I misjudged the—vigor of this vintage.”

She snorted and dissolved into guffaws, and he held her, amused and admiring.

His design was elaborate—ambitious and, to his horror, slightly extravagant—from aperitifs with her parents, to the banquet in the ballroom, to this tour of girlhood haunts and havens, he had plans.

But let her this moment, his skipping heart warbled. This breath of freedom from Norvrandt.

Your grandiose suggestions can wait.

- ☾ ☄ ✧ -

He held his frame at an angle away from her.

Distant.

“Close the door,” she begged again. The Exarch met her stare through copper lashes, the side of shrewd, slitted eyes, and the Tower itself seemed to inhale. There was a long, gravid pause.

Then, very sudden, very quiet, the access to the Ocular clicked shut.

And they were alone.

The Exarch—G’raha—gripped his right arm like it pained him. She reached for it on impulse. “Let me help you.”

It should have been easier, to look and see a friend. But it was hard to reconcile—to dissect him from her trials in Norvrandt—to blend the ardent young scholar with the venerable, cryptic old man. Even as he turned and opened his posture to her—even as she took him by the shoulder, the shape so familiar—he was something slightly else. “Samantha—” The richness of his very timbre was darkened, subtly altered, the Exarch ancient in ways that G’raha Tia only wished to understand.

“No.” Her low voice echoed hoarsely in the room. “Don’t dispute it. Don’t speak to me of debts or death or some other damnation imagined.” His right shoulder was hard as granite. She dug in her fingertips. “You don’t deserve to suffer, Raha,” she muttered. “You never did.”

His face was serene and impassive. But as she watched—as she poured healing aether through his fractures, letting it slip between the tectonics of him and the Tower—something cracked.

Strong arms hooked the small of her back, his stature humble but packed, dense and deceptive, with power. He crumpled with a breath and turned to crush his face against her shoulder.

“Say it again.”

Shocked from focus, her spell fizzled—but her grip on him tightened. She hugged him, hard. “You never deserved it,” she rasped, one hand cradling his neck. “Not one bit.”

The hard tips of his crystallized fingers caught between the layers of her bodice. The breath he took rattled his body.

How long they stood and swayed there was unknown.

- ☄ -

The spell to shield her aether was proving easier to weave, but whether it was effective was a question only Estinien could answer.

It was late by the time she reached the Manor. Snow fell in flurries, all but stopped, and she took her time shedding her layers, sneaking into the foyer so as not to wake the—

A breathy laugh, far down the hallway.

She froze and craned her neck. A dim glow from the direction of the parlor. Sweeping back her hair, now damp with melted snowflakes, she tiptoed down the vaulted corridor, ears peeled for—

“Fury bless it.”

Aymeric’s laugh, again. “You keep too much tension in your shoulders.”

A grin curled her lips in a reflex like breathing and she picked up her pace, keeping quiet. The heirlooms and artifacts stored on the walls seemed to watch and adjudicate as she crept to the archway, peeking in.

There in the parlor, limned by firelight, the two most eminent figures of her Ishgard were dancing.

Estinien swayed away from his partner, long torso bared to the hips, garbed in ash-colored slacks that hugged his thighs too tightly—a pair nicked from Aymeric, no doubt. And the lender himself was dressed all in black, the high neck of his collar offering only the barest glimpse of alabaster throat.

Quiet and clandestine, she leaned against the frame, watching as the two of them simpered.

“Poor form,” crooned the lord of the house.

“My arse,” came the clapback.

With lupine grace, Estinien slunk back, snatching Aymeric’s wrist. A wicked smirk curved Borel’s beautiful mouth as he followed. “That, I assure you, is formed quite correctly.”

And then Estinien laughed. It was a raw, candid sound—wide and rambling as the grin on his lips. At the gleam of his teeth, a wild, uninhibited rapture surged through her, and she realized with a start—

It did not belong only to her.

Before she could think to escape, a hard, towering body barreled for impact. “You little rat,” Estinien growled—and she caught a glittering wink in his right earlobe as she was lifted from the floor, hefted easily over his shoulder.

She slumped and twisted to find Aymeric watching, smiling bright. “Ignore me,” she insisted. “Keep bonding. I have a mind to go to the—”

But Estinien was already carrying her up the stairs. “You smell like—” She could hear his nose wrinkle. “Too much of those damned Lakeland lilacs and not enough like me.”

She huffed. “Last I checked, the world was not, in fact, compelled to smell Wyrmbloodian.”

Trailing behind by several paces, Aymeric followed, laughter lighting the ice of his stare. He pushed the rook-black curl from his eyes and fixed her with earnest attention. “Welcome home again, beloved.”

Home, again, to stay.

- ☾ ☄ ✧ -

#ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2020 #G'raha #Aymeric #Estinien #Minfilia #Thancred #G'raha Tia #Aymeric de Borel #Estinien Wyrmblood #Warrior of Light #Minfilia Warde #Thancred Waters #original characters #my writing #ffxiv fanfiction #Samantha Floravale #Raphael Lemaitre

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tirednotflirting · 5 years ago

Text

sleepyhead - c.h.

right now i’m a few glasses of wine in and i’ve finally got the guts to post fic for the first time ever so here is a lil blurb thing i wrote in between studying for different finals last week when thinking of soft morning cal was distracting me from primate anatomy.

word count: ~1.9k

she woke up to the smell of cigarette smoke tickling at her nose. after a second breath, she caught a whiff of fresh coffee and rain on the brick walls of her building. knowing he must be out on the covered balcony, she listened closely for the sound of rain, wondering if it had stopped yet, and also picked up his quiet humming of a song she couldn’t quite figure out. a slight breeze blew into the room, causing her to pull the thick comforter up from where it rested at her waist and let her eyes finally flutter open as thoughts of sleeping later drifted off.

the room was dark for 9am, she observed after rolling over to grab her phone and seeing the time. her weather app told her that the storm was to continue well into the evening so if his plans for the day had included anything outside, they would likely need to be put on hold. she lifted her body from the mattress and finally caught sight of him out on the patio, the half-opened door giving her a view of him sipping from his favorite mug with the same hand that held his cigarette as he wrote something in a journal resting against the small glass table she had bought during the summer.

“your balcony has a nice view,” he had said one afternoon in june, soon after they had become friends who actively sought out each other’s company rather than waiting for the next time the world brought them together through mutual friends. “you should get a table out here when you’re more settled, would be a great morning coffee with a book spot.” she bought the table after he mentioned it a second time.

she thought of their initial meeting one another earlier in the year as she glanced up to check on him every couple of minutes as she went through her school inbox on her phone.

it was a grad party back in may for lianna, a friend a couple years her senior. it was out on some trendy rooftop place downtown her parents had rented out. lianna was the kind of girl who knew every kind of person, including the girlfriend of a drummer called ashton irwin. the couple had come along and brought with them ashton’s bandmate, calum. they blended in well with the ucla media studies crowd in their dress and overall low key attitude to the lights and sparkles and fruity drinks that came with downtown la in late spring.

she was a photography major and had met lianna when she got approval to take a senior level course that spring, despite only being a sophomore. she got on well with everyone at the party, all of them being her (now former) classmates and her face was growing achy with how much she was smiling as everyone told her their postgrad plans. she had been taking a social break and was standing at the bar, trying to flag down the bartender, her short stature failing her at that moment. she felt a presence to her left as she huffed in frustration, along with a deep “need some help?”. she turned and saw a man that she remembered recognizing when she had seen him walk in with a gorgeous couple earlier in the night. he was in a band, plays bass, lianna had told her over the tops of their wine glasses. he’s australian, and has a very cute dog, had also been added by the tall red-haired girl.

“yeah, thanks. guess he can’t hear me,” she replied, a tired smile returning to her face. a similar one spread across the curly-haired boy’s lips. “what are you drinking?” he asked, looking down to her as his hand lifted to grab the attention of the bartender, who immediately noticed the man. she took a moment before answering to admire the tattoos that she could see dancing across his forearm as his rolled sleeve pushed up to his elbow.

“the rosé.”

he lifted his chin in a short nod and recited the order as well as his own to the bartender. she pulled herself up into one of the stools at the bar to give her heeled feet a rest and to reduce at least a little bit of the difference in height between herself and the man.

“i’m calum,” he introduced himself, reaching a tattooed hand out into the somewhat limited space between the two of them.

“bennie,” she smiled lazily, her smaller hand accepting his as a glass of pink wine is placed beside her.

she set her phone back to charge and finally pushes back the covers. she reaches to the floor at the end of her bed to pick up a cardigan to throw on over the t-shirt she stole from him to wear when he got in the night before. he would always tease her for taking one of his ratty band t-shirts every time he ended up at her place after the airport rather than his own but never enough for her to toss it back in his duffle.

california in winter could just barely be called that, but the storm was bringing through something they would all call a cold front. he looks up from his writing as he hears her bare feet padding closer to the open door and gently shuts the leather journal, his pen marking his place.

he takes another drag of the cigarette, turning towards the street to blow away the smoke. “lovely weather we’re having today, huh?”

she scoffs at his sarcasm as she pulls out the seat across from him. “la is so happy to have you home that the whole city is crying tears of joy.”

“hush, ben.” he rolls his eyes but smirks nonetheless at her words.

he takes a moment to admire the girl that’s come to be one his best friends as she reaches forward to pour coffee from the French press he had made into a second mug. sleep had pulled most of her hair from the braid she had done up when they were eating pasta in the kitchen the night before. her eyes were dark around the edges due to the college-student style of exhaustion she always seemed to be and the eyeliner she had claimed she didn’t really need to wash away before bed. seeing her in his clothes made him feel warm in a way he didn’t really understand but always pushed away the thought of.

“ah, you’re right.” she says after a sighing as she takes her first sip from her mug. “she’s actually crying because you’re leaving again in a few days.”

the smile on his face drops as he reaches a foot out to tap against her leg. “hey now, yes i’ll be leaving but then you’re down for that party in the city for new years, right?”

she’s already down to the bottom of her mug (the French press was doing a shit job at retaining any heat and she was going to need to just go back into the kitchen and make more). “if you’ll still have me, yeah. which i hope you will because i’ve definitely already bought the flight.”

“bennie, you were supposed to let me get that.” he says to her with furrowed brows, a small pout forming.

she stands and holds a hand out for his mug so she can go in and make a second cup for the both of them. “okay, well you already got me a room and since your label are the ones hosting the party, you’re basically paying for all my drinks too. so i-“

“it was gonna be your Christmas present, love.” he sighs, handing his mug over.

“the room can be the prese-“

“bennie,” he cuts her off and places a hand at her hip to stop her as she tries to scoot around him to get back inside for coffee and to get away from the conversation. she looks down at where his chipped black polished fingers are placed. “just wanna be able to do something nice for you. i know you worked your ass off this semester and that you’re avoiding the fam for the holiday so i just wanted to treat you.”

she studies the mugs in her hands to avoid his gaze. calum turns his chair to face her so he can wrap both arms around her waist. she huffs and sets the mugs down on the table, letting her hands fall to his shoulders as she looks down to his patient brown eyes.

she takes a deep breath as she moves one hand to the back of his neck, her fingers twirling around the curls there. “and i appreciate it. and i’ve been feeling all warm and fuzzy ever since you asked me to join for this. i think i just convinced myself that letting you do too much for me would make it seem like i was taking advantage. don’t ever want you to feel that way about me.”

his bottom lip juts out further after hearing her think that he could ever even for a moment have some kind of ill opinion of her. “wouldn’t dream of thinking that, darling. i invited you to a party clear across the country, just wanted to make sure you were taken care of.”

she feels something flutter inside her when he calls her by pet names and talks about taking care of her but she pushes the thought away. “we should talk more when planning, huh?”

he laughs and shakes his head at her as he opens his legs so she can stand between them as he pulls her closer, his arms moving to wrap more fully around her waist. he lets his head fall against her stomach. “i’m still exhausted.”

she runs a hand through his hair. “it’s called jet lag, ace. go get back in bed. let’s finish the season of peaky blinders we fell asleep in the middle of last night and then we can go pick up duke.”

he hummed his agreement with the plan for the rest of the morning before turning his head to place a kiss to the inside of bennie’s wrist. as she wanders past him, mugs and french press gathered into her arms, he puts out the last of his cigarette in the ashtray he brought over after she yelled at him for using one of her favorite mugs for the purpose. she’s already back in the kitchen, filling the kettle before setting it back on the stove and digging through her cabinets for the dark roast she’s decided she wants to make for her second cup of the day.

she comes back to her room several minutes later with two steamy mugs to find calum asleep again, her pillow tucked against his chest. she could almost coo at him cuddled under the blanket, chapped lips pouted out as he softly snores. she chuckles quietly to herself as she sets the mugs on her desk before gently climbing back into bed and pulling the pillow away from his arms. it’s only now that she notices the door is still open, the rain still falling at a steady pace and the breeze sneaking its way across the room. as she lays her head against the pillow that now smells of whatever new cologne he picked up on the road, an arm reaches over her body, pulling her against his warm chest.

“thanks, love,” are the last words she hears before letting her tired eyes drift shut.

~~~~~

thnx for reading if you did and come say hello (i like new pals) and lemme know if i should ever give this kinda thing a shot again. happy saturday !

#calum hood #calum hood blurb #calum hood blurbs #5sos blurb #5sos blurbs #calum fic #5sos fic #calum hood fic #calum hood fanfic #my writing #i don't know how to use tags so this is wine induced blind guessing #this seems like enough #maybe too many #alright byyyyyye

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xxisxxisxxis · 5 years ago

Text

Gateway Drug | Part Thirty-Eight

Table of Content or Part Thirty-Seven

Read here on wattpad

A/N: Question — what song do you think of when you think of Nikki and Viv? I'm trying to see something

Word count: 3.3k

Warning(s): Explicit language, Sexual situations, Drug abuse

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My bare feet hook underneath his thighs the second I realize he's about to finish and he gives a crooked smirk up at me, his breathing beginning to shallow.

Nikki holds my hips still, groaning out as his cum coats the inside of me, causing me to let out a hazey moan, my mind cloudy from our rather lengthy round.

Once he's finished, I'm getting off of him and falling beside him, catching my breath as we recover is silence fore several minutes.

"Are you on birth control or something?" He asks me out of nowhere and I tense up, looking at him.

"Why're you asking?"

"I've been thinking about it since Vince and Sharise had Skylar, for some reason. I mean, I haven't used a rubber since we started dating and most of the time I don't pull out, and we've only had one pregnancy scare in the past, what, like, four years?"

"You've managed to keep track of how long we've been together?" I ask him, pretending to be shocked and he gently hits my arm with the back of his hand, and I chuckle, rolling over to face him, my lips pressing to his bicep for a moment.

I think I'm in the clear, dodging his question, but I'm not.

"I'm being serious, Viv, are you on something or...?" He asks and I lick my lips.

"Maybe my antidepressant affects fertility, I don't know." I shrug, lying through my teeth. "Drugs can cause issues on your end, too, so maybe that's another reason."

"Oh." He replies.

I avoid looking at him, sitting up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed before reaching down to grab his shirt by my feet.

You know those lies, that start simple and small, and then snowball more and more over time and explode in flames from hell that melt the snow and turn it into scalding hot water that leaves third-degree burns on the person that's being lied to? Yeah, we both had lots of those, and that was one of mine.

take a shower and brush my teeth, excited for my plans tonight, and as I start putting makeup up on, Nikki's getting in the shower.

"Are you and Robin going out tonight?" I ask him.

"Uh, yeah. Sparkie's coming, too." He replies and I roll my eyes.

I know they'll go out to a club and hide in the bathroom, shooting up and snorting blow a majority of the time, only leaving to get some drinks.

"My doctor was really curious as to why I needed a refill so soon being that he gave me a month supply a week before Sparkie traded it." I comment to remind him Sparkie's a piece of shit.

"Sparkie learned his lesson, baby." He tells me in a half-chuckle and I raise my brows at myself in the mirror and turn the sink on.

"Jesus fuck, Viv!" He screams, being bombarded with ice cold water for a moment.

"Awe, I'm sorry, maybe Sparkie can sympathize with you." I reply smartly.

He's getting out of the shower, covered in suds, glaring at me, and I take off running with him chasing close behind.

"Spoiled brat!" He calls at me, the both of us naked as jaybirds.

"Trader bastard!" I say back, right before he catches me, pulling me against his wet, soapy body, his hands not skipping a moment to start tickling me.

I squeal, the both of us falling to the floor, my feet and legs kicking out of instinct.

"Don't you do it." He threatens. "Remember what happened last time."

"Not my fault you're a pussy." I reply, immediately regretting it when he starts tickling me again, this time, getting on top of me to pin me down.

He doesn't let up until I'm laughing so hard I'm in tears, and he's tired of struggling with me.

We look at each other for a minute, before he grins and kisses me.

"I gotta finish getting ready." He tells me, getting off of me and helping me up.

"Yeah, I do, too."

I decided a nice trip to Malibu would be a great thing for GN'R. I mean, go to Tansy's house there, have her invite over some of her single girl friends to mingle with the guys, stay over night so they don't have to worry about whether or not they'd be able to crash at their stripper friends' apartment and sleep on the floor that night, have a nice breakfast together the next morning, and just give Axl and Izzy time to really get to know Tansy, because they haven't hung out with her very much, while Slash, Duff and Steven see her almost more than I do.

I glance around the living room of Tansy's Malibu beach house, seeing beach bunnies all around with perfectly tanned skin, bombshell hair and perfect smiles, then look at Steven and Slash, who seem to be having a pretty good time.

They both look like they're in heaven, girls on either side of them, obviously fans of their work on the Sunset Strip back in L.A.

Izzy took a girl up to the guest bedroom long ago, while Axl's just nursing a bottle of Jack, with a beautiful brunette chattering his ear off while he's pretending not to care about what Tansy's doing as she talks to one of her girl friends across the room.

I do a mental head count, and notice my 6'4 blonde is nowhere to be seen.

Maybe he found a girl or two of his own and followed in Izzy's footsteps, taking over a spare room?

I brush it off, deciding it's none of my business and step to the kitchen to grab a Pepsi out of the fridge.

When I pass by the doors that lead to the balcony over looking the ocean, though, I see the outline of someone sitting in the lounge chair.

Recognizing the slender frame, I grab my soda and head outside, Duff looking over his shoulder to see who I am, before smiling at me innocently, bottle of Vodka by his foot and pack of Marlboros on one knee as a sketch pad and pen are being supported by his other.

"Hi." I say as he scoots over to make room for me. "Mr. Social Butterfly." I add, sarcastically.

"Hey." He replies, moving his Vodka over so I won't knock it down with my foot.

"I figured you be eating that up." I motion to the door, referring to the gorgeous girls inside and he chuckles a little.

"I don't know, I haven't really been feeling chicks lately." He tells me and I furrow my brows a little.

"Well, I'm sure she has some boy friends, too, if you're feeling something different." I inform him, knowing what he meant, but he laughs and shakes his head.

"Not like that, Viv." He tells me and I pull my red hair behind my shoulders to get it out of my face, before taking a sip of my drink. "I've been, uh, working on something new, kinda. The lyrics have been going off left and right in my head, I just thought I'd better get somewhere quiet and write them down before I lose them." He explains, holding up his notepad.

"Oh, I'm sorry." I feel like I've intruded, or messed up his groove, about to leave him alone to finish but he puts his hand on my knee to stop me from standing up.

"No, no, it's fine." He insists, taking his hand off of me, not thinking anything of it, despite me feeling warmth radiate from where he touched me.

I ignore it.

"I've already gotten everything I had in mind, so far." He explains. "Just a verse and chorus."

"What's the name of it?" I ask, and he scratches the back of his neck.

"I don't know if I need to tell you. I'm superstitious about this stuff, Viv." He tells me, even though he's completely full of shit.

He just wants to aggravate me.

"It's just the title, Duff. You let me hear you say 'turn around, bitch, I gotta use for you' and this can't be worse than that." I point out and he chuckles, licking his lips before looking at me.

His hand covers the lyrics, exposing the title line of the page.

"Paradise City" is scribbled in his writing and I smile when he moves his hand and let's me read the chorus, and verse that he's gotten so far, a giant smile pulling at my lips.

"Who the hell inspired this?" I ask him, raising my brows.

"Nobody particular." He shrugs. "You like it?"

"I already love it." I tell him.

Not to compare two completely different bands who earned their names all on their own, but there are a few song parallels between Guns N' Rose's Appetite for Destruction, and Mötley Crüe's Girls, Girls, Girls albums.

Guns' Welcome to the Jungle was like Mötley's Wild Side. Paradise City was like Girls, Girls, Girls. Mr. Brownstone was like Dancing on Glass. But my favorite parallel has to be Sweet Child O Mine and You're All I Need.

I remember Nikki had given me a tape of You're All I Need after we got into a massive argument because he thought I was spending too much time with Duff. But he had practically accused me of having feelings for Duff, and even acting on them (which was pretty hypocritical being that he'd been screwing Vanity since 1986 at that point.)

A few weeks later, Nikki convinced me to come down to the studio so he could personally give me a copy of a song he had written me, and me--being excited--decided I wanted the guys to hear it, too.

I went to the Franklin Plaza where Steven, Duff, Slash, Izzy and Axl were hanging out, discussing a meeting they'd had with their label.

When I told them Nikki wrote a love song about me (thinking it was his way of trying to patch up our marriage and say to the world "I love this woman") the guys had to hear it, not believing me.

The ballad started beautifully, tears coming to my eyes, but my warmed heart quickly began boiling in my chest by the time the second chorus ended.

"I don't think this is a love song." Izzy stated, while shaking his head a little.

"Yeah, uh...he's talking about killing you." Axl had told me, everyone seemed slightly disturbed.

"Your girlfriends get Sweet Child O Mine and what does the dedicated wife that has done nothing but love this sick bastard get?! A song dedicated to his deep desire to murder me!"

"Dude, hasn't he actually tried to kill you before?" Steven asked.

Which made the song even more ironic, along with the last line of the chorus, "and I loved you but you didn't love me" which in itself was slap in the fucking face.

I didn't hear the full song at that time because Duff had took it out of the player and stomped it under his cowboy boot.

That pretty much set the tone for the months to come.

"You're also incredibly biased." He replies in the same tone and I nudge him with my elbow.

"You don't know how many songs I have actually had to tear out of Nikki's hand and hide them from him because they were so bad I just could not allow them to be recorded." I tell him.

"Oh, please." He brushes me off.

"Have you heard 'Theater of Pain'?" I ask him with raised brows.

"Yeah."

"Home Sweet Home and Smokin' in the Boy's Room were the only really good ones. And Smokin' in the Boy's Room was a cover. The other songs were songs I didn't know were written, or I would have hid them from him, too." I state and he tries not to laugh, but fails, making himself snort, which kickstarts my laughter.

Once we settle down, he clears his throat, and gets a kind of serious expression on his face.

"I really wish he wasn't on that shit, Viv." He tells me and I don't even have to ask who he's talking about. "I mean, I'm not judging him or whatever because Izzy and Slash are in on that stuff, too, but...I just hate to see he's on it, because it's kinda hard to manage it once you hit a certain point, ya know?" He asks and I nod a little. "I think he's a pretty cool guy...so it sucks to see him act like that."

"It's not that bad, right now." I tell him, completely in denial. "He's still Nikki, he just does stuff he's not suppose to. That's nothing new to me."

"I'm just a little worried, is all." He admits.

"There's no need to be." I reassure him. "He's got a handle on things."

Dear God did I eat those words a week later in Dallas, Texas.

It's like watching a fucking car accident.

Except instead of a car, it's my husband, and instead of a car accident, it's him losing his ever loving mind, crouched on the hotel room desk, as he babbles on, making absolutely no sense as he shouts at his parents who aren't even present.

I just came back from the pool, got a shower, and came in to him doing this.

"Nikki!" I try to get him out of whatever drug-induced show he's on.

"I'm not me! I'm not Nikki! I'm someone else!" He insists, hands yanking at his hair, his eyes completely taken over by an entirely different beast.

I panic, immediately calling Fred.

"The fuck is wrong?!" He asks when I open the door, hearing Nikki's screaming and carrying on and I try to keep the absolute fear that's locking up my system from showing.

"I-I don't know. I got in from the pool and he was kinda jittery but I thought he'd done some blow, but then he started screaming when I was in the shower and now he's--"

Fred gets tired of hearing Nikki's meaningless shrieks at people who aren't in the room with us, and snatches him off the desk.

Nikki hits the floor, and a switch is flipped, sending him into strong convulsions, opting thick, white foam to pour from his mouth.

"Fuck, Sixx!" Fred lets out, turning him on his side. "Get me a roll of toilet-paper." He barks at me and I do as I'm told, saying a very colorful, silent prayer in my head.

He tries to get Nikki to bite down on it to keep him from biting his tongue, but Nikki can't do it. screaming instead.

When I think I can't take the confused, scared, out-of-character shrill, it's like God himself knocks Nikki out, leaving Fred and I in complete silence, riddled with what just happened.

Fred checks his pulse and sighs in relief, looking at me.

"Viv, are you alright?" He asks me, taking deep breaths.

"Y-yeah." I say, nodding, even though I know it's written all over my face that I can't be further from "alright."

"Vivian--"

"I just need a second." I tell him, standing up to go to the bathroom, disguising oncoming tears in a strong, steady voice that's physically uncomfortable to push past the lump in my throat.

I lock myself inside the bathroom and turn the water back on, gripping the counter before I find myself in the floor, quiet sobs rocking through me.

I just want my Nikki back...not this tainted demon nesting himself in Nikki's skin, festering his bullshit in Nikki's mind.

By the time I'm worn down from crying, and tired from lying on the bathroom floor, I pull myself up and open the bathroom door, stepping into the room.

I guess Fred put Nikki in the bed before he left, because Nikki's still passed out, just tucked in the covers.

I get pajamas on, scared to even touch him because I don't want him to start seizing again.

Cautiously getting closer to him, nestling my forehead against his arm, I thank God for the feeling of his pulse under my finger tips in the crook of his arm, and find myself passing out with utter exhaustion.

The next morning, Nikki's really quiet.

I'm not sure if he remembers what happened last night, but I'm not asking him.

After finding a needle and evidence of an 8-ball of coke, he can lick my twat if he thinks I'm talking to him anytime soon.

The video shoot for Home Sweet Home is happening today, and a limo picks Nikki and I up at the hotel, driving us to the venue, neither of us acknowledging the other.

Once we get there, someone's dressing Nikki like a damn toddler, because he's too fucked from last night to dress himself in his done up stage costume.

Nikki was so, so, so, obviously, utterly fucked up when they filmed the music video for Home Sweet Home.

The entire time, he was chugging Jack to try to calm himself down from a high he later described felt like, "being on acid and speed at the same time" and with the way he was acting like he couldn't see a damn thing, I believe it.

He kept sunglasses on a majority of the time so people couldn't see how his eye were practically doing cartwheels.

"Viv, we're about to start, where's Nikki?" His bass tech asks me and I glance around, furrowing my brows a little.

"I haven't seen in him about an hour. He went over there by the stage...at least I think he did." I tell him, stepping over to the last place I saw him. "He was here and..." I trail off, hearing Nikki having a full blown conversation, his voice coming from underneath the stage.

The two of us sit and listen for a moment, realizing Nikki's just talking, taking long pauses, then answering a question that was never asked by anybody, not even himself.

"Who is he talking to?" His tech asks me under his breath so Nikki won't hear.

I roll my jaw, getting fed up.

"Probably the fucking demon he sees and befriends every time he gets high." I state, fully believing that at this point, there is indeed a demon following him around, breathing down his neck, stripping him of his control and cheering him on with each grain of coke, bottle of Jack, cc of heroin and prescription-grade pill.

"Nikki," His tech starts. "Who're you talking to?"

"I'm talking. Leave me alone." Nikki argues.

"Nikki." I state, looking at him.

It's the first time he's heard my voice all day.

"There's nobody there, baby. C'mon." I motion my hand for him to get out from under the stage.

"Leave me alone!" He snaps at me, nearly hissing.

"Dude, calm down, you're freaking out." His tech tells him.

"Nikki, get your ass out from under there or so help me God, I will come in and drag you out by your dick." I promise him.

He puffs up like a pissed off rooster and stomps out, passing by us, grumbling under his breath.

Do you wanna know what was really fucked up about that time? Vince couldn't have a beer without someone losing their mind. He was supposed to be sober. Nikki would bust Vince's balls if he even saw him looking at a bottle...but then Nikki would load anything and everything into his body, simultaneously.

Vince quickly became the odd man out, and had been ever since that night with Razzle. There was this vibe, this tension, that Vince was only kept in the band at that time, because they were getting hotter and hotter, and each member was the ticket to reach their full potential as a band. Each member was important.

Without Tommy, there was no band. Without Mick, there was no band. Without Nikki, there was no band.

And without Vince, there was no band...that was the one that really didn't sit too well with Sikki.

#nikki sixx #vince neil #mick mars #tommy lee #mötley crüe #the dirt

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powerovernothing · 5 years ago

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The gentle currents of warm waters lap carefully against the rocks resting upon the shores of the Bruma mountains, and both the Septim Heir and the Assassin watch in silence as their youngest chosen brother floats about in the distance. Lucien shifts slightly upon his place where he sat and listens to the swish of the waters as it followed his movements; once he had settled into a far more comfortable position, he turns his gaze towards Martin at his side.

"Do you believe he will eventually tire from his childish antics, so that we might continue on with our journey towards the city?" He questions and waits until the hand which his brother held his quill slows before he dares to ask a second time. "...Martin, did you not hear me?"

Martin nods, and lowers his journal into his lap; a gentle smile resting upon his lips. "Oh yes, I heard you..." He tells him with a faint chuckle. "But, my friend, are you truly so eager to return to the roads? After all, we have been traveling for near two days now without hardly a proper moment of rest, and I would have assumed that you, of all people, would know when it was appropriate to conserve our strength for future battles."

Lucien lets out a scoff and turns to watch as Korbin kicked against the waves that tickled ever so slightly against his bare back. "Do not attempt to use my words against me, Septim," He warned with a wave of his hand, before lowering it back over his knee. "It is simply that I believe the sooner we fall back upon the roads, the sooner we will reach our destination, and the sooner you will be safe from those who wish to do you harm."

"Ah yes, but of course, or..." Martin's smile grows as his words trail off for a moment to gain Lucien's full attention. When Lucien does indeed advert his gaze towards him, there is a hint of playfulness lurking just underneath the surface of Martin's words when he continues. "You are still somewhat sore that Korbin chose to go for an impromptu swim, rather than return to our makeshift campsite straightaway as you had instructed."

Even from the fading light of the evening sun, Martin notices a faint hue of red cross the Assassin's cheeks. Lucien clears his throat, and suddenly snaps his head around, far away from his gaze, and Martin struggles not to let out a pleased laugh in response.

"I was not sore, I was merely... concerned." Lucien corrects him as he attempts to regain his natural composure. However, it ultimately fails, and his voice cracks ever so slightly when he speaks the word ‘concerned’, and Martin cannot help but allow the smooth chuckle to escape under his breath when it does. "Oh, do not let Korbin hear you say that, or else he shall never let you live down such an emotional confession."

Lucien chooses not to react to Martin's playful words and remains stoic as he quickly changes the subject to one far more serious.

"With the increasing appearance of nightmarish hazards upon the roads, you know very well that I had every right to be upset with his sudden disappearance. Any manner of thing could have happened to him without our knowing," He holds out his free hand, and begins to count on his fingers." Not only with the local wildlife, or common inane bandit, but what if some collection of Daedra had stumbled across him? Or one of those accursed --"

"--But nothing like that happened, Lachance," Martin quickly interrupts, before Lucien accidentally speaks of things neither of them wish to reminisce over anytime soon. "All he did was find for himself a spring filled with warmed water, and believed it was the perfect moment to relax."

Lucien's eyebrows furrow, and he huffs another scoff. Martin takes that as incentive to speak further.

"And truly, after everything that has happened between the three of us as of recent ... do you not believe that we were due a simple moment of peace?"

A short silence falls between both the Septim Heir and the Assassin; the only noise being heard was the faint giggling of Korbin as he shifted his position in the water and began to splash about with his hands. Martin reaches for his journal that had laid forgotten upon his lap and dips his quill in the nearby bottle of ink to begin writing once again.

As he does, Lucien lets out a gentle sigh of breath.

"No, you're right," He says, almost to himself and not to Martin at his side. "We were due a moment of peace. He was due a moment of peace... without fear, and without worry..." Martin hums in acknowledgement to his words but chooses not to say anything in response. After a moment, Lucien turns his head back towards Martin, and there is a glint of some unknown emotion twinkling in his eyes.

"But even so, you do realize that you never actually answered my question to you?" He asks, and when Martin turns to lock blue eyes with brown, he realizes the emotion is playfulness. And although the sight looks almost strange in Lucien's eyes, Martin realizes that it is also welcome just the same.

"What do you mean?"

"I asked you if you believed that Korbin would soon tire himself out from his playing, and you never gave to me your answer."

Once more Martin sets aside his quill, closes his journal for a brief moment, and looks out to where Korbin lingers within the water. And almost as though he can sense his brother's gaze resting upon him, Korbin looks up, waves a hand at both of his siblings, and smiles widely.

The sight softens Martin's heart, and he leans back against the rock; staring up into the sunset kissed sky above him as he thinks aloud.

"Well, considering that he is still incredibly pleased with himself for finding such a wonderful spring on his very own, and he was able to not only pull me into the waters in a surprise attack, and forced you to come and find us both when neither of us returned..." He shakes his head, and chuckles. "I believe that he will continue to be captivated in his game for several more hours to come."

Lucien nods his head to Martin's words, and then slowly stands to his full height. "I'm certain that is not the answer you wanted, and yet... what did you truly expect, my friend?"

"Actually, that is exactly what I had expected," He tells Martin, and then lowers his hands down over his robe to begin pulling over his head. "And thus, because of our dear brother's antics, he surely leaves me with only one choice."

Martin watches as Lucien casts aside his robe, and then leans down to remove his feet from his boots with a curious expression over his features. "...And what choice would that be, dare I ask?"

"As his energy has not yet depleted itself within the comforting warmth of the water, and it will soon be quite dark, as well as cold upon these mountains with the setting of the sun," Lucien explains, placing his boots to the side as he explains. "And there has been many a countless night where Korbin has complained near endlessly about the bitter chill, he is being forced to endure..."

"There is a very high probable chance that he will more than likely refuse to come out of such warmth, and then trudge his way back toward our campsite to sleep in the midst of the harsh elements?" Martin interjects, finishing Lucien’s words for him.

Lucien barks a genuine laugh. "Precisely! Meaning that, if he will not be pulled from the water of his own accord... then I will simply have to go into the waters and pull him from them myself."

"You do realize..." Martin begins to say, sharing an equally amused laugh with Lucien as he speaks. "That he will absolutely fight you every inch of the way, and it will become an all-out war before the end?"

Lucien turns his head and gives Martin a playful wink. "Indeed, Septim, but is that not what makes it so fun?"

The Assassin bends forward, and then dives headfirst into the waters. Martin watches with amused interest as Lucien makes his way underneath where Korbin had begun floating once again, then wraps his arms around his legs, and drags him under. The sudden screech that is pulled from Korbin's lips causes Martin to double over with a familiar laugh.

Lucien rises to the surface after a moment, and smiles smugly, all the while Korbin accuses his brother of cheating. Lucien shrugs his shoulders, informing his Silencer that such a move is exactly what he, himself, did to Martin when he came searching for him, and a sudden blush, and look of sheer irritation crosses in Korbin's eyes.

Believing that he had won such a battle before it even had a chance to begin, Lucien informs Korbin that it will soon be dark, and that they would do well to pull themselves from the spring, collect their things, and then make their way back to the camp for the night. And, just as Martin had so rightfully believed, the look of irritation in Korbin's eyes grows considerably. He mutters that if Lucien thinks he will so easily pull him from his warm water shaped blanket, then he will have to do more than simply attack him when he isn't aware.

Lucien's own eyes narrow, and he questions what Korbin means... only to be met with a sudden splash directly in his face, and Korbin swimming away from him. Shouting over his shoulder that if his brother wants him, then he will have to catch him, and that he knows -- very well, in fact -- that he is far better, far faster swimmer than he is, and that it is a futile effort.

Soon, Martin watches from his place on dry land as both highly skilled Assassins begin chasing one another in the warmth of the water and splashing each other whenever they had such an opening like absolute children. As they circle around, attempting to catch one another in their own breathlessness, and come close to the rocks, Martin looks down and smiles. Telling them that it is indeed getting late, and that perhaps they will have a chance to play such childish games another day.

As his words fall, a sudden silence overtakes the lake, and Lucien and Korbin share a look of understanding with one another...

...before they both splash a wave of water up towards Martin, completely and utterly soaking him.

Martin stands there, blinking in surprise to their actions, before a look of deviousness crosses in his eyes. "Gentlemen..." He mutters, spitting water as he sets his -- now remarkably damp -- journal aside, and turns to face them both. "I do hope you realize that you just signed your death warrants."

Korbin backs up, already knowing all too well what is coming, and squeals boyishly. "No, no, no! Martin wait, it was Lucien's idea!" He quickly turns around and begins swimming away.

"Me?!" Lucien suddenly screeches, and a look of betrayal crosses in his eyes. "You are the one who began this, and who forced me to partake in such antics... and now you would dare to leave my side, when I surely need you the most?!"

"All is fair in love and war, Lachance! Isn’t that what you have always told me? Now I believe it is time that you learned that firsthand!"

Lucien merely floats there, gawking in the sheer audacity of his own Silencer, when he hears Martin over his shoulder.

"No matter! You will both surely suffer the very same fate at my hands!" Martin backs up, and then runs forward and leaps into the water with a joyful burst of laughter. The sudden impact causes Lucien to struggle not to lose his footing, and stumble underneath the waves.

Somehow, the sight only causes Martin to become all the more playful. "If what Korbin says is true, and he is the far superior swimmer, then that surely means that you are the weakest, Lachance!"

Lucien laughs, and then suddenly slaps at the water to momentarily throw off his newfound hunter from his chosen prey.

"Perhaps that is indeed so, and yet you will find that I am not so easily fallen!" He twists in the water and begins kicking to match Korbin's speed. "Come and catch me if you so dare!"

Martin shakes his head, then gleefully chases after his brothers.

And the evening fades into an innocent darkness.

#lucien lachance #martin septim #hero of kvatch #the elder scrolls oblivion #tes oblivion #The Knight The Emperor And The Assassin~#My Stuff~#My Fan Fiction~

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raleigh-ocean · 5 years ago

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what it is, what it’s not

5. “Please talk to me.”

requested: @peachesandlesbians

n/a: welcome to the angst joyride, please buckle your seatbelts. Here is when Oceanable AU (RaleighxWilhemina) become the canon and GoodeOceanDay start to be the AU. I wanted to do this for a long time and I took advantage of Kate’s request for it (i’m sorry Kate!!) but hey, we’ll have more about the not nice part of GoodeOceanDay, which I find rather interesting.

send me a prompt and I’ll write you a something!

well, let’s get this started

because it has pretty heavy stuff

it all started like a normal day, to be completely honest with you all, like as normal as it can get in a facility where a good handful of witches lived and attended lessons

everyone was busy for the morning with lectures, writing papers, practicing stuff, you name it

for Raleigh, it was sleeping, because it was one of those days in which she just got tired out after days without having a blink of it and she literally passed out in Mina’s room late that night before knowing

peacefully sleeping in her favourite sweatpants and sweatshirt she was when, all of a sudden, the door slammed open with an unnatural force that made her instinct jump, ready to take over whatever might came in

but when she saw that it was Mina, her gesture filled with pure rage and her eyes full of not spilled tears, her very own soul fell to the floor and made her stand up as fast as she could to be by her side

“Wilhemina, what happened? are you okay?” being pretty vocal about her worry, Raleigh tried to see what Mina was doing in the wardrobe, starting to pull out her clothes while gripping her cane really hard “what are you doing?”

“i’m done with your brilliant Cordelia, i’m done with whatever childish shit is going on, so i’m going to fucking ask you one only thing,” Wilhemina didn’t even turn around and when Raleigh tried to touch her, she just slapped away her hands and made her recoil. “I had enough of this come and go, so right now you are gonna tell me if you are toying with me, until your Deli and your Mimi decide they want you, or if you truly love me.”

not only how she slapped her hands away, but how she told her that, made Raleigh feel whatever warmth she felt before slipping through every crack of her already too damaged shell, feeling the static in her ears and the cold freezing her lungs

she took too long to reply for Wilhemina’s like and it was then when the tears finally rolled down her cheeks, breaking every tiny bit of cellophane she has been patching her heart and soul with

“get the fuck out of here, now” was the only thing she said, pointing at the door with her hand

Raleigh didn’t have time to use her own powers to suppress Wilhemina’s Concilium but fuck that she fought against it, it took her three whole minutes to make it out of the room and once she was in the hallway, she dropped to her knees, coughing like crazy and feeling blood coming out of her nose from fighting against it

when the fit of coughs ended, Raleigh knocked at the door several times without answer, she even begged to get in

but it was all pointless

and where she felt cold, suddenly, a fire ignited so furiously and big that she felt her head start boiling at mere thought of what she was going to do, and made her start walking downstairs with only one goal in mind

talk with Cordelia

which was looking outside of her office’s window, her head beating to the rhythm of her own heart, shocked about what she had done not more than 15min ago

but at the same time, somehow, she feels like she did the ‘right thing’, at least when it comes with what she’s feeling at the moment because she’s putting herself above anyone else for once

(and this is so fucked up, taking in count that she stomped all over what others were trying to build without caring a single fuck)

Cordelia knew that Raleigh was in her way because she could heard Misty trying to stop her outside of the office and it feels like her mother is laughing at the back of her head, telling her that in the end she wasn’t that different from her

Misty got by Cordelia’s side as soon as Raleigh made her way into the room, closing the door behind her with such strength that it made the few frames in that wall to tremble

“Cordelia, what the fuck did you do,” it came out from Ray’s chest as a snarl more than a question. “And don’t fucking lie to me because I won’t take any bullshit anymore”

which make quite the view taking in count that Ray still has a bit of blood coming out of her nose and she looks just fresh out of the bed

and Cordelia just...repeat everything she had say to Wilhemina, word for word, with a very anxious Misty by her side

everything that wasn’t the truth, that wasn’t what Raleigh was in that moment

that they were waiting for the right moment to get Raleigh back, that they were the ones that could make her happy in the end, that Wilhemina was just merely an affair that will go wrong once Raleigh started to show her true persona and that she wasn’t going to stay much because she would probably go away eventually again. Cordelia told Wilhemina that she wasn’t ready to rebuild the mess that the latina witch was, that she was going to get hurt soon because Raleigh only knew how to heal by their side

which every word, Ray only got more and more pale, more and more sick and the silence came right after Cordelia finished her broken speech between what she thought it was the truth and stuff from the past

Silences with Raleigh were uneasy, were like seeing the thunder in the distance but not knowing how hard it would sound, were like knowing you’ll draw blood eventually if you kept biting your fingers but not trying to even stop

and that wore heavy on the Supreme, so painfully heavy that she couldn’t bear it anymore and just put her hands over her desk in a way to get her attention

“Please, talk to me,” Cordelia mere whisper made Ray look at her with clear eyes, those of someone that had come to a resolution

because in those minutes in which the silence made itself present in the office, Raleigh saw her own truth before her eyes

what was really was from the bottom of her aching broken soul and heart

that since she came back to the Academy, she put herself through whatever they asked her for, trying to gain their approval and their trust again; that she didn’t complain about how most often than not they treat her as if she wasn’t able to make her own decisions; that she just wanted to move on from their shitty ass past of mistakes and hurt and they seemed to hold every single thing about that all still over her head; that she was trying to get better at everything and none of them two were doing shit; that again none actually search for her

but Wilhemina was there, showing her what it was to actually feel to be cared, and showing her how to grow out of her old shell

“Talk to you,” another whisper that started to grow to become a full scream “The only thing I want is never see you again! Do you realize for second what have you done?” it makes Cordelia to stand up with the desk between them as a some kind of barrier. “You always get to be happy, you always get to move on, but when I tried to on my own terms you just can’t wrap your head around it,” for once the emotions are pretty easy to read in Raleigh’s usual tired expression. “I’m my own person, one that you still think is eighteen and need to be babied or something, but twenty years have passed Cordelia, twenty fucking years and I’ve never been more awake than now.”

Raleigh’s voice is filled with pain and raw anger that make Cordelia feel the static from the woman’s magic tickling over the skin that isn’t covered with clothes

“So this is what I’ll do, and if you want to kick me out of the Coven just go ahead, because i don’t care anymore: I’m going to move out of the house,” the statement fell like a heavy stone over Cordelia’s stomach. “into the new one with Wilhemina, I’m going to keep working with you out of respect for you, but when it comes to my life the line’s drawn. I’m out of this, I’m out and right now I’m so done with everything that I’m really tempted to walk away and then you’ll never see me again for sure.” a big knife went through Cordelia’s heart. “I don’t even want an apology, because I know that I also made mistakes and probably deserve this; but you owe one to Wilhemina.”

Taking a good look to the couple and then, one of the windows exploded in shards of crystal when a lightning bolt hit it.

“At the end you are just proving that you still have some of Fiona and Myrtle’s roots in you.”

The last thing Raleigh heard was Misty yelling at her to take that back, but it didn’t matter for her anymore because now she was dissolving in her head every single thing that linked her to both her past lovers

she didn’t even need her power to do that, because she just started to let go

When she reached Wilhemina’s room again, after dismissing Queenie and Madison (both genuinely worried about the other woman) from there, she just barely knocked and wait with her forehead pressed against the wood

“I’d break every single window in this house if it proves you that I love you with all that I have,” she tried to joke, her voice wavering and again with the tired tone she always carried nowadays. “I’d break myself if necessary if it means you look at me again...just please, open so I can tell you that I’ve chosen you above anything else.”

Raleigh could feel Mina’s magic moving in the room, could feel her sobbing softly while moving around, but she waited.

A minute first.

Then five.

Then ten.

And when the painful twentieth came around the corner, the door opened.

“What did you just say?”

it only made Raleigh chuckled low, from somewhere within her persona that was trying to not cry, and looked at how Mina was trying to not show her the absolute mess that she was right now, red puffy eyes and tired face trying to be pushed under the strong one that was Wilhemina Venable.

“That I’ll endebt myself if that means you don’t punch me in the face and give me the most little kiss ever,” it was easy to fit a joke to make her love smile. “but the important part is...that I love you Wilhemina, I love you and I’ll do it until the day you don’t want me by your side anymore...and even after that, probably,” Raleigh’s hazel eyes locked with Mina’s and she could see them with the usual cloud that covered them. “And fuck Cordelia, fuck everything, because your happiness...our happiness comes before anyone else to me.”

well, it wasn’t a kiss what Raleigh got, actually Mina slapped her very hard but she quickly put her hand in Ray’s slapped cheek right after that...but it wasn’t a punch, hey!

“you are so stupidly selfless, so stupidly idiotic,” Mina started to say as fresh tears got to her. “that I don’t know how do I love you so much.”

the expectation only made Raleigh sighed deeply but in relief, reaching with her hand to put a lock of Mina’s hair behind her ear. It wasn’t the first time getting slapped anyway, it didn’t hurt much, she could handle it.

“as soon as the house is ready, we are moving there,” Raleigh put her hand over Mina’s and place it better so her thumb was right over the ugly scar there, the only place was forbidden at that point for everyone, so Mina could see she was being totally serious about this. “so...mind sharing the master room with this mess that you love so much?”

Wilhemina didn’t matter after that about anything else, even when Cordelia apologized to her a few days later she didn’t make a whole show, because she just had to look at her side to see the woman she loved and loved her back to understand that she was finally getting her chance to be happy.

and that, yeah, they probably were a fucking mess

but they were a fucking hot one

one that was walking towards the right path for once

and one that, after a week of preparations, was crossing the doorframe of the house that would see them get that happiness they were thriving with the years to come

(with Madison and Queenie at tail, feeling that maybe they finally found their place to belong to among the Coven that gave and took a lot from them in the past years)

#cordelia goode x original character x misty day #raleigh ocean #american horror story #wilhemina venable x original character #ahs coven #ahs apocalypse

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thatonebirbnerd · 5 years ago

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all of this is loveliness

Word count: 1869

Trigger warnings: PTSD/flashbacks (of canon and canon-typical violence), nudity, discussion of sex, several types of intimacy (but not the big one)

My body falls off the side of her bed And now I know what love feels like Don't let me turn into pain All of this is loveliness (source: AURORA - Soft Universe)

Eirwen and Lyri spend an intimate afternoon together while preparing for their wedding. Because the Commander and her lover both need a break. And a hug.

First time writing this kind of stuff, with no relevant life experience... here goes! Yes, the word count is intentionally nice lol.

AO3 link

“Hey! Get back here!”

Lyri chases after me, following the light only she can see like a flitting moth, as we run giddily along the winding paths of the lower Grove. I can only hope that to everyone else around us, we look like an ordinary pair of saplings having fun, naked as the day we stepped out of our pods. I had to let my crystal wings shatter for a while to make the illusion complete… but considering I haven’t been swarmed by adoring fans, maybe that was what I needed.

At last Lyri catches up to me, nearly bowling me over with excitement even though she’s much smaller than me. I let her have what she wants, and fall onto my back as she tackles me and rolls us both over and over. We laugh until we’re out of breath. It’s hard to believe someone loves me this much, for the first time since the Dream… since the moment I thought I’d never see her again. I wish our tumble across the grass could last forever, but alas, we come to a stop. Lyri is on top of me, her arms now wrapped around my neck.

“You wanna go inside?” Lyri’s voice is suddenly quieter. She’s trying to be sultry. It’s adorable.

“Sure.” I respond in a whisper. She giggles as she realizes I’m making fun of her. “Uhh… get on my back!”

I’m not sure where I got that idea, but I guess I said it anyway. I stand up, and carry her into our cozy neighborhood of Dreamer’s Terrace as she whoops and hollers. “Oh, the pool!” she squeals. “Let’s do a double cannonball!”

There’s a pool of water just outside the spiraling, organic apartment complex we call home. It’s small but deep, and hidden quite well from the city around it. Just have to walk through the mercifully empty atrium, and to the left…

“You’re getting heavy,” I joke. “Careful!”

I let my wings reform over Lyri, for just a split second, and carry us up in the highest leap I can muster. We both scream with delight as we splash down from the height. The noise we’re making must be tremendous. As we swim to the surface, I’m distracted for a bit by the thought that some enterprising gossip might find us here. We can’t attract too much attention…

“What’s wrong, dearheart?” I don’t know how Lyri senses that I’m distracted. Can she see the distant look in my eyes, or can she just tell?

“Nothing. Just… we might need to keep it down while we're here. I’m worried someone might barge in, looking for either of us."

“Then let’s just be quiet, and we'll stay for as long as we want.”

You know how I said I wanted that moment, just minutes ago, where we were rolling on the ground in each other’s arms, to last forever?

Honestly, I’d rather have this. Just the two of us, treading water. No words in the stillness, and no worry in our minds: no Bangar, no Jormag.

It’s cool and humid here, on the shaded lower level of the Grove. There are thick, tangled trees around the pool we’re in, and I can see street lamps poking through the gaps. The pathway leading past us, on the other side of the makeshift wall, is rarely traveled - and if someone were to pass by, now that we’re not making a ruckus, all they’d be able to see would be our heads. There’s a bath house to my right, next to the entrance leading back into the atrium - a good place to wash off the debris of a hard day’s work.

Lyri puts her hand on my neck, slowly guiding it down my back. It’s not often that she can see every detail, so she relies on touch to truly know me. Her hand comes to a sudden halt at the base of my spine, and her mouth makes a surprised little O. There is a sprout there, on both of our growth sockets, ready to burst into branches and petals that will twist around our bodies and become our wedding gowns. And these buds are why we’ve come home, free of the burden of armor, to see each other as we are. For now they itch, the wonderful itch of growth, and of a beautiful thing to come. But in a few weeks, she’ll be as gorgeous as ever, and I’ll just be… me in a dress.

The sites of my old scars are a little rough on Lyri’s fingers, even compared to her woody green bark. In seven years, I’d taken hits from blades, blasts, Brand crystals… the list was endless. I can’t help but think that if I were human, made of fragile flesh rather than sturdy wood, I would be dead many times over. Even if I don’t count the time I actually died.

Speaking of which, Lyri ducks below the surface and plants a kiss between my breasts, a bit too close to the remnants of Balthazar’s killing blow. I grimace a bit and recoil with a splash, even though the wound is long-healed. “Ow… careful!” The pain is more mental than physical; I’m trying to push back the memories of two and a half years ago. Now is not the time.

As the waters calm, I swim back toward Lyri and press my palm to her stomach, on her own scar, a dimple in the bark. This one is fresh, barely a month old. From the arrow. I feel her breaths get quicker as she gazes at what little she can see of me, like a terrified puppy. She hugs me in a way she hasn’t before, holding on tight, begging for love and protection.

“I didn’t mean… I’m sorry, Lyri. I’m so sorry.” She shouldn’t have had to suffer so much, shouldn’t have nearly died for me a second time. I don’t know how else to help, other than to return her embrace, tickling the buds in the small of her back. She ruffles my leafy hair, and her smile returns, a worried smile.

I stroke Lyri’s arm, and she giggles a little and relaxes again. Her limbs are just the slightest bit thinner than they should be, and she doesn’t have the endurance nor the strength of most sylvari. But there is no point in cursing a long-dead dragon for forcing her into the world early, too early to let her experience it with all five senses. I’d rather say the best words I can. “You’re still perfect, dearheart.”

Lyri lets out a contented sigh. “Eirwen?”

“Yeah?”

“What do humans call their loves?”

“Oh my goodness, you wouldn’t believe the names. “Cutie pie,” “sweetie pie.” Can’t blame them; pie is good. “Baby,” for another one, but what is a baby but a tiny helpless crying human? I heard something about “mommy” and “daddy” once, but that just sounded strange. Oh, and there was “honey.” I liked that one.”

“I like it too. Honey’s sweet. Fits you.”

“That’s funny; I was going to say the same thing about you.”

“Oh, and… what’s that other thing that humans do? The one in be-”

“Lyri!” My laughter is more of a cackle at that one. “I haven’t seen it! Wasp-stings if I know what it’s like! ”

“I’m pretty sure they use something down…” Lyri points between her legs. “…here?”

“Lyri, you’re killing me!” It’s a bit hard, I admit, to double over laughing while in the water.

“You know I ask stupid sapling questions sometimes. Learning more about the world makes me want to try new things, now that I have you.”

“What do you mean, “new things?””

“Maybe just… getting to know each other more, while we have peace and quiet. Would that be okay?”

“I suppose so. Just… don’t hurt us both, promise?”

“I promise.”

And then Lyri pulls me under.

But rather than take the lead, she lets herself sink into my arms. She caresses me, and I find myself exploring her in ways I couldn’t with my eyes alone, below the leaves that preserve some semblance of modesty to the folk around us. Hidden petals slip slowly through Lyri’s fingers. She offers less for my touch to savor, but there is enough; even nothing would be enough. We revel in each other, and it shows on our faces, in the gasps of pleasure and embarrassed laughs that come out only as bubbles.

Yet something nags at me. It’s not easy for a sylvari to drown. But… I’m thinking about everyone else. This time, I’m taken back to seven years ago, fighting in the foul waters of Orr. So many who shouldn’t have fallen. For a moment, Lyri’s face is the face of the only other woman I dared fall for, dragged into the deep by a Risen fiend -

No. Stop that. I sink to the bottom and open myself to Lyri’s kisses, or whatever she wants to do. But rather than oblige, she stops and leads me to the surface to breathe. She can tell I’m worried again. “Eirwen, what’s wrong?”

“I wish it were nothing. I was just… thinking about Orr. There was someone I… tried to move on with, after I lost you. I had to… leave her behind. But you’re here, so I shouldn’t be thinking about this -”

“You couldn’t save her. I can hear it in your voice. It’s okay, my light,” she tells me. “It took so long to find you but… now I’ll always be here. You’re safe.” I have to repeat those final words to myself before I can believe Lyri’s reassurance. “And I forgive you.”

---

The unbridled ecstasy and lingering fear gradually wear off, and I lead Lyri toward the water’s edge and into the bath house. I gently move her arm toward one of the streams tumbling from crevices in the walls, and the water dances over her palm. She jumps back a bit and turns to face me with a smile, before walking toward the waterfall again to rinse the muck out of the vines that adorn her head. I join her, and we frolic for just a bit longer, splashing each other playfully and slinging the silliest of flattery back and forth.

“Mordremoth must have been terrified of allowing you to see how beautiful you are.”

“Good thing that damned dragon couldn’t handle your biceps!”

At last, Lyri yawns. “I’m tired.”

“Me too.” For a moment I hear a whisper in the back of my mind: rest. No, it’s safe to do that here, so far away from Jormag. “Want to lie down on the shore?”

“With you, yeah.”

I hold Lyri’s hand and guide her over to the pool. It’s dusk now, and her faint golden bioluminescence is beginning to peek through as we watch fireflies dance across the pond. She curls up on the damp, mossy soil, her head on one dainty arm. “Love you, you big glowy thing,” she says sleepily.

“Love you too… honey.”

As she nods off and I lie awake next to her, my bark against hers, I realize that maybe this is the moment that I want to last forever.

#guild wars 2 #gw2 #gw2 fanfiction #tyriaslibrary #fanfic #sylvari #kestrel writes #valiant eirwen #lyri twiceborn #ptsd //#nudity //#romance #intimacy #not *quite* smut?#ask to tag

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artificialqueens · 5 years ago

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Paper Rings (Witney) - opalescentcheetah

A/N: To the anon who requested a fic with “Paper Rings” by Taylor Swift in it: here you go! This was so much fun to write, and I hope it was worth the wait!

Summary: “Courtney giggles quietly to herself, tucking the slip of paper into her pocket. There must be more of them hidden somewhere… Willam’s playing a game, and Courtney’s going to win it.”

Willam, 5:51 pm: play this song on ur way home xx

Courtney smiles to herself, sliding into the driver’s seat and hitting play. A steady beat fills the car, and she finds herself bobbing her head, humming wordlessly along as the second chorus starts playing.

“I like shiny things, but I’d marry you with paper rings

Uh huh, that’s right

Darling, you’re the one I want, and

I hate accidents except when we went from friends to this…”

Courtney is surprised to find the apartment empty when she arrives, the hallways eerily quiet and dark. She flicks a switch, flooding the entryway with golden light, and calls out for Willam.

The only reply she gets is the echo of her own tired voice.

She pulls out her phone, intending to text Willam, but finding instead that she received a message while she was driving home.

Willam, 6:04 pm: Out running errands. I left some stuff around the house that u should go look for ;)

Stuff? Courtney isn’t sure she has the patience for this, but she can’t say no to Willam.

Courtney, 6:08 pm: Ok. See you soon <3

If she can’t have a greeting kiss from Willam, then Courtney wants a drink. There’s a clear, empty glass on the bench that, curiously, doesn’t even seem to have been used – there aren’t any lipstick stains on the rim.

It takes her a moment to notice the small white object curled in the bottom of the glass. Tipping it into her palm, she finds a slip of paper, rolled and twisted into the shape of a ring.

Paper rings.

Courtney has known Willam long enough to know she’s planning something. She feels a small spark of excitement building in her chest, her exhaustion forgotten as she unravels the paper ring. Willam’s rough, quick letters are cramped into the small space, smudges of blue ink peppering the edge of the paper.

Remember that night when we first met? I was high as fuck and you were so unimpressed. Well, look where we are now!

She’s sixteen, in a foreign country, lost and alone in a world of people that already seem to know each other.

She misses Vanity. She misses Lisa and Jess, and even all the others that she didn’t know quite so well. At least she knew their names; here, she knows nothing about no-one.

That is, except for Alaska. Courtney’s not sure where she’d be without her. Alaska is like her Northern Star, guiding her through all the ins and outs of American high school.

“You’re still coming tonight, right?” Alaska drawls, rocking back in her chair. Courtney watches as she blows a blossom-pink bubble, hears the satisfying snap as it pops again.

“Yeah,” is all she manages.

“Are you nervous?”

It’s only been a week and Alaska already seems to know her inside-out. She shrugs, feigning nonchalance.

“I mean, a little bit, I guess… But it’s an opportunity to meet new people, so of course I’m going.”

“Good.” Alaska smiles at her, and Courtney feels a little more relaxed. “I want you to meet some of my other friends, and then we can all hang out together.”

The bell rings a moment later, and Alaska is the first to stand. “I’ll see you there!” she calls, waving cheerfully as she disappears into the swarm of unfamiliar faces.

Courtney waits outside, tugging nervously at her skirt as she waits for Alaska. She arrives in a whirlwind, linking her arm with Courtney’s and dragging her through the gate into the noise and electric lights. Courtney stumbles along, not quite sure where they’re going, but content to simply trail behind her.

“Sharon! Willam!” Alaska calls out over the din of other partygoers. Courtney follows her gaze to see two girls leaning languidly against a nearby wall. One raises her arm in a casual wave whilst the other stares lazily onwards, hardly moving a muscle. Alaska pulls Courtney to a halt before them, grinning brightly.

“You guys, meet Courtney. She’s new, from Australia. Courtney, this is Willam, and Sharon.” Alaska points to them in turn, and Courtney can only nod dizzily.

“From down undah, hey?” Willam queries, putting on a false, over-exaggerated Australian accent. “What’s it like coming from nowhere land?”

“Willam!” Sharon hisses, elbowing her sharply. “Don’t be rude.”

Willam just laughs, her movements slow and lethargic. Courtney doesn’t even need to look at the joint she raises to her lips to know she’s high. She chooses to ignore Willam, instead extending her hand to Sharon to shake.

“Don’t wanna pay me any attention, princess?” Willam asks, when it becomes clear Courtney isn’t going to offer her the same formality. She sticks her arm out, waggling her fingers in Courtney’s face.

Courtney bats her away, slightly exasperated. “Definitely not after that awful Australian accent,” she quips, feeling pleased when Alaska and Sharon promptly burst out laughing. Willam frowns, something flashing strangely in her eyes. Courtney looks away from the streaks of colour in her hair, watching as the smoke spirals up towards the moon.

Courtney giggles quietly to herself, tucking the slip of paper into her pocket. There must be more of them hidden somewhere… Willam’s playing a game, and Courtney’s going to win it.

She downs a glass of water as she considers where to look. Their apartment isn’t large, but there are countless nooks and crannies Willam could hide an inconspicuous paper ring in.

It takes several moments of drumming her fingers against the glass for her to realise that she’s still wearing her work clothes, her collar done up tight and stockings itchy against her legs. Upon deciding that a treasure hunt would be much more enjoyable in pajamas, Courtney wanders down the hall into the bedroom.

The sheets are immaculately made, and there’s a small pile of clothes sitting on the edge that Courtney soon realises are her pajamas. Usually, she’d leave them in a haphazard mess somewhere on the ground or on her pillow, and they would still be there when she returned home. Her heart fizzles with warmth when she realises Willam took the time to carefully fold each garment, creating a neat stack at the foot of the bed.

And, alas, there is the second paper ring, the crowning glory of the pajama pile. Courtney sinks onto the mattress, muscles relaxing as she unravels the second note.

Remember when I made you jump in the pool with me in the middle of winter? Alaska said it was cause you were so stupidly in love with me that you’d do anything I asked you to. I think I was a little bit stupidly in love with you, too.

Willam’s explosive splash sends water surging over the edge of the pool, spraying the cold stone and wetting Courtney’s feet. She shivers, standing in the brisk wintry breeze, pulling her jacket tighter around her shoulders.

It’s her first American winter, and Courtney is struggling to acclimate. She’s used to the warmer Australian weather, when she could wander around the school grounds with nothing but a jumper over her stiff school dress.

And yet, here’s Willam, leaping into her backyard pool in late November, when the trees have shed their leaves and the sky is crisp and cold. Courtney watches as her head breaks the water, the edges of her eyes crinkling in laughter. She looks gorgeous with her hair fanning out behind her, strands of blonde and pink and blue like the arms of a jellyfish.

“You two should come in!” Willam calls out, failing to hide how her teeth are chattering. “It’s real nice!”

Alaska scoffs beside Courtney, shooting Willam a withering look. “I wouldn’t trust you to run a business,” she comments, covering her smile with one hand. “You’d never sell anything when you’re that unconvincing.”

“You bitch,” Willam gasps, disappearing under the water again. Its surface ripples in the breeze, distorting the shape of her slender figure as she paddles to the pool’s edge. Courtney doesn’t take her eyes off of her as she surges up again, spraying water across the stone as she shakes her sodden hair out of her face.

“I’m convincing,” Willam promises, eyes darting over to meet Courtney’s. “You’ll come in, won’t you, Court? Show Alaska how nice it is for me.” She shoots her a winning smile, perfect teeth flashing in the winter sun, and Courtney forgets how to say no.

She can’t resist Willam. She hasn’t been able to for months now; seeing her always sends a rush of warmth through Courtney’s chest, like a swarm of butterflies with delicate wings tickling her ribcage. It makes her crazy, makes her want to see and touch and just be near Willam whenever she can. She’s not sure whether she loves or hates it; whether she wants to hug or to slap Alaska for forcing them to become friends.

Her body seems to move without command, stripping her of her jacket, her shirt, and her skin-tight blue jeans. She sees Alaska’s jaw drop, watches as Willam’s eyes light up in triumphant delight.

“Court…” Alaska’s voice is slow, the hint of a warning lacing her words. “Don’t be dumb… You’re gonna make yourself sick.”

Courtney’s standing at the edge of the pool now, icy water lapping at her bare toes. “Willam seems fine,” she replies simply, not giving herself a moment to reconsider before she plunges into the cold, blue depths.

‘Cold’ is an understatement, as Courtney soon discovers. The water is frigid, chilling her straight to her bones. Her limbs stiffen, momentarily frozen in shock, leaving her drifting deeper in a cloud of bubbles.

And then she sees a dark shape floating closer, a halo of gold hair around gaunt, elegant cheekbones.

Willam grabs Courtney’s hand in the water, sending that familiar rush of warmth through her body, and suddenly she remembers how to move. They kick upwards together, breaking into the crisp, clear air, and Courtney can breathe again. She feels a laugh bubble up inside her, giddy and warm despite the blueness of her lips.

“You’re both stupid,” Alaska tells them, shaking her head exasperatedly. “So, so stupid.”

And Courtney just giggles, happy to be here with her best friends, Willam’s arm pressed lightly against hers.

The next ring is in the bathroom.

Courtney finds it coiled around the faucet when she goes to use the toilet. Too excited to dry her hands properly, she unravels the slip of paper with damp fingers, smudges of blue coming away on her skin.

Remember our stupid fight? You were nice enough to take me home despite everything. I wanted to kiss you that night, but I was a pussy.

Courtney hasn’t talked to Willam in months.

She sees her at play rehearsal and in passing in the halls, but Willam never looks back. Her stormy eyes are always as cold and hard as steel, drilling holes in the ground with her gaze whenever Courtney is in her vicinity.

Watching Willam drift away was like losing a limb. The ghost sensation of her body beside Courtney’s was always there, pulling her deeper into its ethereal embrace and whispering cruel things in her ear. She can still feel it now, in the pounding of her heart whenever she sees Willam and the prickling of her skin when she brushes past.

Courtney would be a fool to pretend she didn’t know what was wrong. The musical the school had chosen to put on this year was one of Willam’s favourites, and when Courtney had snagged the lead role, Willam stormed off to wallow in her own jealousy. Courtney couldn’t believe Willam was stubborn enough to let such a meaningless situation worry her for so long, but at the same time, she herself didn’t know what to do about it. Willam wouldn’t do so much as look at her, not even when they were side-by-side on the stage, shivering under the scrutinising glare of their drama teacher.

“There,” Courtney gasps, pushing the last set board into the storage room. “That’s all of them, right?”

“Yep.” Bianca wipes her palms on her paint-splattered jeans. “Thanks for helping out.”

“My pleasure.” Courtney pauses, meeting Bianca’s hazelnut eyes. “How did you like the show?”

“How did I find it? Well, from the perspective of a crew member sitting backstage most of the time, you all sounded pretty good.”

Courtney visibly flushes, heat flooding her cheeks. “Shit, sorry. Stupid question.”

“Yeah, it was,” Bianca laughs, flashing her dimples. “Anyways, I’ll see you tomorrow!”

Courtney waves as Bianca disappears through the backstage door. The auditorium is eerily quiet now that she’s the only one there; the shadows beneath the seats seem darker, the fluorescent lights too bright. She throws on her jacket as she exits out the front of the school, the cool air immediately brushing goosebumps over her skin. A flash of movement catches her attention, and she’s shocked to find Willam there, leaning casually against the school gate as she waits in the dark. She doesn’t acknowledge Courtney, staring resolutely out into the night instead.

Courtney decides that it can’t hurt to at least try at conversation. She sidles up next to Willam, struggling to keep a cool façade. Sometimes she wonders how Willam does it.

“What are you still doing here?” Courtney’s voice hardly sounds like her own, delicate and soft, as though Willam’s a wild animal she’s scared of chasing off. She wonders, briefly, if Willam will even respond.

“I could ask you the same thing.” Willam shrugs briskly, eyes looking anywhere but at Courtney.

“My parents couldn’t come ’til a little later, so I helped the crew pack up.”

“Good for you,” Willam snaps, crossing her arms. Courtney doesn’t miss the goosebumps crawling across her skin or the way she shivers, curling in closer to herself. “My folks forgot about me.”

Pity pierces Courtney’s heart like a knife, and the words spill out before she can stop them. “Come home with me,” she blurts out, immediately wishing she hadn’t said anything. “I-I mean, it’s probably easier, since – since you live so far away and all. I, uh… you look cold.” She finishes lamely, twisting the hem of her jacket in her fingers.

It feels like an eternity before Willam finally replies. Courtney’s heart skips a beat when Willam looks at her again, meeting her eyes for the first time in months. “Are you sure?” is all she says, and Courtney’s immediately nodding, hardly able to believe what’s happening.

“I… uh, thanks.” Willam drops her gaze again and Courtney wants nothing more than to tilt her chin up, stare into those stormcloud eyes and tell her it’s all okay. But she keeps her words to herself instead, letting herself wonder what Willam might say if she told her how much she missed her.

Willam, 6:26 pm: You see a pattern yet? ;) ;)

A pattern? Courtney’s already noticed how the stories have been in chronological order, but she thought it might’ve just been coincidence.

Wait. No.

Willam’s trail of paper rings has followed her usual post-work routine. Get a drink. Get changed, use the bathroom.

Eat dinner.

The next ring is in the kitchen.

Courtney dashes down the hall as fast as her tired legs will allow, nearly slipping on the polished wood floors. She scans the countertop and their small dining table, even going so far as to check every chair, but there is no sign of a small white ring. The seconds tick by as she stands alone, breathing quietly in the wash of artificial gold light.

Think, Courtney. Dinner. Dinner…

“The fridge!” she gasps aloud, nearly knocking her hip on the counter in her haste to get there. Last night’s leftover Chinese is still stashed away, ready to be reheated and eaten again.

Sure enough, the ring is there, perched atop the Tupperware container. Courtney feels a spark of triumph when she sees it. She’s getting the hang of Willam’s little game, unspoken rules cementing themselves in her mind.

Remember that game of Spin the Bottle, when we accidentally went from friends to this? Fate knew what it was doing when it put you in my lap.

The music pounds through Courtney’s bones, tremors in the ground sending shivers of adrenaline through her veins. The empty bottle glints in the dim light, beckoning her, and she closes her fingers around it.

The exhilaration is palpable, burning through every fibre of her body and fizzling in the air. It might just be a stupid party game, but it feels to Courtney like a time of exploration. Like this might be a little taste of freedom.

“Spin it! Spin it!” Alaska starts a low chant, and soon the others are joining in until there is a chorus of voices pressing in on Courtney’s skin.

She spins, and the room falls silent, everyone’s eyes on the whirling bottle. Courtney waits with bated breath as it slows, and stops, the narrow end pointing like a compass needle straight at…

Willam.

Courtney’s breath hitches in her throat, heart pounding at her ribs as though it wants to be set free. Willam beckons her over, eyebrows quirked playfully, and Courtney wonders how she looks so calm. Every inch of her skin feels like it’s burning as she crawls across the circle to sit beside her, just close enough for their skin to brush.

“What, are you scared?” Willam teases, and Courtney hears someone snicker.

“O-Of course not.” She’s struggling to keep her voice steady, gaze flickering from Willam’s face to the ground and back again.

“Pussy,” Willam whispers as she leans in, and Courtney shivers despite Willam’s hot breath on her skin, every touch burning through Courtney’s flesh.

And then their lips are meeting, and Courtney forgets how to think. She can’t remember how long she’s wanted this for – this moment, with Willam’s fingertips lightly tracing her jawline and her mouth against Courtney’s, is the only thing that’s ever seemed to matter.

All too soon they’re breaking apart. Willam’s leaning back again, pressing her palms to the floor as she smirks at Courtney. “How was that?”

Courtney doesn’t know how to speak, her heart in her throat as she replays the kiss over and over again in her mind. “Good,” she manages, voice quiet, hardly able to meet Willam’s eyes. She feels like she might be dreaming.

“You suck, Willam,” Bianca laughs, snapping Courtney back to reality. “She’s not impressed at all!”

Willam scowls. “She said it was good, you bitch!”

“Yeah, ’cause she’s too nice to tell you otherwise!”

The rest of the circle erupts into shrieks of laughter, and Courtney feels her cheeks burn. She feels sorry for Willam, but she doesn’t have the words to tell her that it was probably one of the best things to ever happen to her.

So she says nothing at all, slinking wordlessly back to her side of the circle instead.

Courtney drives Willam home that night. Willam is uncharacteristically quiet, sitting with her arms folded as she stares out the window.

“Willam,” Courtney finally says, eyes still on the road. “Are you okay?”

She catches Willam’s shrug in her peripheral vision. A moment’s silence passes between them, Willam shifting quietly in her seat.

“Yeah,” she finally says. “I was just… thinking.”

“About what?” Courtney prompts her, pulling the car into a right-hand turn.

“The kiss. I… was it really that bad?”

Courtney is so startled she nearly swerves into the gutter. Swallowing back a gasp, she pulls over to park, twisting around to give Willam her full attention.

Willam’s frowning, toying with the hem of her skirt. “Wow. Way to say yes, Courtney.”

“I – no, I – uh, that’s not what I meant,” she stammers, hating to see Willam like this. “It was… it was actually really good. Like… really good.” She falters. Her words aren’t coming to her, slipping away like sand through her fingers. The truth feels like too much, but saying anything else doesn’t feel like enough.

She’s right – Willam hardly looks convinced. “You don’t need to lie, Courtney, I can take it,” she says, voice harder now, and Courtney worries she’s offended.

“Yeah, but, that’s the thing. I’m not lying,” Courtney insists. Why does this have to be so difficult?

She takes a deep breath, steeling herself for what she’s about to do. You can do this. You’re brave enough. She repeats the words over and over in her head, leaning across the console to take Willam’s hand. Blood is pounding in her ears as she rests her other hand against Willam’s neck, pulling her closer. Willam’s eyes flash in realisation and she leans closer without prompting, letting Courtney press their lips together again. This kiss is soft and careful, as fragile and delicate as a butterfly’s wing. Willam seems to melt into Courtney’s touch, muscles relaxing beneath warm, tanned skin.

“I love your kisses the most,” Courtney whispers against Willam’s mouth as they pull apart to breathe. She feels Willam draw back slightly, her fingers still absentmindedly tracing Courtney’s jawline.

“Then why were you so weird about it at the party?” Willam’s eyes are downcast, her voice hardly more than a whisper.

Guilt stabs at Courtney’s chest. She fumbles for her words, the silence pressing heavily in on her. “I…” She doesn’t know how to say it, but knows that she should. “I really, really like you, Willam.”

She’s settled for something simple, and it does the job. Willam rears backwards as though she’s been slapped, her eyes flaring wide open in surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah, really really really,” Courtney manages to giggle despite her thundering heart.

“No, I mean, I – are you serious?”

“Of course I’m serious, you idiot.” Courtney’s gaze is locked on Willam’s, her fingers tangling gently in Willam’s cascading curls. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Willam just shakes her head, and Courtney doesn’t miss the wonder in her eyes. “Can… can I kiss you again?” she whispers, pulling Courtney closer before she even gets the chance to nod. Their lips collide roughly, teeth clicking together, but Courtney thinks it’s perfect.

“I really like you, too,” Willam gasps between kisses. “Really, really, really.”

Courtney’s silent, too caught up in Willam’s lips to respond. She lets months of desperate, bottled-up feeling release themselves against Willam’s touch, wordlessly showing Willam how her confession made her heart skip faster, heat spreading through her skin like honey.

She doesn’t know how long they sit there for, tangled up in each other. Courtney feels warm and soft, like kissing Willam has washed her clean, made her new.

“Will you be my girlfriend?” Willam asks softly against her cheek, and Courtney wonders how she ever got to be so lucky.

Remember the road trip we went on, when I asked if we might be forever? I’m no poet, but I remember how the setting sun turned your hair to fire and I wondered how someone could look so beautiful.

They’re sitting on the roof of the car, fingers interlocked as they stare out over the ocean. The trees whisper in the twilight breeze, cicadas chirping from their branches, but Courtney hardly notices. She only wants to think about Willam, sitting comfortably beside her, her head resting on Courtney’s shoulder.

The sun is casting orange streaks across the water and turning the clouds to wisps of flame. This sunset feels different somehow; more special. Maybe it’s the endless tangerine sky. Maybe it’s Willam.

“Courtney,” Willam murmurs suddenly, “do you think we could last forever?”

Courtney, taken aback by her unusual softness, twists around to face her. Willam pulls herself upright, eyes on Courtney’s face.

“I…” Courtney takes a moment, sifting carefully through her words. “I’d like us to.”

“So would I,” Willam agrees quietly.

A beat of silence hovers between them. Courtney traces her thumb over Willam’s knuckles.

“I love you, Willam,” she says finally.

It’s a gentle confession, as light as a butterfly landing on Willam’s nose. She smiles like Courtney’s just kissed her, eyes lighting up like a torch in the dark.

“I love you too, Courtney.”

Remember when we first moved in and you made me breakfast? It was perfect, and that Monday felt a little less awful.

Courtney’s awake with the sunrise, standing in the dove-grey light of the kitchen as breakfast fizzles on the stove. The morning is dreamy and soft, and the house is warm despite the frost bordering the windowpanes. The kitchen still feels homely, and the silence is heavy and comfortable despite her lack of company. She knows Willam is just down the hall, rolled up in a nest of blankets with her hair spilling out in golden waves onto her pillow.

The image makes Courtney smile as she cooks the bacon. She’s not used to preparing meat, as she never eats it, but Willam makes strange things worth it.

The calm that surrounds her is immediately shattered by a series of crashing sounds followed by a chain of expletives. Courtney whirls around in time to see Willam staggering down the hallway, her pajama shirt sliding down one shoulder.

“Fucking hell. Courtney? …Oh, there you are.” Wandering closer, Willam wraps her arms around Courtney’s waist, pressing a gentle kiss to her neck.

“What just happened?” Courtney asks, running delicate fingers through Willam’s messy curls.

“I fell off the fucking bed.” Willam’s voice is still thick and raspy with sleep. “Right before my alarm was gonna go off.”

“Oh my god, you’re so stupid.”

“You’re stupid,” Willam retorts affectionately, pulling herself back upright. “What were you doing, anyways?”

“Making breakfast.” The bacon’s done now; Courtney shuts the flame off, piling the strips of meat onto a plate. “There. For you.”

The smile that lights up Willam’s eyes sends warm honey flowing through Courtney’s veins. She presses a kiss to Willam’s cheek before handing her a set of cutlery. “Enjoy. Coffee’ll be ready in a tick.”

Willam doesn’t move for several moments, standing in the kitchen watching Courtney work. “You’re amazing,” she finally says, sounding awestruck. “So fucking amazing.”

Courtney giggles as a rosy blush tints her cheeks. “Just go eat,” she says, pouring the coffee. She adds the milk carefully, determined to make this exactly the way Willam likes it.

“Is it okay?” she asks tentatively as she sets the coffee down. The bacon isn’t perfect, and she knows it – it’s a little crisp and burnt around the edges. She just needs to know if it’s edible.

“I love it,” Willam replies, her tired eyes bright, and Courtney’s face relaxes into a smile.

The next ring is a command.

There aren’t any more memories of their early days together. Instead, there are six short words.

Go back to where we confessed.

Courtney steps outside and the light flickers on, casting the shadows of distracted moths across the stone. The car is hardly more than a silhouette in the driveway, lumpy and distorted and strange. Upbeat music starts playing as she waits, briefly, for her eyes to adjust.

“The moon is high

Like your friends were the night that we first met

Went home and tried to stalk you on the internet

Now I’ve read all of the books beside your bed…”

The song is familiar, the ride home from work echoing back in Courtney’s mind as she approaches the car.

And there’s Willam, sitting cross-legged on the roof. She looks gorgeous in the moonlight, her skin lit up with silver, and Courtney’s breath hitches in her throat. She’s stunning, and Courtney’s overjoyed to see her. Willam fiddles with her hands in her lap, reaching up to gingerly tuck a strand of starlit hair behind her ear.

“Hey, Courtney.” She slides off the car, heels clicking gently on the stone as she stands and presses a gentle kiss to Courtney’s cheek. “Did you like the rings?” Her grin is playful, but Courtney doesn’t miss the nervousness in her eyes.

“Loved them,” Courtney replies, sliding her arms around Willam’s waist and pulling her close. “But I still love you more.” Her lips graze the edge of Willam’s mouth, and she feels Willam’s breathy sigh on her skin, her back stiffening beneath Courtney’s touch. Standing straight again, Courtney meets Willam’s eyes, holding her gaze for a moment. “What are we doing out here, anyways?” she asks, poking Willam’s cheek. “I know you’re planning something.”

“You’re so daft,” Willam tells her, arms around her shoulders. “I thought it would be obvious.”

“You brought me back through memories that defined our relationship,” Courtney murmurs wistfully, eyes darting towards the car. “Are you going to take me back to all the special places too?”

“I mean, that’s a good idea, but – Courtney, did you even listen to the song?”

Courtney pouts. “You know I suck at remembering lyrics.”

“Okay, yeah, not gonna lie – you really do.” Willam lets out a fraught giggle, and Courtney wonders why she’s acting so strange. She seems stiff, worried – not quite the easygoing person Courtney’s come to love. They stand quietly for a moment, and Courtney hunts for clues in Willam’s features, surrounded only by Taylor Swift’s light, cheerful voice reaching the song’s chorus.

“I like shiny things, but I’d marry you with paper rings

Uh huh, that’s right

Darling, you’re the one I want…”

It hits her just as Willam steps back and drops to one knee. There’s a small, black box in her palm, and she opens it as she raises it towards Courtney.

“Let me make tonight the next step for us,” she begins, and Courtney can only stand and stare at her through blurring eyes, her mind struggling to process what’s happening.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Willam continues, her voice choking up with emotion, and Courtney can see the tears glistening silver at the corners of her eyes. “I want to go through the rest of my life with you beside me. I want this to be our symbol of forever. Will you marry me, Courtney?”

Courtney’s voice is shaky, throat rasping with emotion as she responds. “Yes,” she gasps, smiling so wide her cheeks start to ache. Cool silver brushes her skin as Willam slides the ring onto her finger, and then she’s squealing in delight as Willam tackles her, picking her up and spinning her around.

“I love you, Willam,” Courtney whispers as Willam puts her down again, their bodies close as they stand, entangled in the moonlight. “I love you so, so much.”

Willam doesn’t respond, instead pressing her lips to Courtney’s. The kiss is salty with joyous tears, and Courtney feels electric, her body warm despite the cool breeze. The music is still playing in the background, steady rhythms humming through the perfect night.

“Kiss me once ’cause I know you had a long night

Kiss me twice ’cause it’s gonna be alright

Three times ’cause you waited your whole life…”

#rpdr fanfiction #courtney act #willam belli #alaska thunderfuck #bianca del rio #witney #fluff #lesbian au #tw minor drug use #concrit welcome #submission #cheetah

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