#but regardless: don’t drink on an empty stomach and drink plenty of water too
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I had planned to go out for st paddys day today but honestly i think it’s best that this weekend is a relaxed one for me.
So here i am, at home drinking rum and diet coke while playing the new Moomin game. All the while wearing a green Guinness themed t shirt because staying in doesn’t mean i can’t be festive
#Fhéile Pádraig Sona duit#if you are out and drinking… we’ll it’s probably a bit late for this warning#but regardless: don’t drink on an empty stomach and drink plenty of water too#zippy speaks
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Adrien and Sawdust part 4
masterlist
cw: pet whump, unreliable narrator, disordered eating
Adrien knocked on Sawdust’s door an hour after the sun came up. He kept his voice soft, not wanting to disturb him too much if he was asleep, and not wanting to startle him if he was awake.
“Sawdust, I’m making breakfast downstairs. You can come to the kitchen when you’re ready, or I’ll leave your food outside your door if you don’t.” His socked feet didn’t make too much noise going down the stairs, but he drummed his fingers along the railing to make that extra bit of sound so that Sawdust would know where he was headed, and that he wasn’t still looming outside of his door.
Adrien made himself some eggs and toast, and poured out a bowl of that unfrosted cereal for Sawdust. He assumed that the pet wasn’t going to want something like eggs. Along with it he put a spoon in the bowl, and poured a glass of water.
Breakfast time ticked by slowly past Adrien as he ate his breakfast alone. If he hadn’t heard Sawdust speak, he would have assumed that the pet couldn’t understand him. He dragged his hands down his face before putting his own dishes in the dishwasher, taking the food and drink prepared for Sawdust up to his bedroom.
“It’s alright that you don’t want to come out.” He set the bowl and cup on the floor at the door. “Food’s out here for you. I’ll be in the office, it’s downstairs, you can come find me if you need anything.”
Again, Adrien made a bigger deal than usual of going down the stairs. He normally moved quietly around his house, making too much noise made him feel like he was drawing attention to himself, even though he knew that the house was empty. Now, as he goes, he purposefully makes his footfalls heavier, fingers drumming on everything he can, hoping that Sawdust can hear him move and that it eases some of the pet’s worries.
Taking a seat at his computer desk in his sparsely decorated office room, Adrien got to work.
--
Did Sawdust hear that right? Master wasn’t leaving?
The second Sawdust registered that, his stomach dropped. He was anticipating being able to dispose of last night’s uneaten food while Master was out, but now he’s going to have to wait. He heard Master go down the stairs again.
Only when Master was safely downstairs and the sounds stopped did Sawdust poke out of the room and pull in what was left outside for him. The colorful porcelain bowl was filled with some brown square-ish… kibble? Sawdust leaned down and sniffed it, but it didn’t fill his senses with the dense, meaty smell that dog food did. It really didn’t smell like much, and it left him confused. Regardless, his mouth began to water just knowing that it was meant to be edible. Yet he was uncertain if he could eat it.
His stomach gnawed at itself. He had gotten fed by the last people who had him, but they had given him so little. He let out a little whine, one that at least would have brought some of the other dogs over with his last master. A whine that would’ve summoned up comforting licks from the other dogs, but now he was alone. Sure, the other dogs could have been mean, especially when Master made them mean on purpose, but they were still kind at times, and the closest thing Sawdust had to family.
It always hurt Sawdust to see one of them come back with bloody scratches and bite marks, but his master would always tell him that the dogs had to fight in order to make money, so that Sawdust could be fed.
Sawdust didn’t fight. That was why Master always made it clear that he’d be the first one to go if things got tough, so it was Sawdust’s job to keep the other dogs ready for when Master needed them. He’d make sure they ate before he did, make sure they drank before him, and always let them be bathed first. By the time Sawdust’s turn came, the food bowl was nearly empty, the water bowl was splashed across the floor, and the washing tub was full of grime, dirt, and blood.
At least this new master seemed keen on putting Sawdust first. Though he couldn’t really understand why. Sawdust was just a dumb, stupid mutt.
Sawdust didn’t even know why Master had gotten him in the first place. He didn’t treat him like a dog, and he hasn’t made him fight. Sawdust could be furniture, but Master hasn’t requested that either. Maybe he was just waiting for Sawdust to get comfortable so that he could rip it away from him. Throw him in a shed or a basement or an attic somewhere so he could treat Sawdust however he wanted.
Sawdust didn’t even remember why his last master wasn’t here anymore. He remembers noise, and the other dogs barking. It made his head hurt and his skin feel like it was burning. Then he was pushed and shoved around, and thrown into his cage. All that was after that was movement, being rocked around in his kennel while muffled voices spoke above and around him, though he couldn’t understand what they were saying.
Everything was just leaving him confused. For now he’d just bide his time. Sawdust tipped out the kibble from the bowl Master gave him, and nudged it with his nose until it was added to the meat and rice beneath the bed. Clumsily, he held the cup of water with his useless paws and poured at least half of it into the empty bowl- though the rest wound up on the floor. He lapped at the water in the bowl, hoping that it would stave off his headache and the cavern in his stomach.
He slurped and licked at the water until the bowl was completely empty, then he pushed it back outside as he had done the night before. Just crawling back from the door to his corner drained him, he had no energy or motivation to do anything at all. So he settled on laying on his side, curling up, and going back to sleep.
---
Adrien’s work didn’t take long, it never did. With his career as a renovation planner and project manager made him enough money that he didn’t have to work many hours in a day, only about four. That left him with plenty of time to help his new pet, though as he leaned back in his office chair he realized that he didn’t exactly know what to do on that front. For now what he could do is bring Sawdust his meals and continue as he’d been doing until the pet trusts him enough to actually come out so he can get a bath.
The day passed as Adrien expected, getting his work done and swapping empty dishes in front of Sawdust’s door for full ones, pleased every time that the bowls and plates were consistently at least somewhat empty. Despite the food being received well, Sawdust still didn’t so much as peek out of the room. Nonetheless, Adrien did his job as an owner and kept his pet fed.
Night fell, and Adrien prepared himself for bed after taking the half empty bowl of food from Sawdust and putting the remainder of it in the refrigerator. As he was heading back to his room, he couldn’t help himself but put his ear on the door and try to listen in, only to be greeted by silence. With a somewhat disappointed sigh, Adrien went along with his nightly routine of going to his room, checking and locking the window, and doing the same with the door before tucking himself into bed.
The next day passed similarly. Eat. Leave a bowl. Pick it up. Repeat during his break. Do the same at dinner. Go to sleep. Interspersed with Adrien writing down a list of things that he wanted to do to help Sawdust. He also found himself putting a little more thought into just what he was cooking, as opposed to simply throwing random things in a pot and seasoning it just so he’d have something to eat. Each time Adrien was in the kitchen, he was acutely aware of how much he missed cooking for more than just himself.
If it wasn’t for him consistently feeding Sawdust with whatever meat, rice, or potato that he had cooked for the meal, he honestly could have forgotten that the pet was even there. Adrien assumed that Sawdust was just moving around, going to the bathroom, or getting water when he was busy with work.
It was around six in the evening before Adrien wrapped up his work, stretching in his seat before getting up to go and check on Sawdust. He’d given the pet two days, not even counting the one where he’d first arrived, to get settled in. He should be more comfortable by now. Adrien walked towards the stairs, resolute that he was going to try and get Sawdust out of his room.
Looking up the stairs to the hallway, Adrien was surprised to see Sawdust’s door opening.
--
Sawdust’s limbs ached from spending so much time curled up on the floor, and his head was spinning and his stomach felt like it was going to collapse in on itself. As much as his body hurt, and as much as he didn’t want to get punished, he just had to find some dog food. Something he could eat, anything, he was convinced he was going to die if he didn’t.
With a shaky paw, he pushed down on the lever handle of the door, pushing it open and creeping out. His head felt like it was detached from his body as he shuffled out of the room, crawling and barely managing to keep himself on his paws and knees. He may as well have been in a lifeboat out on the ocean with the way he swayed back and forth.
Just as he managed to get out of the room, black dots started to cloud his vision. He squinted at the plain wall in front of him, his paws collided with the half emptied bowl of the last meal he’d left outside the door, he couldn’t stop himself as the world turned upside down and he was sent crashing to the ground.
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#whump#whump writing#pet whump#whump recovery#whumpblr#whump blog#whump community#whump ideas#whump ocs#whump oc#whump drabble#whump story#adrien and sawdust#whumpee#caretaker#Pls let me know what yall think!!
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Yondu & The Secretary Chapter 2: The Love Bug
Chapter 1 Here Chapter 3 Here A few months go by aboard the ravager ship. You find out that Yondu is the Captain, and Kraglin, the Xandarian, is his first mate. The ship is called the Eclector, and some of the guys on board are total pigs. Yondu sets up a small office space for you to work out of and you find that the work is surprisingly simple. You get into a routine and start to really settle in. You also come to find that Yondu is particularly kind; to you. To the crew, he could be a total ass. Your slight attraction to the Captain was only a thought when you first met him on Krylor, but every day it kept growing and growing with how sweet he was. Maybe it was because you were a woman? Maybe it was because you were Terran? You couldn’t be sure. This might become a problem.
One evening, your office door creaks open loudly, and you hear heavy boots thunking into the room. Yondu. You smirk softly at the thought. “So, you goin’ to Geff’s little get together?” The Captain’s voice came from behind you as you finished up the data entry from the crew’s last heist. It was Geff’s birthday. The boys decided to throw him a little party at the bar on the ship. “Me? Heh, no…probably not.” You hadn’t looked at him yet, but something caught your senses. Something, different. Something…intoxicating. Was Yondu wearing cologne? Whatever it was, it was messing with your head. It smelled like the forest back home – right after the rain, blended with tones of spices and notes of musk. “Well, why the hell not?” He seemed a little surprised. Hurt, maybe? You spun around on your desk chair to face him, “Hmm…. let me put it to you this way: I am not about to be the only female on the ship in a room full of drunk Ravagers. I already get harassed and catcalled on a daily basis, Yondu! Why on Earth would I want to put myself in a situation like that?” “You Terrans sure do use the strangest expressions. We ain’t on Earth…uh….Terra I mean.” He said with a chuckle. The small chuckle at his own words made you giggle too. “Well, regardless, I just don’t think it would be very wise of me to put myself in a bad spot, that’s all.” “Well I’ll be there. I can make sure no one bothers you too much. Then would you go?” “I don’t know Yondu…I mean Geff is great and all but –“ You were cut off by loud laughter and heavy footsteps of several ravagers going past your office door. A lot of the boys were already headed to the bar to get the party started. “ – but I don’t want to be a bother. Besides, if you show even the slightest bit of protective behavior around me, couldn’t that start rumors? Wouldn’t they think it was odd? Some of these guys really talk…”
Yondu scoffed with a slight wave of his hand. “Who cares what these idiots think. I’m the Captain, and I can protect whoever the hell I feel like. Besides, how am I supposed to keep my shit in order without my assistant who helps with our operations? The boys will probably understand that their payouts could get disrupted if they mess with our lil’ secretary, right? Everybody knows you don’t mess with a Ravager’s units.” He finished with a wink. That wink…that smirk…his scent…oh no. Your head starts to feel fuzzy. Your sternum is growing tight, and butterflies explode by the thousands in your stomach. You feel like your arms are floating. You start to notice that your head seems to be wobbling a little bit and you find yourself staring at his lips. Stop being stupid! Say something! Get a grip! His smile starts to falter after a moment or two. “Uhh…you alright?”
Your clear your throat a little louder than you wanted to, and manage to say with a shaky voice, “Uhh, yeah, no, yeah…I’m – I’m fine. I guess I’m just a little tired is all. But, fine. I’ll go, but only for a few drinks. I’m not staying out all night! I have more things I want to get updated in the system before you and Kraglin start gathering intel on your next mission.” “Fine, fine. Just a few drinks.” He motions with both his hands in the air. It did not turn out, however, to be just a few drinks. It started out that way, but the more you drank, the more you wanted to be close to him. The alcohol was making you feel a little too confident. The captain was drinking too, of course, but Centaurians have to drink quite a bit before they really start to feel anything. He was on his fifth glass of whiskey for the night, and you were on your third. You were definitely tipsy, but not terribly drunk. The scent coming off him just kept smelling better and better, your senses were stirred, and you wanted to dive into him. You are sitting next to each other on the couch in the lounge that was connected to the bar. You both listen to stories and jokes being told by Tullk, Oblo, and Kraglin. Laugher is plentiful, and you couldn’t be happier. Then, you feel your Captain move next to you as he throws his arm over the back of the couch behind you. The shift in the cushions causes you to inadvertently lean closer to him. Your cheeks turn bright pink and your heart starts pounding. You sit up straight, put your drink down on the table and politely excuse yourself. The others were too drunk to notice, or care, but Yondu notices. After a moment or two he gets up and follows you to the bar. You hastily get yourself a tall glass of water, and chug it down. “What was that about back there? You alright?” He asked. “Feelin’ sick?” “No, no I’m fine. I just think it’s time I headed back to my cabin. I need to get some sleep. I have an early start tomorrow.” You said as you put your glass down on the bar. Yondu eyes you suspiciously, but doesn’t press the matter. “Can I at least walk you back? These boy’s is pretty drunk. I don’t want you to run into any trouble.” “Yeah, I guess that would be alright.” You fiddle with the empty glass on the bar in front of you. What am I even doing? Do I really have feelings for him? Is this seriously happening? What the hell am I supposed to do?! Your job on the ship is simple: free up the first mate’s time by entering new recruit information, keep transmission logs up to date, work up data sheets for new missions, and keep an updated archive on clients, easy heist planets, kree intel, etc… That was it! Nowhere in your job description are you supposed to fall for your Captain, your boss! “Well…should we be headin’ out?” Yondu’s voice broke you out of your thoughts. You looked over at him, his eyes were touched with slight concern, confusion maybe. “Captain, I….” You began, but the words just stopped coming out. You close your mouth and shake your head. “Never mind, I’m ready. Let’s go.” You both walk slowly back your cabin. Yondu is silent, as are you. The only sound to be heard is both yours and Yondu’s boots clunking down the walkways of the Eclector. When you approach your door, you hesitate.
“Goodnight Captain, thank you for walking me back. I appreciate it…and thank you for having my back tonight. I was able to actually relax and have a nice time.” You begin to open your door and walk in when you feel a large, warm hand on your shoulder. You turn to look at his hand, and your eyes trail up his arm to his shoulder, and then to his face. You both lock eyes, and your heart stops. “Why do you keep callin’ me that? Captain. You haven’t really called me that much since you boarded for the first time a few months back.” “I – I’m sorry. I just…you’re the Captain.” He took his hand from your shoulder, “Yeah, I know that. But it just feels wrong somehow. You typically call me by my name when we ain’t around the crew.” You couldn’t help but smile a little. “Alright, Yondu.” You said with a slight chuckle. “Is that better?” “Yeah. I like it when you call me by my name.” A small tinge of purple comes to his cheeks. “But don’t go tellin’ anybody that! You still gotta’ call me Captain or Sir around the crew.” “Hahaha, of course. I promise I won’t tell a soul. Cross my heart.” You used your index finger to draw an X over your chest. “I swear, you Terrans are odd…I don’t even know what that means.” You giggle again, “It means I’m serious. As serious as I can be. I won’t tell anyone. You have a reputation and status to maintain with your crew, and I completely understand that.” You turn and step into your cabin. Looking over your shoulder you smile a small, bashful smile at him. “Goodnight, Yondu.” With that, you closed your door. Yondu stood at the closed door and quietly said, “Goodnight, Darlin’.” He continued to stand there, frozen in place. What the hell was that? Why do I feel funny? My heart is pounding, my head is reeling. I care about what she calls me? Since when? Darlin’? When have I ever called anyone that? He shook his head to free himself of where he stood, and walked back to his quarters. You laid in your bed that night, unable to sleep. A big, stupid grin would not leave your lips no matter how hard you tried to get rid of it. Oh. My. Gosh. I cannot believe this. I can’t believe how hard this hit me. He’s so unbelievably handsome. His scent was so intoxicating. I didn’t know he wore cologne? And that smile?! Who knew blue could look so damn good. You giggled out loud to yourself. “I have a crush on the Captain. I have a huge freakin’ crush on Yondu Udonta. What the hell?!” You continued to giggle to yourself until you heard a group of footsteps going past your door. More ravagers were headed to bed from the party. You quickly covered your mouth as if someone could possibly hear you. Once the footsteps were gone, you continued to smile and giggle like a little girl. “Wow. What on earth and am I going to do? How do I even begin to handle this?” You said to yourself. Your mind raced, and sleep eluded you all night. Meanwhile, the Captain wasn’t sleeping much either. You kept popping up in his head. Every time he would close his eyes, you appeared. It wasn’t until tonight that he realized that you looked incredible in your maroon leathers. He had always thought you were attractive, ever since he and Kraglin decided to hire you when they met you on Krylor. But this was a whole new level of attraction. It made him feel…different. He had never felt this way before, he felt vulnerable. He did not like it one bit! But on the other hand, he did? It was starting to piss him off. He threw the furs and blankets from his body and got out of bed. He picked up a communicator brace from his nightstand and pushed a few buttons. It beeped a few times, and Kraglin’s sleepy voice could be heard. “Yes, sir? Everythin’ alright?” “Boy, get to my quarters. I need to talk to ya. I’m havin’ a problem.” “Right away sir.” Yondu shut the brace off and tossed it back on the table. Within a few minutes there was a knock on the door. Yondu got up and walked to the door, flinging it open. Kraglin rubbed his eye with a fist and yawned. “What’s goin’ on Sir?” “What’s goin’ on is I need to talk to ya. Maybe you’ll know what to do…get in here!” Yondu yanked Kraglin into the room and slammed the door shut. “Siddown.” He muttered as he pushed his desk chair to the first mate. Yondu sat on the bed and fiddled with his hands for a moment. “Sir?” Kraglin asked. “What do you need help with? Somethin’ goin’ on with the crew?” “No, but there is something goin’ on…I’ve been feeling funny all night. Ever since I went with y/n to the bar for Geff’s party, my head has been fuzzy, my chest is tight, my hands are all shaky and I can’t sleep! It’s pissin’ me off! I don’t know what the problem is. I only went with her to make sure the boys didn’t do nothin’ stupid, but now I can’t think straight! Every time I close my damn eyes, I see her!” A smirk appeared on Kraglin’s face, and he started snickering at the Captain. “What?! The hell is so funny?!” Yondu barked. Kraglin’s snickering turned into full blown laughing. He couldn’t help it. Was his Captain so oblivious? “Sir, sir, I’m sorry. You really have no idea what this is?” He asked. “No! If I did, I wouldn’t have woke you up to help me figure it out, damn it!” “Sir, it sounds to me that you got bit.” Kraglin joked. “Bit? Bit by what? Like a bug or somethin’?” “Ohhhh yeah, it’s happened to me before too. It’s a nasty little sucker.” He said with a grin. “Okay, so what do I do? Am I getting’ sick or somethin’?” “Yeah, you’re sick all right. Love sick.” The first mate said with the biggest shit eatin’ grin on his face. “Lovesick? What the hell is that? That ain’t a real thing.” Yondu snorted. “Sure is, Sir. From the sounds of it, you got bit by the love bug. The only way to cure it is to get some lovin’ from the person who sent it after ya.” Kraglin couldn’t believe this was happening to his captain. This was too good. Of course, he wanted to help him out, but he wanted to taunt him first. “What on Earth are you talkin’ about boy?! Just spit it out already!” The Captain shouted. A goofy little smile appeared on his lips as he realized he just used your expression. Damn it, girl. “Alright, alright.” Kraglin said between laughs. “Cap’n, you’re in love. Plain and simple. It sounds to me like you just realized it tonight.” “Love? I don’t love nobody. I ain’t never been in love before. This can’t be right…” Yondu started searching his hands for some kind of alternative answer. “Anyone can fall in love, Cap’n. I know I have. But that was a long time ago, before I joined the crew. It really ain’t a big deal, honest. Tell me, when you think of y/n, what do you feel?” Yondu pondered Kraglin’s words for a few moments. “I feel – happy. Warm? Maybe a little nervous. Unsure of myself, ya know? I wanna touch her, make her smile, make sure she’s safe and happy, hold her hands... kiss her.” The realization hit him like a blazing meteor. “I wanna kiss her? What?! I’ve never cared about that sentimental crap before!” Kraglin just shook his head and looked down at the floor. “Cap’n, love is a strange and mysterious force. It can be exhilarating. Maybe you should investigate and find out if she feels the same way. Could be worth a shot. Who knows? Could lead to somethin’.” Yondu looked confused. “Like what?” “Heh, I don’t know, happiness?” Kraglin shrugged his shoulders and stood. “I hope that helps Sir. I’m gonna head back to bed if you don’t need anything else.” “Yeah, sure, boy. Go on.” “Night, Cap’n.” The first mate headed toward to door, but before he walked out, he heard the Captain’s voice behind him, “Hey Krags, uh, thanks.” “No problem, Sir.” Kraglin walked out of the Captain’s quarters and quietly closed the door. Yondu got back into bed, stared at the ceiling above him and smiled. Love huh? Well, ain’t that some shit.
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under the same roof part three: all the time you need
a harry styles rpf part three of six written by annie and aj (marlahey and formerly harryonstage) ratings/warnings: disaster gays, endangered ovaries from dad!harry, women aggressively supporting women notes: enter the rest of harry’s family unit! in case anyone’s curious, annie tells sylvia to give her dad a kiss in vietnamese, to which he responds, good girl. before anyone comes for me, there will be plenty more opportunities for bed-sharing to come. side note: aj always pictured olivia coleman as officer warren. masterlist | part one | part two | part four (21.12.20)
............................................... • saturday, 5th january 9:18 am • The second time you’re roused from sleep, sunlight illuminates Harry’s room. You lift your head, squinting, but more quickly you recognize where you are.
Harry is nowhere in sight, but a fresh glass of water is within reach on the nightstand, and a cardigan knitted with primary-colored patches lies folded at the foot of the bed. After slipping your arms through the loose sleeves, you take a few gulps of water and make sure to shut his bedroom door quietly on your way out. You hadn’t spent much time in the living room as per Officer Warren’s instructions to avoid the windows, but you can see into it from the hall. And since there’s still no sign of Harry, you take a minute to discreetly look around at the place he and his daughter call home. His flat is obviously larger than yours—he has two bedrooms versus one—but the morning light seems to stretch the space even further, like an open armed welcome. The atmosphere bustles with a little dose of chaos. Two brimming bookshelves span one wall of the living room, and plants line the windowsills. A half-sized Christmas tree stands off in the corner, wrapped in twinkly lights and strings of popcorn. A white fender guitar decorated with various stickers stands with a speaker beside the couch, and records tile the wall behind it: Pink Floyd, Fleetwood Mac, The Stones, The Cars, Hello I’m Dolly. There is ample evidence that a child lives here, too. The walls are dotted with drawings in watercolor, crayon, and sparkles. You can see pieces of Lego strewn out on the carpet; they must be from that towering box Harry had towed into the lift a week before Christmas. A small smile tugs at your lips as you follow the smell of espresso into the kitchen. You find Harry leaning against the counter looking contemplative, holding aloft a cup of coffee that he seems to have forgotten about. He’s wearing the same shirt he’d slept in, but thrown on a pair of joggers. You bid a quiet, “Good morning.” He inhales sharply as his head whips toward you, his drink sloshing over the edge of his mug slightly. “Jesus, sorry,” he laughs softly, shaking his head at himself. You watch as he wets a dishrag and cleans the small mess. “Not really used to company my age.” “Oh… Sorry.” “S’alright.” His voice is covered in sleep; it almost sounds like he has a cold. “Coffee?” You hum appreciatively. “Love some.” “Were you able to get some sleep?” he asks, pulling a mug from the cabinet. “Enough, yeah.” All you can think about is waking up locked in his embrace, on the still-dark cusp of sunrise. “Thank you for letting me, um…” “Course. Cream?” “That’s great, thanks.” Harry nods over his shoulder towards the bedroom. “It help at all?” How are you supposed to answer that? “The real bed?” he clarifies, like it is at all necessary. You listen to the spoon clink rhythmically against the ceramic, and settle on “I think so,” as noncommittally as possible. “How did you sleep?” “Very well.” In passing you your mug, Harry catches your eyes for the first time today in a way that feels like not an accident. “More importantly, how are you feeling about everything else?” You shrug, eyes glued to the cream swirling in your coffee. “Better, a little.” “That’s good.” “What about you?” you ask. “You’ve kinda been through the wringer, yourself.” “I’m good, yeah.” Harry pushes up his glasses. “I was thinking—if you don’t mind—I’d like to come with you to the police department this morning.” “No, no, Harry.” You wave away the offer. “Don’t worry about that.” “No, really. It might make more sense. I saw him in the hall last night, and I was with you in the lift. They might need to ask some questions of both of us.” You consider this a moment. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to.” “I don’t have to,” Harry counters. “I want to. I want you to, y’know… ” he trails off. “I want them to get this guy.” You blink at him. There’s a strange feeling in knowing that Harry has clearly thought about your wellbeing beyond the night that you’ve effectively been trapped in his flat. Regardless, it’s too early for a battle of wills, and he has a point. You slouch against the fridge. “Alright. Well… I still have India’s car so I can drive us,” you concede. A smile lights Harry’s face. Suddenly your stomach rumbles so powerfully and for so long that it interrupts the conversation. You cover a small, mortified laugh with both hands as Harry’s eyebrows raise. “Well,” he begins, exaggerated. “Let’s take care of that… You take the first turn in the bathroom, I’ll fix us some breakfast.” “You sure?” “Go ahead.” He grabs a skillet from the drying rack, turning on one of the burners. “Thank you, Harry.” “It’s no problem.” You wash your face with something you find above the sink and brush your teeth on auto-pilot before considering your bundle of clothes from the night before. Your cardigan lays at the top of the stack. Four of your fingers fit through the gaping hole in its collar, and dirt covers one of the sleeves. You hadn’t forgotten about the shape it was in last night, but you didn’t consider it a problem until now, as you hold it up in front of you by the shoulders, frowning. You try to tame your hair with a purple, sparkly brush to no avail, so you take a quick look around to see if Sylvia has any spare barrettes or pins. Thankfully there’s a single hair tie floating in the bottom of your purse. You shrug back into Harry’s patchwork sweater—oddly comforting in how fully it swallows your shoulders and hands—and slip back out to the kitchen, where Harry plates grilled tomatoes and bacon. “We’re about ready to eat.” Harry turns the stovetop down to a simmer as the toaster pops. “How do you take your eggs?” “Sunny side up, please.” He salutes you with his spatula, attention already returned to the pan. “Can I help with anything?” Harry nods to a drawer. “Yeah can you pass us a couple napkins from just there? I’ll be right back,” he rushes, already halfway out of the kitchen. You pull a few paper napkins from their packet as he returns with two chairs that you recognize from his small wicker table. “Blinds are open in the other room, thought it might be best if we just eat in here.” He sets the chairs apart, facing one another. “Now this is living,” you deadpan. Harry laughs lightly as he gestures for you to sit. The two of you get adjusted with your plates on your lap, and your knees almost bump in the small space. “This is great, Harry. Thank you.” “I’d make you bubble and squeak, too, but we’re fresh out and Sylvia hates beans so we don’t keep them on hand. So technically...” Harry lowers his voice to a whisper. “S’not a full English fry up.” You can only smile around your mouthful, unexpectedly endeared. The rest of breakfast passes in silence. You shouldn’t have slept on an empty stomach; you’re ravenous from skipping a meal last night. He looks up at you eventually, a touch more serious than before. “Shall we think about heading to the police station soon?” You dab your mouth with your napkin and nod. Harry stands from his chair and reaches an open hand down to you for your plate. “No, no,” you nudge him away with your elbow. “You cooked, I’ll clean.” “Let me deal with these. You’re a guest.” “I’m a captive.” “No you’re not! You’re—” He breaks off, hesitating a moment before plunging on with an amused slant to his lips. “You’re my sort-of friend.” Your assumption he hadn’t overheard that comment to your mother last night on the phone was clearly in vain. You press your lips together against any inadvertent reaction. Your head swivels toward him, eyes full of lighthearted reproach. “Look, just let me do the dishes to give myself the illusion that I’m not just a freeloader here. Besides, I’m already ready to go.” "Fine,” he caves disapprovingly. “I’ll get myself sorted and be out in a minute.” “Take your time.” While Harry is preoccupied, you finish slotting the clean plates from breakfast carefully into the drying rack and pull out your phone to message India. Hey, I have a lot to update you on but it’ll be much easier to explain in person. I still have your car and I need it for one thing this morning but I promise I’ll fill the tank ASAP. It’s about the guy that’s been following me. Just know that I’m safe and everything’s okay. I’ll call you when I can. Love you. Send. That’ll have to do for now. Harry returns in jeans and a sweater. It’s still strange to see him so dressed down. “Ready?” he asks. “Yeah. You mind if I wear this to the police station?” you ask, pinching the fabric of his cardigan. You feel the urge to explain yourself—the hole in your sweater, the grime—but Harry’s already shaking his head. “Not at all. Do you maybe want something a little less… loud? I don’t even wear that one out, myself, really.” You consider the bright cacophony of color like it’s brand new to your eyes. Loud is right. “Yeah, that’s not a terrible idea.” Harry’s lips twitch. “C’mon then. You’re welcome to pick anything you’d like.” Pick? You nod because you’re worried the surprise is painted on your face. “Okay.” Harry leads you to his bedroom again, and over to the large wooden wardrobe. He pulls the double doors open and you cannot help yourself from gawking a little. You’re taken by all the exquisite patterns and intricate textures of the suits, but it’s oddly wistful to run your fingertips along all of them hung in a row. You smile privately, a bit removed. “What?” Harry laughs from behind you. “Nothing!” you reply, glancing over your shoulder before saying more softly, “I just recognize some of these.” “Oh, thought you were sizing them up. My mates all take the piss… They say my suits are eccentric.” He rolls his eyes, reciting the insult like he’s quoting their words verbatim. You turn back around to his closet. “I think they look nice—I think you look nice in them.” You take a step back and crane your neck to the shelf of folded sweaters above the hanging rod. The extensive array of muted wool and cotton is a bit overwhelming. You spot the planet sweater he’d worn the first time you saw Sylvia, the oversized yellow one that reminded you of Charlie Brown, the black one with half a red heart and the letters, NY in bold white text… It takes a minute of jogging your memory before you can recall him wearing something more plain. Harry doesn’t own a lot of plain. You still can’t quite reach the shelf up on your tiptoes, but Harry is at your side immediately. “The brown?” He tugs it from the stacks and passes it down. “Yeah, thanks.” You examine the camel colored fabric with tiny flecks of black thread, and run your hand along the smooth purl. “This should do.” You tug the sweater over your head; it’s boxy, your arms aren’t long enough to fit, and it isn’t doing any favors for your shoulders. You have to roll the sleeves up past your wrists before the outfit can half pass as something you purposely wore out of the house. You spin around to face him. “Does it look normal?” Harry’s jaw flexes as he gives you the up-down. You fiddle with one of the sleeves. “Yeah,” Harry says stiffly. “Looks normal.” It’s bizarre walking through the level six hallway; it’s identical to your own, but the last time you’d been here, everything down to the carpet and light fixtures had been tainted by your deafening fear. What’s more is that riding down in the lift with Harry feels entirely different now. You see it all from his perspective, and try to visualize what you look like to him most mornings, standing in the corner with your school bag and a book tucked beneath your arm. The lift picks up a few people on its way down, but by the time it reaches the garage, you and Harry are alone. You catch his eyes in the reflection of the doors a second before they open. He clears his throat. “I know it’s probably… we’ll be fine, but stay close, yeah?” You look up at him and nod. It’s easy to keep to your word. Harry guides you to walk in front of him the entire way as your eyes scan the shadows in between the rows of cars. You’re sure you will never be able to see this garage quite the same way. “It’s the old Volkswagen.” “I see it.” You’re so out of it that you almost try to get in on the passenger side. It’s the kind of slip up that Harry might have teased you about, but he’s quiet and looking around, too. You pull the jacket you’d left on the seat last night into your lap, the two of you strap in, and you cannot pull out into the street fast enough. The mustard yellow envelope in the back seat is an unwelcome passenger, visible in your rearview mirror. Who else knew about these photos? How many are there that weren’t in your envelope? Are they online somewhere? Would they follow you to law school? Your grip tightens on the steering wheel as you grind your teeth. “Alright?” Harry asks. His voice brings you back down to earth. He’d asked you that question when you pricked your finger on the poppy in your jacket pocket. He’d asked you in his bed on the most terrifying night of your life. And he’s asking you now. You nod. “I will be.” • saturday, 5th january 10:42 am • In the parking lot behind Lavender Hill Police Station, you’ve killed the engine but remain in your seat. Part of you is still reluctant to have Harry come along; keeping your composure in front of the police feels hard enough without the prospect of him being there, too, but maybe that’s the one thing that will get you through this. “Sorry.” You shake your head, suddenly aware of how long you’ve been sitting motionless at the wheel. Harry’s gaze is unperturbed. He watches you push anxiously at the sleeves of his sweater. “Take all the time you need.” It’s the same phrase the initial officer who’d taken your statement all those weeks ago had used. It’s what Officer Warren had said to you on the phone last night, and you’re so tired of hearing it. You don’t want to have as much time as you need to feel calm or steady or normal again. You want your time back. You want to reclaim all those extra seconds spent checking over your shoulder, the minutes lost to changing your routes, and the hours spent staring up at the ceiling when you should have been asleep. Rationally, you know that there will be time to relearn how to walk down the street and feel at ease, and plan that trip to Brighton you and India have been talking about for months. There will be time with Harry that isn’t this… stuck in a cramped space, crushed by the weight of your own fear. You hate the way you felt with him in the lift this morning; you want that back most of all. “Faster we get in there,” you say—half to Harry, half to yourself, “the faster we’ll get to leave.” Harry nods. “C’mon then.” The heather grey of the building is no less intimidating than it was in October, but at least this time you don’t have to pull the heavy glass doors open on your own. Inside, you speak with the woman at reception, who gestures for you to sit in a small waiting area just beyond the desk. People in uniform bustle back and forth. Harry’s leg brushes against yours as you sit. He doesn’t move. Neither do you. You have no sense of how long you sit waiting—this doesn’t feel like a place where it’s appropriate to play Solitaire on your phone. You can feel Harry looking at you periodically, but you don’t glance back until a woman with a familiar voice appears before you. She ushers you to follow with a quick, professional smile. Harry doesn’t quite offer the same, but you’re reassured anyway. “I’m Officer Warren.” She stops at a desk with an empty chair beside it. You take care to shake her hand firmly, introducing yourself with all the confidence you can scrap together. “Are you comfortable sitting here?” “Yes, this is fine.” If either Harry or Officer Warren notice your voice is an octave higher, neither of them make any sign. “Good.” She reaches past you to shake Harry’s hand too. “Harry.” “Nice to meet you both. We can also find a conference room, if you’d like somewhere more private, or if you’d both like to sit.” Harry speaks up when you don’t right away. “I’m fine standing.” He looks exactly as he had in the car—calm and willing to take your lead, so you sit before you can change your mind. Officer Warren smiles again, clearly trying to put you at ease. You wish it was more effective. “Right, well I won’t take up too much of your time. Since I took your statement last night, I’ve already got a copy of the transcript from our conversation over the phone, and you won’t need to go over all of that again.” Your shoulders cave a little in relief. Harry’s fingers hook gently over the top of your chair. “Okay.” “But,” she continues, “there is the matter of how to proceed. What we talked about regarding your flat still stands… it really isn’t safe for you to remain there, especially since the suspect seems to know which one is yours, and we still don’t have a clear idea of where he is now, or how he was able to access the car park in your building in the first place.” “So…” You shake your head, in either confusion or denial. “I can’t even go home?” “I’m afraid not, for the time being.” Her eyes are soft, regretful. “Not if he knows where you live. Not if there’s a chance he could get more photographs, or try to break in again.” Your stomach twists. “Were you able to figure out who he is?” You’re not even sure you want to know. Officer Warren’s mouth pinches apologetically. “Not yet. We have a couple technicians working on the security footage and the photos you’ve turned in, so hopefully we’ll be able to get something from them. The car he was driving had no plates. You haven’t seen any sign of him since we spoke last?” You shake your head, and she glances up at Harry as if to confirm. “Alright, that’s a good sign at least. He knows we’re watching, now. On the other hand, there’s a chance he’ll carry on, but be stealthier about it. Is it possible for you to physically stay inside, completely out of sight for let’s say, a week?” “I mean… where?” “Do you have somewhere else you can stay for the time being? With a friend?” You open your mouth, but the “Yes,” is not your own. You force yourself not to turn back to look at him; Harry’s fingers touch your shoulder again. “Yes, she does. She can stay with me. We live in the same building after all, so it’ll hardly be disruptive.” Officer Warren gives him a long look. You can’t tell if she approves or is displeased with him for speaking for you, but now that the initial shock has worn off, gratitude washes over you. Asking India to stay with her indefinitely would have been out of the question; there’s no way you’re endangering your best friend any more than you already have. You’d be putting her in a position where she couldn’t say no. She has four roommates. She doesn’t even know about the photos yet. “That works,” you hear yourself say. This will only be for a few days, you reason—it’ll buy you just enough time to find your feet. By then, you can sort out a longer-term place to stay if the police still haven’t found the man. Officer Warren is speaking again, and it takes effort to actively refocus on the conversation. “The objective here is to make it seem as though you’re gone. On holiday. He’ll be keeping an eye on the building, no doubt, so he’ll notice if the car is gone, or your flat is empty. Is there any way you can take your classes remotely?” You find you can barely speak, so you just nod instead. She leans in a little, her eyes finding yours more carefully. “I know it’s frightening, but you’ve been incredibly strong. This won’t be forever. In the meantime, we can send an officer back with you this afternoon so you can gather a few of your things.” You nod again. “Do you have any questions for me?” You force yourself to say, “No, thank you,” which Harry echoes. Officer Warren nods, almost perfunctorily, and stands. “If you wait here just a minute, I’ll introduce you to the officer who’ll take you back to your flat. You’ll be in an unmarked car, and we can arrange for yours to be retrieved.” “Thank you. I’ll call my friend now,” you say. “Maybe she can… I'll have to ask her to look after my cat. And it’s her car, anyway.” Officer Warren nods, apparently satisfied. You shake her hand again, though your mind is stuck on this won’t be forever. As you rise from the chair, you feel the gentle pressure of Harry’s hand on the small of your back. When Officer Warren returns with another uniformed policeman, you don’t want to move, but your legs carry you anyway. Harry’s gaze finds the side of your face periodically like a lighthouse beam while you call India from the backseat of the police car. After reassuring her again that you’re fine, you gloss over the details of staying in Harry’s flat. You can tell even in her silence that she’s not going to let you off the hook that easily, so you start rambling about what to do with Chowder before she gets the chance to say something embarrassing while Harry is sitting right there. “Of course I’m taking Chowder,” she says before you get the chance to phrase the question. “Don’t even worry about it. I’ll get in a cab right now. Do you need help packing up?” “Yeah sure, thank you. But what about your car?” “I’ll take the keys from you and get it after. Honestly, it’s fine. It’s not like it’s gonna get stolen from the bloody police station.” It’s a stupid joke but you’re comforted a little anyway. “Okay.” “Be there soon. I love you.” “Love you too.” Harry glances over at you. “Everything okay?” “Yeah.” You smile a little and for the first time in ages, it doesn’t feel forced. “She’s gonna meet us at home and take Chowder for me.” “That’s great.” “I know,” you reply, a little distant. “Harry, thank you for coming with me… It was nice not to have to, y’know, do that alone.” “That’s alright.” His voice is equally gentle. “We’re gonna… They’re gonna find him. And they’re gonna fix this, and then everything’s gonna go back to normal.” You aren’t sure which of you he’s trying to reassure, but Harry meets your eyes and you nod. Back at your building, you meet up with India. “Think I might just pop home, if that’s alright,” Harry says, going in for the sixth-floor button on the keypad. “I told Annie a bit about what’s going on, but I owe her an update.” “Of course.” You look up at him in the reflection of the doors. “We’ll see you down there.” It’s your first time seeing the dent and scratches on the door to your flat in person. You shiver, turn the key, and push the door open. “Chowder!” you shout as a flash of orange darts through your legs, meowing down the hall. The officer’s hand lands reflexively on his baton as your cat scares all three of you half to death. Once you manage to corral your cat back to your corner of the hallway, you struggle to keep him still in your arms. “Indy, his crate is under my bed—” “Hold off a minute, I’m going to do a quick walkthrough. I’m sure everything’s fine, but wait out here.” The officer leaves the door cracked open behind him. India offers a small, encouraging smile when you flinch at the sound of him announcing himself in your apartment. You stroke between Chowder’s ears; he is heavy and warm in your arms, and his fur sticks uncomfortably to the sweat on your palms. “All clear.” The officer reappears. “Let’s try to be quick about this.” India immediately ducks through the door following him, but you have to take a deep breath before stepping through the threshold. The place looks completely untouched. Had you been expecting company, perhaps you would have thought to clear the dishes from the sink or remove your laundry from the drying rack. After coercing an unusually talkative Chowder into his travel crate, you and India work as a team to stuff as much into your duffel bag as will fit. Shirts, bras, and pants hurtle past your head. “Indy, I’m staying at a neighbor’s for a few days—what on earth am I going to need this for?” You hold up the silk, strappy dress that just landed on your neatly-folded stacks, shooting her a disapproving look. “I’m just grabbing and throwing!” “Well just, y’know… let’s make sure we’re not speeding through this at the expense of packing with a little common sense.” “I’ve got this,” India says, waving down at the open duffel. “Go sort whatever toiletries you need, yeah?” Thankfully you’ve stayed overnight at her place enough times to warrant a travel case of essentials that lives under your bathroom sink. There’s makeup cluttered all over the counter. You stare at it a moment before rolling your eyes at yourself. “We should probably get going.” The officer’s voice from the other room startles you both as India zips up your duffel. “Are you two about ready?” As you stick your head out of your bedroom, the officer is peeking through the blinds across the street. “Yes,” you reply. “We are.” Overnight bag and Chowder in tow, you clamber back onto the lift. “Did you get your toothbrush?” “Yes.” “Face wash?” “Yes.” “Pillow?” “Indy, you saw me putting it in—” “Towel?” “Yes.” “Phone charger?” “… Shit.” Ding. The officer steps out with you on the sixth floor as you thank him, and bid a quick goodbye once he reassures you to call if you need anything or, of course, if anything happens. India turns to face you next. “He’s this way.” You nod down the hall, and she leads. “It’s right at the end. The one with the wreath.” The doors of the lift close. You don’t want to think about the last time you’d been walking down this corridor and heard that sound from behind you. India moves aside holding Chowder’s crate by the handle, and the shopping bag full of his supplies as you step up to the welcome mat with your things. Harry swings open the door to his apartment after the second knock, immediately taking the duffel bag from off of your shoulder. “Oh, Harry, you don’t have to—” “I got it.” India elbows you in the ribs. Harry turns to carry your bag to Sylvia's room, and when you look behind at her, her eyebrows are raised above an animated smirk. “Don’t,” you whisper through gritted teeth. She raises a hand in defense as Harry returns before reaching out to accept his offered hand. “Hello, I’m India.” “Harry.” “Pleasure.” He flashes her a warm smile. She nods appreciatively as they shake hands—at you, however, instead of Harry and your cheeks ignite. “Okay great. That’s settled then. Shall we—um… Indy?” You cut in, then turn to her, nodding to the door with I’m going to kill you in your eyes. “Lovely to meet you, Harry!” “Cheers, dear. You as well.” Harry’s attention returns to you for a moment. “I’ll just be…” He gestures vaguely to the kitchen. You step out into the hall with India. Chowder meows from the crate in her arms and she almost drops him. “What,” you hiss, “was that?” She ignores your tone, then says your name like it’s a plea. “Call me if you need absolutely anything, or text me—no matter what time it is. I’ll drop everything and come straight to you.” “I’m sleeping two floors below where I usually do, Indy, I’m not dying.” “I know, I know… How’s a Skype dinner tomorrow night? I’ll order us a take away.” “Definitely.” You wish you could squeeze her in another tight hug, but Chowder’s crate impedes you. “Thank you.” “Love you, babe.” “Love you too.” She looks unsatisfied. “It’s going to be fine, I promise. Text me when we’re eating, okay?” You begin to walk backward into Harry’s apartment and blow her a kiss. “I will… Bye!” “Please don’t kill my cat!” You lean on the door frame, watching India’s silhouette shrink as she heads back down the hall to the lift with Chowder. You sigh and close the door, but as you turn around, your hand rushes to your chest in a gasp; Harry is standing just behind you, rubbing his face. “So I’ve just rung Annie while you were upstairs… ” He steps aside to give you a clear path through the hallway. “Oh?” “I’m sorry—they’re just coming,” he rushes, sounding a little panicked as you step into Sylvia's room. You set your phone and laptop down with the rest of your things. “They insisted ‘cause they’ve got a spare mattress, and I told them you needed a place to crash for a bit and also that you stayed here last night so… yeah. You don’t have to be here for that. When they come—oh, and they probably have Sylvia, too, if that’s… ” Harry trails off.” “Wait, I’m sorry.” You close your eyes and shake your head. “Annie? You mean—” “Sylvia’s mum, yeah, and um… her fiancé, AJ.” Harry tilts his head down, as if to gauge your reaction. “And they want to give… they have a spare mattress? But you already have a mattress.” “That’s what I said!” Harry gestures wildly. It must have been a lively phone call. “Oh, well that’s… awfully kind of them,” you begin, trying to keep up. “Would it be easier if I wasn’t—” “No.” He’s clearly surprised at his own volume as he cuts you off. Harry literally leans back, hesitating. “I mean… stay. They’d love to meet you. They’re my family and you’re…” His eyes flit back to yours and hang on. “You’re obviously gonna to be staying here a bit, and they drop by all the time so I jus’ don’t wanna overwhelm you, is all.” Suddenly, it’s your turn struggling to look at him. “Well, I—” “H, open the door! This is heavy!” a voice bellows from beyond the front door. Harry’s eyes shut momentarily. “Coming!” he calls. You stand there, in the doorway to Sylvia’s room, stunned at the pace with which this is all unfolding. Harry jogs to the door. You poke your head out as an explosion of noise disrupts what had before been so peaceful. A child’s high-pitched shriek rips through the flat, followed by a long, labored groan from Harry as Sylvia barrels into his arms and he crouches down to lift her. “How’s Daddy’s girl?” he greets. Sylvia simply continues screaming and tries to bend over backward out of his arms. “Hi, Harry.” A striking woman with jet-black hair waltzes in, carrying a large dish of food wrapped in tin foil, seemingly unphased. Harry shifts Sylvia to one arm, bending over to greet her in a side hug and quick kiss to the cheek. “Hi, love.” What appears to be a twin sized mattress with twig legs follows in suit, grunting softly. “Still heavy.” “Right, sorry.” Harry hands Sylvia off to who you assume is Annie as he hurries to take the mattress, revealing a second, much taller woman with sunglasses atop her blonde head of hair. She’s wearing red lipstick and bright suede pumps. “There we go,” she sighs. “I need a fag.” Harry almost takes out a light fixture as he hauls the bed. You press yourself up against the wall as he offers a quick, “S’cuse me,” and passes you to Sylvia's room. The two women look at you as simultaneous smiles light their faces. “Hi!” “Hello!” Sylvia waves at you, too. “Guess this one doesn’t need an introduction,” the dark-haired woman laughs, approaching with a hand extended. You notice that she’s the one wearing the ring. “I’m Annie.” “It’s great to meet you, Harry has spoken so highly of both of you.” You turn to the other woman after introducing yourself. “AJ.” One corner of her mouth quirks up. “It’s a pleasure.” “Thank you so much for the mattress, ” you begin, wringing your hands. “It seems like everyone’s done so much to help me in the past few days… It’s really meant a lot.” AJ tilts her head to look at you with a more meaningful gaze, and Annie steps forward to rest a hand on your forearm. “Harry hasn’t gone into a terrible amount of detail but… we’re so, awfully sorry for what’s happened to you.” She squeezes gently, her fingers in the crook of your elbow. The strange familiarity of the gesture disarms you. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through, and with your family so far away—I just… we heard about what was going on, and that was it. We had to help.” You nod and suddenly have trouble swallowing. There’s just something different about discussing this with women. “Harry’s air mattress,” AJ chips in, sardonic, “belongs in an incinerator.” “Hey!” His voice comes muted from the open door of Sylvia’s bedroom. Now that you’ve seen the both of them together up close, you realize how wrong you were in thinking that Sylvia only took after her father. Annie’s features are evident in her daughter’s deep, brown eyes, her nose, and the high angles of her cheeks. “Well,” Annie starts, raising her eyebrows at everyone, “we’re obviously feeding you.” You laugh in disbelief. “No you’re not!” “We are!” She smiles as she sets Sylvia down, who weaves through everyone’s legs to her bedroom. “And relax, it’s already cooked so there’s no use in turning it down.” AJ pulls you in for a side hug, which you were grossly unprepared for. “Thank… you.” In your bewilderment, it’s all you can manage to say as Annie removes the tin foil from a full pan’s helping of chicken and vegetables. “Isn’t this supposed to be tomorrow’s roast? The Sunday roast?” Harry appears in the kitchen with Sylvia on his hip. He frowns, poking his head over Annie’s shoulder as she preheats the oven. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she replies. They lock eyes. Something tender passes between them; part of you feels like you should look away. “Annie… ” Harry says, softer now. “You didn’t have to do all this.” She ignores him, setting the timer on the oven as AJ slides a small mountain of tupperware into the fridge. The kettle starts to scream. You hadn’t realized someone started tea. You’re not sure what to do besides stand by the sink and stare. AJ rushes over to fill four steaming mugs, portioning different amounts of cream and honey into each. She turns to the few stray dishes in the sink, beginning to wash. “AJ, stop tha—” “Harry, relax would you?” She whips his leg with a dish towel and he relents. “Why is she staying in my room?” Sylvia pipes up from Harry’s arms. He looks across the kitchen at you, and then down to her. “Well see, bug, Daddy’s got a friend who’s gonna stay here for a little while.” Harry points at you and twists so she has a better view. You wave your fingers at her, and Harry asks Sylvia if she can say your name, but she simply buries her face into his sweater. “Like a slumber party?” “Um—” Harry falters. “Sort of, but not quite.” “It’s a grown-up slumber party?” AJ chokes on her tea. The tips of Harry’s ears go crimson. “Honey, it’s like when Auntie Kristen comes over to Mummy and Mum’s to stay on holiday,” Annie salvages. Harry’s shoulders visibly relax. Sylvia tugs at the collar of Harry’s sweater. “How long?” she begs. Your heart falls. “‘M not sure, Vi.” Harry moves some hair from her face as she pouts, then kisses her forehead. “Not forever.” “This’ll be good for you, Harry. You need more friends.” Annie pinches Harry’s side before turning to you with a smirk. “Maybe you can finally start hanging out with people your own age.” You shrug to play along, pursing your lips against a smile. “I mean… ” “Harry doesn’t go out much.” Annie’s comedic whisper fills the room as she carries your tea over to you. “Neither do you!” Harry retorts, frowning playfully over his shoulder, attempting to smack her; she narrowly dodges. “Yeah, just the one time,” AJ deadpans, pointing between them and then nodding to Sylvia. “Jesus Christ,” Harry breathes before they break into laughter. You can’t help but join in. Sylvia���s head swings from parent to parent, smiling in oblivious delight. “Alright, alright,” Annie wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “Just leave the roast in there until you’re ready to eat. We should get going soon.” “Have you got sheets that fit the bed?” Harry asks, bouncing Sylvia on his hip. “Right!” Annie’s eyes go wide. She turns to AJ, “Darling, you mind popping down to the car to get those?” “Since I already hauled up the mattress, am I allowed to play the gender card?” AJ throws eyes at Harry. “Hands are full,” he replies cheerfully. He holds one of Sylvia’s arms up to wave. “Fine,” she relents, plucking the keys from Annie’s back pocket. “Thank you!” Annie calls after her. AJ simply waves a hand behind her head. “Promise I’ll make it worth your while later!” AJ begins to walk faster. Harry shoots Annie a jokingly scandalized look with a hand covering his gaping mouth. She squints at him and rolls her eyes. He puts Sylvia down, whispering in her ear as he points to the miniature arts and crafts table in the living room. Sylvia takes a seat on the colorful stool, her tiny features already pinched in concentration as she finds a crayon and begins to draw. Harry crouches at her side, watching her for a moment before kissing the top of her head. He breezes past you before you hear the bathroom door lock shut and now it’s just you and Annie alone together. “I love Harry, but he’s a man and he doesn’t know anything.” You shouldn’t laugh, but you do. “We live ten minutes away. If you need anything at all—anything, I mean it, please call us. Mine and AJ’s mobile numbers are both on the fridge.” “Thank you, Annie.” She hesitates, playing absently with the tag of her tea bag before nodding to the living room. “Let’s sit.” You have a seat on the couch; Annie takes the small leather armchair on the other side of the coffee table. Her eyes are warm. You see a flash of that expression that had passed between her and Harry. “He is a good man.” Annie’s voice is so low, it’s almost a whisper. “One of the best I’ve ever met… You’re in good hands, I promise.” There isn’t a chance for you to respond as the sound of the faucet running in the bathroom interrupts. Harry re-enters the living room, his eyes flitting between yours and Annie’s with a curious look on his face. “Am I interrupting something?” “Course not, lovely. We’re just waiting for AJ with the sheets,” Annie replies. She must be killer at poker. AJ slips through the door with a folded bundle of checkered sheets nearly covering her face. “Miss me?” She perches on the armrest of Annie’s chair upon returning from Syvia’s room, an arm wrapped around her shoulders. You are acutely aware of the warmth of Harry’s leg against yours, suddenly too nervous to shift and potentially draw attention to it. Though you try hard not to, you can practically see the silent conversation happening between the three other adults in the room; if you had to guess, it’s probably about you. You categorically refuse to look at Harry, so you’re left with AJ’s nearly imperceptible eyebrow-raising, and a curl of Annie’s lip that seems to be a question and a confirmation all at once. The three of them are a little… too quiet. “Well we should be off then,” she says, drawing her hands together in a clap. “Someone needs a bath tonight.” Sylvia hurries over and locks her arms around Harry’s legs. He scoops her up like she weighs absolutely nothing. “C’mon now, angel,” he murmurs, glancing over his daughter’s head to look at you with a vaguely resigned expression. “Gonna see you tomorrow, aren’t I? Gotta be good for your mums.” Harry fixes Sylvia’s wobbling lower lip with a stern look. “Hey, now. What’s this about? S’not any different from Mummy’s normal turn with you, right? You know you’ve got too much love pumpkin, we gotta share ya.” Sylvia mumbles something too soft to make out; Harry ducks his head close. “Tell me?” You don’t catch all the words, except, “stars.” His face crumples a bit. “Oh honey, of course you’ll still have your bedtime stars. They’re not going anywhere. Nobody’s gonna take your stars.” “And that sounds like the beginning of a meltdown,” Annie says, standing quickly and pulling Sylvia from Harry’s arms. “Best be on our way before she tests all our eardrums.” Sylvia momentarily seems like she might reach back for him, but then she looks at you as though by accident, and shrinks back into her mother’s arms. Shame knots in your stomach as the two women head for the door. Sylvia peeks over Annie’s shoulder as AJ slings her purse over her arm with the car keys in hand. You busy yourself clearing the empty mugs of tea in some small attempt to give them privacy. “Come ‘round about six, yeah?” Annie says as AJ waves at you and disappears first out the door. Harry is sliding Sylvia’s arm through the second sleeve of her coat. His and Annie’s teamwork seems fluid and practiced. “Sounds good.” He tugs her tiny knit hat more securely over her curls. “Love you, bug.” “Hôn ba đi, Vi.” You have no idea what Annie’s just said to Sylvia but Harry leans forward to receive his daughter’s kiss, placing an audible one on her forehead in return. He says something else to Sylvia that’s not English. That deeply tender look in Annie’s face returns. Harry’s hand falls to her waist and she touches his jaw to place a quick peck at the corner of his mouth. “Call us if you need anything.” She turns back to you. “You too. Our numbers are—” “On the fridge,” you finish with a smile, waving. “Thank you, Annie.” Harry shuts the door behind them and the flat falls silent for the first time in what feels like ages. You hear him laugh once before he turns to you. “Sorry about that.” “No. Harry, I should be the one apologizing. Sylvia’s so upset, I feel awful.” Harry looks from you to the door and back again, shaking his head as he moves towards the kitchen. “Oh no, don’t worry about that. She was mostly tired, is all. Happens all the time.” He pauses before joking, “Sorry you had to hear my really terrible Vietnamese.” You watch as he begins to rifle through the cabinets. “What are you doing?” “I’m sure I left it in here somewhere—aha!” He holds an empty mason jar aloft before grabbing a sharpie and the magnetic pad of Hello Kitty sticky notes from the fridge door. Harry scrawls quickly, the cap of the pen between his teeth, before sticking a note on the glass and holding it up for you to read the big, block letters. APOLOGIES.
#harry styles#harry styles imagine#harry styles fic#harry styles blurb#harry styles fanfiction#utsr redux
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—𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓'𝒅;
—PART XV. | BE ALL MY SINS REMEMBER’D
pairing: john wick x f!reader x santino d’antonio
word count: 20k+ (the longest yeah boi ever)
summary: “One day you will thank me for this.”
warnings: PTSD, unhealthy coping mechanisms, self-destructive behaviour (aka your girl is absolutely going through it but it will get better), angst, swearing, some suggestive stuff happens in this one.
notes: might have taken 3 weeks & lots of rage but WELCOME TO CHICAGO PART 1!
children of ares series: 01 | …. | 13 | 14 | . . | 16 |
gif credit (x)
“Father, please—”
“Quiet.”
He doesn’t raise his voice. That’s the worst thing. He doesn’t have to. One word and it’s like the air has been sucked out of the room.
You look towards Gianna but she looks only at her father, her expression blank.
Cassian is tense as a bowstring next to her. There is conflict in his expression but he is Camorra. He is sworn in and regardless of the friendship you’ve built—
“You will depart this household at once,” Giovanni says and steps closer towards you. His eyes are pitch-black. “Let’s see how long you last, viper. Your protection that was so kindly bestowed upon you by my son is hereby terminated.”
“Father, I can vouch—”
“I said quiet,” he speaks again, colder this time, and Santino’s mouth snaps shut at once. “You have done plenty already. I’ve just about had enough of your decadence, boy.”
Then, Giovanni D’Antonio’s head slants towards you again and he regards you like he’s considering whether it would be easier to kill you here and now or later.
“Hector.”
A dark shadow moves from behind the Camorra head, always the obedient dog, and halts at his side. Step is staring at the floor, stricken. Julian’s eyes are full of sadness, his shoulders curved downwards. Dario’s lips are pressed into an unhappy line, his knuckles popping from under his skin. None of them move or interfere. They know better than that. They are Giovanni’s men. They owe no loyalty to you.
“Yes, capo?”
“Get her out of my sight.”
Hector moves without hesitation. You don’t try to fight him when he grips your forearm, his cool rings pressing into the flesh of your skin.
Your eyes find Santino’s across the room. His jaw is clenched so tightly you can almost hear the grind of his teeth but he’s silent.
Something crumbles in your chest.
You had hoped that maybe—
“Move it, sweetheart.”
You turn to go.
“If you take so much as another step, Santino,” Giovanni’s merciless, soft voice reaches your ears and you almost halt. “The consequences that will follow will be of your own making.”
Silence greets every echoing step after that and no one tries to stop you.
Alone.
Again.
.
[NEW YORK CITY, 3.5 YEARS AGO]
Your eyes crack open and for a moment all you can see is blurred, muted colours above you.
The Continental room ceiling greets you like an old friend.
The sour odour of herbs and old sweat mixes in the air when you try to inhale and your face scrunches in disgust.
Your skin feels dirty and cold to the touch. You’ve spent the last several hours on the floor no doubt sweating out the toxins in your body while going through several fits.
Wrong dosage. Again.
Trying and failing to roll onto your side, you huff a weak breath. Your throat feels raw and dry and you ignore the painful cramping of your stomach.
The elixir wasn’t clear enough again. You’ve spent almost two days trying to distil it till it was clear enough to mix and used the best alcohol you could find in the city—
Shit.
It doesn’t matter, you think and close your eyes again. You’re still delirious but there’s always tomorrow.
Welcome back, Kishi murmurs lovingly into your ear the moment darkness appears behind your eyelids.
Your nightmares begin moments later.
.
You heave painfully, your shoulders curving harshly as you gasp for breath.
Wrong fucking dosage.
And too many zootoxins. Goddamn viper venom. Goddamn stupid chemistry. Acetylcholinesterases must be having a field day ravaging through your body as you stay curled pathetically over the toilet, losing whatever little water you had consumed in the last several hours.
Pathetic, Kishi hums from beside you, his ghostly hands caressing your hair soothingly. No wonder he left you. No wonder he doesn’t love you.
“Shut up.”
You suppose the blood you see should concern you.
It doesn’t.
.
You’ve kept the dress you wore to his wedding.
It still smells like him.
It torments you as much as it gives you comfort.
.
Foxglove is a remarkably beautiful flower.
It’s also a rather deadly, beautiful flower.
Cardiac glycoside.
Interesting.
You scribble a new formula, your brain aching but still functional after your last failure.
Too obvious? Perhaps. It lacks finesse, sure.
But you don’t care much for finesse anymore.
You just want results. And you will get them. Even if it means bleeding yourself and this world dry to get them.
You hate so beautifully, Kishi compliments with a sigh, his dark eyes glimmering in the low light.
You simply prepare yourself for another count of agony.
Such is the price to pay for power.
.
The dress doesn’t even smell like him anymore. It’s been months.
You still like to pretend that it does.
.
John.
You turn the viper ring on your hand.
John.
He’s not coming back, Kishi tells you from beside you and you both ignore how his throat spills blood. He doesn’t care about you. No one does.
“I know.”
His rough fingers caress your cheek.
You might be crying but you can’t be sure.
You’re at the bottom of the pit and there is nothing but darkness and quiet here.
Even if you wanted to get up. You don’t think you can.
You don’t want to, either.
Easier…
Easier to let things wither and die.
But I’m with you. I will never leave you, little viper. I will hate you forever.
Kishi rolls over, his fingers wrapping around your throat, his mouth a sneer, and his eyes dark. His throat is open, gushing, and red rains everywhere.
His hands tighten around your throat.
You don’t try to stop him.
.
Freezing water splashes against your face and body.
You wake up with a strangled scream, scrambling across the dirty floor.
A puddle of sick lays not too far from you and you blink away the wooziness, trying to locate a weapon. Your heart sits in your throat as you attempt to find the culprit, too, and your eyebrows knit when your eyes snag onto two men standing before you.
“Oh, good. You’re still alive,” Winston drawls, a hint of coldness lacing his scornful tone. “Saves us the trouble of cleaning up.”
Charon says nothing but the bucket in his hand paints him as the guilty party.
You try to wipe the water from your eyes but it takes several tries to lift your hands to your face due to muscle weakness.
“What—”
A weak croak and you pause, forcing your unused vocal cords to work.
Winston looks away as if he can’t bear the sight of you and approaches the window, pulling back the curtains with a swift jerk. Light explodes across the room and you flinch, ducking your head down as you block it with your palm.
“What are you…doing here?” you finally force out, your throat sore and blood stinging your tongue.
Ulcers from the chemicals. Great.
“Considering that no one has heard from you in days, and you won’t let anyone inside without a threat of violence,” the manager explains, every word as icy as the last. “That left me with little choice but to check on you myself by forced entry. Do you plan to waste away here forever?”
The window opens with a crack and you shoot a glare towards Charon who moves around the room calmly. He opens doors and windows, letting the room air and you scowl at them both, still curled on the floor.
Your body aches and your muscles feel shaky with exhaustion. You haven’t left your room in days though. How funny it is that you feel more exhausted now than when you used to do jobs back to back with little sleep and danger around every corner.
“Get showered and dressed,” Winston instructs sternly, glancing at you only briefly and something in your stomach twists. Are you truly that repulsive to him that— “I expect you downstairs in ten minutes. Charon, handle the rest.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Winston only manages a handful of steps before your choked words stop him dead, “You’re not my father. Don’t order me around.”
With your head bowed, you imagine your glare is even more vicious when he eventually does look back at you. His own expression is cool, composed as always, and he hums thoughtfully.
“No, I’m not,” he agrees easily, his expression as hard as his voice. “And be glad for it. Because I reassure you that if you were, I would not be putting up with this behaviour. Ten minutes, dear.”
Then he’s gone, and the distant clank of his shoes fades down the corridor.
You wish that didn’t sting but it does.
.
The first sip scorches through your throat and you choke down a mouthful, pulling the glass away from your lips with a grimace.
“What the hell is this?”
“Bruichladdich.”
Ignoring the agony in your mouth, you scowl at the man before you, and force yourself to take another sip. Winston’s frown deepens as he watches you shrewdly over his glasses. You don’t care much for it. With how strong this drink is, it will probably knock you out with a few more sips and that’s the goal. Better than whatever the hell this is.
Intervention, little viper, Kishi speaks from beside you and this time you almost jump for a different reason. Kishi and his torture belong in the pit with the rest of you. Not here.
The lounge is suspiciously empty as you and Winston sit facing each other on twin leather sofas. In fact, only Charon lingers by the bar and you know that Continental lounge is rarely this quiet.
“May I ask what it is, exactly, that you’ve been doing as of late?”
The question is restrained but something simmers in that gaze as he pins you under his heavy scrutiny.
“Working.”
Winston’s eyebrows jump. “Oh! Working. Is that what you call it?” he wonders coolly. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks to me like you’re just poisoning yourself repeatedly.”
Scoffing, you lower the glass and ignore the frailness of your own grip. Your longer than usual nails tap against the glass and you force yourself to swallow over the pain in your mouth. Your tongue keeps poking at the little wound inside your cheek and a sting of copper follows swiftly after.
Your hands are as cold as your feet. Your hair still damp from a quick wash in the sink—because there is no way you could have forced yourself to shower today of all days—sits around your head like a crown of black ice.
Just like when I drowned you over and over again, Kishi recalls happily and you grit your teeth, turning to face the fireplace and soaking in its warmth.
“That’s how Mithridatism works, Winston,” you inform him, your voice still a husky, raw mess and you swallow another mouthful even though the drink goes down like a hot knife. Better to feel this pain. Something to ground you. “It doesn’t happen overnight.”
“Oh, I’m perfectly aware of how it works,” the man barely waits long enough for you to finish before speaking and you fall silent. “It’s an art of discipline and brilliance. Given a different set of circumstances, I might have even praised you on your foresight. However, given how idiotically reckless you are being that can wait.”
Your grip on the glass tightens and you drag your attention back towards him.
“Why am I here?”
“It’s your birthday,” he says tightly, his eyes flashing. “But you had no idea, did you?”
Oh.
No—no, you didn’t.
Time has become…nothing.
A stream of existing and not existing. Of being lost, adrift.
You miss the sun.
You miss the dream that you could belong. That you could be a part of something and have companionship and trust.
You miss him.
John. Your John.
You miss him so much it makes you feel sick with longing for something that will never be yours again. He’s happy. Happy without you.
“I know what I’m doing.”
Quiet, hollow words. You both know that.
“You’re killing yourself.”
There it is. The thing he’s been trying to avoid voicing out loud.
His words devour everything. Even Charon goes quiet behind the bar and you stare at the manager blankly.
Raising your trembling hand, you drown another gulp of your drink before placing the glass on the table and standing unsteadily to your feet.
“No one would care anyway.”
You step past him.
“You have no idea how wrong you are,” he calls after you, his mild words full of something you don’t dare to class as concern. Not from a man like him. “Don’t let it consume you,” he adds, quieter, when you fail to respond.
You don’t reply to that, either.
Nor do you believe him.
.
You find flowers in your room the next day. You had planned to get them for research into a potential paralyser formula that’s been knocking around your mind for a while now.
There is no note attached to them.
But you don’t need it to know where they came from.
You suppose it should make you happy.
But there is nothing inside your chest.
.
Some nights it feels like your bones are made out of all the nightmares living underneath your skin.
Some nights you think you will swim.
Other nights you think you will drown.
And you know all about drowning.
.
Humming weakly, you shake the vial in your hand till the liquid inside goes from dark blue to red.
Finally.
It’s a potent, haunting sort of colour. Thick and striking as it rolls in the confines of the glass it’s encased in. It reminds you of—
Just like when you tore my throat out, Kishi mutters in wonder, leaning his face closer as he squints at the vial. Shoulder to shoulder. Your only companion. I bled red just like it.
He’s still bleeding. He hasn’t stopped bleeding. He will never stop bleeding.
And you can still taste it in your mouth. Except you’re no longer sure if it’s his blood or yours.
Toying with the pencil between your fingers, you roughly cross out Baba Yaga and write Kishi on top of the crumpled sheet of paper instead.
Then you tilt your head back and drown it whole.
.
There is everything and then there is nothing.
.
.
.
Distant voices. Urgent. Hands on you. Shaking, pulling.
Then nothing again.
.
“—cannot go on like this—”
“—there is nothing you can do, sir—”
“—dead soon—called—only option—”
“—use her—can’t—he will not—”
“He will.”
.
You wake up bathed in sunlight.
It almost makes you cry because for a moment you can’t help but think that you’re dead.
A faint rustle of paper reaches you, and you slant your head weakly.
Winston sits on an expensive leather armchair, his legs crossed and pen between his fingers.
This isn’t the hospital wing that lives beneath the ground floor of the hotel.
You know this room.
You just can’t believe the man next to you is sitting here with you.
“I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” is the first thing to leave your mouth. A half-forced whisper on your tender throat. “I wasn’t.”
It’s true.
But you have no idea how to convince him of it.
The air seems thick with a thousand unsaid things and Winston lowers the newspaper from his face, taking off his glasses and placing both on his lap.
His expression is empty as he examines you.
You curl further into the clean, crisp sheets around you as the silence continues. An IV is attached to your arm and you cringe at the sight of it. Your skin is suddenly so itchy you want to tear it away from you but know better than to try.
“I know you weren’t,” the man voices, at last, his words steady. “You were punishing yourself instead. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You believe that you’re not good enough—that you are deserving of pain. Better to make yourself hurt than to let anyone else do it. Am I wrong?”
Your eyes sting but you don’t speak, staring at his gleaming shoes.
“Are you hoping that you will drown everything else out?” he questions but it’s not accusatory. If anything he sounds like he’s trying to engage with you in a way no one has before. “Never give someone else the power to destroy you. Hurting yourself will not erase what happened to you at Tokyo nor will it bring Jonathan back,” he continues, his voice grim after several moments of deafening silence between you.
You flinch at the name, your eyes closing in shame as moisture clings to your lashes.
Curtains flutter in the slight breeze.
Why did he bring you here?
“You will be staying here from now on.”
Your eyes fly open and your head snaps to him as panic fills your veins. “No—you—you can’t kick me out,” you mumble thickly, trying to rise, your fingers tangling between the sheets. You try and fail. “I pay for my stay. I—I haven’t broken any rules. You—”
Please, don’t throw me out. Please. I have nowhere else to go.
Winston’s expression creases. “I am not throwing you out,” he pacifies quietly but a shadow seems to have settled across his weathered features. “You are welcome to come back whenever you can afford it again.”
Your eyebrows furrow, and noting your confusion the man continues with a twist of his lips that would be biting normally, “When was the last time you picked up a contract, dear? It’s been months. Viggo Tarasov never gave you much to begin with and now…well. Your account ran dry two weeks ago. You likely have another two weeks at best before the Russian comes looking for you. He will expect you to pay up. It’s rather good that you already have your next job lined up though.”
That gives you a pause.
“What?”
Some of your panic has retreated but in its place blooms unease.
Winston tuts and stands to his feet. The newspaper is still in his hand and he slips his glasses into his pocket.
The look he gives you next makes you feel like you will have no choice but to comply with whatever he says next.
“You already know where you are,” he tells you knowingly, his eyebrow arching slightly. “Your employer is ready to see you.”
Santino D’Antonio hasn’t changed since the last time you saw him.
Which was before John and his wife. Before the wedding.
It was the night you decided to take a leap and hope for the best with your decision to come back to New York. Not like you could stay in Rome. Not with Camorra protection null and void.
Not with Tarasov demanding payment as usual.
Last time you saw him, Santino offered you to go to Paris with him. His own version of an apology. For not doing more to stop Giovanni. But no one could. The entire room could have stood in defence of you and it still won’t have changed a damn thing.
Last time you saw him, he had taken your hand in his and with that familiar arrogance and burning eyes and kissed your knuckles, asking only one question, “Come away with me, cara mia?”
You had refused him then.
And you would still refuse him now.
You will always refuse him because he’s not John.
That thought makes something deep down ache.
The Italian rises when he sees you emerge onto the terrace.
Your arm is hooked around Winston’s as you walk. Normally, you might have commented on how seeing the manager of all the people here is hilarious. You know that there is no love lost between the two so the fact that they have gone through the trouble of collaborating on this…
Do they really think you’re that helpless?
A lost cause?
You don’t have enough energy to ask.
Every step closer is a metamorphosis of expressions though.
Santino seems to go through a thousand emotions in those several seconds it takes you to cut across the terrace. Your steps are shaky, your muscles aching, and you’re sweating.
A tart bitterness still coats your tongue and your grip on Winston tightens.
The older man presses closer—just a touch—but the silent comfort that gives you is immeasurable. Surprising.
Ares stands behind Santino and her expression is stoic as she takes you in. Unlike Santino, her emotions are guarded.
They both look ready for a funeral. The atmosphere that greets you is near suffocating.
You sit down awkwardly, practically falling into your seat as Winston sits down beside you. Santino is the only one left standing but he seems frozen in place.
You see his fingers flex, his Camorra ring gleaming in the golden rays of the sun when he finally lowers himself in the seat opposite to you.
It’s too late for lunch but too early for dinner. Wine and fresh coffee are always present on the heir’s table though—this you know to be an absolute that never changes.
“Ciao, cara mia. A pleasure to see you as always.”
You blink. Right.
“Santino.”
Those brilliant green eyes narrow.
“What’s wrong with your vo—”
Winston clears his throat loudly and Santino falls quiet, frowning deeply. He tugs a napkin free and drops it on his lap carelessly, peering at you.
The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife but you simply stare at the table.
“I have a job offer for you, bella,” the man begins amiably, folding his fingers on the pristine tablecloth before reaching for a glass of wine beside him. He’s frustrated, angry even. The cords of his neck are tense and the subtle clenching of his jaw betrays him. The way he taps his fingers repeatedly against the table and doesn’t seem to notice even more so. “One that I think you will find most beneficial.”
New York is so damn noisy. The traffic reaches you even up here. It’s a serenade of concrete, shouting, rushing people, laughter, arguing—
“Bella? Are you listening to me?”
You blink again, squinting at him. “Sorry,” you mutter shortly, ignoring the way Winston is dead silent, Ares is glaring at some distant point over your head, and Santino is gripping the wine glass so hard you can almost hear the cracking glass from where you sit. “It’s been a rough few days. What,” you exhale, your voice raspy and try again, “What exactly did you want?”
The Italian’s head slants, his demanding gaze drilling into you with enough intensity to keep you focused for at least a second.
“A job,” he repeats, slower this time, his voice colder, too. “I will require you in Chicago in two weeks time. In peak condition. Which you are currently not,” he adds the last part with such deliberate slowness that your bristle, something flickering in your gut.
It lasts only a second before fizzling out.
Yet between the rays of the sun blinding you both, it’s hard to miss the way he latches onto that brief moment. His navy suit accents the severe curve of his shoulders and the unmissable tension there.
“Not interested.”
A furnace, a volcano—Santino D’Antonio looks ready to shatter this world under his too-expensive shoe. Something whispers to you that it’s not anger directed at you, however.
Winston speaks before the Camorra heir can. “You need this job. It’s not a question of want or preference, I’m afraid.”
But you don’t want it.
Santino is just another reminder. A stark reminder that you don’t belong anywhere.
John didn’t want you, Camorra didn’t want you, Tarasov only needs you as long as you’re making him money, Winston is just doing his duty as the overseer of New York.
You belong in the pit with Kishi who seems absent for once.
Maybe it’s the brightness of the sun. He fears the light as much as you do now.
“It’s an undercover mission,” Santino endeavours to explain even though his voice is strained, deepening his accent. “Information gathering only. There are several individuals who have been, ah, causing problems for our trade as of late shall we say. It will be low risk, clean exit but no loose ends. What say you?”
He’s lying.
That’s for one.
Your eyes meet his stare and he leans closer like that can somehow keep your attention on him by doing that.
He’s lying.
So he either thinks you’re an idiot or he’s being purposely misleading due to Winston’s presence here. There is something else going on that he doesn’t want the manager of the Continental to know.
That calculating glimmer in his eyes is telling enough.
“No.”
You’re tired.
Downright, bone-weary type of exhausted.
Swaying, you stand to your feet.
“Tarasov is going to hunt you down—”
You don’t let Winston finish, turning to go. “I don’t care.”
A loud scrape of a chair fills the air and loud footsteps stalk after you. Deliberate. Furious. You ignore them, continuing on your way albeit sluggishly.
“And what are you going to do, hm?” Santino hisses from behind you, his fury spilling over. “Will you go cry a bit more about how your precious Johnathan left you? Will you just give up and go lock yourself away again?”
Your feet halt but you don’t turn around.
“D’Antonio.”
Winston’s warning is icy but Santino doesn’t heed it. That fire rages in him too brightly, scorching everything in its path. “When have you become such a coward, I wonder, hm? I knew a fighter, a tornado of a woman, now you can’t even look people in the eyes. Pity. To think that you have given up so easily—”
Fire doesn’t frighten you—it never has.
It’s a second, a breath, a heartbeat—
A blade stills against the curve of that elegant neck, and you stand face to face, seething when your eyes meet. It’s an echo from years ago, of your first meeting, and just like then Santino D’Antonio leans into danger, into the cold promise of death, into you and smirks. “Ah, there she is,” he purrs, enraptured, his voice a silky caress. “Are you going to kill me, cara mia?”
“I’m considering it.”
He raises his hand casually, stopping the guards who are no doubt ready to do their jobs and remove the threat—remove you.
“Yet you know that you cannot,” he dismisses, his voice still silky, smug. “For if you do the wrath of Camorra will rain down upon you till there is nothing left. Besides, it might be in bad taste to kill your host and friend, no?”
Friend?
You lean closer and Santino’s lips part at the proximity.
“I’m not staying here.”
His eyebrow cocks up and despite the residual anger you feel radiating from him, he still manages to sound effortlessly pompous when he speaks next. “You can’t afford to go back to the Continental,” he points out sharply and tilts his head, unruffled despite the bite of the blade against his pulse. “But if you prefer to sleep with the scum of this city then, by all means, be my guest.”
He’s right.
You have nothing. No home, no safe space to call your own, just nothing. John was your home once but he’s gone now, too.
For one hateful moment, you consider slicing Santino’s throat open just to have a quick out. But the truth is that you can’t.
He’s helped you too many times.
He helped John. He helped you. He gave you security when no one else could. He offered his hand despite everything—despite the fact that you still refuse to warm his bed to this day in spite of his clear eagerness for it. He keeps helping without pushing you.
For that alone, you know you owe him.
Ripping the blade away from his neck, you spin on your heels and stagger away, your skin damp with sweat.
Blood is rushing loudly in your ears and your tongue feels dry and bloated in your mouth as you stumble into the apartment. You manage a few steps before slumping against the wall, your breathing laboured. Wiping clumsily over your face, you take a moment to appreciate the suffocating silence your departure has left behind.
You linger just long enough to hear Santino’s clear, bitter command that rings like a death knell across the terrace.
“Postpone everything. We are staying in New York till this is sorted.”
.
You’re holding on.
But barely.
Just barely.
Maybe not even at all.
.
Winston leaves twenty minutes later.
He stops by the guest room you have claimed as your own and watches your prone figure on the bed.
You don’t turn to him, don’t say anything, either. You want to be angry that he’s as good as threw you out. That he’s forced you into this situation. That you found your clothes moved into the sleek closet behind you but not your solutions or poisons.
They don’t trust you.
They might believe the fact that you weren’t trying to end your life, but they don’t trust you not to do more harm.
The anger you felt only minutes ago in Santino’s presence has fizzled out and died. Darkness has cocooned you in its embrace once again even though something restless still scratches under your skin as always.
Even now, there is no peace.
“Let me come home.”
You don’t realise your slip up till you hear the older man exhale; a weary, ragged sound. You wonder what he must be thinking. If there’s some code he has to follow in a situation like this.
Home.
What sentiment.
What’s the protocol for this?
“Your death will not be on my hands,” he says at last, cruel and kind all at once. “One day you will thank me for this.”
And then he leaves.
.
Ares knocks on your door by the time dinner rolls around.
You don’t answer.
She comes in anyway. Her stare as hard and uncompromising as always, and the dour expression on her face only makes you blink and press your cheek back into the pillow.
Dinner?
You don’t move.
She signs again.
Sits on your bed and repeats it.
And again.
You don’t move.
Eventually, she leaves and you’re relieved that she’s gone.
A distant, angry voice sounds from somewhere in the apartment several minutes later but it cuts out quickly.
Somehow the silence that follows is even louder.
.
You could leave. You should.
But there is nothing for you out there but death.
No weapons, no solutions, and a weak body.
You won’t last a day.
For one foolish, pathetic moment you consider calling John just to see if his number is still the same. If maybe—
You curl under the covers and sink deeper into the dark.
.
Ares comes to call you for breakfast the next day.
You pretend that you’re asleep.
She brings you a tray of food and leaves it on the table.
You don’t touch it.
.
You pick at some of the food eventually.
But you don’t leave your room, spending endless hours curled under the covers, thinking.
Let Tarasov come.
It’s finally perfect. The poison you’ve created just for him. Just a touch more lethality and it will be ready.
You can’t wait to see him erode into nothing.
When he is dead—and one day he will be—you will delight in every second of dizzying triumph that will follow the stilling of that dark heart.
One day, he will die with terror in his heart that wears your name.
.
John. John. John.
.
Kishi has been absent for so long that you’re surprised to see his grinning face appear in your nightmares.
Hello, viper. I’ve missed you so dearly.
He cups your cheeks, grinning wider, wider—
His face morphs. Raven hair. Dark, thoughtful eyes that you love—
John leans forward and sinks his teeth into your neck.
Blood spills down your chest.
Your scream is silent.
.
Hands try to hold you down as you trash, your skin slick with sweat, and clothes sticking to your skin.
“Wake up,” a voice urges. “Open your eyes!”
You do. A scream climbs up your throat but you force it down, your eyes frantically seeking the figure above you.
A familiar pair of green eyes stare down at you. Wild with an emotion you have no name for.
His fingers hold you by the forearms but his grip relaxes when he sees you’re lucid.
Gasping for breath, you twist from underneath the covers, shaking his arms off and dash for the bathroom. Your knees crack against the gleaming tiles and the content of your stomach empties itself in a brutal lurch. Next several moments are full of your suffering. Tears sting your eyes from the pain, and you bite your lip, your limbs still twitching as your stomach rolls.
You feel him hovering behind you.
“Cara mia?” there is a question in that breathless address but you ignore him. “Are you well enough to stand, at least?”
He sounds frustrated but his voice is still calm—just barely.
Footsteps draw closer to where you lay half slumped over the toilet, your eyes closed.
You feel so drained that even tears won’t come. The skin of your neck feels dirty and torn. Faint traces of the feverish nightmare still cut into you and you shiver.
Hot fingers settle on your shoulder, light and cautious, and you snarl, jerking away from the touch. “Don’t touch me!”
“You’re unwell,” Santino shoots back tightly, his eyes blazing and body rigid. He’s clad in only a clean, white shirt and trousers but you don’t care to ask what the time is. “What is happening? Is it the poison? Did you take something—”
“Shut up and get out!”
“You need—”
“I don’t need you!” you scream; a raw, awful thing that leaves you gasping. You want to claw at your own skin but can’t—shouldn’t. “I don’t need anyone,” you add in a broken, quiet whisper and it’s like that awful hotel room all over again.
His expression darkens, strains. For the first time, Santino D’Antonio looks unsure of what to do. It’s like that finely honed arrogance with which he carries himself has abandoned him. Here, in this cold, dark bathroom he simply glares down at you.
“Very well, bella,” he says, his words biting, low. “Wallow in your misery alone if you must. But we are eating breakfast together.”
The last part isn’t up for negotiation.
A brief spark of anger ignites, nothing more than a tiny ember. Egoistical prick.
No response greets him.
He lingers for a few, expectant moments but you don’t move. The only dialogue between you is your shallow breaths and the weight of his overbearing regard.
Go, leave. Everyone always does.
You don’t feel yourself drift away.
.
The next morning, it’s the blinding sun that awakens you once more.
You’re back in your bed.
At first, you think that last night was a bizarre dream until you rub your face, and catch a whiff of vinous scent staining your skin.
Santino.
There is a feeling—
It flees as everything else does now—too fast for you to grasp onto it.
You don’t get up for breakfast.
.
You don’t get up the entire day.
Or the day after that.
.
It’s been at least a year and a half since Tokyo.
Yet it still feels like you’re drowning.
Maybe you’ll never stop.
.
“I hope you’re hungry.”
Your eyes crack open and you lick your cracked lips, turning towards the doorway.
It’s the first time you’ve seen him inside this room aside from that night when he woke you up from your nightmares.
He’s been sending in Ares to deliver you food and water, to try and engage.
“What?” you mumble, blinking sluggishly.
Santino stalks into the room and aggression lines his every step. He’s trying to control it, keep calm, and his hands buried inside his pockets say a lot. Behind him, Ares walks in with a tray of food. She moves closer towards you and places it on the bed before sitting down at the foot of it, the tray now between you.
Much to your surprise, the heir of Camorra does the same.
He looks beyond uncomfortable, his mind clearly somewhere else, but Ares starts first by picking up a mango slice from one of the many plates, and placing it inside her mouth. She chews slowly and stares at you expectantly as she does.
She’s clad in dark burgundy today as is Santino and you know that colour holds a special significance at Camorra but you can’t think of one right now.
They’re both not used to this, you realise distantly, making an effort for someone.
This is weakness. This is something that’s ruthlessly crushed and disposed of at Camorra. Such...inability would never be tolerated.
Yet they’re trying.
Santino is scowling at a wall but he’s chewing his fruit obediently. Ares is doing the same.
It’s awkward.
No one speaks.
And yet—
Your fingers stretch towards the strawberries.
Santino’s eyes snap to your hand, focusing on the motion and you still briefly before pinching one between your fingers. Your head barely lifts from your pillow but you bring it to your lips, nibbling on it cautiously.
It’s delicious. Sweet and zesty taste explodes against your tongue the moment you bite down on it. It’s taken days for the wounds inside your mouth to close but now the full extent of your taste receptors seems to have come back.
No one speaks but the tension in the room seems to ease a touch as you continue nibbling away.
You manage three strawberries that morning.
Every single one of them feels like scarlet, gushing victory.
For the first time in months, you don’t taste blood in your mouth.
You only taste the sweetness of life.
.
It’s hours later, long after they’ve both left, that information crawls up from the back of your mind.
An heir apparent and his right hand wearing burgundy outside of Camorra duties. No deaths, no coronation, no birthday or births to warrant that very deliberate choice of dress code.
This is something else.
Burgundy they wore in a show of favour, companionship, respectful implication that they consider you an equal and are seeking an alliance.
All while you laid in bed with greasy hair, dark circles under your eyes, stale breath and vacant eyes.
Something deep down flutters at that. You try to grasp onto that spark with whatever little strength you still have left but it’s so hard.
Everything is so hard now.
.
Warmth.
Your nose presses into it, curling against it and you sigh faintly. There is something so comforting about having someone else in the bed with you—
Your eyes snap open and you scramble backwards, your legs tangling in the sheets.
Santino lays on the other side of the bed, one hand resting behind his head. He’s relaxed, his clothes immaculate as always—pale blue, cotton shirt and trousers, no doubt all designer—and Rolex gleaming around his wrist as he taps his fingers on his chest in a careless rhythm. His eyes drag slowly from the spot he was observing on the ceiling to you, and a slight smirk curves his lips.
A spark again and it flares enough to work your tongue.
“What are you doing here?”
He blinks at the sharpness of your question and you don’t miss the trace of surprise in those green depths.
“This is my home, cara,” he says pleasantly, his voice a lovely roll of syllables, and you’ve forgotten how effortlessly charming he can be. “I am resting.”
“Get out.”
It’s hardly a demand. It sounds more like a strangled, detached whisper.
His eyes roll at that, effortlessly dismissive and condescending.
“Hm. No.”
You claw deeper to dig out that ember of your old self back. The one who would have sliced his skin for using that tone. Thrown him off the bed without warning and threatened him for good measure, too. If only to see that smug gleam in his eyes after. Listen to him throw a deliberate, heated comment about how attractive you are when angry while his eyes drag over your figure with obvious desire.
The same dance.
Always trying to get under your skin.
Even now.
“Get out.”
His eyes spark. Eager. Coaxing.
He sits up unhurriedly, his chin lowering as he looks you right in the eye.
“Make me.”
A deliberate challenge. Everything since you’ve come here has been deliberate. From his actions to his words. He’s trying to get a reaction. Even more so than he used to before. Before it was about him and his ego. Now you have no idea what he’s trying to achieve with his goading.
“What are you doing?” you demand even though it sounds faint and takes more effort than it’s worth. “Trying to piss me off on purpose?”
He leans closer and your eyes narrow when you come face-to-face. This is the closest he’s been to you in months. Since Rome. Since before whatever little control you had got buried with your heart at John’s wedding.
“Yes, cara, indeed I am,” he admits easily, shameless as always, facing you unflinchingly because it’s who he is. He never shies away and expects the same from you. “Be angry with me. Rage, yell, scream till your lungs give out. Anything is better than this.”
A knot forms in your chest at his angry, disgusted hiss at the end. At the way he waits, agog—waits for that fire to rise up and match his own.
Play with me, come on, those eyes say and you stare at him flatly, your mouth tilting downwards.
“What do you know about it?” you breathe quietly, and there is a muted sort of rage there. It prickles your skin, and your fingers knot in the sheets beneath your palms. “Poor little D’Antonio with his mean daddy who won’t shower him in praise. You have it so hard. Mansions and cars and a mountain of wealth. Freedom to do whatever you want.”
If he wants to play this game, you will indulge him.
His expression smoothens, growing colder at your words, and he leans back a touch, his chin tilting. The moment of almost ends and the cool, collected heir is all that’s left.
“So quick to pass judgment, cara mia,” he points out softly, icily. Still, his eyes drag over your weary features and there is determination there. “Join me for breakfast.”
“Why?”
His lips curve and he leans forward without warning again, his breath tickling against your ear. “Because I asked nicely and I rarely do that, no?”
You shove him back with your hand and he hums, seemingly entertained.
“Asshole.”
He stands to his feet, not a stitch out of place, and stretches to his full height, glancing at you before offering you his hand.
You ignore it, pulling the covers back yourself as you stumble to your feet, trying to find your balance.
“Better,” you hear him acknowledge, and flip him off without looking back as you stride towards the bathroom on shaky legs.
His chuckle sounds immediately, pleased, and you make sure to slam the door shut extra loud behind you.
You didn’t have to get up. You didn’t even think you had it in you to do so.
You cup your hands around that ember inside your chest protectively and soak in its warmth.
Just for a little while.
.
“You’ve gotten worse.”
Stabbing a fork into the fluffy pancake on your plate, you don’t answer.
The sun is bearing down on you both, warming your neck as you sip on your juice without engaging him. It tastes good. Freshly squeezed and organic no doubt—only the best for the Italian prince.
Santino exhales forcefully. He’s not used to being ignored and he doesn’t like it.
Good.
“You weren’t like this when you were staying with us,” he tries again and you ignore the resentment you can hear coating his words. “He did this to you.”
Your head lifts, your mouth a hard line, and find Santino half leaning across the small table towards you. He always does that you realise suddenly. Like he’s being dragged closer by an invisible rope.
He’s right though. Even if you hate the fact that he is.
Camorra for all its awful brutality and endless ambition had been a safe haven. It had been routine and focus and purpose. Most days you were so busy you had no time to think about anything else. You were hunted and wanted to change that.
So you shed your skin—the skin that was soft because you hadn’t realised just how much John had shielded you from before—and became a hunter yourself.
The Hunt had been a poetic slaughter—a baptism of blood.
Giovanni D'Antonio allowed you space under his roof because you had been relentless. So relentless to return the favour that with time he might have even offered you a place in his ranks and tried to buy you out from the Russian.
Camorra had been a twisted hope of belonging somewhere.
It had been friendship and hope.
Had.
“Why burgundy?” you ask him instead because it’s been plaguing you. “I have no position of power for you to seek an alliance with me.”
He blinks, exhaling, and then his mouth quirks. His features soften a touch and you ignore the fact that he appears beyond pleased with you.
“You remembered.”
Only because his family and the endless list of traditions and laws infused into the very foundation upon which that empire of blood and bones stands is fascinating. You’ve always been eager for knowledge because that’s what keeps you alive and both heirs had obliged you happily.
Many things they kept from you because you were still seen as an outsider but it hadn’t mattered.
Santino never lacked enthusiasm when it came to you wanting to know more about Camorra.
Because he’s proud of his family. Because he’s proud of his position in it. Because if he’s capable of love you think that Camorra might be the only thing he truly loves.
But articulating all that seems exhausting so you offer him a half-hearted shrug in response.
Still, this seems to have brightened his previously foul mood and he rests his chin on his folded fingers, his elbows digging into the table as he peers at you. His ring glints in the sunlight, momentarily distracting you.
“My intention is exactly what you think it was,” he reveals calmly. “I need you to come with me to Chicago, cara mia. This job is rather important to me personally.”
“Important enough to lie Winston about it.”
His smile is slow coming this time around and all teeth. A sinful, wicked soul residing inside a shell of a man with golden skin, dark curls and piercing eyes. Handsome, dangerous package. A temptation very few have resisted, you know as much.
“Perhaps,” he purrs gently and you force yourself to lower your eyes back to your food. “But I need someone like you. An individual who can deliver and be discreet about it. Besides what Winston doesn’t know, won’t hurt him, no?”
I need you.
You wonder if he’s realised that he’s said it twice in a span of less than five minutes. There is no emphasis on words or deliberate pauses. No indication at all that he’s said them on purpose. In fact, he appears entirely focused on your conversation, his voice smooth and steady.
“What is it?”
He seems even more pleased with your show of interest.
“It wasn’t entirely a lie, bella,” he says breezily, leaning back in his seat as his hands lower back onto the table. “It is undercover. Every five years operational managers from our world meet for a conference of sorts. Everything from food to clothing to weaponry is discussed. Hands are shaken, deals are struck, ah you know how it goes, cara, no? This year this very special event is being held in Chicago. We will attend it.”
You stare at him as you chew and swallow before forcing another bite of pancake into your mouth. You feel full already but you’ve only eaten half of one. You can—need—to eat more. Easier to do so with this distraction, with those eyes tracking every bite you take.
“You need me to kill someone.”
Not a question and those round, pleasant features draw into something remote, downright chilling. In that look, you see something else, something bloodthirsty. It makes you remember the words you associated with his name before your first meeting.
Charming. Power-hungry. Not to be trusted.
Fitting even now.
No, looking at him right now, it’s more fitting than ever.
“Yes,” he admits lightly with a pleasant little hum but his eyes rage. “And I want him to suffer.”
Interesting.
“I could go in alone—”
“No. You will never make it. This is a High Table related event and the security there will be unlike anything you have ever encountered,” he rebukes, and his words wash over you with the intent that tells you he’s been waiting for this moment for a while. “My name is your ticket inside. But most importantly Continental style rules apply. No bloodshed. It’s neutral ground for trading. No one can know it was you or the consequences will be...severe.”
There is more he’s not telling you.
“What do I get in return?”
Santino D'Antonio raises the espresso cup to his mouth and watches you over the rim like he’s already won. “1.5 million USD, cara mia. Agree and it’s yours. You have till twilight to decide.”
.
Charon stands beside Winston as the manager goes through the documents in front of him.
The concierge notices you first, his glasses reflecting the warm glow of the fireplace as you approach.
Winston’s attention follows several seconds later and the man straightens when he sees you, slipping his glasses off as you halt before him.
You haven’t seen him in days. Almost two weeks, in fact.
He takes you in with a critical eye before gesturing to the unoccupied seat opposite to him.
Slipping smoothly into the space you both observe each other for several moments.
“So,” Winston begins, his tone loaded. “Is signor D’Antonio dead or did you finally grow weary of his company?”
That almost makes you smile.
“Neither.”
A twitch of his expression but it’s so slight that you can’t quite read it.
“Yet here you are,” he notes calmly and something lingers in his tone, in his gaze, too. “Out and about. Looking better as well.”
Do you?
You don’t feel like it but you haven’t been feeling much of anything lately.
“I need access to my room,” you decide to cut to the chase and tap your fingers against the table as your eyes slide around the room. Few pairs of eyes skitter away under your attention. Good. This is the legacy of your bloodshed. “I need to prepare.”
Winston exhales and his regard changes. “You agreed then?”
You don’t look at them but you can tell both men are tracking your every breath. “In theory.”
You don’t elaborate further because Winston knows better than anyone that business and confidentiality are key.
“Wonderful. Though I would take this moment to remind you what kind of man you are dealing with.”
Your eyes slide back to him and you do smile this time even if it feels hollow. “You mean the very same one you threw me at?”
Winston’s expression doesn’t so much as shift. “Do you expect me to apologise? Because I have no intention of doing so,” he voices curtly and you don’t feel surprised by his words. “I took a gamble that paid off. But Santino D’Antonio is vain, bloodthirsty and arrogant. You would be wise not to trust him.”
Typical Winston. Always three steps ahead of everyone else.
A small scoff escapes you at his words and you lean back into the comfortable, plush seat. “Believe me,” you state coolly and tap your foot against the floor, once and then again. It takes a lot of energy—just like this entire trip has with your weak muscles and heavy head—but you force yourself to do it anyway. “He’s at the very bottom of the list of people I would ever trust. I know what he is.”
Just as monstrous as the rest of you. Maybe even more so.
But you’re not here seriously considering his offer because he asked nicely or offered you a mountain of money that will feed Tarasov’s greed.
You’re here due to the unspoken thing you can’t help but wonder if he’s even aware of.
The initial two-week deadline is up in less than two hours and yet he’s made no other preparations. Has taken no extra precautionary measures in case his plan backfires and you don’t agree. Despite how he keeps stressing that this job is so important to him, he’s waiting on you.
In Camorra, there is no such thing as “irreplaceable”. If someone is unavailable or incapable other options are sought out with startling ease.
He believes that you will do it.
It’s not about his need for you.
It’s that belief.
It…
It makes you want to fight, too, and you don’t know why but you want to at least try.
Winston takes a sip of his drink, considering you and bobs his head once. “Good. It’s still better than being alone.”
He reaches into his suit jacket and takes out a keycard, sliding it across the smooth mahogany table. Something in your chest ceases at the sight of it, at the fact that he’s had it on him this whole time.
“You figured that I will agree.”
It’s not a question but he still replies with a calm, “Not at all. I hoped that you won’t disappoint, of course,” he notes and there is a brief glimmer of a smile before it’s gone. “And you haven’t.”
You’re both quiet for several moments after that. Charon says nothing as always.
Your unsteady fingers wrap around the card eventually, and you stand with a nod in their direction, straightening.
“Charon. Winston.”
The older man salutes you with his martini. “Bonus fortuna.”
You turn to go and wonder what it means that men like Winston and Santino D’Antonio have more faith in you than you do.
LaGuardia airport appears in your sights half an hour later.
Santino’s men greet you at the entrance of the airport.
Private check-in, private everything. Security is nonexistent when you’re flying with a man of such power and influence.
Ares greets you outside the private jet and you watch a slight grin transform her steely expression into something a bit more cordial.
He is waiting for you inside. Good to be working with you again, pretty viper.
She goes slower than usual so you catch everything, and you appreciate it because you’re still learning ASL. Not to mention the fact that it feels like your brain is just barely functioning.
“Likewise.”
Climbing up the stairs, you nod at the flight attendant who beams back you when you pass her to get inside.
Even the vast, luxurious space can’t seem to contain Santino D’Antonio and his larger than life presence. Every line crisp and tidy, he hardly looks any different than usual. But tinted shades hide his eyes as he stares out of the window. Those long, graceful fingers tap restlessly against the table and you take him in for several stolen seconds.
His head snaps in your direction when you enter the plane and he stills at the sight of you.
You can’t see his eyes as you approach but feel the intensity of his regard all the same. “1.5 mil was it?”
You both know it’s not about the money. It never has been with you. But it’s easier to pretend that it is. If only because that’s safe and familiar.
Santino slips off his sunglasses with a slight chuckle, looking up at you from beneath his lashes as you plop down tiredly in the seat opposite to the heir. It’s like sitting down on a cloud.
He folds the shades and hooks them on his shirt pocket with practised ease. He seems to have a penchant for making every little gesture appear effortlessly elegant and pretentious at the same time.
That little quirk of his lips remains though.
“Indeed it was, cara mia,” he says and extends his hand towards you. “A deal is a deal.”
You grasp his warm hand in yours with the intention of shaking it but as always Santino acts on his own accord. He lifts your palm to his lips and kisses your knuckles instead, his heated breath tickling your skin as he peers at you. That ghost of a smirk is softer this time, and you pull your hand back with a roll of your eyes.
He considers you for a moment before glancing over your shoulder and nodding only once. Behind you, the crew prepares for take-off.
“How long were you going to wait for me?”
Santino’s head slants in thought but his expression is serious. The switch surprises you somewhat but you wait, ignoring the fatigue in your bones.
Ares passes you both with a wave and two guards behind her, heading towards the back of the plane without so much as a backwards glance and you blink.
Deliberate again. Clearly, Santino has something he wants to discuss in private.
He appears deep in thought, going between looking out of the window and you as the jet leaves the ground below. It’s a smooth and trouble-free take off because Santino always hires professionals of the highest degree. Certain things are routine with this man and there is a certain degree of comfort to be found in that.
“You lied to me.”
It’s been long enough that his voice startles you and your muscles tense, your mind immediately flying to all the weapons you have on you.
He seems to notice the way your body locks up just for a moment before relaxing again and his gaze darkens.
“What?”
“When I check in after you left Rome,” he begins and you suddenly understand what this is about. “You told me that you were back at the Continental safe and well. Working.”
You did.
“I wasn’t lying,” you retort tightly, guarded. “I was working.”
“Oh? Is that so? Work.”
Ignoring the scorn in his voice, you give him a fair warning, “If we are to do this job together,” you state icily, a warning ringing through your words. “Then you don’t ask me anything. Better yet, don’t talk about the past at all.”
That dangerous flame licks across his features, tightening his expression. For a prolonged, charged moment you simply survey one another. He saw it after all. How terrible it can be.
He doesn’t speak for the rest of the flight to Chicago.
.
The presidential suite is as grand as all other places Santino usually stays at.
The spacious, high-ceilinged room is located on the top floor of the hotel, overlooking over the beautiful ravine that is Lake Michigan.
The sleek, white walls somehow manage to add dimension to an already large square footage by still remaining welcoming. Decorated tastefully with glossy cabinets, lavish loveseat and colourful armchairs to not detract from the massive canopy bed sitting in the furthest corner of the room. The velvety covers and plush cream pillows have never seemed more inviting and your eyes linger on it the longest.
There’s just enough bold colour sprinkled through the room to remove the clinical factor such bright space might bring to mind, and you peek an adjoined en-suite bathroom hiding behind one of the doors you walk by.
It’s curious how despite Santino’s life back in Italy being rooted in tradition whenever he stays anywhere else, he always chooses modern, contemporary designs.
This is the height of luxury—a welcoming card, cuvee white brut champagne, fresh fruit and chocolates already laid out in a neat manner—and behind the connecting door to your right lies this room’s twin image.
“We can discuss further details tomorrow, bella,” Santino says but doesn’t look at you as he does so. “You should rest.”
You wonder if he can tell that you’re standing upright by sheer will alone. There is a tremble in your knees as you move and your steps are heavier than usual.
You’ve grown weak.
The muscle that has been forged through years of brutal training has softened and diminished.
When did you allow yourself to become this?
When did you let Kishi win?
Never give someone else the power to destroy you.
But you have done exactly that. No matter how much you’ve been trying to dress it up, this fact still stands.
You have been punishing yourself.
It should make you feel something, you imagine. Furious, upset, determined, sad.
Anything at all.
Instead, you just feel tired.
Tired and cold, and like something has been raked right out of you, leaving a hole behind that might never be filled. A hole that you can pour happiness and hope and sadness into and it still won’t matter. Because nothing can fill what’s bottomless. Nothing can fix something like that.
You want to try but—
But you’re not sure if you’re strong enough.
Nodding your head, you head towards the bed without a word.
Santino slams the door to his half of the suite with enough force to rattle the hinges.
.
Water slides down your throat, scratching and tearing at your vocal cords as you choke on your screams.
You’re jerked back by the hair and Kishi smiles, caressing your cheek with stiff, cold fingers.
Your hands are dirty, viper, he hums lovingly and grabs you by the back of your neck, you are dirty. Time to get you clean.
You jolt into wakefulness as hands drag you forward abruptly and your forehead connects with a solid chest instead.
“Calm, shh, you are awake,” a voice urges with gentle but instant fingers digging into your shoulder blades. The comfort of that touch is so familiar that deep down it makes you gush with agony, some distant loss you can’t name. “You’re safe.”
Safe.
“John,” you sob, blindly clinging to that warmth, to silent strength there. “John.”
The figure freezes, tenses. A few shallow breaths follow and then a hand settles on the top of your head. Those muscles relax gradually and careful fingers stroke your hair. Soothing. Slow.
“Don’t—don’t leave,” you beg weakly and cling tighter, tighter because you love him so much and it hurts— “Please don’t leave m-me.”
That grip tightens and holds you closer, cocooning you in warmth. For once, the ever-present chill in your soul seems to ebb, fade just a little.
“I won’t, amore,” he reassures softly. “I won’t.”
You believe him.
.
You dreamt of John last night.
Of comfort and him staying. Fingers smoothing over your hair in that achingly familiar manner he used to touch you with when it was just you two alone. When you managed to mangle that iron-like willpower of his by leaning into him, seeking him out.
Remembering that warmth makes you both devastated and happy. It’s like a soothing balm against wounds that refuse to heal. But it’s also a knife cutting deeper and deeper.
You swore to yourself that you would let go but—
That, too, is hard.
A folder slides across the table surface and towards you, hitting your hands and you jump in your seat, rigid.
Ares shoots you an apologetic look as she goes to stand in the corner of the private breakfast room, clasping her hands in front of her, and you squint at the folder, forcing yourself back into reality.
“What’s this?”
“That, cara mia, is information about your target,” Santino explains over the rim of his espresso but his tone remains dispassionate. There’s something odd about him today but you don’t care enough to ask him. “Read it carefully.”
Opening the manila folder, you move several pieces of paper aside, blinking at the pictures of a stern-faced man. They’re black and white but they reveal a male who looks no more than five years older than Santino, his features handsome in a hard, rugged sort of way. His short hair is either brown or black and though all photos are too far away to be able to tell for sure, his eyes appear dark, too. Brown or hazel if you had to make a guess.
He’s handsome, but there is something about his features that makes you think of Tarasov. Makes you think of enough charm to get by but preference for brutality instead.
His face tells you that trusting this man would be unwise.
“Who is he and why do you want him dead?” you question after a moment of analysing the pictures.
Rafael Conte
A part of you can’t help but wonder what this man has done to evoke the wrath of the Camorra heir. Though, as always, it likely has something to do with greed and egos.
Santino doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he spreads jam across his toast but there is something…violent about the way he drags the blade across the perfectly toasted surface. Something about the way his hair is unstyled today and a few messy, loose strands fall into his eyes. Something about the way his movements are jerkier than usual, less refined.
He’s back in a full three-piece this morning but a voice at the back of your mind whispers armour. Because this is different from those two weeks you spent at the penthouse. He rarely wore a suit at all during that time. There was something more open and casual about him then.
“Oh, you aren’t killing this man,” he finally speaks and you frown minutely at the way he lowers the butterknife back onto his plate a little too loudly, then sighs, and looks up at you with forced calmness. “We will be using him to get to your actual target. We need to be very careful about what we do here, cara mia. This man can lead us to the man he serves, and it’s him that I need you to dispose of.”
Still frowning, you look back towards the pictures. Santino’s attention lingers on your face but you ignore it.
“Why wait this long?”
“What do you mean?”
Your head slants and you regard him with a knowing, calculated look. Santino doesn’t answer you, however, he simply stares back, and the look in his eyes challenging. You know he wants you to engage and so you do. After yesterday, after that fleeting memory of warmth, you feel like you have the strength to do so.
“Why wait for some obscure event with a ridiculous level of security when you could get rid of this man on a Tuesday afternoon while sipping lemonade in your parlour?”
Because that’s easy and clean. Because he won’t have to lift a finger and get needed results unless—
“Tell me, bella,” Santino begins, interrupting your racing thoughts and his index finger traces the rim of his cup lazily. “Have you heard of an organisation called the Black Dragon?”
Your tongue works quicker than your mind. “John—”
The words die in your throat; a feeble, pathetic crumbling of syllables.
The temperature inside the bright, sunny room seems to fall by several degrees.
Santino’s fingers are still, his attention focused on his cup. His toast remains untouched.
Forcing down the lump in your throat down, you force out a strained, “He’s told me about them before. Private organisation. Janitors of the High Table, right?”
“Indeed,” he intones coolly in reply and taps his fingers again, more agitated this time. “We are here to kill its current leader. A man by the name of Andre Boutin. The issue, however, is that if you search for a definition to word ‘paranoid’ in the dictionary that man’s name will be under it.”
He lifts the cup back to his lips again but those bright viridescent depths zero in on you. A shadow lingers across his features, and once again you can’t help but feel like he’s not being completely honest with you—there is more to this than he’s letting on.
“He never leaves his secret little lair unless the High Table forces his hand,” Santino continues and cuts a neat piece of his toast before biting into it. It doesn’t surprise you that like a true, refined heir he chews and swallows before speaking again. “Hm, but he will have to attend this event. Signor Rafael is his right-hand man. Aside from the standard proceedings, there will be…exclusive invitations into certain circles. We are to get Rafael’s attention and penetrate his. That’s the only way to get to Boutin, bella, and it’s crucial we do so. Tomorrow will be our only chance.”
“No traces?”
His eyes narrow and he nods his head once, dead serious. “None, not even a whisper of one,” he says solemnly, his heir ring tapping against the ceramic of the cup once, twice. “You are to be beautiful but harmless. I know Rafael personally. I will get you close enough.”
But he never places himself in the firing sight. Never dirties his own hands. Just how desperate is he to see this man dead to do so now? At an event that will have so many eyes from the highest circles of those under the High Table on you no less.
“You mean you need me to act as your whore,” you deadpan and go on before he can interject. “You need me to fool them, pull the wool over their eyes. But what if someone recognises me?”
Santino looks like he’s biting back a sigh and inclines backwards into his seat, staring at you. Those loose curls fall into his eyes and for a moment they distract you. “I would prefer if you did not use such…phrasing, but I suppose in a sense, yes,” he tells you and you stab a piece of melon with extra vigour before placing it between your lips. For the briefest of seconds, the man before you focuses on that tiny little movement before his attention shifts. “I also recognise the, ah, dangers. It does seem likely someone might but I’m not trying to hide you, carissima. You have spent a year with my family. You by my side is no longer a novelty. It might even be expected in certain circles.”
He pauses at that, his lips parting like that realisation is just hitting him, too.
You by his side is nothing new. You by his side. He says it with such ease, such boldness—like it’s as obvious as the sun rising every morning.
A silence that follows those words is different somehow. Almost like you have both become intimately aware of each other’s presence in your lives and all the time you have spent together.
“You don’t want this attached to your name,” you say frankly, at last, forcing casualness into your words. “Only a handful of guards with you. All this secrecy. This goes beyond killing a lackey of the High Table. What did this man do, Santino?”
Because he would never take such a personal risk unless he had no other choice. But that’s also why he needs you. A clean, untraceable kill. Even if people were to suspect him there would be nothing to stick on him personally. Clever, unprincipled bastard.
“That,” the Italian mutters, his voice wooden. “Is of no importance. You are here to kill Andre Boutin and that’s all that matters. Do you think you can you do that for me, bella, hm?”
This is personal. That much you do know.
But something about this challenge fills you with determination to hold onto that warmth from last night.
Maybe wherever John is, his spirit is still looking out for you.
So for now at least, you decide to let the topic go. He does have a point after all. You’re not getting paid to ask questions.
“Sure I can,” you demure slyly and smother your grin against the glass of juice in your hand. Santino blinks, seemingly taken off guard by the unexpected teasing, at your spark of energy. “Anything specific wardrobe wise you want me to wear? Aside from the obvious.”
Something bold yet tantalising enough to make most people in that little get together hate you and want to fuck you in the same breath. Such is Santino D’Antonio’s way. He has to court attention at all times. You cannot be seen as less. When it comes to appearance Santino never spares expense. What a spoiled prick.
His gaze sharpens at your words, and that heat returns as he scrutinises you.
He hums quietly, his eyes dragging over your figure before saying, “Green. Wear something green,” he instructs lightly and when he meets your stare next, you do feel something inside you settle and still. “But I need them to look at you and feel like they can’t breathe.”
Where is the fire that I adore so? Do not tell me that he robbed you of it so completely, cara mia.
He hasn’t.
You had wanted to say that to Santino last night but couldn’t.
John hasn’t—
But hasn’t he?
It’s a destructive cocktail of anger and bitterness and doubt churning deep inside your chest. A part of you misses John with an intensity that shakes your bones; fracturing them and unmaking them with swift, expert proficiency. Another part of you hates him. He let you believe that he loved you but then chose another woman over you the moment a possibility of a normal life came up. Better drop the dead-weight. Better to erase the messed up, traumatised weakling from his life. Be done with it.
No, John hasn’t robbed you of anything.
He gave you a different sort of fire.
A flame of rage and longing all fusing together to create something far more devastating.
But last night…
You’ve almost forgotten what that’s like—being carefree, smiling, doing something so simple yet freeing.
Santino D’Antonio had given you a moment of yourself back without realising it. You’re not quite sure what to do with that knowledge. With the memory of your messy dance and that whisper of wonder in his eyes as he took in your smiling expression.
A knock resonates again your door and your head slants in the direction of the sound. “Come in.”
Ares pokes her head in first before stepping into the room already dressed in a tailored suit. It’s a dark, patterned number mixing black and deep grey tastefully. The black shirt she wears underneath is neatly pressed, and the pin she bears under her throat in an illusion of a tie is of Camorra making. She looks amazing and carries herself like she knows it, too. Dark makeup around her eyes accents the piercing nature of her blue eyes and you click your tongue.
“Trying to outshine me?” you joke but she doesn’t reply, taking in your appearance as well. Smiling, you run a hand down the body of the dress and towards the shimmering skirt. “What do you think?”
Her eyebrows jump up deliberately, staying that way as she signs with her eyes still on you. You fulfilled the brief.
You’ve certainly tried.
Your hair and makeup have all been done by expert hands because you didn’t trust your own. Not right now. Not with muscle weakness and the tremors.
You’re glad that this mission is not an active job that will require fighting your way out of a situation. Right now, you can admit—even only to yourself—that you would be more of a liability than an advantage in a physical fight. You can’t be seen shedding blood at this event and perhaps this is the best kind of job to ease yourself back into things.
That dedication to see an assignment through was bred into you by John, and now that you’re here no matter how empty things might feel, a part of you wants to see it finished no matter what.
It’s refreshing.
Wanting something.
“Where is Santino?” you ask her, turning to go, double-checking all your weapons—what few you could sneak in—are all on you. “I haven’t heard him in his room.”
Ares waits for you by the door as you approach, shrugging. He went ahead. He will meet us there.
“Is Piero with him?”
Ares nods and you both leave the room together, heading down the hallway.
Another security measure. Every invited person is allowed to take but one guard with them. Two, if they come with a plus one which in Santino’s case is you. A measure introduced to appease the inherently paranoid nature of the people attending but also avoid any potential…disagreements. When you have one guard you are far less likely to start making a nuisance of yourself.
A car is waiting for you outside when you and Ares exit the foyer, and you know the venue is only fifteen minutes drive from the hotel. You’ve made sure to analyse the site as much as possible.
A hotel and casino in one, Paradise has served as a hotspot and neutral meeting ground for anyone seeking an audience with Chicago’s Outfit and their Boss. The word is that you either make a deal with them or you don’t leave Paradise alive.
You suppose it’s just your luck that Chicago Outfit and Camorra have a long-running alliance from as early as the bloody 20ties era. Back when Italians have first set their sights on powerhouse cities like New York and Chicago amongst others, waging deadly wars amongst each other for territory.
An enemy of a friend is always good to have, Santino had told you with a secretive little smile and a dangerous air of viciousness thick in the air.
You can’t help but wonder if this has—to some degree—been planned for even longer than you first suspected.
If this gathering only happens once every five years and always in a different city and continent, just how long has Santino waited to put this plan into action?
Chicago. A city ruled by an Italian-American crime syndicate and ties to Camorra.
The Black Dragon. Janitors of the High Table. Trained killers who answer only to their leader and the Table.
You. A mission to kill the current leader Andre Boutin. A man who always hides as if fearing something.
What did this man do?
How do the puzzle pieces fit together?
The car rolls to a stop and you blink out of your stupor, glancing ahead and see Ares turn towards you from the front seat.
Ready?
You bob your head once and inhale deeply, letting the oxygen sit in your lungs for several seconds while she exits the expensive vehicle and opens the door for you. You take her offered hand with a silent squeeze of thanks.
From this moment on, you are no longer you.
Your heels hit the damp pavement and the Vipress steps out.
Ares shadows your side as you trek up the extravagant staircase to the Paradise hotel, ignoring the flurry of snowflakes that settle in your hair. The attendants greet you both, checking your name on the guest list, then weapons, and you’re both ushered inside with polite, stiff nods. Your coat gets taken at the door and you dip your head in a cool, disinterested manner—just enough to appear polite.
Ares is a silent phantom by your side.
The gathering has started already. S will be waiting for you by the staircase to the ballroom. You both need to be seen.
Should we not go straight for the target?
S believes appearing innocuous first is your priority.
Your eyes sweep over several individuals around the foyer who shift at being caught staring, clearly uncomfortable at your signing, and you suppress a remorseless smile. Good.
Santino wasn’t exaggerating though, most people around are unfamiliar to you. These people are the wheels that keep the underworld business rolling but they are not Tarasov or Giovanni. These people are at the top of their own food chain but under the Table, they are specks only.
The grand staircase leads up a level where the hotel rooms are located and downstairs where the ballroom and casino can be found.
Ares moves a step behind you as you descent slowly, taking your time with the gown and the shoes. A dull twinge of weakness still locks your knees and you force yourself to focus on your every move.
Just like the woman behind you warned, Santino waits a little away from the main staircase, chatting with the burly, brown-haired Piero in hushed voices.
He’s striking tonight.
Admittedly, Santino always looks good—he takes special pride in his appearance, you know that much—but today he made an effort and it shows.
The suit he wears is as dark as the richest night, tailored to fit him to perfection, and the light reflects a peculiar shine of the material whenever he moves. His hair is neatly combed and those unruly curls pulled back but you can already see a few rebellious strands trying to free themselves. The white shirt he sports under the suit is blinding and a satin bowtie rests around his throat, pulling the dignified image together.
His black dress shoes might as well be mirrors.
Santino looks like an arcane, sinful dream and you know many recognise the Camorra heir as he stands there with an air of effortless arrogance.
His eyes flicker away for a second, scanning the room and snag on you just as you reach the final step, your dress skirt dragging down the polished marble and falling against your legs as you walk with deliberate slowness towards the heir.
Santino doesn’t have to fake his reaction and that’s good—too many eyes on you.
He stills and you note the slight downwards dip of his shoulders as if whatever oxygen he did have in his lungs has fled.
His lips parted, he watches your approach unblinking and with pulse-pounding sort of intensity. He doesn’t bother masking the raw desire in his regard, either, and there is a nudge of surprise when you feel a flicker of warmth in your chest in response.
You’ve missed this. Being seen by someone. Being desired openly and without shame.
Not pausing, you walk right up to him and wrap your arms around him, resting your nose against the smooth skin of his neck.
Santino goes stiff with surprise and you tilt your head so your lips brush against his ear, “There are eyes on us. Wrap your arms around me right now,” you direct quietly and pull him closer with a smile. “Touch me as if we’re lovers.”
He does.
His right arm snakes around your waist before trailing up your back, his burning fingertips brushing against your bare shoulder blades. His breaths are shallow but he leans in and presses a brief kiss against your shoulder as his hand drags back down the arch of your spine. Slow, wanton. You have to suppress a genuine shiver despite your best efforts to play your own little act.
Pulling back, you remain right against him, meeting his stare and Santino’s eyes wander over your features, guarded.
The reservation is surprising. Is he gauging what he can get away with without you snapping at him?
He gave you a brief, a job to do. You intend to fulfil it. The last thing you need is to be caught as well. That means playing the part to perfection.
“Looking quite handsome, darling,” you tell him with the slightest curl of your mouth. Your fingers skim over the velvety material of his bow tie and you glance at him from under your lashes. “Am I to your liking tonight?”
He licks his bottom lip and his sizeable pause generates amusement deep down that you don’t let anyone see. For once the man with a silver tongue has nothing to say.
“Yes, amore,” he says thickly and his stare doesn’t stray from you. “You are breathtaking.”
Clever bastard.
He might as well be undressing you with his eyes but that’s the point.
The black gown you wear glimmers like a thousand little jewels—and indeed every inch of the light material is stitched with little gems that depending on light reflect silver or dark green. The dual-chrome aspect makes every step you take a visual feast and thin spaghetti straps made out of strings of tiny gems glitter in the light as well. The cut at the back of the dress dips all the way to your lower back and Santino’s fingers press into your skin. Tracing, lingering.
Leaning back slightly, you reach for your clutch, pulling out a silky piece of cloth that matches the reflective green of your dress.
Santino’s hand still rests securely against your lower back, and you peek at him as you place the handkerchief in the otherwise empty suit pocket. With delicate fingers you smooth the pocket square into neat lines, dragging your palm deliberately down his chest after. You stare at each other for several moments, ignoring everyone else around.
Well, not you. You’ve already counted the exits and the guards present with every guest in the nearby vicinity. Taken stock of most of their weapons, too.
Who is the biggest threat? John’s low voice questions in your ear and you take note of that as well. Keep them in your sight.
Santino, on the other hand, looks like he can barely recall where he is.
“Shall we?”
Before he can answer another voice speaks first.
“Santino D’Antonio. It has been a while,” a deep voice calls with an accent you can’t quite place. It almost makes you think French but there is a sprinkling of something else there. “Giovanni couldn’t be bothered to attend himself?”
There is an accusation in that question and you control your expression. Letting surprise show now won’t be in your best interest. You are a shell, a plaything, a snake in the garden.
Still, not many would have the guts to speak like that about Giovanni D’Antonio—and to his son no less.
You only turn towards the owner of the voice after Santino does, and his grip on you tightens briefly before relaxing. You’re still practically hip to hip and behind you, Ares and Piero slip closer; a subtle manoeuvring.
Tucking yourself into Santino’s right side, you give him room to shake hands with the man who comes to a stop before you. He’s taller and broader than you both and that handsome but stern face makes your instincts prickle in real life even more so than the pictures did.
“Rafael,” the Italian greets smoothly, and yet you can hear the subtle contempt in his tone as he drops the man’s hand. “Always a pleasure to see you. Father could not attend. Business with the Triad, I’m afraid.”
You have no idea if that’s true or not but regardless Santino says it with enough conviction that even a priest would believe him.
Your mark doesn’t look convinced though.
Rafael Conte in his immaculate grey two-piece suit eyes Santino with cool disdain that hides behind a ghost of a smile. Clearly, there is no love lost between the two. So much for knowing the man personally.
“I’m sure that’s the case,” he states flatly, and his dark eyes slide towards you. He looks you up and down like a butcher assessing livestock and you work to keep your expression open and friendly, shy even. “Your plus one, I assume.”
“Wonderful, is she not?” Santino poses icily and you have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes.
Rafael’s eyes linger on the skin of your thigh that peaks from between the slit in your dress. Then they drag towards your hips and deep plunge of your neckline before he finally meets your stare. The entire assessment lasts no longer than a scant few seconds but whatever he observes he seems to find lacking.
“Not your usual type,” he intones in deliberate, clipped Italian. “Couldn’t find an attractive model to fuck instead?”
The air crackles with tension as two men stare at each other, silent.
This isn’t going like expected, so reading the situation and its potential deterioration, you decide to gamble, “Actually,” you begin sweetly, in equally deliberate Italian, and Rafael’s attention snaps to you. “Most nights I fuck him so thoroughly that he doesn’t want to leave the bed the next morning. Isn’t that right, Santi?”
You’ve never called him that before and you sense the minute twitch of his muscles in reply.
His fingers sink into your hip firmly but his words are calm, genial. “I have nothing to complain about,” he admits mildly, turning to look at you and you meet his reticent gaze with a slight, coy smile. “You always impress, principessa.”
Turning back towards your mark, you find those inky eyes focused on you and blink innocently.
“This one has a mouth on her,” he says, his words terse and he looks you up and down again. “Might get her into trouble one day.”
Santino smiles but it’s more of a predator baring his teeth in warning as he presses you closer to him. “Ah, it’s a rather delightful mouth I reassure you, and I could never resist a bit of danger, Rafael. You know how it is.”
The muscular man scoffs. “Your lack of self-control is well known, D’Antonio,” he notes briskly, and the sarcastic bite of his deep voice is offset only by the easy smile he flashes you both. It softens his forbidding expression but doesn’t hide the contempt. “I certainly hope you’re here to do some actual business instead of wasting everyone’s time. But do enjoy your evening,” he adds with a purse of his lips.
He brushes past your party without another word, every step purposeful and you can practically hear the grind of Santino’s teeth beside you. Placing your hand on top of his, you pull his attention towards you.
“A dance, darling?”
He doesn’t reply, simply wrapping his arm tighter around your waist and leading you both towards the ballroom where the main event is being held. Behind you, Ares and Piero fall in step behind you.
The room itself is massive and decorated in tasteful greys and silvers—Chicago Outfit’s colours, you recall. A canopy hangs across the ceiling, a million tiny fairy lights creating an illusion of the night sky. Your gaze swings towards the massive dance floor where a glistering chandelier hangs suspended above the already dancing guests. In fact, the vast space is already full of people milling around and chatting business. Champagne, whiskey, bourbon and wine are only a couple of the drinks you spot being poured around the room. Later, when the masks fall away, you know everything from cocaine to ecstasy will be served just as openly.
Across the room, you spot the entrance to the private casino section but know that it won’t be in use till later. After these civilised people do their song and dance of being normal.
Santino cuts straight towards the dancing guests, only giving Ares and a vague tilt of his head to indicate that the plan is now in motion.
The said plan was always to catch Rafael’s attention here. Running into him this early had never been part of your previously discussed play.
A strain weighs across Santino’s face when he pulls you on the dance floor just as the live band finishes playing a song and starts another.
His arm settles around your waist and you step closer towards him, your fingers lacing together.
He settles you into a rhythm smoothly and you spin across the shiny floor with other patrons.
“What was that?”
His quiet, indignant question doesn’t surprise you. He doesn’t look at you as he speaks, his attention remaining on the attendees and you fight back a sigh.
“I was getting his attention,” you murmur in reply, giving his palm a measured squeeze. “Now we’re on his radar. He will watch us twice as often. We will dance and dine and have a great time,” you explain evenly and that familiar focused calm thrums through you. When your eyes meet next, you add a meaningful, “Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”
Hand in hand, you spin in a slow circle and his eyes find yours.
“Trust is not a currency I deal in often, cara mia.”
You part, your palms grazing as you circle each other, and you hold his heavy stare.
“See how this whole trust thing works is that you have to give some away before any can be given back,” you remind him when he pulls you back to him, and this time you stand close enough to smell his cologne and count his eyelashes as they flutter when he fleetingly looks towards your lips. “Isn’t that what friends are for?”
He notices the mocking edge to your words and his eyebrows arch slightly when he draws you closer.
“Are we not friends, bella?”
You give him an honest answer. “Hardly.”
Something flickers across his expression but it’s gone in an instant and his answering smile is uncaring, forced.
“Such a cruel tongue you have.”
Smiling pleasantly, you hum, “I keep it especially sharpened for you.”
This time, the sharpness recedes and something more honest is left in its place as Santino dips you and unlike last night, this time you’re ready for him. Perhaps the awkward practice paid off after all.
The world tilts and then he pulls you back to him, an array of colours blurring your sight, and for the briefest of seconds, all you can see around you is him. Him and the crooked dip of his grin as he peers at you.
“I have missed this,” he admits in the space between you but even over the dancing guests and the music, you hear him. “This you. Could she perhaps be persuaded to stay, hm?”
It would be so easy, you can’t help but think, allowing yourself to tangle in his web. Allowing yourself the privilege of forgetting John and Kishi and Tarasov—of forgetting every dark shadow that haunts you. He almost makes it easy. Easy to breathe and forget. But you now know what it is to be broken apart when you allow someone else to complete you.
Never again.
Never with a man who will no doubt exchange your company for someone else’s soon. Winston had a point. Santino’s favour is bound to come with an expiration date. One day, he will grow bored of you or resentful because he’ll realise that you will never give him what he truly wants.
One day, inevitably, he will let you down. Replace you. Leave.
It’s simply who he is.
Pivoting on your heels, you turn your bodies in a different direction, your steps unfaltering as you move across the floor.
Santino blinks, his silent scrutiny letting up as he squints at you.
“Are you trying to lead, cara mia?”
“Not trying,” you murmur slyly under your breath, a slight smile lingering across the seams of your mouth. “Succeeding.”
The soft set of his lips part and this time his grin shows teeth, dimpling his cheeks. He swiftly pushes your bodies apart, spinning you, and your skirt flares around your legs before he yanks you back to him, your bodies colliding. His arm envelops you immediately, keeping you pressed to him and the warmth of him seeps into you as he watches you through hooded eyes. His thumb caresses the bare skin of your lower back and a shiver crawls down your body as your warm breaths mingle.
You’re out of breath due to acute exhaustion still gnawing at your bones but—
“I could give you anything you want—anything at all. Power, money, jewels, pleasure,” he whispers faintly, leaning closer, and you fight to ignore the sultry drag of those words. “The world. All you need to do is ask.”
With his power—with the power he might still inherit—you imagine he could.
But—
“And what would you want in return? For me to be your pretty, obedient pet?” you whisper back but your voice lacks all the heat his has. Something far more critical twists your words and you meet his gaze, your faces inches apart. “Warming your bed whenever you feel like it until something more exciting comes along? No, I know how this game works, Santino. Men like you collect women and use them to appease your overinflated egos until we’re no longer interesting to you. Then you throw us out like trash. Even though the problem is rarely us but rather your inability to emotionally connect with another human because all you want or care about is fleeting excitement of the chase. Cheap sex on the side. Sorry to disappoint you but I’m no one’s pet.”
His jaw clenches, a ripple of emotions flitting across his features.
“I don’t want a pet.”
Low, wary.
But you push because you don’t believe him. Trust his word even less despite the fact that any and all promises he’s made so far, he’s followed through with.
“Then what is it that you want?”
He stops. You’re the only two unmoving bodies in a sea of movement.
Those vivid green eyes glow with something you have never seen before as he studies you.
It is desire but—
He reaches up and caresses your cheek; nothing more than a whisper of a touch.
“You.”
A breath rushes out of you.
A lump forms in your throat but you don’t move or speak. It’s like you’re both locked in your own private little bubble and the sheer intensity of Santino’s gaze leaves you with no escape. Your muscles seem to have stiffened up with disbelief. He’s always made it clear what he wanted but…
“Santino D’Antonio! It’s good to see you again.”
He exhales and whatever it was that you saw only moments ago is gone, leaving a far more familiar sight of a proud Camorra heir behind.
He turns to greet an unfamiliar man approaching, his grip on you loosening but not dropping entirely, and you remind yourself that you are nothing to him. Nothing more than an object of desire, a trophy to win, a conquest his damn pride won’t allow him to drop till he succeeds.
You hate the fact that for a second—just one—you had believed him.
Your eyes flicker over the crowd, a blur of faces, before a large man next to a bar catches your attention.
Rafael Conte takes a slow sip of his drink that dark stare boring holes into you.
Your lips curl.
.
Santino does talk business.
He really has covered all his basis and found a legitimate reason to be here—be here and appear unsuspicious as well.
Camorra is one of the wealthiest families in the world and there are plenty of individuals eager to do business with them.
Santino talks—ruthlessness and charm weaving effortlessly—shakes hands and deals business. Number start blurring somewhere in their millions.
You stay by his side through it all. His grip around you is resolute, secure. It’s surprising how natural the fit is, comfortable. Especially because any and all foreign touch since Tokyo makes your skin crawl with disgust. You’ve only ever fit this well beside John but thinking about him now stings terribly so you push the thoughts of him away.
Instead, you focus on your role entirely. Submerge yourself in it so wholly that you can almost believe that’s truly all you are: your job.
A mindless girl who is desperate for any scrap of attention from the powerful, handsome man beside you.
Fingers ghosting over his neck, leaning into him, giggling in his ear and playing with his fingers—you embody the desire you’re supposed to represent. Santino’s replies are rarely verbal but any and all attention from you always seems to distract him, shattering his concentration.
His fingers rub circles against the swell of your hip in response, and other times he wraps his arm around your shoulders. His cool Camorra ring grazing the skin of your arm as he traces random patterns on your skin.
People stare discreetly. You know by this point more than a few have recognised you. No one dares to comment though.
You imagine that to them you look completely caught in each other. Sharing breathing space and suggestive whispers; heat and something carnal, something only lovers could ever fully grasp.
Buying into the rampant tension between you must be easy.
You succeed in your mission.
Two hours in, a waiter approaches a spot where you and Santino sit—you draped over his lap and arms around his neck while he discusses weaponry with some Romanian crime syndicate representatives—and delivers a scrap of paper with a simple message.
Join us for poker and business, D’Antonio. Your plus-one can come along as well.—R
.
You’re in trouble.
Big, fat trouble.
Not because Santino is gambling three million away—though you imagine losing that won’t be in your best interest—but because this intimate setting is even more intimate than you ever would have suspected.
No guards, for one.
The game itself is between six players—counting Santino—in a small closed-off booth section of the casino. Your game is not the only one ongoing but you doubt this kind of money is being thrown around anywhere else. Every man playing seems to have brought their plus ones as well, including Rafael himself. A tall, stunning woman with glossy black hair, beautiful brown skin and shrewd almond eyes.
The problem is that unlike you, these women don’t have to pretend. Their interest is genuine, and when twenty minutes into the game you notice zippers being unzipped and hands starting to wander, you feel something inside your chest shrivel up.
Santino’s grip on you remains and you find yourself clinging to him for a different reason. At first, you play at being shy, burying your face against his neck. He notices, dragging his long fingers down your leg gradually, trying to calm you, as he considers his cards silently and takes another drag of his cigar. He’s purposely trying not to draw attention to either of you. It both amazes you and gives you a sense of reassurance. Perhaps there are some lows that even he won’t stoop to.
The only issue is that Rafael Conte won’t stop staring at you.
He knows that you’re not too drunk or high enough to stop your hands from exploring. He’s been keeping track of your leisurely sips of champagne the entire evening. If he doesn’t suspect something is not right yet, he will soon. He’s smart. The same chilling, ruthless smart that reminds you of Tarasov.
If you don’t do this…
It all would have been for nothing. Another failure. If Rafael suspects something is amiss, if he thinks that you are here for any other reason other than being Santino’s lover—
You will never get access to Andre Boutin.
Fuck.
Something cold and slippery rolls inside your stomach at the muffled groan a man closest to you lets out, and the woman wrapped around him titters.
I—
You can do it, John reassures you gently, gripping your shoulder but you blink and it’s Santino’s hand on you instead.
Your eyes meet in the dim light and his hooded gaze is solemn, cautious. He, too, can see how this situation is escalating. Either you adapt or retreat.
All this preparation. You can’t help but wonder if he would still force you—
Fuck this.
And John.
And Santino.
And Kishi and Tarasov and every other asshole that’s ever hurt you.
They can all go to hell.
You’re more than this.
You didn’t survive Tokyo and John’s abandonment just to break apart now. To fail yet again.
Enough.
Enough.
It’s not real, it’s just an act.
Shifting, you practically straddle Santino and feel his breath hitch when your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling his head back for better access. Your lips press against his jaw, neck, your other hand tugging on his bowtie till the silken material comes loose between your fingers.
His pulse pounds against your mouth and you kiss that golden skin, sucking on it, your lips tingling. You’ve never been physically this close to him before and the heat of him envelops you, his free hand sliding up your back and settling against the arch of your neck. Those strong digits sink in, firm and eager, but he doesn’t push you closer until you lean into him further. You’re chest to chest. Your fingernails scratch against his scalp deliberately and a small sigh escapes him, warming the blood in your veins.
“D’Antonio.”
Tugging on his shirt, you undo the first two buttons in a second, peppering eager little kisses against the curve of his collarbone. The scent of his musky his cologne sinks into your senses, making your head swim and your lips part, your tongue swiping against the skin—
Santino’s hand tangles in your hair and he pulls you back, his wild stare pitch black. With your fingers buried in each other’s hair, you gaze at him for a heated moment, and he at you. Reaching out, you let your fingertips lightly trace up his neck, pausing on his adam’s apple. You draw a lazy circle with the tip of your nail and his breaths grow heavier. Leaning even closer, you let your fingers trail up his chin before your thumb settles on his parted lips.
He’s staring up at you like he has never seen a sight more divine, more sublime, and the heat between you is sweltering.
You’ve forgotten what it is to feel like you’re burning, igniting, coming apart.
“D’Antonio.”
This time his self-restraint doesn’t hold, he jerks you to him till you’re fully on his lap, your foreheads almost touching as you eye each other. His fingers slip from your hair, dragging downwards till he’s grasping the side of your face, his own fingers mapping the shape of your lips as he guides you closer. Like a magnet, you follow his pull. Your mouths hover over each other and the tip of your nose nudges against his cheek, mirroring his eagerness. You grasp onto his hair firmer, those strong strands like silk in your grip. If you pull hard enough, if you kissed him, would he moan—
“D’Antonio, do you mind?”
The haze lifts and you see Santino blink as if snapping himself back to reality, his breaths are laboured, heavy, and you know that you’re hiding him from sight. This slip-up, this moment of hungry eyes and needy touches, is for you alone.
He looks you up and down, as if memorising the sight of you like this—so close to being his—before licking his lips and swallowing as he gathers his composure. His elevated breathing and blown pupils betray him, however. His appearance is dishevelled in that gorgeous, seductive sort of way and a stab of satisfaction follows the realisation that you did this to him.
He slides you carefully to one side and you release your grip on his hair, wrapping both arms around him instead as you smile slightly.
The Italian doesn’t look away from you, giving Rafael only a distracted, “Hm?”
“Make your next play, then feel free to fuck her if you must,” the man drawls, and you focus on Santino and his hair and his eyes because the careless way Rafael speaks about you sets your teeth on edge. Keep calm, keep calm, this is not Kishi. “In fact, after that little display, I’m pretty sure I won’t mind a sampling myself. See if she’s really all mouth.”
Your nails sink into the back of Santino’s shoulders and it takes sizeable effort to keep that bashful smile on your face. The heir finally looks away from you, his attention turning towards your mark, his features hardening.
“Come again?”
Rafael Conte chuckles, a rumble of a sound that unsettles you. “Don’t be shy, D’Antonio,” the man speaks, amused. “You do mine and I’ll do yours. What do you say? Unless mine is not to your liking? I can get another one in here. Two? I’ve heard you’re into that.”
No one else in the room so much as shifts or protests. This is a typical party code for them. Swapping deals, drugs, women, and whatever else they please.
Your skin crawls, those words dousing whatever heat your moment with Santino has managed to awaken in you.
Don’t let him talk about me like that. Don’t let him touch me. Don’t, don’t, please don’t—
Those words burn at the back of your throat and you grit your teeth to hold them in. You can’t risk breaking character like this but—
Kishi grins from the shadowed corner of the enclosed room and you suddenly feel sick.
Santino is quiet for a moment.
You watch his side profile with a halted breath, and another beat of silence follows before a slight smile finally tugs one side of his mouth upwards.
It’s a dangerous, dark thing and your stomach twists into knots.
Please—
“No one touches my woman,” comes his silky, cold declaration and those long fingers rest on the bare skin of your thigh; possessive, protective. “No one.”
The terror and revulsion in your veins ebbs, ebbs, his words echoing—
You don’t care about how untrue they are. That you both know that you’re not his in any sense of the word nor will you ever be.
The conviction, the threat, the protection—those are real.
For the first time since Tokyo, since John, you don’t feel alone.
A peculiar sort of hush falls over everyone at that.
“In fact, hm, why don’t you go and freshen up, principessa?” he suggests and lifts your chin with his index finger so he can look you in the eyes. “I’m almost done here. We can go back to the hotel after. I’ve missed those pretty sounds you make when I’m inside you. Yes?”
He can see it.
And feel it, too.
The way your skin has gone cold and clammy. How a tremor shakes your muscles. How you grip onto him but your eyes keep skipping towards every shadow in the room. How your serene, sensuous demeanour is no doubt splintering right in front of him.
He’s giving you an out.
Your nails sink into him briefly and you force yourself to act, force yourself to continue on.
Cupping the side of his face, you press a lingering kiss to his cheek. There is nothing sexual about it. Only a distinct feeling of gratitude that strums through you with the same intensity your earlier interaction did.
Your eyes flutter close briefly, the tip of your nose pressing into the smell of his aftershave, and you image to everyone else it might look like you’re simply clinging onto him, unwilling to be parted.
Standing on stiff legs, you straighten your spine, and don’t flinch as Santino continues the performance, staring up at you, lowering his cards so he can touch your knee. He rubs a soothing circle there and his lips twitch.
“Don’t take too long now, hm?”
Your hand trembles when you reach for him, and you hope that the darkness of the room helps to mask it. Despite that, you still manage to swipe back unruly strands of his hair that have fallen into his eyes. Like a refined feline, he arches into your touch, a faint smirk appearing, and you rearrange your facial expression into something unassuming.
Trying to speak fails, so you simply dip your head once, and pull away from him. It takes everything you have to keep your footsteps steady and unhurried as you exit the small room.
The world around you splinters.
Pathetic.
Pathetic.
Pathetic.
Look at you.
“Shut up.”
It’s a choked, weak mess of an exhale. It hurts to talk and you grip the sink harder, your knuckles straining under your skin as you wheeze.
Your frightened eyes reflect in the mirror and you note how your expression crumbles in despair. Just hours ago, you had looked at your reflection in the hotel room mirror and felt beautiful for the first time since Tokyo. Since something was tarnished and stolen away from you.
Now mascara smears under your eyes and your waxen expression betrays you.
You need—
John.
You need John.
I need you. I need you. Where are you?
Kishi sinks his bony fingers into your arm and you flinch, jerking backwards. The incandescent bathroom lights scorch behind your closed eyelids, and you grapple for the running tap, letting the freezing water pour over your hands.
It hurts more, petrifies you more, but it also keeps you lucid, coherent enough to hear the bathroom door opening behind you.
“So—sorry, it’s busy! Could—could you please use—”
“The Vipress.”
You freeze.
You’re trembling but your head tilts upwards, and in the mirror reflection you see Rafael Conte leaning against the bathroom door with his arms folded over his chest.
Those dark eyes narrow and the grin on his face makes you become terribly aware just how unprepared you are for this type of confrontation. He’s taller, stronger, and heavier.
While usually, that would hardly bother you—both John and Cassian have taught you plenty of ways to take down individuals who severely outclass you in a physical sense—that was then.
The husk of a person you have deteriorated to is not as confident in her skills.
How he even found you is beyond you. You didn’t tell anyone where you were going, didn’t bother finding Ares in the crowd of people because she was instructed to mingle and collect information. You purposely didn’t go in the casino bathroom or the one right outside the ballroom. You went through the bother of trekking halfway across the hotel just to find a secluded bathroom far away from the main event.
Just your goddamn luck.
Keeping him in your sight, you straighten.
Where is Santino?
“The viper that never strikes twice. I wondered why D’Antonio would bring you,” the man says after you keep silent and his smile turns more cutting. “But then I realised that this might be something more than just business.”
“This—this is neutral ground,” you force out, trying and failing to keep your voice even. “There is nothing—”
“Shut your fucking mouth,” the man snaps, stepping from the door and you twist around, glaring at him. “Do you think I’m stupid? I know he’s up to something. You will tell me what, or I will send your head back to Viggo Tarasov as a present.”
Your hand flies down but he’s faster.
A pistol appears in front of your face just as your fingers wrap around a blade strapped to your inner thigh.
“I don’t think so,” the man growls and steps closer. “Drop it.”
The water from the tap keeps running noisily, and you try to calculate how quickly he would be able to pull that trigger. Would you be able to throw your blade faster? Or would he react quicker?
Don’t let him corner you, John warns sternly, or you will lose.
You let the blade drop. Rafael marches towards you, shoving the barrel of the pistol under your chin, tilting your head. He glowers at you, the heavy set of his eyebrows pinching. “Why are you here?”
“Get fucked.”
His palm connects with your cheek, a flare of agony numbing the right side of your face. He jerks you closer by the hair, pressing the barrel painfully into your cheek.
“I will blow your fucking brains out, princess,” he warns harshly, and shakes you once, your teeth clenching. “Is D’Antonio really worth dying for? Answer me!”
Your knee drives between his legs and you duck when his grip on your hair loosens, ignoring the painful tear. You strike his arm, the pistol slipping but he grabs it just before it falls, kicking you in the stomach as you slam against the sinks with a loud thud. You gasp in pain, trying to grab onto the edge of the basin to straighten yourself, but your weak muscles struggle to obey and Rafael grabs you by the throat. He slams you into the mirror and then again.
And again.
The mirror cracks and you choke down a sob of pain, everything blurring.
“You know,” the man pants, and his grip on your neck tightens, choking you. “I expected more from John Wick’s partner. His little protege. But you’re pathetic.”
He slams you against the mirror again. “Tell me what D’Antonio is doing here,” he demands, giving you another shake and you feel something wet staining the back of your head. “Tell me or I will drown the truth out of you.”
A handkerchief gets pushed into the sink, trapping the still pouring water, and you let out a whimper of pure terror.
No—no—no—
Rafael grasp you by the back of your neck, and you kick at him but your muscles are frail with exhaustion and panic, failing you when you need them most.
The man hits one of your legs and you crumple, your face flying towards the half-full sink as you let out a sob. No matter how much you struggle or try to push yourself back, you’re not strong enough.
Another brutal shove downwards.
You’re never—
The bathroom door slams open with a deafening bang.
“Get your fucking hands off her.”
A slight chuckle against your neck. “D’Antonio. Slow as always.”
The grip on you loosens and you slump to the floor. Footsteps step over you, but Rafael’s gleaming shoes don’t miss your trembling digits. He steps on them on purpose and you flinch as the sink overflows, spilling water all over the white tile floor.
“I will skin you alive for this.”
You can’t remember ever hearing Santino so furious before.
“Sure you will,” Rafael remarks and the mirth in his voice is clear. “You know my father always told me to never trust you D’Antonio’s. He said that you all have the devil in you. Especially your psychopath father and that frigid bitch you have for a sister. You’re just the leftover people tolerate because they’re scared of your father. After San Diego, I knew my father was right.”
“What’s the matter, old friend,” Santino wonders in Italian, his voice honey and rage all at once. “Can’t handle a bit of competition, hm?”
Your forehead slides across the tiles when you turn your head, a wall of tears blurring your vision as you try to blink them away. Violent shivers wreck your body as water roars in your ears and your body convulses. Blinking, you try to tighten your bruised fingers into a fist. It’s then that your eyes snag onto an object an arm length away from you.
“I sure can. Because I don’t fear weak fuckers like you,” Rafael shoots back coolly and you hear the cocking of the pistol as he aims it at Santino. “I would be lying if I said that I will not enjoy this.”
Santino.
A meeting in a church.
“I always get what I want.”
A favour without a charge.
“I’m not doing this for him but for you.”
An offer of help.
“You can stay with me, cara mia. My home can be your home. It will not be for free but no harm will come to you.”
Burgundy suits.
“I need you.”
Arms around you, something in his eyes you have never seen before—something genuine.
“You.”
You slam into Rafael with full awareness of what this will mean.
“Fear me.”
You plunge the poisoned blade deep into his neck.
. . .
an: can you believe Santino D’Antonio really hit that high this early on and then....just never been able to hit it since lmao. amazing. anyway whooooooooooooo babey!!!! if you read this in one sitting, please pat yourself on the back, soldier. sorry that I didn’t have time to reply to everyone about the last chapter. life has just been a big ‘ol mess as you all know, and I’ve been really busy and blocked so if this chapter reads funny....well then......though, as always, I’m super excited to hear your thoughts. :D
as always you’re all incredible, amazing, and the best so please take care of yourselves! <333
#john wick#john wick x reader#santino d'antonio#santino d'antonio x reader#john wick x you#john wick imagine#john wick fic#santino d'antonio imagine#riccardo scamarcio#fanfic#fic: children of ares
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Goretober Day 5; Crying Raspberry
Prompt: Candy/Fruit Gore Fandom: Avatar The Last Airbender Summary: An assassin attempts to kill a newly crowned Azula with an unidentified poison from the Foggy Swamp.
It has been several hours since they fixed the crown securely into her top knot.The transfer of power had been peaceful. She admits, with a degree of reluctance, to having shed a tear. Truth be told she hadn’t expected to reacquire her princess title, muchless that of the Fire Lord. But after dragging her to various council meetings, Zuzu has decided that it would suit her.
“You just…” He begins, his voice nearly lost under the lively bustle of the crowning ceremony afterparty. “You’re intimidating and well-spoken.”
Eloquence is her specialty, she agrees. She doesn’t say it, leaving him room to continue.
“I tried the throne for a few days and…”
“You didn’t like it?” She fills in.
He nods. “I just think that I’d be better suited for something else. I liked traveling the world with Aang. I’m good at that and you’re good at this.”
“You aren’t worried?” She asks as a waiter sits a few glasses before them. He wears an intricate, probably hand-carved wooden mask. All of the servers are masked but he is the only one of them who has chosen to wear wood over metal or plastic.
“About what?” He asks.
“That I’m going to snap. Lose it and set fire to the Fire Nation. That I’m going to ruthlessly…”
She feels a hand on the small of her back. “You aren’t father. I think that you want what is best for your people. I trust you.”
A kind warmth fills her belly and she tries to keep a smile from spreading across her face. She can’t let him know that she has gone soft, not even slightly so. “Good, you should. If you don’t trust me then you’ll fear me.”
He rolls his eyes. “You don’t need fear. Believe it or not people still respect you.”
This time she can’t keep the smile from emerging. Can’t keep the relief from bleeding through. “I hope that you’re right. I…” she trails off. “I feel as though I won’t be taken seriously. I don’t think that there has been a Fire Lord so young.” So young, so feminine, so unhinged. But she isn’t unhinged, she reminds herself… “They’re going to approve. As long as you treat them well, they’ll get used to you.” He gives her a warm smile. “They got used to me.”
.oOo.
And, just as he had said, they warmed up to her. Most of them. Protests didn’t fall on def ears, but she wasn’t giving up her crown. She tries to appease them and she has some success. But there are still plenty of people who’d like to see her dethroned and dishonored.
She knows it and accepts it. And yet it still comes as a surprise when someone finally has the courage to act upon their hatred.
The third celebration commemorating the end of the war comes to a close and Azula doesn’t feel right. She feels queasy and heavy, despite having only a drink and a half and a small snack. There is a lingering sweetness on her tongue. The sugary taste of strawberry and peach. Maybe a mocking hint of cherry, a faint callback to her last tragically ending reign. And she knows, she just knows that it was the man in the wooden mask who has done this to her. He must have slipped something into her drink. Or he might have swapped their cups. The hows don’t matter. What matters is that the poison is churning in her stomach and possibly her veins.
Her tread is awkward and off balance; a combination of a dizzy head and an aching stomach. She splays herself upon the bed and promptly folds in on herself. But this only makes her feel worse. With a shudder she unbunches herself and rolls onto her back. She doesn’t fancy sleeping on her back, but her stomach is too delicate for her to sleep in any other position. She holds her hands firmly against her tummy as though that will coax the feeling to pass. Even to the touch it feels taut and distended. This in itself, leaves her feeling doubly ill. Something is definitely wrong. Undeniably wrong. She tries to run through a list of poisons that might have this effect. But she can come up with none. None that her own.
Azula’s stomach rumbles and turns and she clutches it harder still. She manages to heave herself upright, even that leaves her with a mild motion sickness. She carries on regardless of it, she was a fool to try to sleep it off. She should be in the infirmary. She finds herself unable to manage something as simple as making it to the door.
She doubles over, clutching her middle, feeling strangely bloated and nauseated. Somehow more than before. She takes one more step--a mistake--the liquid shifts unpleasantly in her belly. The sickly feeling intensifies until it is overwhelming. She hunches further over, it is more of a reflex than a conscious action. Still she tries to hold it back; the feeling of bile rising is probably one of the worst feelings, it is the sensation she dreads the most when afflicted with illness.
Vomiting leaves her feeling dirty. Unsanitary and with a burning sensation in the back of her throat. And it is never just once, she usually ends up heaving twice, or thrice if her stomach flu is bad enough. It steals her breath, comfort, and her dignity in one fell swoop.
She finds that she has made another mistake in repressing it. The queasy sensation doesn’t abate, it is however accompanied by a pressure now. An intense one that builds behind her eyes and in her nose. A congestion that leaves her head with a dull ache. And that dull ache swells into a rattling sensation, it feels like she is drowning from within.
Her eyes water. Though water isn’t exactly what it feels like, the consistency of her tears feels thicker, stickier. With nerves and anxiety her stomach seems to turn itself over completely. Her grip on it tightens once more, her nails digging into her sides. She opens her mouth too late. The pressure releases itself.
Fluid spurts from her nose, smelling strongly of peach and strawberry. It drenches the backs of her hands and pants, as sticky as the liquid leaking from her eyes. Her eyes burn so terribly. The pressure that builds behind her eyes has her fearing that they might burst out. If for no other reason than to expel the liquid and prevent such a thing, she cries. And when she does the fluid comes forth like raspberry jam. She thinks that it is raspberry jam, seeds and juice stain her cheeks and spatter on her collar as it spills from her eyes. She tries to wipe it away but only succeeds in smearing it and adding peach and strawberry to the mix.
Her face is tingling, it still feels so full and swollen. She isn’t sure if it really is and she is too afraid to find out, not that she’d be able to make it to a mirror if she tried. She just knows that her head feels as though it will explode.
There is a rumbling in her ears, like the sound of an ocean or a waterfall. She swears that the dreaded explosion is coming. Instead, her waterfall analogy becomes literal. Twin fountains of cherry pour from her ears, their small pits are grating on her ears as the juice pushes it forward.
Her face is leaking from almost every crevice and her stomach is still lurching over and over again. Azula opens her mouth to scream. She begins to, but finds herself choked off by another gooey juice. It is liquid at first, a combination of pineapple and kiwi with a dash of lime. Touched by hysteria and panic, she finds herself inwardly laughing about how delicious it tastes. Perhaps if she lives she’ll fix herself a glass of pineapple, kiwi, and lime juice.
The liquid thickens into something more like molasses and seems to catch in her throat. She finds herself gagging, pushing against her stomach in an attempt to push it forward and out of her throat.
Her eyes are still expelling raspberry jam, her ears are still bleeding cherry, and her nose is still gushing peach and strawberry. It is dripping down her chin along with pineapple juice and saliva. She is on her hands and knees but the ground is slick with juices and when she moves her hand, it slips. She is fully laying on the floor in the sticky mess that she is still adding to.
Azula shudders, the raspberry jam feels like warm blood clots. She continues to choke and gag and finally the molasses in her throat comes up. It is a ball of pomegranate seed and honey. There may even be a few watermelon seeds in the mix. It certainly feels as though she has swallowed a watermelon and that it has taken root and grew to fruition in her tummy. Regardless, she can breath again. She can breath and the pressure is growing less, though the flow of juices is still as heavy as a punch fountain.
She lies on her side and lets the fluid run. She isn’t sure how long it takes but the spill is beginning to slow into a trickle. She finds the strength to get back to her hands and knees and empty her stomach. She heaves until she can no longer feel the juices sloshing within it and until at least some of the heaviness abates. Until her arms go shaky and weak.
Azula flops back down onto her side, breathing deeply and savoring every unobstructed breath. She remains on the floor in a pool of sickly sweet smelling vomit and bile. The last of it seeps between her parted lips. For a moment she thinks that she is going to die. But her breathing stabilizes and her tears are pouring out salty and watery again.
She lies there panting lightly as she tries to shake off the last of the nausea. The taste of pineapple and kiwi still lingers on her tongue and the scents of peach and strawberry refuse to leave her nose.
.oOo.
Azula’s stomach is still tight and delicate when she wakes up a few hours later. Zuko is rubbing her hand, he pauses briefly when he notices that she is awake. She finds herself flushing; her hair is probably disheveled and her clothes and skin are probably a sticky, stained mess. She feels gross. “I need a bath, Zuzu.”
He rolls his eyes. “Your bath can wait. The doctors already cleaned you up pretty good.”
She touches her cheeks and her chin; there are still sticky spots but, mostly, Zuko is right. She realizes that she is in an infirmary gown. “What the hell was that?” She asks weakly.
Zuko shrugs. “They found it in Mai’s cup too.” He gestures to the bed next to her own. “It was meant for me, but Mai stole my glass…”
“I’ve never heard of a poison like that.” She replies quietly. She still feels as though there is a sticky gunk in the back of her throat.
“They think that it comes from the Foggy Swamp by the spirit banyan.”
Whatever it is, wherever it comes from, Azula knows that she doesn’t want to have so much as a sip of it ever again. Agni knows what would have happened if she actually finished her second glass. She clasps her hands over her belly, the swelling is lessening but a dull ache lingers.
“Here.” He offers her a glass of water.
She shakes her head, “not yet.”
He puts it aside. “You should try to get some rest.”
She nods in agreement. With any luck, she will wake feeling normal and refreshed.
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how lucky you are || Lysterek (Lydia x Stiles x Derek) || Explicit Multiamory May Day 10 Some backstory: This is a deleted scene from my long!fic The Distress Call where Derek reclaims alpha status, Stiles is his mate and an incredibly powerful mage. Lydia is a banshee and is in Derek’s pack. It can be read as a standalone. Derek and Stiles, being the alpha pair, are allowed to have anyone else in the pack in their bed as long as its all consensual.
They dance for another hour, drawing quite a crowd. Human alpha-mates are rare as it is, let alone one that’s completed the ritual far enough to have the eye. Once they’re able to leave, Derek calls for a taxi, the most sober of the three of them despite the wolfsbane-laced alcohol. They’re not discrete when they get back to the house, and Cora pops out of her bedroom to see Stiles pressing Lydia up against the wall of the hallway, hand up the tight dress she’d worn out. She just smiles, rolls her eyes and mutters something about inevitability and slips back into her room. Her heartbeat disappears after that, so Stiles assumes she activated her own privacy runes.
Derek comes upstairs with three glasses of water and points towards his bedroom with an expectant look. He gently separates them and hands each a glass of water, “Water and consent first, sex second.”
Stiles honest to god whined, “Derek, Lydia gave her consent.”
Derek took a drink from his water and stared at his mate expectantly. “Lydia gave you her consent. I haven’t asked yet. And she hasn’t asked me.” He shrugged one shoulder, “My pack, my rules. I’m not blind or gay, Stiles, I understand your desire to get Lydia into bed, but I will not do so when both of you aren’t more sober than this.”
Stiles glared at Derek, pointedly, single red eye flashing, and downed the rest of his water and stepped towards the bathroom. Derek finished his own glass and took Stiles seat on the bed next to Lydia, “Reservations?” He asked softly.
She let out a warm laugh and turned her face up to his, “About having sex with my alpha, the hottest alpha on the east coast, mind you, AND Stiles? None.” Lydia finished her water and set it on the floor, straddling the Alpha’s lap, “Do you have any reservations?”
Lydia was sure that the list of people that got to see that particular shade of lusty green eyes from Derek Hale was short, “About bringing the hottest Banshee I’ve ever met into our bed? No.” Their lips met, and they pointedly ignored Stiles’ sarcastic clapping.
“Now that we’ve gotten that over with, I’ll point out that Lydia is essentially the only Banshee you’ve ever met, Derek.” Stiles crawled onto the bed regardless, stripped down to just the skin tight jeans he’d worn to the club, and pressed his chest against Derek’s back, nimble fingers quickly opening the buttons of Derek’s shirt while he and Lydia kissed. Derek’s hands fumbled for the zipper of Lydia’s dress and tugged it down. Once it had fallen off mostly off of her body, she stepped off of Derek’s lap to let it fall to the floor, and her eyes zeroed in on Stiles. “You undress, Alpha. I’ll get him started.” She looked at Stiles with a steel in her eyes and his spine melted. He let her push him further up the bed, let her peel him out of the jeans, hardly speaking or making noise at all. His pupils had blown wide, and he stared at Lydia in awe. Derek was transfixed at the control Lydia had over Stiles, but finally understood what Lydia had meant when she said that she could give Stiles something he needed.
“He subs for you.” Derek said softly, crawling up onto the bed to watch as Lydia’s hand, nails blood red, wrapped around Stiles cock and stroked it to hardness. She was on her knees, ass in the air, breasts hanging low, occasionally brushing against Stiles’ thighs. He reached to run a hand over the smooth, creamy skin of Lydia’s body, watching a line of goosebumps flare onto her skin after his touch disappeared.
Lydia turned to Derek, “He likes to. I’ll help you learn to do it too. It should be easy, you’re the alpha.” She pressed kisses to Stiles’ stomach and hips, the man on the bed moaning and squirming under Lydia’s soft hands. “Can I fuck him, Alpha?” She asked softly, reaching up to unclip her hair and Derek reached out to touch it as it cascaded down her shoulders.
Derek considered for a moment, “Blow him first.” He said softly, moving so he was behind Lydia, kneeling as he carefully slid the skimpy underwear down and pressed a knuckle between the folds of skin at her opening. Lydia let out a moan as she dropped onto Stiles’ cock, and Derek unfolded the finger and pressed it inside of her, adding a second one, stretching her gently, even if her pussy was more amenable to penetration than Stiles’ ass was. He brought his mouth down to press his tongue where his fingers were pressing into Lydia, opening her. She groaned against Stiles’ cock, which caused Stiles to cry out a curse. Derek pulled away, “Now you can fuck him.” Derek hesitated only for a moment, “Condom or?”
Lydia pulled off of Stiles dick with a wet pop and momentarily, Derek forgot the question he had even asked, it was obscene how red Lydia’s lips were, slick with her own spit. She crawled up Stiles’ body and took his hand, “Do the thing, Stiles.” She said, pressing his hand against her pubic bone. Stiles seemed to snap out of whatever spell Lydia had put him under, and his eyes met Derek’s as he muttered the contraceptive charm that he’d used last time.
Derek couldn’t resist the sight of his mate’s whiskey eyes and he surged forward to kiss him, and Stiles delighted in how odd the taste of Lydia on Derek’s lips and tongue was. “Fuck her, Stiles. But roll over so I can prep you.”
Stiles nodded, looked up at Lydia with a wry smile and then, faster than Derek had expected him to, he’d rolled so that both of them were on their sides, and he could press kisses into the side of Lydia’s neck as he pressed his cock inside of her. She cried out his name as he did, and let her head fall back onto Stiles’ shoulder. Derek took her mouth from there, somewhat awkwardly, but neither of them seemed to mind.
Derek couldn’t help but be mesmerized by his mate and his banshee, how beautiful their bodies looked together, and he was momentarily struck with the realization that they both were his, if he wanted them. But, the mate bond, that braided rope of love, sex, and blood, centered him as he reached to slide a hand between Stiles cheeks, throwing off a thrust as he let out a groan against Lydia’s neck. Derek reached for the lube, slicked a finger, and pressed it into Stiles as he fucked Lydia, not missing the tempo change as Stiles brought his own hand down to Lydia’s clit, helping her towards her first orgasm.
Derek pressed a second finger into Stiles’ hole and paused briefly for a moment before he had figured out which direction to crook his fingers to brush against Stiles’ prostate. The mage cried out his name as he pulled away from Lydia, coming between his own chest and her back. Derek momentarily regretted his choice not to pull down the comforter, but as Stiles moved onto his knees to fuck back onto Derek’s fingers, he suddenly didn’t care.
Derek was surprised when Lydia moved closer, taking his lips before prodding him to shift his hips. Stiles was on his knees, parallel to the pillows, coming down from his orgasm and fucking himself on Derek’s fingers. Lydia tugged Derek to sit so that fingering Stiles caused a bit of stretch in his shoulder, but then that obscene red mouth sank down over his cock and he realized that he didn’t mind the stretch. Derek’s other hand came to run through Lydia’s hair, and he groaned, trying to resist his hips thrusting up into her hot mouth.
Stiles was hard again, and Lydia was clearly a fair bit more accomplished at blow jobs than Stiles was, because Derek had to pull her head off of him and hold up a finger to collect himself before he moved to his own knees and tugged Stiles back, pressing into him quickly, probably too quickly, but giving Stiles a minute to adjust to the stretch. Stiles looked back over his shoulder with eyes that were more pupil than iris and smiled widely at Derek, “Thank you for this.” He said, “I love you so much.”
Derek poured himself over Stiles’ back and kissed his shoulder, “I love you too.”
“And you’re both wonderful.” Lydia rolled her eyes and settled back against two pillows, her legs spread in front of Stiles. The mage turned his head to her, and as soon as his head dropped between Lydia’s legs, Derek chose to pull out and thrust back in, causing both of them to curse as Stiles tongue was pressed harder against Lydia.
Derek didn’t last long, and neither did Lydia from the sounds she was making under Stiles’ mouth and hands, and as he watched Lydia throw her head back against the pillows and clench around Stiles’ fingers, he buried himself inside his mate and came, nearly collapsing onto him. Stiles pulled away from Lydia to reach down, tugging at his own cock a few times before he came a second time and collapsed onto Lydia’s stomach, spent.
Lydia recovered first, pulling herself out from under Stiles and kissing the top of his head and then Derek’s lips before she helped herself to their bathroom. Derek pulled out of Stiles and flopped back onto the bed. Stiles reeled from the emptiness and his ass clenched around nothing a few times before he relaxed, almost asleep there.
Derek decided not to bother with the sheets, it was July anyway, and he had plenty of body heat to keep both of them warm. He laid back against the pillows and tucked Stiles against his side. When Lydia was done, she threw on Stiles’ T-shirt and crawled into bed, tucking herself under Derek’s other arm, one of her hands trailing down Stiles’ arm. “You know how lucky you are, don’t you?” She asked softly. The alpha gave a nod. “We’ll find you your person, Lydia.” He murmured against her hair. “Someone worthy of the great Lydia Martin.” “I had someone once.” She closed her eyes, sadness coloring her scent. “I loved him.”
Derek kissed the top of her head, “Jackson.” He murmured. She nodded. “I turned him, Lydia. He has a place here, in this pack, if he wants it.” “Thank you, Derek.” She whispered.
#teen wolf#multimay20#Derek hale#Lydia martin#stiles stilinski#the distress call#my fic#tdc universe#this was such a copout
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Skee-bal
@today-in-fic please and thank you :)
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
He’d had to haul ass through the airport, dodging everyone and their irritating, unsupervised rolling suitcases and then, huffing and puffing from lack of oxygen, discovered his flight was delayed by an hour at least. He’d dropped his phone in the hurry, four pieces retrieved in the end, one lost under a maintenance door he didn’t have time to find a guy with a key to open. Now, jammed between two men who had to be linebackers for the Broncos, he prayed in some form for as much alcohol as the stewardess could legally allow him.
He got a bag of pretzels and a Sprite.
Linebacker A to his left sneezed towards him.
The uncovered Sprite went untasted.
With the way his life had been going for the past week, this was actually one of the better moments, sadly enough.
Some kind of asinine weather completed his travels, slowing down flying speed and landing possibilities, circling for 45 minutes before hitting the tarmac fast and bumpy, an enlightening nightmare for everyone in the plane but Mulder, who was sandwiched so solidly between Linebacker A and Linebacker B that he never moved an inch, forward or to the side. Wanting to kiss the ground when he finally stepped off the concourse, he hefted his backpack instead and headed to baggage claim.
We will not talk about the incidents at baggage claim except to say that ‘motherfucker’ was repeated silently in his head a multitude of times.
Car, street, traffic, home!
Only to see his tux still hanging on the closet door where he’d left it a week ago as a reminder that he had a party to go to.
The only thing that made him not want to die about this impending shindig was Scully … Scully in a fancy dress … Scully in a fancy dress drinking fancy liquor and eating fancy food and he’d better get in gear or else she’d be looking all fancy but be pissed as hell inside because he’d left here there unprotected from all those people she really didn’t want to spend her Friday night with.
Although they were Smithsonian uppities so she’d have plenty of conversation fodder but no one to rescue her when she got that look on her face he knew only too well.
Regardless, he hurried, showered, shaved, spritzed and shimmied until he looked like a million bucks and some change, finally pulling up to the National Museum of Natural History fashionable late.
&&&&&&&&&&&
She’d had better weeks … but in the grand scheme, she hadn’t been shot at so in the end, it wasn’t a terrible seven days by any means.
Then again, when Ritter had shot her, she’d at least gotten to sleep in.
She’d been up and out the door every morning at 5am, coming home after midnight, hating with a full on passion anyone and everyone who wasn’t Skinner. The paperwork nightmare had avalanched, Mulder not there to offer an answer to her questioned where involving this witness testimony or that scrap of receipt that the entire case hinged on. She couldn’t bother him, knowing he’d just say, “um, maybe behind that thing that related to the other thing or in that drawer,” and send her on a wild goose chase with the thing she needed being neither in the drawer nor behind the other thing but in fact, still in his coat pocket.
Plus, if she called him, he’d go off his game. He’d be thinking about the case she was asking about instead of the serial nightmare he was trying to imprison until the end of time plus another month just for fun.
So, she left him alone.
Mind you, they had talked everyday since he left but usually only after hours, discussing useless things and nonsense, Scully doing her best to quiet his mind so he could get some sleep, think about the questions he needed to answer and the problems, inherent, that came with those answers. She could feel him, across the country, calm, relax, begin to drift off with slow words and slower breaths, eventually telling him a quiet goodnight and an even quieter sleep well.
But now, knowing he’d be landing in 37 minutes, she, for reasons undwellable in that sliver of time, took a little extra care with her makeup, her hair, twisting that escaped curl into an oddly perfect position, knowing he’d move it when it began catching on her eyelashes while she talked to him, tuck it back, linger a moment, turn red when he realized what he was doing, linger another second then remove himself to a safe distance, drink, talk, return to the beginning of their recycled game.
She held the fantasy for .4 seconds then moved to find her shoes.
&&&&&&&&&
Standing across the room, she saw him come in, do the standard ‘stop and scan’, hope to zone in on his partner, catch the subtle red-hair, pale skin amongst taller, irritatingly grouped men in black.
Men in black.
He was a man in black tonight.
He was amused.
‘Cause … you know … men in black.
Wow, he really needed a nap or a drink, whichever came first.
But on Scully’s end, she saw him unable to find her, turn the wrong direction, head polar opposite to what she figured correctly as the food tables. When he couldn’t find her, he always headed to the next best spot, knowing she’d show up eventually, given he knew her stomach just as well as she did. About to head his way, she wasn’t paying close enough attention and the accosting took her by surprise, finding her suddenly surrounded by four gangly employees whom she had worked with many times and were, from what she could comprehend given her mind was still on Mulder, asking her if she’d like a tour of the archives downstairs.
The boys were nice, polite but slightly overenthusiastic about all things insect, vertebrate, legged and winged and taking into account how much they had helped her and Mulder over the years, she felt a tugging obligation to follow, listen, offer interest in all the proper places when she really wanted a rum and coke and to talk to Mulder.
But she was some kind of decent human being so she gave her tour guides almost an hour before she begged off, claiming starvation and need to circulate for the good of the FBI, her boss, the world in general.
They were just happy they got to show off for her.
&&&&&&&&&
It was indeed a fancy dress and by the time it sidled up beside him, he had seen it, cataloged it, burned it into his memory for all eternity. The partner wearing it wasn’t bad herself, a smile creeping across his face slowly but surely as she walked towards him, scooting in beside as opposed to across the table like normal partners would.
He was very glad they weren’t normal partners.
“So, where have you been hiding?”
“Kidnapped by McMaster, Philips, Squeegie and Tom.”
Sliding his drink into her waiting hand, “you need this more than I do.”
Grateful for the share, she drank, then, “they showed me the archive … downstairs.”
“Downstairs? Sounds ominous. You should have let me tag along.” Shifting his head down towards her, “any of them work up the nerve to ask for a date yet?”
“Squeegie took a deep breath and said ‘Agent Scully’ but then stopped, started sweating and proceeded to lecture for 20 minutes on Acherontia Atropos. It’s the closest he’s gotten so far.” Finishing off the last swallow of his slightly watered-down drink, she looked at him critically, “we should go get some more of those.”
With a grin, “you go grab some food, I’ll get the drinks and meet you back here in two minutes.”
“Deal.” Tugging at his jacket, “leave this here so people know the table’s claimed. I don’t need anymore irritating small talk tonight. I’ve done enough.”
Removing the coat, “back in a flash.” Flash indeed, minute forty-five to be precise, beating his partner by two minutes, able to watch her return with several heaping plates of nibbling nonsense, balanced alone by some act of God, given the height of her heels and the alcohol just beginning to tease her system. He knew it, could see that shine in her eyes and wanting to smile wider than he already was, he held it in, instead reaching out to take a plate, “I beat you back.”
“I had to fight for the last meatballs for you. Hopefully I didn’t leave a bruise on Dennison.”
He honestly, for half a second, wondered if she was serious but then she waved a toothpicked piece of meat under his nose and he didn’t care anymore. Taking it, devouring it, proceeding through three more, he finally slowed, “how’s your drink?”
“Empty. Thanks for bringing me two.”
“Just don’t slam this one or I’ll be pouring you into bed later.”
And he watched her fumble her salami encircled cream-cheese attempt at filling food, nearly dropping it to the table before she recovered with a stutter, “I’ll … I’ve never … I do not slam drinks, Mulder.”
“Okay, little Miss empty glass.”
Hardly in a spot to deny it, given the empty glass in front of her, she shrugged those well-defined, muscle-sculpted shoulders to throw him off his own game a little then nudged him with her foot, “did I tell you you clean up pretty well?”
“You’re not looking too bad yourself.”
“Not too bad?”
Leaning over, leaning in, leaning down, “give me a little while and there’s a really good chance I’ll be telling you that you are the most beautiful person in this room, probably DC and possibly the world.”
That was a nice shot of warmth through her system and trying to keep her voice even, “little while?”
“Need some more liquid courage. Give me 20 minutes, tops.”
“I think you said it just fine without the liquor or the time limit.”
Warming himself, he returned to the plates, fully ready to eat his way through the pile of cheese, “just help me eat some of this, would you?”
With a smile, she did.
&&&&&&&&&&&
Skinner found them shortly after, then several others they’d worked with on occasion, both happily and irritatingly but Benson took the cake, berating Mulder, belittleing Scully and, in the ultimate gesture of asshole-ness, grabbing her ass.
No one saw the ass-grabbing but they definitely saw Scully’s wrist grab, arm twist, drop that fucker to the ground before she broke his shoulder move a moment later. Leaving him in a whimpering pile of crumple suit and tears, she calmly returned to her drink, fourth now by Mulder’s count, third by hers but who cared given he had never been so proud, feeling the need to cheer, to clap, then kick Benson neatly into next week.
Once Benson had been removed and things had returned to stifling party norm, Mulder came back in close as he had earlier, whispering in the general direction of her ear, “I know just what you need.”
Still feeling phantom hand on real ass, she didn’t care what the hell he might have been implying with that loaded statement, she just knew she was going to follow him and she might as well not beat around the bush, so, with a nod, pointing towards the sea of empty glasses in front of her, “I’ll be needing one of those to go.”
“I don’t think they have lids and straws.”
Already moving from the table, “well, we’ll figure something out.” The moment she moved, she winced, “but regardless, I need out of these damn shoes.”
Not giving a rip about the rest of the ballroom, he took her hand, “I will get you out of those damn shoes as soon as I can.”
&&&&&&&&&
He definitely got her out of the damn shoes but not her clothes, as had crossed his mind at some point after the third Rum and Coke. Instead, she was standing, barefoot, in a calf-length, deep-blue dress, hair falling from that girly twist she’d done, debating the best aim for her last throw.
“Hey, Scully?”
“Yeah?”
“If you hit the 100, I’ll buy you a piece of pizza.”
“Get out your wallet.”
And buy he did, a whole pie actually, half for her, half for him and she treated to the pitchers of beer, “I love that this place has Skee-bal and $2 pitchers after 11.”
“Told you I knew just what you needed.”
Eyes twinkling at him over the edge of her glass, she took a long drink before, “it’ll do in a pinch.”
Well, geez.
He really didn’t need to hear that while she wore that dress with those painted toes exposed and up beside him on the booth, bottoms of her feet dirty, smooth legs …
“Ready for another game?”
Tapping his thigh with those same painted toes, “games are good but my feet are getting cold and I’ve been up since 5 this morning. I’d also really like to get out of this dress and into something in a nice purple plaid flannel.”
“Wool socks perhaps?”
Scrunching toes, she nodded, “yes, please.”
Soon in his car, he debated taking her back to the museum to get hers but seeing her falling asleep in the seat beside him, he nudged her arm, leaning in closer, not wanting to startle too much, “hey, why don’t I take you home and we’ll get your car in the morning?”
Barely registering words, English, surroundings, she burrowed into her coat, mumbling something he needed her to repeat, her lips practically touching his ear, “your place.”
“Scully?”
Suddenly awake, understanding her words and his, she sat up, shook her head, “um, sorry. Actually, if you just want to take me to my car, I’ll be fine to drive home.”
Not really sure what had twisted the gravity between them in the last four seconds, “I … I don’t … are you sure? A minute ago you were practically asleep.”
Embarrassment flooding over the last six hours of back and forth between them, she gave him a passing glance and refocused out the window again, “I’ll be fine.”
Slippery slope, uneven ground, unexplored territory, he put the car in drive, worried and just the slightest bit completely pissed off, “okay.”
&&&&&&&&&&
Dropping her off at her car, she called good-night over her shoulder, then, shutting the door, left him even more irritated and before he could decide to be a complete ass, she drove off without so much as a wave out the window.
He chewed on this for a few minutes, then, given time and talent for going off the deep end, he aimed the car in her direction, driving to her apartment automatically, pulling up and noticing, to his surprise, her sitting on the stoop in front of the main door. Not the warmest of nights, his irritation with her cooled with the temperature as he approached her, settled beside her, put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her against him, “what’s wrong with us?”
“Nothing … everything …” leaning in closer, “it’s too early for this conversation and I’m too tired to curb any revelatory confessions.” Moving to stand, “go home, Mulder. Thank you for shoeless Skee-bal and cheap beer but I need to go inside and get some sleep.”
“Why didn’t you go inside when you got home?”
“Because I knew you’d be coming and I didn’t want to have to deal with you at my own door.”
Irritation was beginning to simmer yet again, “deal with me? What about my having to deal with you? I ask you if you want me to bring you home and you freak out, jump out of the car, pretend you’re awake enough to drive? I just wanted to bring you home so you didn’t fall asleep and die trying to be all independent!”
“Both I and the neighbors would appreciate you not yelling anymore, thank you very much.”
Still looking up at her, he boiled over, “I am not yelling! Fuck,” realizing he might not have been yelling but he was indeed louder than a midnight dark street warranted, “I just wanted to make sure you got home all right.”
Giving him a long look from above, contemplating his tired countenance, she shut her eyes, debating the universe as a whole as it applied to her relationship with Mulder, “I got home fine but I’m not sure you will so come inside. I’ve got semi-warm socks and old sweatpants that have seen better decades and I stole from you three years ago anyway and you can have back in you really want.”
“I’m fine.”
Collaring him, she tugged back slightly, “don’t try to ‘I’m fine’ the queen of ‘I’m fining’ … would you just come inside?”
She could see the wheels churning then slowly grinding to a halt before, “why do we make things so hard?”
Now she ruffled through his hair before giving his skull a good squeeze, “easy is not in our nature.”
As he stood, “you’re telling me.”
&&&&&&&&&
Inside the door, closed and locked, bolted and braced against the outside world, she discarded her shoes, dropping her several inches lower, further from him, but unmoving otherwise, head tilted up to see him, “sleep or drink?”
“Liquor or water?”
“Water, Mulder, definitely water. The last thing we need to pour on the nightmare of us is alcohol.”
“We are not a nightmare, Scully. We are just an exhausted mess. There’s a difference.”
Half wishing water wasn’t the correct choice, “it’s a blurry difference at best.”
Pulling her towards him, he kissed her forehead, “if it were an hour earlier, I’d have demanded the liquor but now, I’d just like the socks and sweatpants, please.”
Scully took his hand, pulling him towards the bedroom, “this way.” Inner sanctum bedroom swathed in shadow, she dug up aforementioned clothing by feel alone, handing him pants, t-shirt and socks, “I threw in your Barney Rubble shirt for good measure.”
And they stood, statued, in the dark, handful of clothes between them until, in a hushed voice, edge of sleep sharp, “do you sleep in my clothes?”
Silent but steady, she walked backwards, dug under her pillow and without pretense, pulled a shirt over her head, groped herself for a moment, undid a zipper and a clasp, dress dropping to her feet. Stepping out of it, she returned in front of him, “yes.”
He studied his beloved rag of washed out cotton Big Bird shirt as it sloped over breast and hung to mid- thigh, “do you think about me when you’re falling asleep?”
She nodded.
“Do you dream about me after you have?”
Another nod.
She would hear him thinking fractured, speed of light thoughts but she waited, wondering which direction things would go, until, “I would like to say something but I’m not going to get it right but I’ll try so just … wait until I’m done, okay?”
Third nod made his heart pound.
But he managed words, “I have never seen you more beautiful than right now, wearing my shirt, naked underneath.” He bit his lip, stumbling over the word naked, “and I’d like to, in the future, come to the conclusion that this isn’t as hard as we make it out to be and the only thing wrong with us is the logic of two illogical idiots.”
Scully invaded his space enough to tug at the bottom of his dress shirt, unbuttoning quickly from waist to neck, “help me get your pajamas on and we can crawl into that bed behind me and sleep until we wake up. After that, we can talk but right now, Mulder, sleep.”
He let her drop his shirt to the floor and pull Barney Rubble over his head, smooth material over chest while Mulder undid buckle and belt, pants exchanged swiftly for sweat, dark socks for gray, “left side or right?”
“Left for now but I can’t guarantee I won’t end up in the middle.”
“Fair enough.” Once hunkered down, buried and burrowed, “Scully?”
“Yeah.”
Through layers of comforter and sheet, he found her face, eyes closing fast, finally moving to shift that section of hair from her eyelashes so he could see her clearly, “in the car, why did you say you wanted to go to my place?”
Before she could shut herself up, “because you have that nice, warm water bed and I was cold.” When he just lay there staring at her, she whispered another ‘g’night’ and drifted off, leaving him to wonder just where she would have made him sleep.
#msr#skee-bal and $2 pitchers#fancy dresses and men in black#my writing#xfiles#xf fanfic#xfiles fanfic#txf fanfic
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Party Frocks and Naughty Knocks
Summary: You had this condition called Multiple Sclerosis which half of the school knew about. This often resulted in you feeling like an outcast. That was until your best friend invites you to a party where you meet someone who knew nothing about you.
Pairing: Jace Wayland x Reader
Warning: Medical condtion and the obvious swearing that accompanies my work.
Word count: 2,883
It was a typical Friday morning. Also known as the main day in the week that all the students spent wishing the clock hands to move faster. Including you.
Everyone knew you as the girl in the back of the library reading quietly to herself. Only half the time you weren’t reading. You often used that as an excuse to get away from it all.
It’s not like you didn’t enjoy being at school. Learning was the one thing that actually made school bearable and meaningful. It was the stupid things like ‘socialising’ at lunch that killed you off.
Being a well known long term carrier of Multiple Sclerosis by the whole school, you’d often find yourself running off to your ‘safe haven.’ As a lot of the school pupils and teachers included knew about your condition, a lot of them would bug you constantly. Always interrupting you to ask if you were okay.
It was nice to know that they cared. Of course it was. But it came to that point when you stopped being known as Y/F/N the high achieving student, and became that girl with MS.
Since finding out yourself, you hadn’t ever let it define who you were. Or even stop you from doing the things that you wanted to do. Regardless of what anyone thought, you were handling it very well. You’d take your meds, you’d go to school, you’d even try and see some of your friends outside of school too.
You were a big believer in ‘everything happens for a reason.’ You we’re just waiting for your reason to show.
-
“Can I ask you a question?” A familiar voice filled your ears in first period. The voice belonged to a red headed girl that you had grown to love like a sister. She’d often get in the way of everyone’s ‘caring questions.’
“If the questions is ‘have I done my homework and would I lend you it’, then no. But shoot.” Clary was different from all the other students here. She held herself well in a fight, and excelled in both academic and physical subjects.
“You’re so funny,” she half laughed, half stared at you willing for you to spontaneous combust at any given moment. “Well... I am having a party tonight,”
“Uh, I hate this already”
“C’mon, you never know you might meet someone.” Clary was always trying to set you up with a strapping young lad. Obviously you refused, thinking that everyone would immediately only pity date you. Everyone at school knew your business.
“Y/L/N and Fray! If you were quiet you may actually learn the importance of quantum mechanics.” Mrs Mitchell also known as your least favourite teacher. Always blowing up over the smallest of things.
Instead of instantly silencing and turning to the front, like you had done. Clary continued to ignore her lesson despot her warning. “Fray!”
“Quantum mechanics explains the behaviour of matter and their interactions with energy. This typically takes place on a similar scale of both atoms and subatomic particles.” As usual, Clary is the smartest and most underestimated person in the room. Well apart from yourself of course.
Mrs Mitchell’s mouth immediately dropped when she understood everything that left the red head’s lips. In fact, the exact definition that she used was the line that Mrs Mitchell had prepared to try and humiliate her for not paying attention. “Shall I continue?”
Clary wasn’t exactly that bad girl of the school. Don’t get you wrong, she got sent to the office plenty of times, only it was for her smart mouth running away from her. Normally on purpose, but that’s besides the point. Associating with Clary Fray, often landed you in hot water too.
Somehow you didn’t mind. It was nice to be something other than the sick girl.
The bell rang before Mrs Mitchell could even think up a good enough comeback to the daring young girl. “So party tonight?”
You sighed as you lifted the strap of your bag that had been resting by the side of your chair. “But what would I even wear? Who would I even talk to? How long is that party planning on lasting till? H-“
As you tried to ask yet another question, a single finger rested on your lips. “Shh, so many questions and yet none of them matter because I didn’t hear a no.” You tried to open your mouth again to speak but she just pressed her finger further onto your face.
-
Sauntering up the driveway of your best friend’s home, you felt slightly over dressed. And by over dressed, you meant that you had more than just your underwear on which is what most of the girls were currently wearing.
There were empty cups lying everywhere, on every surface including the counters, sofas and floor. If the dog stayed still long enough, you were sure that there would have been a cup resting on his head too.
It was hard to pick out your friend in the crowd of drunks. Most of them you knew from your school. Some in your year group, some not from your year group. Then there were some faces that you wouldn’t know even if they told you their life story.
There were a few whispers going around you. Some of what you were able to pick up on were those of people who knew you and your reputation. “Shouldn’t she be at home if she is sick?” “What is she doing at a party?”
Things like this, are the reasons behind why you pretend to be studying in the library as much as humanly possible. About eleven pairs of eyes burned into every inch of your body. It was as if they had never seen a human being before.
Thank god for that. A delicate set of arms wrapped around your stomach. You’d recognise that particular perfume anywhere. “You made it!” You’d never thought you would be this happy to see a drunk Clary in your life. “I’m so happy you made it. Simon said you weren’t going to come.”
Simon Lewis was Clary’s best friend and now boyfriend. The three of you together were pretty much inseparable. Them two more than you which is understandable. Which also made you feel like a third wheel here and there.
Simon patted your shoulder and handed you a non alcoholic drink. “Saw your car out front B, before you go all ape on me for assuming you weren’t drinking tonight.” Not the one to stay long a these events whenever you were actually invited to one.
“Cheers four eyes.” B was the nickname he gave you, meaning baby. As in the baby of the group because you were a little bit younger than the pair of them. Four eyes was yours for him, pretty self explanatory.
“Oh Y/N!” You knew this excited version of Clary. This was the ‘I’m about to set you up with someone’ Clary. The one that you always feared. “I have someone here that you should totally meet.”
Before you could even place your drink down under Simon the bodyguard’s watchful eye, your hand had been snatched and you were being dragged through the cluster of human bodies. Not the mention the horrible smell that radiated off of them.
She continued to pull you through the party goers, that was until you collided into the body of someone that Clary obviously hadn’t intended. Almost instantly from the contact into his chest. Your red drink poured out of your cup and coated his white shirt.
The pair of you completely and utterly shocked as to the events that had unfolded in front of you. “I’m so sorry. My friend here,” you pull Clary over to the boy who you now owe money to for his dry cleaning bill. “Get’s a little carried away. Don’t you Clary?”
Too drunk to even register what you said. She remained silent, apart from a few moans as she wanted you to wrap up whatever was going on so she could introduce you to her mystery man.
“Y/N come on.” She moaned slightly tugging your hand for another round of human battering ram.
“Later. Right now I’m busy.” You say to her. She lets out a large ‘ugh’ like a child who is disappointed for not getting her own way. “I’ll come find you in a little while. Go find Simon.”
The mention of Simon’s name brought a smile to her lips. The next thing you knew she was skipping down the now cleared path, falling straight into her boyfriend’s arms.
“Like I said I’m really sorry for your shirt. I’ll pay you the money to get it cleaned.” You rambled trying to justify the actions that weren’t even yours.
The mystery boy laughed, quite attractively as he was amused at your fumble for words. “It’s alright. I hated this shirt anyway. You actually did me a favour.” The boy stopped dabbing his shirt with a napkin and extended a hand out to you. “By the way I’m Jace Wayland.”
Accepting his kindness and the fact he seemed to not hold any discontent to the whole drink debacle. “Y/F/N, nice to meet you Jace.”
“Hey um, do you wanna go outside? It’s a little loud and crowded in here. Plus, I think I saw a swing out of the porch.” You smiled, relieved to be leaving the party that you had only just arrived to.
-
You’d spent most of the party outside talking to him about his personal life. Who he was, what he did, how he knew about the party. Those kinds of questions.
“Well, I am in the protection business. I keep people safe. I heard about the party from a mate of mine, he knows ugh your friend.”
He got to know you too of course. He asked you why you weren’t drinking after he discovered the drink wasn’t wine which he originally believed, but Ribena. The one thing you held back was your condition.
“So do you not drink at all or just tonight?” Jace questioned his attention fell to your empty cup.
“I don’t typically get invited to things like this that often. The only reason I showed up was because the crazy red head who caused me to lose half my drink, is my best friend. I had no choice but to at least show my face. No matter how brief that may be.” You explain a little more than you needed to.
Jace became sort of nervous after a while, like he wanted to ask you something, but couldn’t bring himself to ask it. “So um, I was wondering whether I-”
“Y/N, I need to talk to you. There is someone here I want you to meet.” Clary stormed out of the house, screaming those words that interrupted Jace’s attempt. Those words caused Jace’s smile to fade till it was non-existent.
“Can I just apologise for my friend, she has no boundaries.” By this time, Clary had managed to appear more drunk than before you came out of the party.
“You better do as she says. I don’t think she will take another brush off.” You didn’t want to leave. More than anything you wanted to stay with him a little longer.
Clary’s hand had already wrapped around your bicep, practically dragging you to the door. Only Jace didn’t follow when he got to his feet, he trudged down the steps of the porch, and made his way towards the road. He made the decision to leave the party and you behind him.
After all, you were the only reason he stayed as long as he did .
You turned to your friend, “couldn’t you see that I was talking to someone?” Drunk Clary just shrugged and continued with her quest to find you a man. “Clary?”
“What! You need to meet him, like right now!” She cried as she tried to reason with you. “He is really cute. Exactly you’re type as well, quite moody and melancholy at the same time.”
Submitting to her insistence, you allowed her to pull you back into the party. All that remained of Jace’s presence was the napkin stained with your drink, resting on the surface of the swing.
-
Once you were inside you were greeted by Simon with a tale dark haired male. “Y/N, this is Alec Lightwood.” Simon said, pointing to the fairly attractive man. Attractive or not, he wasn’t your type.
From just the few minutes that you had been standing there, he had checked his phone more times that you could count. You’d tried to start a conversation with him, but his attention was clearly elsewhere.
Simon noticed that his behaviour was starting to get to you, but he bit his tongue. Not exactly wanting to get on the wrong side of his girlfriend. But that wasn’t just it. The way he was acting around this young man, gave the impression as if he knew him too.
“So, are you going to make the effort to talk to me?” You questioned, although he didn’t respond. All you received was a ‘mmm?’ confused mumble. His eyes not lifting from his little screen.
You turned to your friend who was watching you converse with this person she knew. “Clary, I think I’m gonna go home.” As much as you knew this wasn’t going to make Clary happy. The whole drunk matchmaker plan, isn’t working for you.
“What? Why? This is all going so we-”
“No Clary it really isn’t.” You interrupt, which did make you feel bad. “You interfered when you didn’t need to. I was more than happy talking with Jace, but you pulled me away.”
Her face fell. If it wasn’t for the fact that she had gotten in the way more than once, then you’d feel worse than you did and probably apologise for your words. “He was absolutely amazing. Finally I could talk to someone who I actually liked. Someone who was sweet and considerate to me when we talked.”
“I’m sorry Y/N. I didn’t know you liked him.”
“That’s because you didn’t ask.” You talked over her as if she were a wack-a-mole arcade game. Every time she spoke, you dominated her. Something you never did with her before.
Just as you were about to open your mouth, a voice interrupted you. “I wouldn’t exactly say ‘absolutely amazing.’” His voice made you jump. As you turned around you saw him standing there with his arms crossed. His tattooed naked biceps were huge. “Although, I do like it when you say it.”
You were definitely shocked. “You came back? Why?” The minute he stepped away from you and you him. You had accepted that it would be the last time that you saw him. No matter how much you wished it to not be true.
Slowly he edged towards you, step by step, little by little. Until he was so close to you that you could feel his breath on your neck. “Well, I left something behind.”
“Well I’m not surprised you left in a hurry. What was it, maybe I can help you find it?”
He let out a little tut what you hadn’t understood where he was going with this. It was quite sad to be honest. To watch you fumble for words. “You! I left you behind.”
“Me?” Clary and Simon pretty much slapped their foreheads at your incapability to understand an obvious attempt to hit on you..
“Yes you.” His hand moved to cup your cheek. An act that never happened to you. It was a level of intimacy that you had only witnessed on the big screen. “Did I hear you right? Do you like me?”
You knew it was better to just admit it than try to hide it. “Yes.” Your head dropped, you couldn’t bring yourself to look him in the eye at that point.
The next event that enfolded happened so fast, it was a good thing you had witnesses to prove that it happened. Jace tilted your head back so that you were looking at him. Then his lips jumped onto yours, kissing them until they were red and plump.
It was safe to say that this was your first kiss.
“Jace I have to tell you something.” You whisper against his lips as you pull apart from what has to be said was the best thing to come out of this whole debacle. “I have a condition called Multiple Sclerosis.”
At first he didn’t know how to process it. Whether he should be shocked, sad or play it cool. “I’m sor-”
“Honestly Jace it’s okay.” Your heart thumped in your chest. “I get it if your feelings may have changed.” He didn’t answer verbally. He just shook his head and pulled you in for a second kiss.
“No condition can change the way that I feel.” Landing a quick peck on your nose. “Can I tell you something? You trusted me with a secret, it is only right if I repay the favour.” He said as he allowed the words to sink in. He let his head rest close to your ear so that the next words that left his mouth could only be heard by you. “I’m a Shadowhunter.”
#shadowhunters jace wayland#jace x reader#jace wayland imagine#jace wayland fanfiction#shadowhunters fanfiction#shadowhunters alec#shadowhunters alec lightwood#shadowhunters alec lightwood imagine#shadowhunters#shadowhunters jace herondale#shadowhunters jace x reader fanfiction#shadowhunters fanfiction requests#teen wolf#teen wolf requests#shadowhunters jace wayland au#shaddowhunters alec lightwood au#shadowhunters isabelle lightwood#shadowhunters clary fray#shadowhunters gif#shadowhunters mortal instruments#mortal instruments#mortal instruments fanfiction#alec and jace#alec and magnus#jace reader#jace and reader#jace wayland#imagination-is-key-in-my-world fanfiction#imagination is key#imagination is key fanfiction
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Victor with appendicitis, based off of this request
Set somewhere before episode 6, because I’m a sucker for the somp dynamic
Mild warning for nausea and brief emeto
3400~ words
~~~
It starts as a mild stomach ache during practice.
Just a twinge of pain, hardly noticeable, but it still causes Victor to flinch. He stops in the midst of his footwork and places a tentative hand over his side where the spike of pain was, but the discomfort has faded as fast as it came, leaving him standing in place, wondering the cause and if he should be concerned.
“Victor?” Yuuri calls from a ways across the ice, snapping Victor out of his thoughts. “Why did you stop?”
Mentally shaking his head at himself, Victor returns his focus to coaching Yuuri. “Sorry,” he says with a smile. “Got distracted.” A half-truth, but he doesn't need to have his student worrying over him for nothing, he needs Yuuri to skate and improve so he can do well at competitions and make Victor proud! (Though in all honesty, Victor would be proud of Yuuri regardless of his scores.)
“Watch closely,” Victor says, then demonstrates the sequence again.
Try as he might to ignore it, the pain comes back. It creeps up on him gradually, gets worse as time goes on until it's forced to the forefront of his mind. But Victor has dealt with pain on plenty of occasions throughout the course of his career and can easily push past that.
So Victor skates. He grits his teeth, forces a smile, and he skates.
He has a job to do. He won’t let a little pain get in the way of that.
~
By the end of the day, Victor is exhausted. Despite the many breaks he has taken, and the many drinks of water he’s had (both at Yuuri’s insistence), the discomfort has not quelled. In fact, far from it. He’s been able to hide the source of his worsening condition from Yuuri throughout the entirely of practiceーYuuri thinks it's just simple fatigueーbut Victor doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be able to keep it up. Despite everything, though, he forces himself to make amiable conversation as they make their way back to the inn. He doesn't want to tip Yuuri off, and it also works to keep his mind off of the growing pain in his side. (Mostly). So Victor talks, smiling cheerfully as if nothing is wrong.
(Because nothing is wrong.)
He repeats it to himself over and over like a mantra, letting the rest of the world fade away as he loses himself in his thoughts.
“Do you not like the food?” Yuuri asks him over dinner.
Victor blinks. “Hmm?”
“You're hardly touching it,” Yuuri points out. It's true, Victor realizes. He's been picking at his bowl of rice, a side dish that came with the meal Yuuri's mother so generously prepared. He hardly has an appetite. Even just those small bites feels like too much; it’s a shock to his taste buds that causes his stomach to twinge menacingly.
“Is it not good? I can get something else if you like,” Yuuri offers, ready to run to the kitchen, but Victor just shakes his head.
“It's fine, really,” he says. Hearing the words said aloud doesn't feel anymore reassuring than when he kept them in his head. “I think I'm going to head to my room for the night.”
“Are you sure you're okay?” Yuuri asks. “You've seemed a bit off since earlier...”
“Just tired,” Victor lies, then adds with a teasing wink thrown in for good measure, “Not everyone has your stamina, Yuuri.” He makes to stand, when the pain suddenly flares up again, and he winces before he can bite it back.
“Victor?” Yuuri asks, concerned.
Shit.
“It’s nothing,” Victor says, a bit too quickly, if the expression on Yuuri’s face is anything to go by. “Just a little sore from practice.” To be fair, it’s not far off from the truth. “I’m sure I’ll feel better after some sleep.”
Yuuri seems to consider this for a moment, his brows furrowing. Victor would find it adorable if he wasn't so caught up on maintaining the facade that he is fine despite his throbbing right side.
“If you say so…” Yuuri at last gives in, though he still sounds unsure. Regardless, he doesn't bring up whatever it is he evidently still wants to say. “Well, goodnight, Victor.”
“Goodnight, Yuuri.” The smile plastered on his face is far too bright, Victor knows, and he’s sure Yuuri does too, but he turns and makes his way to his room before it can be commented on.
Victor breaks form the moment he’s alone in the privacy of his room. He collapses face-first onto the bed, moaning as the sudden movement and the position puts pressure on his ever-aching side. He lays like that a moment more, and only moves to strip off his shirt and toss it on the floor. He feels unbearably hot. Does he have a fever? Oh no, what if he has the stomach flu? Given the pain in his side, the lack of appetite, and the nausea that has been steadily creeping up on him, it’s a likely explanation, though he desperately hopes it’s not the case.
Yuuri has never seen Victor sick before (save for the occasional hangover). The thought of being so disgusting in front of his crush is a big turn-off, the idea of being so weak and vulnerable frankly terrifying. And on top of all of that, they both have work to do on the ice, and recovering from an illness would only be taking time away from that.
Victor does his best to forget about his worries as he turns over in his bed. His big, cold, empty bed, because Makkachin has abandoned him for Yuuri. Not that Victor can really blame her; if he had the choice, he would sleep in Yuuri’s bed in a heartbeat.
He closes his eyes, dreaming about what that would be like. Despite the pain in his side, it doesn’t take him long to fall asleep.
~
Victor’s eyes snap open, mere hours later, to the restless churning of his stomach. He immediately flings himself out of bed, tossing the blankets onto the floor and very nearly tripping in his haste to untangle them from his limbs. He runs down the hallway and heads for the bathroom, and falls to his knees in front of the toilet just in time to lose what little food he had eaten at supper.
His side throbs in time with his pounding head, his whole body shaking. While he would like to tell himself it’s just from the strain of throwing up, he knows it’s more likely his worsening fever, given how cold he feels despite the sweat beading on his skin.
It must be the stomach flu. Victor groans, tipping his head against the cool porcelain. Great. Just what he needed.
“Victor?”
Victor startles, the movement sending jolts of pain through his side. Yuuri’s voice is rough with sleep but the concern is clear as day.
“I’m fine,” Victor tries to say, but his voice is weak and shaky and doesn’t at all support his claim.
Yuuri kneels beside Victor, and Victor ーwith much effortー forces himself to lift his head. Cool fingers caress his heated skin, brushing back silver bangs from his sweaty forehead. A shiver runs through Victor, and he leans into the touch without thinking.
“You’re burning up.” Yuuri’s finger continue to comb through his hair, and it feels so good to be taken care of like this. Good enough to finally give up the act, though there’s really no point in trying to hide it anymoreーYuuri has seen right through him.
“Think ‘m sick…”
Yuuri doesn’t tease him, doesn’t point out the obvious, doesn’t say “Of course you're sick, why would you even try and deny it?” Instead, his soft brown eyes hold nothing but sympathy. “Let’s get you back to bed then.”
Victor aquieces far too easily, and allows Yuuri to wrap an arm around him and help him up off the bathroom floor. His side is still achingーmuch worse than beforeーas Yuuri walks him back to his room. He does his best not to show it, keeping his lips tightly pressed together, and bites the inside of his cheek when the pain gets to be too much.
Yuuri tucks him into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin and smoothing out the blanket over his shivering body. When he accidentally brushes over Victor’s sensitive side, Victor instinctually hisses and flinches away from the touch.
Yuuri freezes, drawing his hand back. “Does that hurt?” Victor nods, biting on his lip to contain his cry of pain.
A stony seriousness writes itself on Yuuri's face, the likes of which Victor has only seen when Yuuri is on the ice, battling against a particularity difficult component. He moves his hand back to the source of Victor’s pain, and Victor jerks away before Yuuri’s hand can make contact. “Don’t touch it,” Victor breathes out, voice panicked. He shields the area for good measure.
Yuuri doesn’t relent. “I can’t figure out what’s wrong if you won’t let me touch you.”
“Hurts,” Victor weakly protests, though he doesn't have the will to fight when Yuuri gently pries his hands away.
He grits his teeth as Yuuri puts pressure on his side. His touch is careful as he moves his hand around, but it still causes Victor to moan. The agony only worsens once Yuuri takes his hand away.
Through the haze of pain and fever, Victor vaguely hears Yuuri mutter a curse under his breath.
“Yuuri?”
Yuuri utters the curse again, much less under his breath, his voice heavy with the weight of dread and something dire.
“What’s wrong?”
“Get up,” Yuuri says.
Victor blinks, remaining where he is. “Why?” Wouldn't rest be the best thing for him right now?
Yuuri helps Victor up when he doesn’t move himself. “We’re taking you to the hospital.”
The words send panic coursing through Victor’s veins. It’s not like he despises hospitals (not that he would say he particularly likes them either), but Yuuri sounds so serious. That more than anything is what scares Victor: how evidently scared Yuuri is for him.
“It’s just the stomach flu. I’m fine,” Victor tries to reassure him, doing his best to ignore the fact that he’s never had any kind of stabbing pain like this when sick before. For his and Yuuri’s sake, he hopes it is just a simple virus.
“You have appendicitis.” And just like that, all previously held hope vanishes. “You need surgery, so we’re taking you to the hospital.” Yuuri’s tone leaves no room for argument. Victor swallows down the terror that rises up when he thinks about having surgery, and instead nods mutely and lets Yuuri drag him to the car.
~
Their time in the waiting room passes by in a fevered haze. Victor sits in a chair with his eyes closed as Yuuri occupies the spot next to him, fidgeting with a pen as he fills out paperwork. The throbbing in his side has only seemed to get worse now that Victor has acknowledged it, same with his fever. His body is trembling again, though there’s the possibility it could simply be from anxiety about the upcoming surgery rather than chills.
Victor tries not to think about that and instead distracts himself by trying to make sense of the language around him. Everything is spoken in Japanese, the sounds still foreign to Victor but slowly becoming more familiar. He can make out some simpler words and phrases, and vaguely feels proud of himself for that, but mostly he just feels overwhelmed. It doesn’t help that he catches the occasional whisper of his name, his fever increasing what he knows is irrational paranoia.
Yuuri places a gentle hand on Victor’s knee, effectively stopping the bouncing movement Victor was unaware he was even doing. “You okay?” Yuuri asks quietly.
Victor swallows down the habitual urge to say “I'm fine,” and instead admits, keeping his voice low, “Nervous.”
“It will be alright, Victor,” Yuuri reassures him with a kind smile. “This is a very common procedure. The doctors know exactly what they're doing. They'll put you to sleep, then when you wake up, we'll be able to go back home.”
Victor manages a stiff nod in response, and Yuuri gives his knee a light squeeze before returning his attention to the many forms he's filling out.
The reassurances don't fix Victor’s worries, but he has to admit it does feel nice being able to share his fears and know he's not alone, and that Yuuri is there with him.
But all too soon Yuuri is forced to leave his side as he is left behind in the waiting room, and Victor is wheeled away and prepped for surgery. They put a gown over his shaking body and a mask on his face, and Victor barely even has time to freak out about the situation before unconsciousness takes him.
When he comes to, everything is an unclear haze. His body feels light and heavy at the same time, his eyelids feeling heaviest of all. He forces them open. His lashes flutter, and he squints against the too-bright lights, a noise of discomfort escaping past his lips.
There's the sound of movement from somewhere close by him, along with the steady beep of the hospital machines, and at last his vision focuses.
When he catches sight of the person at his bedside, Victor’s eyes widen in surprise, and the machine that is beeping steadily in time with Victor’s heart audibly picks up.
“Yuuri…?” Victor breathes out, unable to truly believe it.
Yuuri's eyesーthose gorgeous brown eyes, so intently focused on Victor’s, and evidently worried for some reason that Victor has yet to fully decipherーsoften as a bit of relief emerges on his features.
“Yuuri?” Victor asks again, still in disbelief. Because this cannot be happening. “Yuuri Katsuki?! From the banquet?!”
Yuuri's expression changes for a half second, some emotion that Victor cannot read flickering across his face before it's gone.
“Yes,” Yuuri says, and his voice is so beautiful and real that Victor wants to cry. “It's me, Victor. I'm here.”
“Wow,” Victor exhales. His eyes remain focused on Yuuri's, then they find the ceiling and stay there, as if sending a mental prayer of thanks to any and all gods up above. He's beenーagainst all oddsーreunited with the source of his inspiration, his life and love, his everything, really.
“How are you feeling?” Yuuri asks, breaking Victor out of his thoughts. Victor only looks at him confusedly, before smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. Admittedly it's a muscle he's not too used to working, so that shouldn't be too unexpected.
“Nothing hurts, then? You're okay?” Yuuri asks, and Victor nods twice firmly.
Why wouldn't he be okay? Yuuri freaking Katsuki is in his hospital room! He's never been better!
“You um,” Yuuri stammers. “You don't have to keep saying my name like that. Just Yuuri is fine.”
Victor realizes he must have been speaking out loud. Either that, or the love of his life is a mind reader on top of everything else. Honestly, either option seems completely probable.
“Okay,” Victor agrees. “Just Yuuri.” He can’t help but giggle to himself, his amusement only increasing at the small smile that Yuuri offers in return. Victor swears he has never seen anything more beautiful. Everything about Yuuri Katsukiーno, just Yuuri, Victor reminds himselfーis breathtaking. Absolutely stunning. From his eyes, hidden behind those blue-framed glasses, to his hair, so smooth and undoubtedly soft. Victor has the sudden urge to run his fingers through the dark stands. But he is sadly unable to move from his spot, laying on this hospital bed.
Wait, why is he even in a hospital anyway? Is he… is he dying? Oh god, that’s why Yuuri is here, isn’t it? Seeing Yuuri is Victor’s last dying wish. By that logic, this must be the end. But there is still so much more Victor wants to do with his life… Well, at least he’ll die happily, with his beautiful banquet boy at his bedside.
He doesn’t even notice he’s crying until Yuuriーsweet, beautiful, gorgeous Yuuriーis thumbing away his tears as he gently soothes him. “Why are you crying? What’s wrong?” he asks. “Should I call in a doctor?”
Victor shakes his head. “I’m dying. They can’t do anything to save me.” More tears fall from his eyes. “I’m just so glad I got to see you again… You never called me, after Sochi. I was so lonely. I thought you had abandoned me, but you came back… and now I can die happy…” Yuuri takes his hand and Victor lets his eyes slip shut, ready to give in to the darkness once and for all, feeling oddly at peace.
“Victor, you’re not dying.”
Victor carefully cracks one eye open. “...What?”
“You’re not dying,” Yuuri repeats. His voice is kind and reassuring as his thumb strokes over the back of Victor’s hand, his expression amused and fond.
“...I’m not?”
“You’re not,” Yuuri confirms. “You just had surgery to get your appendix out. You’re just fine.”
“Oh,” Victor breathes out, incredibly relieved. But wait… “If I’m not dying, then why are you here to see me?” There’s no other reason for Yuuri to be at his bedside unless he’s dying. Right?
Yuuri looks worried, a cute little crease forming between his eyebrows. “You don’t remember…?”
Victor struggles to think, to reach back beyond the cloudiness of his mind. His eyes widen as he’s struck with a thought: Maybe he and Yuuri got married and Victor somehow got amnesia and forgot everything, and Yuuriーhis husbandーis at his bedside, desperately hoping for him to remember their loveー
Victor shakes his head at himself. Yuuri? His husband? Only in Victor’s wildest dreams. There’s no way someone like him could hold on to such an incredible catch like Yuuri. There must be another explanation. Some logical reason that Yuuri would be here with Victor in Russia. Is he even in Russia? He’s not sure. His mind is a muddled mess of things he doesn't understand, and he doesn't understand why he can't understand. He wants Yuuri to fix everything. Maybe a kiss from those lovely lips will help to kick-start Victor’s sluggish brain.
He’s just about to ask Yuuri for that kiss when Yuuri says, “You’re my coach. You’re coaching me.”
Victor lets the words sink in for a long moment. “Oh righttttt,” Victor at last recalls, the pieces of the puzzle starting to come together. “You asked me to coach you! So I came to Japan…”
“Yes, you saw the video,” Yuuri helpfully provides.
“You asked me to come! You were so cute!” Victor internally squees as he’s hit with the memory. There’s no way he could ever forget that hot mess of a man throwing himself into his armsーhalf-nakedーas he begged in drunken Japanese, then adorably accented English.
“A-anyways,” Yuuri mumbles, trying to change topics. “That’s why I’m here. You’re my coach, and I’m your student, and I can’t train until you’re healed. So I... “ he trails off, still shy, still so cute. “I have to look after you until you get better.”
“Wow!” Victor gushes. “I’m so lucky!”
“Lucky?” Yuuri echoes back, seemingly in shock that Victor can feel lucky after being cut open for surgery.
“Mm,” Victor agrees. “I get the cutest doctor to take care of me!”
Yuuri’s cheeks darken into a spectacular shade of crimson, and he sputters and chokes on his own saliva. Still blushing, he mumbles something about getting a real doctor to check on Victor before ducking out of the room.
Victor can only laugh. Who knew the shameless Yuuri Katsuki from the banquet would be so easily embarrassed? It's incredibly endearing. And Victor has the honour of coaching this gorgeous man, who for the next little while will be nursing Victor back to health!
Victor melts into the hospital bed with a blissful sigh. If this is a dream, then he hopes he never wakes up.
~~~
I have ko-fi!
#w!oi#sick!victor#appendicitis#fever#chills#nausea#emeto#hospital#anesthesia#loopiness#humour#mpf writing#sickfic#so the medical accuracy i was fretting about was mainly the actual pain of appendicitis and how much victor would be able to move etc#so i hope it was all ok in that regard!#accuracy aside i hope you enjoyed the whump! and also the loopiness#the loopiness was my fave part to write haha#i hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it! :)
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koi no yokan
“the feeling you get upon meeting someone that love will happen for the two of you, in time.”
Pairings:Namjoon x Reader / Jin x Reader
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Fluff
Words: 1.8K
Summary: It’s been a year since you and Jin have broken up. As you try to deal with your memories of the past, someone new enters your life.
There’s something about the winter that brings to light memories and feelings you’ve hidden for a long time. The wind pierces your skin just as your worries do. At first, your feelings and the cold become one and the same. They’re completely indistinguishable. So you become rather numb and oblivious to your own pain. You hide it, bury it, and don’t let it see the light. But this state of oblivion only lasts for a short time. Because once the warmth arrives, the truth gets set free. And you have no choice but to deal with it.
You liked walking, especially when it was sunny and cold outside. You often walked near the river when you were feeling anxious. The steady ripples of the water soothed your nerves and the abundance of trees cleared your mind. It was a therapeutic session for when your anxiety was intense. In fact today you were feeling very anxious. Mostly because you were going on a blind date for the first time in a while. It had been over a year since you and Jin had broken up. For some people a year seems like a normal amount of time to get over someone. It should be plenty of time. But you found it immensely hard to get close to anyone. Whenever you tried, Jin was always in the back of your mind. You constantly compared other people to him. This led you to always find something to critique in others. At some point, you weren’t sure if they were actually things that you truly didn’t like or things that you made up to feel at ease. While you normally wouldn’t go on blind dates, you had promised your best friend you would try your best to be more open-minded.
When you entered the coffee shop your body froze up. Of course your friend wouldn’t know that this was where you originally met Jin. It was merely a coincidence, but regardless your throat closed up and you felt nauseous. It was impossible to forget. You made your way to a small booth in the corner, wanting to avoid the spot where you and Jin first talked. But from your peripheral, it was impossible to miss. It was clear and vacant.
“Hi I’m Jin, do you go to school here?” The broad-shouldered boy asked sitting down in front of you. You looked around to make sure he was talking to you. A look of surprise spread across your face when you saw there was no-one else behind you in the coffee shop. Jin let out a small chuckle. “I’m sorry that was very discourteous of me” he spoke again. You were speechless but somehow wound up enough courage to smile back and speak. “Hi, I’m Y/N.”
Thinking about that moment left you feeling empty inside. You looked around and noticed how even this coffee shop was different. The walls were a different color and the floors were now hardwood instead of black tiles. Like your relationship, things had changed. The door suddenly swung open and in walked a tall guy with a beanie over his light brown hair. A prominent dimple appeared on his cheek as a random smile showed up on his face. He seemed happy and carefree. You envied that. He went up to the counter and ordered his drink. For some reason, you kept staring at him. He was attractive but there was also something about how he carried himself that captivated you.
“Are you just going to keep staring?” He whimsically said before turning his head slightly to meet your gaze. You noticed his eyes were warm and comforting. But you became perplexed by his sudden outburst and instantly looked down at the table. After a few seconds, you heard his footsteps come closer. When you thought he had finally stopped walking, you turned your head quickly to see if he was there. He definitely was. He was crouching down and his face was inches away from yours. When he saw the shocked look on your face his dimple became clearer. His smile was seductive and charming. A knot formed in your stomach and a heavy sensation developed in your chest. You wanted to speak but no words came out. Before you knew it, the dimple boy got up and sat across from you. You were completely dumbfounded by his actions. You didn’t know what were you even supposed to say to him, so you said nothing.
“Nice weather we’re having, huh?” He sighed leaning in forward. Your eyes shot up trying to analyze what his intentions were. But you still didn’t say anything. He seemed to be waiting for your response. But when you didn’t speak, he took a sip of his coffee and began reading a book. You were shocked. After about a few minutes of complete silence, you decided to say something. Mostly because you wanted him to get up since your date was supposed to arrive shortly, but also because you were curious. “What are you doing?” you questioned.
His eyes scanned the last few words of what he was reading and looked up. “Well I was beginning to think you were mute,” he stated while closing his book.
“Just because I didn’t say anything doesn’t mean you can make presumptions about who I am,” you instantly shot back. You were surprised by your sudden assertiveness and confidence. Also, you wondered if it was a bit too much given that he was a complete stranger.
“I didn’t make a presumption. It was an inference. I asked you two questions and you didn’t say anything. Therefore, by those observations, I inferred that maybe you couldn’t talk,” he explained eloquently. You had no choice but to admit that he spoke very persuasively.
“Well you may want to rethink your hypothesis,” you mentioned.
“Inference-“ he corrected.
“Please leave,” you blurted.
That definitely caught him off guard. But he still acted normally. “You do realize this is a public place,” he emphasized extending his arms out toward the empty space around you.
“I’m aware. But there’s plenty of other seats besides this one,” you said pointing to the booth seat he was in.
He looked down and shook his head. “But I don’t want to sit in another seat.”
“Well you’re going to have to at some point,” you explained. He rose an eyebrow and crossed his arms. “Don’t tell me you’re going to use the old boyfriend excuse,” dimple boy uttered. You suddenly froze up at the word boyfriend.
“Jin are you jealous?” you teased trying to grab ahold of his arm as you walked away from the movie theater. Jin didn’t say anything. You felt bad but were also amused. It wasn’t your fault that the guy in the theater flirted with you. “Jin,”you pleaded. You looked up at him and you saw he was trying to act tough. Suddenly you pulled him back and grabbed his face.“You’re the only one I want to flirt with me,” you laughed kissing him. He was still scowling. “That’s right, I better be. I’m your boyfriend,” he emphasized kissing you back passionately.
“Do you do this thing often?” Dimple boy suddenly said.
You thought he was annoyed but when you looked at his expression he was completely composed.You broke away from your thoughts. “Do what thing?” you asked.
“Not say anything when you don’t know the answer,” he bluntly said.
You were taken aback and stuttered while trying to formulate a response. “What..I’m not sure what you mean?”
“Did you not hear my question then?” he asked. Of course you heard it, he knew you heard it. But how were you supposed to tell him that your heart and mind were filled with so much anxiety and heartbreak that sometimes you didn’t say anything. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you physically couldn’t. Because once those past memories started to play in your head, you had no way of stopping them. How could you explain this to him, to a stranger? Of course, you couldn’t. He would never understand what it’s like to be in your shoes.
“No, I don’t have a boyfriend. I’m supposed to meet someone here-“ you began but suddenly stopped yourself midway. “-No, you know what- I’m going on a blind date with someone,” you added.
You saw that he still didn’t change his expression. So you continued on. “This seat here is for me, and that one there is for him, which you’re clearly sitting in. So I’m either going to have to move or you’re going to have to move,” you remarked.
“Well you’re either 0 or 100 aren’t you,” he chuckled.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you questioned unamused.
“It means you either give everything your all or never even try,” he pointed out while packing up his things.
You gripped your hands together and tightened your jaw. It felt like you were about to cry. You didn’t know why his words made you feel sad. But you were sad and there was no denying that. “You don’t know anything about me,” you scoffed.
“I think you’ll resist me even if I try to,” he nonchalantly said while looking straight at you for a few seconds. His expression this time was different but it was crystal clear. He pitied you. And before you could even compose a clear sentence in your mind, he was walking towards the door.
You don’t know what came over you but you ran outside. “Wait!” you yelled. The tall, dimple boy turned around. “You’re right,” you confessed. “I resist people because I’m scared.”
He started walking toward you and stopped two feet away. “Scared of what?” he asked sincerely. But you felt that he already knew the answer to that.
“It’s what you’re thinking,” you sighed gripping your arms as the cold air penetrated your skin. You realized that you had run out without your coat.
“But you need to say it. Not for me but for yourself,” he said. And you did. “I’ve been hurt. I still am hurt,” you revealed to him.
He smiled and his dimple was faint this time but still prominent. “I’m glad you shared that with me Y/N,” he stated candidly.
You opened your eyes in shock. “How do you know my name??” you asked now beginning to get weirded out. He rubbed the back of his head. This was the first time that you saw him act shy. “Surprise! I’m your blind date,” he announced. A loud laugh erupted from your chest.
“Hi, I’m Y/N. And you are?” you asked amusingly as you raised your hand for a handshake.
“Nice to meet you Y/N, I’m Namjoon,” dimple boy answered gripping your hand. You chuckled wondering what he would think of your nickname for him.
#bts#bts scenarios#bangtan#bts fanfiction#bts fanfics#bts drabble#bts au#bts x you#bts scenario#kpop scenarios#kpop fanfiction#namjoon drabble#namjoon au#namjoon scenarios#rapmonster drabble#rapmonster au#rapmonster scenarios#jin#jin scenarios#jin drabble#rapmonster one shot#bts oneshot#jimin scenarios#jimin angst#jungkook#jungkook scenarios#suga scenarios#jhope scenarios#v scenarios#taehyung scenarios
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Complementary (Collins x OC) Chapter 10: Drown
Summary: Cracks start to show in the current patriarch of the Collins' household.
Tagging: @you-are-the-first-dream
Previous Chapter Masterlist Next Chapter Gif Credit
So far, Genevieve had been enjoying her time with Jack and Cora. She’d fitted right in with the cleaning schedule and Cora never pushed her into saying anything she didn’t want. Most importantly, today she’d managed to get a letter to her family to tell them she was ok and would be home soon.
Jack however was closed off more recently, almost as if they had swapped personas. He had disappeared at five past four without his coat. Cora and Genevieve knew that it was because he was drinking a lot more now he had access to a bigger supply of whiskey and had stalked off to the pub after a confrontation with his ma. Not wanting to get between them, Genevieve had stayed in her room.
But now it was getting late and Jack hadn’t returned. So in spite of her anxiety, she was now walking towards the local in search of her friend.
The bar was packed with strangers, so tightly that one couldn’t move through the room without bumping into at least five people and getting something spilt down your front. In Genevieve’s case it was four people on the way in and a splash of white wine down her coat.
Slipping past some of the more sober patrons, Genevieve spotted her mark and tapped Jack on the shoulder, “Hello.”
“’S th’ light of me life!” Jack cheered over the rabble. His speech was noticeably slower and more emphasised, like he’d spent hours deciding on what his words were going to be. What were more indicative of his drunken state were his eyes – bloodshot – and his movements – sluggish and sloppy. Not to mention the fact that his nose was bright red and shiny.
Genevieve was a tad surprised. Usually Jack was incredibly bad-tempered before and after a drink. All the physical symptoms were the same. It was just his persona.
“What are you doing?”
“I didnae drown in me Spitfire! But I’ll drown in whiskey!” He held out his glass, spilling some of the whiskey onto the floor. He was grinning with obvious pleasure at his play-on words.
“Ok,” Genevieve took the glass out of his hand, already extremely uncomfortable with the scenario, “Home time, your ma’s waiting.”
“Wha’? Already? But s’happy hour in a bit!” Jack attempted to down the rest of his drink in time for his departure but Genevieve took the glass away, ignoring his childish protests, and dragged him out of the door. He whined the whole way home, clinging to her side and vying for her attention.
As they got through the door, Cora was waiting by the banister with a blank expression on her face. It was more terrifying than any shouting Genevieve had received at the hands of a parent; she shied away from Cora as she stepped up to her son with folded arms.
“I have no words for you but rest assured, I will have plenty for you tomorrow,” She spoke with calm anger.
“Ma! I ‘ave words too! I love you.” Jack beamed at her widely and unaffected by this threat, wiping his feet on the mat obediently.
“Do you want me to get him upstairs?” Cora looked at Genevieve, her face now relaxed in a sympathetic smile, “I really appreciate you going to fetch him. You must be tired.”
“It’s alright, you head upstairs. I’ll sort him out.”
“Oooo, you’ll sort me oooot,” Jack swooned with his over-the-top girly tone, leaning backwards so that, despite facing away from her, he was resting his head against Genevieve’s shoulder. Straightening him up, Genevieve dedicated all energy to helping Jack up the stairs. He tried to help himself but he nearly knocked them both backwards.
Eventually they made it to his room. By that time, Genevieve was too tired for any complex instructions.
“Jack, go get changed.”
“No, I don’ wanna,” He whined, “I wanna dance.”
“You can dance tomorrow. Now you change into your pyjamas and go to bed.”
“I don’ like me jammies.”
Genevieve hid her face in her hand, “Jesus Christ.”
“You can call me Ja-” He prepared to spin around with the rest of his quippy one-liner but lost his balance and landed on the bed. Genuine laughter nearly escaped Genevieve’s chest but she held it in with a stoic face. Then Jack sat up violently and his eyes widened. He made a dash for the bathroom. Genevieve followed in time to see him throw up the contents of his stomach into the bath. Dropping beside him, she rubbed his back.
“Ok, sweetie, it’s gonna be ok,” She ran her fingers through his hair as he clung to the bath’s rim. His gibberish was gone now. Taking the silence that followed as the signal that Jack’s stomach was now empty, Genevieve topped up a glass of water and, with a flannel under his chin, helped Jack drink it.
She was refilling the glass when she heard a small voice say, “I miss Farrier.”
Genevieve looked at his reflection. His hand was over his shoulder and still clinging to the rim of the tub. His glassy eyes stared dully without seeing. Gentle with his face, Genevieve helped him sip the rest of his drink before placing the glass back on the side.
“Come on. Let’s get you ready for bed.”
“I’m a real lightweight,” Jack had a nostalgic smile on his face, “Farrier used to have to carry me back, like you did tonight!”
“That was nice of him,” Genevieve offered him a sympathetic smile
“The two people I love helpin’ me home when I’m pissed. Coincidence or wha’?”
Tensing slightly, Genevieve pulled him up to his feet and moved him back to the bedroom to change him out of his clothes. She managed to get him down to his undershirt and his underwear before he started giggling again but he was already in bed by this point. Genevieve tucked him in as he wriggled into the duvet with a pout. The pout subsided into a goofy grin when Genevieve smoothed the hair off his forehead.
“I do think I love you,” Jack mumbled into the duvet. Genevieve tensed again before speaking.
“I think you’re drunk.”
“I know am drunk,” He lifted his head up, knocking his forehead against hers with a girly giggle, “So, by process of elimination, that means I know I love you!”
“Jack, you’ve known me two weeks,” Genevieve sat up with a frown, “You’re drunk, you won’t remember this, why am I applying logic to this?”
“Because love is illogicalalal!” Jack babbled as he sat up with her.
“That’s… countering your argument. Lie down.”
“I dinnae ken wha’ I’m saying! ’M drunk! I shan’t!”
With a sigh, Genevieve straightened out the covers again as Jack stuck his arms out and met her annoyed stare with a face of shining innocence. She stood to leave but Jack grabbed her hand and tugged it.
“Please stay,” He said, his bottom lip quivering, his eyes impossibly wide with begging. In no mood to argue, Genevieve sat beside him to pull off her socks. Eagerly, Jack patted the side of his bed where she lay down on her back with no intention of falling asleep. After moving one of his pillows into the centre of the bed, he rolled onto his side and stared at her.
Without looking at him, Genevieve told him, “Close your eyes, Jack.” She watched at the ceiling, following the winding crack along to the wall where the white paint flaked and fluttered to the floor.
“Do you hate me?”
Frowning, Genevieve turned her head to face Jack with his big blue eyes still on her, “No, I don’t. Where did you get that idea from?”
“I dinnae ken. ’Ve been grumpy all week and I made you go in a bar to get me and I know you dinnae like ‘em,” Jack snuggled into his blankets, “I don’ want you to hate me.”
“I swear you’re going through the seven stages of grief,” Genevieve raised an eyebrow with a smile – the first of the evening.
He gave a throaty stuttering laugh, “You’re funny, Genevieve, and so pretty when you smile.” He reached a clumsy hand out and grazed her cheek. So as not to insult him, Genevieve restrained her recoil, opting instead to ease away from his touch. Jack nodded, as if he understood, flopping his arm on top of the pillow – a respectable distance from her. Drunk Jack truly was a rollercoaster of emotions.
“Come on, Jack. Time for sleep,” Genevieve coaxed softly. Moving his head, Jack nestled into the pillows with a mumble before drifting off.
Genevieve felt odd keeping watch on Jack as he slept. It was weird to stare at someone, regardless of scenario, so him passed out was not high on the list of acceptable things to do. He did look beautiful though, peaceful for once. With his head propped up on the pillow, he was vaguely reminiscent of a cherub asleep on a cloud.
Her mind drifted to what he had said, more specifically what he had said about Farrier. Could she…?
Drool started to dribble out of his mouth. Using the blanket, Genevieve gently wiped his mouth clean whilst managing not to groan at him. Retracting her hand, she carefully got off the bed and went into the bathroom. Unsure of how bad his morning was going to be, she rooted around for an aspirin in the bathroom cupboards. She retrieved the last one in the bottle. They would have to go shopping tomorrow.
Jack was writhing about in his sleep, trying to find a more comfortable spot. He settled with a snore as Genevieve placed the aspirin with his newly topped up glass of water. She left the room with barely a creak of the floorboards to alert Jack of her absence.
AN: Oooooo spicy shit is going down and we're only halfway through the fic! Also, just imagine Jack staring at you with completely drunk adoration. I would probably melt.
#dunkirk imagine#collins imagine#collins series#collins x oc#jack lowden#jack lowden series#jack lowden x oc#jack lowden imagine#series#complementary#my writing#ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff#r: female#dunkirk series
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Time Bomb - Lip Gallagher Imagine
Word Count: 3169
Warnings: Swearing, mention of someone’s drug addiction
Letting out a content sigh, you leaned back on your bed and kicked your legs up to rest your feet in your best friend’s lap. Lip Gallagher. The two of you had been best friends for as long as you could remember. You were initially drawn to each other due to your mutual natural intelligence in school. From there, your relationship only grew stronger. You quickly discovered that you lived in the same neighborhood. You both had tough living situations with your parents. The two of you were a match made in heaven—literally. You had even fooled around with the whole friends with benefits thing more than once, but something seemed to always get in the way right before the relationship transformed into something more. The timing was never on your side.
“I finally decided to put a deposit down on Chicago Polytechnic,” you said, folding your hands together over your stomach. “Not my top choice, but I figured it wouldn’t be as expensive as the other schools and it’s close by in case I ever need to help out at home.”
“That’s great, Y/N,” Lip commented, his lips forming what appeared to be a forced smile as he looked down, scrolling through his phone.
Raising a questioning eyebrow, you propped yourself up on your elbows. “Have you picked a school yet? The deadline is in a few days, you know.”
A sigh escaped Lip’s mouth as he as he dropped his phone to the bed. “I already told you, Y/N. I’m not going to college.”
Shaking your head, you moved your legs off of his lap and sat up straight. “Yeah, I know you said that. But I didn’t think you were actually being serious.”
It was clear by the look on Lip’s face that he was beginning to get irritated. “Why the fuck would I joke about that? There’s too much going on here for me to run off and go to college.”
“Lip, the world isn’t going to stop spinning if you go to college. It’s what Fiona wants for you. It’s what everyone wants for you,” you argued, standing up and beginning to pace back and forth. “You’re fucking brilliant. You deserve to do more than just be stuck here for the rest of your life. What are you gonna do here once school is done? You can’t just run the van with Kev every so often and make a living.”
That was when he began to snap. Standing up in front of you, his angry eyes glared into yours. “Last time I checked, you’re not my fucking mom,” he spat, his hands clenching into fists. “I already have one piece of shit mom. I don’t need another.”
He didn’t scare you. You had seen him livid before plenty of times in the past. His arrogance was bothering you just as much as your persistence was angering him. “Well, considering the fact you can’t make a logical fucking decision for yourself, I’m pretty sure you do need someone looking out for you,” you disputed, taking a step closer to him. “I get it. Things have been tough for you here lately. So don’t you think it’d be smart to step away from it all while you can?”
“What the fuck are you trying to say?” he yelled, his face glowing red in anger. “Are you trying to say I can’t control myself here?”
Sucking in a deep breath, you nodded your head. “Maybe that is what I’m trying to say,” you began, your eyes never leaving his. “I mean, ever since things went to shit with Karen a while ago, you’ve been drinking more than ever. Hell, you’ve got a beer with you right now. You’re not your same old carefree self anymore. I’m just worried about you.”
Despite the fact that you were making it evident that you cared, Lip only got angrier. His teeth clenched together. “Are you trying to say I’m turning into my dad? Because I’m not my dad, Y/N. I’m not my fucking dad.”
“Lip, I’m not saying you’re like your dad,” you responded with a sigh, taking a step back from him. “I’m just saying that I don’t want you to turn into your dad.”
“Just because I’m choosing to stay here doesn’t mean I’m going to turn into my fucking dad,” he retorted, his voice becoming colder with each word. “And you’re going to college, so what? Just because you’re going to college doesn’t mean you’re not going to end up like your mom.”
Your whole body froze in place. You couldn’t believe those words had come out of his mouth. Your mom had been your best friend. She was a caring mother to you— or at the very least she attempted to be—up until her death. When you were about twelve, she lost her job at the same time her relationship with your father started to go sour. Never being able to find any satisfaction in her life again, she fell deep into a world of drug addiction. One morning when you were fifteen, you woke up to a loud bang and noticed water flooding the hallway when you stepped out of your room. When you finally managed to pry open the bathroom door, you had found your mom dead in the shower. She had overdosed and collapsed. The worst part about the current situation was that Lip had been with you through your grieving period and had even attended the funeral with you.
“Get the fuck out,” you demanded, your voice barely a whisper. Your eyes started to well up with tears.
That was all it took for all of the anger to drain from Lip’s face and for him to realize what he had said. Anxiously running his hands through his hair, he took a step toward you, his hand now extending toward you to touch your cheek. “Fuck, Y/N. I didn’t mean that. I’m so—“
“Get the fuck out!” you screamed, your voice breaking more than once in the single sentence. You couldn’t stand to look at him. Ripping his hand off of your cheek, you pressed the palms of your hands against his chest and shoved him toward the door of your bedroom with all of your force, causing him to stumble backwards. The tears were readily streaming down your cheeks now.
“Y/N, I’m so sorry…” he whispered, his sorrowful eyes trying to meet your own, but you refused to look at him. “I just… I… Fuck.”
Shaking your head, you gave him one last push and slammed the door after him. You hadn’t even allowed him to retrieve his stuff before forcing him out of the room. The sobs were now freely escaping your mouth, shaking your whole body as you approached your bed. You yanked his backpack off of your bed, slamming it against the floor. Scanning your surroundings through blurry eyes, they fixed on the empty beer bottle he had left on your desk. Storming toward it, you gripped your fingers around it and hauled it against the wall, watching as it shattered into a million little pieces on the floor.
There were very few subjects that could destroy you just at the mere mention of them. Your mom was one of them. She was top of that list. And Lip knew that.
Ignoring the few shards of glass that managed to prick into the bottoms of your feet, you collapsed down onto your bed. Rolling onto your side, your eyes set on your closed bedroom door. You noticed a slight silhouette through the crack on the bottom of the door. A loud sigh escaped your lips. Lip was still there, sitting against your closed door. This was further proven when you heard a sniffle from the other side of the door.
Laying back, you pulled the blankets from your bed over your head, closing your swollen eyes. You didn’t want to think. You didn’t want to talk. You just needed to disappear for a while. “Just leave,” you muttered, pulling your knees into your chest and curling up into a ball.
When the sun began to set after what seemed like hours, you finally heard Lip let out a defeated sigh and situate himself on the other side of the door. There was a slight thud against the door, which you assumed was either one of his palms or his forehead. “I’m so sorry. Just… Just call me or something eventually… please?”
With that, you finally heard the sound of his footsteps walking away and descending down the staircase. Eventually, your heavy eyes closed and you were able to drift off into an unpleasant night of sleep, his words and images of the past engraved in your mind.
–
You didn’t call him. In fact, you avoided him at all costs. At school, you averted your eyes away from him during the classes you had together. When the bell would ring, you would slip out of the classroom before he could catch up to you. Since the two of you typically walked home together, you instead resorted to taking a longer route. Graduation came and went within the next week and you still managed to keep your distance. You didn’t want to talk to him. You didn’t know what to say to him. Despite your anger towards him, it still felt like a part of you was missing due to the fact that he had previously consumed such a large portion of your time.
Your eyes flickered away from the TV as you heard a knock on the front door. Your dad had told you he was expecting a package and to sign for it, so you assumed it would be that. Forcing yourself off of the couch, you dragged your feet toward the door, tugging it open.
All emotion fell from your face when your eyes fell upon the unexpected. Lip. Clearing your throat, you stepped aside. “The stuff you left here is next to the couch,” you said coldly, turning your back to him and walking back toward where you had been seated before.
“Y/N, I’m not here for my stuff. I don’t give a fuck about my stuff.” He followed you into the living room, standing over the couch you were now sitting on. “You’ve been avoiding me and it’s literally eating me alive.”
Resting your feet up on the table in front of you, you glued your eyes to the TV. “What did you expect me to do?”
“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, okay? I realized the moment the words left my mouth that I fucked up. And you were right about me. I could be turning into Frank. What I said was something Frank would say. And I really don’t want to be like him.” He was now standing in front of the TV, blocking your view. “The comparison I made was so uncalled for. Your mom was always a caring person, regardless of what happened to her. And you could never fall down that path. You’re so smart and you’re going to be so successful and you always surround yourself with people who make you happy and… Fuck. I’m just sorry.”
Still, you forced the expression on your face to remain emotionless. Even though he was blocking the TV, your eyes didn’t meet his. “You’re right,” you began, crossing your legs. “It was a Frank thing to say.”
The response you gave clearly did not satisfy Lip. He anxiously ran his hands over his face, beginning to pace back and forth. “So that’s it? I fuck up once… And yes, I do admit it was a huge fuck up… and you’re just going to throw away all of these years of friendship and everything we’ve ever had?” His voice broke off at the end. This caused your eyes to flicker to his face for a moment. As he stared up at the ceiling, it was clear that there were tears welling up in his eyes. “Fuck.”
Crossing your arms over your chest, you began to chew on your lower lip. You could feel your emotions starting to kick in, but you didn’t want to break just yet. “So that’s it?” you started, mocking him in a way. “You’re just going to throw away your potential in life after achieving great things all of these years?”
Wiping his eyes, Lip reached down and grabbed the TV remote off of the couch, turning it off. “If you had answered my calls or let me talk to you at school, you would’ve known that I managed to scrape up the money to put a deposit down on Chicago Polytechnic too,” he responded, kneeling down on the ground in front of you so you were forced to look him in the eye. “You were right. I can’t stay here. I’d eventually lose my mind if I stopped using it to its full potential. You were right, okay?”
A single tear slid down your cheek as you looked down at your lap. He had profusely apologized and had even followed your advice. He really did care about you. Wiping your cheek, your eyes met his and you forced a half smile. “I’m happy for you.”
Putting each of his hands on the couch surrounding where you were sitting, he shook his head. “I don’t want to hear that. I want to hear that you don’t hate me.” His eyes scanned your face up and down. “I want to hear that I can have you back in my life again before I go insane.”
Letting out a sigh, you held both of your arms out wide, signaling to him to hug you. Immediately, he leaned in closer and engulfed you in his muscular arms, squeezing you tightly. You hugged him back, burying your face in his chest and gripping the back of his shirt. “I could never hate you.”
Lip’s body collapsed on top of yours on the couch as he embraced you, causing you to let out a laugh – the first time you’d laughed in a while. Despite your laughter, Lip’s face was serious when he finally pulled back to look at you. “You should’ve hated me. I was a dick and I don’t deserve you.”
Resting your head back on the couch, you shook your head at him. “Don’t say that. It’s impossible for me to stay away from you for too long,” you said, smiling at him slightly as you played with his hair. “I love you too much.”
“You shouldn’t,” he mumbled, lifting some of his weight off of you as he removed his arms from your waist and propped himself up on his elbows over you. His bright blue eyes stared down into yours, the look on his face suddenly changing. A mesmerized look took over his eyes as he lifted one of his arms off of the couch, resting his hand on your cheek.
Biting your lip, a nervous laugh escaped your lips in response to his actions. “Don’t say that,” you repeated, shaking your head. “You could just say you love me too.”
It was almost like he didn’t even hear your words. The captivated look on his face remained unfazed. Before you could question it, he leaned down further and closed the gap between the two of you, his lips smashing into yours.
After freezing up for a moment, you allowed your body to melt into his, your arms wrapping around his neck and tangling into his hair. You could feel your heart pounding through your chest. This was far from the first time this had happened. You and Lip had crossed far over the line of friendship into something more many times in the past. However, each time either of you began to get afraid of catching feelings, you would hold back from hooking up for a while until you couldn’t resist each other again. Somehow you always ended up coming back to each other.
When you were finally able to assess the context of the current situation, your body froze up again. Pulling your lips away from his, you furrowed your brow and gave his chest a slight shove. “Wait, are you seriously trying to hook up with me right now after I just forgave you?”
Pursing his lips together, Lip climbed off of you and sat up on the couch. His eyes wouldn’t meet yours. “It’s not like that.”
The irritation that you had finally let go of began to resurface again. Standing up from the couch, you crossed your arms over your chest. “It’s not like what, Lip?”
“Hooking up. It’s not like that to me.”
Taking a few steps back, you held your hands up in defense. “So just because we’re friends, you don’t qualify it as hooking up? I’m not understanding.”
Letting out a long sigh, Lip stood up and finally allowed his eyes to meet yours. “Haven’t you ever considered how weird it is that we always have trouble acting like ‘just friends’ for extended periods of time? So we always end up breaking the rules. And just when we start breaking the rules a little too much, we stop. We stop because ‘the timing isn’t right’ or whatever bullshit excuse we convince ourselves,” he explained, slowly taking a step toward you. “And since I’ve had a lot of time to think it over while you were avoiding me, I decided that I’m sick of that.”
This was the most you had ever seen Lip let his guard down. He usually worked tirelessly to maintain his detached, carefree demeanor. But not now.
Your legs suddenly felt weak as you stood in front of the boy that had been your best friend for so long. You knew he was right. You knew that the two of you had worked so hard to repress all other feelings for each other, but he was right. It was impossible. Biting your lip, you shyly looked off to the side, too flustered to maintain eye contact. “So when is the timing going to be right?”
Taking the remaining steps to reach you, Lip’s hands gripped your hips. “I can’t wait any fucking longer,” he whispered, his warm breath teasing yours lips as he pressed his forehead against yours. “So it’s going to be right now.”
Without another word, his body pushed your back against the wall, his lips cravingly finding yours again.
For the first time, you didn’t need to begin brainstorming how you would eventually play off what had happened between the two of you. You didn’t have to constantly remind yourself that you were just friends. You didn’t have to pretend it all meant nothing to you. Because it always had meant something more. It always had your heart racing. It always had you wondering when things would truly change between the two of you. And it had always had you questioning when the timing would be right.
Finally, the clock stopped ticking.
———-
This took way longer than it should’ve but it’s after 3am so I’m off to bed. Thanks so much for your feedback on my other posts and as always, let me know what you think. xx
#lip gallagher#shameless#lip x reader#lip gallagher x reader#lip gallagher imagine#shameless imagine#shameless imagines#lip x you#jeremy allen white#lip imagine#shameless us
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Toast and Ice
“Shit,” exclaimed Yang. She’d been in Mistral in the same place as her family for several days, but ultimately had been unable to get restful sleep. Everything was perfect for her to sleep: heavy blanket, cool room, even a cooling cup of tea on her nightstand. Regardless, sleep evaded the blonde huntress
The room around her provided little entertainment with its white walls and wood floors. The walls had plenty of paintings, though, but she had studied them countless times in her boredom. The ficus in the corner needed watering and the bookshelf needed dusting. Am i that bored? Yang thought. Pulling her scroll up to her face, she squinted as the brightness caught her. 2:30. Slightly past half the night and hours before most people are up. Even at 9:00, she is usually the first out of rooms to get the day started.
Unsure of who this house belonged to, she did not want to train in the middle of the night as she had in the past on restless nights in fear of breaking something, but instead sat on the edge of her bed. But one can only sit on their bed on sleeplessness for so long, she surmised. Having never ventured out of her room at night before now, her curiosity was getting the better of her.
Her stomach growled. Despite the large dinner they had had the night before, she was starving. Damn metabolism. She got up and put on a long brown robe over her sleepwear. Not her usual colour but it matched her brown pajama pants and orange sports bra. Closing her robe, she opened the door to the outside.
The long halls only got longer at night. Twenty feet felt like a hundred. Stepping gingerly as to not make a peep, she crept towards the kitchen. Growing up around her light sleeping father and sister gave her the skill of stealth out of necessity. Whether she chose to use it outside the home was up in the air.
Reaching the living room, she began to lessen her stealth and move a little faster. After all she was at least fifty feet from any bedroom at this point. A lamp flipped on next to one of the couches, bringing Yang into defensive position with fists up and feet apart.
“You’re up at a weird time,” said a small girl in all white even at this hour. Yang relaxed. Weiss’ hair was down and she was holding a steaming mug of coffee.
Yang breathed a sigh of relief. “I could say the same for you. And coffee? Aren’t you afraid you’ll melt drinking that stuff like you do?”
Weiss huffed. “I’m not actually made of ice you know.”
“I know, that’s why it’s fun to tease you about it,” Yang said sticking her tongue out. “Laugh all you want, but this focuses me. Gives me a reason to keep going.”
“Most people refer to that as caffeine addiction.” Yang moved to sit next to her teammate.
Weiss’ expression softened. “Had a lot of days where i had to drink a lot of coffee to keep up with my dad’s intensive training. Now this stuff doesn’t do anything, no matter how strong i make it.”
“I’m sorry, Weiss.”
“Don’t be. Means i don’t have to worry about not sleeping because of this.” Weiss shifted to see her teammate better on the couch.
“What kept you up tonight?” Asked Yang.
“Ozpin gave us quite the information overload a couple days ago. Also that whole being kidnapped thing got to me a bit.”
“Fair enough,” yang said changing her expression. Her mom had done this as much as anything. Yang reminded herself to pay Raven back for this new trauma one day.
“I’m ok though. Just tired but not tired you know. What about you?” Weiss sipped her coffee
“Tired but not tired. A little hungry too. A lot overwhelmed. Mostly ready for all this grimmshit to be over with. And you know Ruby’s going to need years of counselling when all this is over.” Weiss giggled. Regardless if it was a joke or not, Yang’s tone and almost dismissal of that inevitably was humourous. Yang giggled in return. She wondered if Weiss had picked up on her projection.
“We all will without a doubt.” Weiss took a long gulp from her coffee. “I borrowed a little something from Qrow if you want some.” She held up a bottle of Mistral rye.
“You know we probably shouldn’t.” Yang reached for the bottle and took a sip.
“After the shit we’ve been through, i think they’ll give us a pass.” Weiss took the bottle and poured some in her coffee before passing the bottle back.
Yang smiled after another swig. It was smooth whiskey. She understood why Qrow was fond of it. “Weiss,” she said before pausing
“Hmm” weiss replyed.
“I just wanted to say thank you. You know for listening to me the last few days. Just being there means a lot.” Yang chugged a shots worth of rye to finish her sentence.
“I didn’t know booze softened you up so fast,” Weiss teased. “If i’d known i’d given it to you last year.” The two girls giggled and Yang gave weiss a lite punch in the arm. “You know i love you right?”
“Note to self give the Ice Queen whiskey to melt her a bit.” They laughed harder this time, still keeping their noise level down as not to disturb the others. “I love you too, girl. Don’t ever leave me again, ok?”
A tear welled up in Weiss’ eye. “I won’t.” She smiled.
“You hungry too? All i really want is some toast. Pretty sure that’s all we have left anyways.”
“I’d like that.” The teammates smiled. Yang picked up the bottle and carried it over to the kitchen with her to get the bread out. Taking several swigs in the process, Yang pulled out the butter and put the bread in the toaster. Weiss sat at the bar with her coffee. “Your face is getting a little red.”
“Empty stomach. This stuff is gonna hit me like an ursa if i don’t eat something.” Weiss giggled. “ What is it?” Yang asked with a smile
“Never thought i’d see one of my teammates get tipsy before.”
“First time for everything, sweetheart.” The toast popped up suddenly, startling the two girls. They both laughed after they composed themselves.
As she buttered the toast, Yang’s expression changed. “You know i used to do this for Ruby every morning. Before school when we were kids, and even on weekends. Ruby is a great fighter, especially when she has to fight to cook anything.” They laughed. Weiss had gathered that Ruby was not the domestic type. “I loved doing this though.” She sighed.
“You ok? I know i’ve asked you this before. Can you give me a straight answer this time?” Weiss frowned as she took the bottle from yang for a swig.
“Yeah i can. I have no idea where my future is. Is it here with ruby forever or will i go off and get in big adventures? Will i become the next Qrow and be an alcoholic just getting by because of his immense skill? I don’t know.” Weiss sipped her coffee with a frown. “I tell you what i do know though,” Yang began, “we’re going to keep on going and i’m going to protect my sister and you no matter what.”
“That’s admirably. You have a lot to be proud of yourself for,” weiss said smiling. Yang handed her a freshly buttered piece of toast. Breaking it in half, weiss took a bite.
“Klein used to make toast for me and Winter sometimes. Father said it was poor people food but the simplicity made it desirable.” Yang felt the wave of nostalgia that hit her teammate. “I miss him. Between Father and Shitley i often wondered if they were the only ones who cared.”
“What about your mother?”
“Willow Schnee developed a bad habit or two.”
“Yeah good ol Tiayang Xiao Long isn’t known to be the most responsible. Losing two wives was difficult for him. He left the alcoholism to Qrow but he had plenty of destructive habits. His irresponsibility never got us in too much trouble but sometimes things got a little tight. We never worried though. Dad always knew what to do in the end.” Yang smiled. “He got this arm for me afterall.”
Weiss knew not to ask about the arm, touchy subject as it was. She took another bite of toast after a swig of whiskey. “It must have been an adjustment.”
“Dad helped a lot. He did what he could. A lot of it’s up in my head is all.” Weiss frowned. The problem ran deeper than her teammate’s head; weiss had seen her hand shake. Weiss couldn’t force recovery though.
“If you say so,” were the only words Weiss could get out.
“I’d ask you what you meant by that but i think the whiskey would talk too much. Since you made toast, how about 0i make one too.” Weiss picked up her mug and Yang her bottle, giggling at the Ice Queen’s pun. “To new beginnings?” Yang cheered.
“To new beginnings and decent sleep.” The clinked their respective receptacles together.
“I can drink to that.” Yang took a glass from the fridge and poured a shot, downing it almost immediately. “What time is it?”
“Probably close to 3:30 or so. I stopped checking the time a while ago.” Weiss had an idea. “You know we might sleep better if we can cuddle or something.” Yang raised an eyebrow. “It’s the same principle as having a teddy bear, just the other is living and breathing rather than stuffed and inanimate.”
“You know i think i’ll take you up on that offer. I could use the company. You must finally be feeling tired?” Yang said with a yawn.
“Yeah this rye is working as intended.” Weiss yawned in return. “Take another shot and let’s go. Might as well try for six hours before before Ruby wakes us up.”
“Agreed.” Yang finished her toast and took a double shot. “Want one?” Weiss nodded and Yang poured her a double. Weiss drank it with a grimace, eliciting a giggle from Yang. “A little much?”
“No no it’s fine. Not used to shots is all.” Weiss stood up and wobbled a little. “Sorry. Lightweight.”
Yang giggled again. “I was too. Too many nights sneaking Qrow’s alcohol for that now.”
“Oh and you were the one who said we probably shouldn’t. Yang Xiao Long for shame.” They both shrugged and laughed. “Come on let’s try to sleep.”
“Your room or mine?”
“Your room has a bigger bed to accommodate your hair,” Weiss said with a teasing smile.
“Hey my hair is majestic. Besides you’re one to talk yours goes past your butt.” Weiss laughed. The whiskey had turned them into giggling messes. The bottle had been full before the girls had gotten to it but now it was almost empty. “A little artificial relaxation was not necessary but definitely welcomed tonight. Thank you, Weiss.”
“You’re welcome, Yang.” She turned to her teammate and embraced her, wrapping her arms around the much larger girl’s waist. Yang wrapped her arms around Weiss’ shoulders. For once, yang felt she could be truly happy.
After their hug, they moved to Yang’s room and found the bed in the dark. Climbing into it, they cuddled next to each other. “Good night, Weiss” yang said as she kissed her teammate on the forehead.
Weiss beamed as she snuggled into her teammate’s arms. “Good night, Yang.” She reached up and returned the kiss. She immediately closed her eyes and snuggled closer.
Yang smiled as she felt her teammate get comfortable. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes, wrapping her arm around Weiss. Yang was surprised at how warm how warm she was. She’s like a little space heater, Yang thought. Smiling one last time, she succumbed to sleep.
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Love Me Still
Series: Final Fantasy VII + Kingdom Hearts Pairing: Tifa / Aqua (mentioned Aerith / Yuffie) Rating: M - Explicit Summary: Sometimes life interferes with itself. However, it’s to the point where Aqua hasn’t really been around her lover recently and if there’s one thing it’s that she’s stubborn. She’ll do what she has to not lose the one she cares about. Even if that means she’ll have to be a waitress for a night. A/N: I.... Have no excuse for this. It’s very, very random. I just like the thought of the pairing ;3 Find This Elsewhere: AO3 || FFN
The flower shop is more than lacking in customers this week. Then again the end of the month isn't filled with very many weddings so there's no need for large overly consuming orders. Even so, Aqua wishes there was something to do to take her mind off of the anxiety that wells up in the bit of her stomach. She's worried about her girlfriend.
Seventh Heaven, a newly opened bar, is one that Tifa runs all by herself. Of course she's well known and with such high quality liquor and food there's a never ending surge of patrons. It's kept Tifa more than a little busy day and night. She gets up early and goes to bed late. Not only that but Aqua has barely spent any time with her. Perhaps it's selfish, but she feels a little neglected to say the least.
"You just might make the flowers wilt with that look."
Aqua blushes as she immediately sits up straight behind the counter and tries to put a smile on her face. It only has her boss giggling softly. "So… Sorry, Aerith," she stammers.
The woman, who happens to be Tifa's best friend, smiles softly at her. "I heard the bar is doing well." Aqua nods. "Is everything alright?"
Brushing some short blue tresses back behind her ear, Aqua tries to hold back the sigh. Aerith can see it written all over her face regardless and merely hums as she moves to straighten out some of the flowers on a nearby counter. "You know, Aqua, I appreciate your help. But maybe Tifa could use you back at the bar for now?"
Aqua eyes her and realizes just what Aerith is trying to tell her. She smiles and hops off her stool, "You really mean it?"
Aerith nods and slowly turns from her flower tending, "I can always call you if I get swamped with orders."
Sliding away from the counter and around toward the door, Aqua is practically on cloud nine. The idea hadn't even crossed her mind. She can only be grateful that Aerith is such a good friend to them both as she hurries around. "Is there anything I can do to help you today then? Anything at all?"
Giving a small hum to herself, Aerith gestures back toward her 'office'. "No, but I do know you'll need something to waitress in." The brunette begins walking away and Aqua can only trail after her, hanging off of every word. "It might take some time after we close up, but this should be a good start."
As she steps into the small room, Aqua can only wonder if Aerith had planned to do this for her all along. Or perhaps it started as a project for her own girlfriend, Yuffie. Nonetheless she smiles sweetly, "Thank you so much, Aerith."
It did indeed take a while after closing up for Aerith to make the outfit form to Aqua's body. Something that it obviously wasn't intended for. Not that she'd dare say a word about how it conformed to her curves and made everything feel like it was on display. Oh no, not since it's all going to be for just that purpose and all for Tifa.
Coming up to the back entrance of the bar, which they live over, Aqua hesitates. She can hear laughter coming from inside when all the patrons should have gone home by now. Happy hour is far from over and the only thing left should be to clean up the messes they left behind. Except there's still a clatter of glasses on the counter as she slips soundlessly inside.
She stops just as she passes the door that leads to the bar, stopping to listen. It's only then that she hears it – the calm voice of Tifa's friend Lightning. She knows they've known each other for a while, longer than Aqua's known Tifa at least, but it still makes her stomach do a little flip to hear them both chuckle together in the empty bar. Drawing one hand up to brush through her azure bangs, Aqua only becomes determined the longer she stands there.
Clutching the bag, with the outfit Aerith got together for her inside, to her chest, Aqua races up the stairs. She doesn't bother with being silent. Tifa won't leave Lightning's side after all. She'll have plenty of time to tuck the outfit away and slip into bed without another thought.
-0-0-0-
Morning can't come soon enough. Even though Aqua can almost swear she didn't sleep a wink. She had fallen asleep waiting on Tifa to come upstairs and waking up she finds the brunette already missing. That is until Tifa strides out of the bathroom with a towel around her body and another she uses to dry her hair. "Good morning, sunshine," she says with a smile.
Aqua slowly sits up, returning the smile with ease. "Morning.." She gives a small yawn while watching Tifa get dressed. The woman is more than just beautiful and while it's not the reason Aqua fell in love with her, it certainly only makes it that much better. "Hey… Teef?"
"Hm?" the mentioned lady hums as she tugs on a cream colored tank top.
"I have some free time and I was wondering if you'd like some help in the bar tonight."
Tifa spins around, her shirt barely able to hold in her ample bust, "Really? You mean it?"
"I mean it. I know you've been working hard to make it a success. Aerith even helped me pick out an outfit."
Something glimmers in Tifa's eyes and for a moment Aqua has a wandering though. However, she quickly dismisses it as Tifa turns back around and slips into her skirt. "Well, lets get everything set up and go run these errands – together."
Happiness floods through Aqua as she pushes the sheets away and begins getting ready. She doesn't care what she has to do as long as she can be by Tifa's side. That is until later that day when she's standing behind the door with her heart racing – daring to beat right out of her chest. The sound of men and women already beginning to order beers and get seated is overwhelming. Tifa had dismissed her to get dressed while she began pouring liquor.
But now that's she standing there Aqua isn't sure if she can go through with it. She knows well that everyone will be looking at her. While the whole point was to recapture Tifa's attention she's not sure if she likes the other gazes prying at what she's wearing. Reaching down, she tugs a little at the tight material clinging to her body. Aerith did go to a lot of trouble for her – for them.
Courage wells up in stomach and aids her in pushing the door open and stepping out. She doesn't even pay Tifa any mind as she walks straight for the scratch pad, pencil and small metal platter that Tifa had set aside for her. Everyone in the bar seems to gaze at Aqua. None have seen that much skin on their bartender, as Tifa is always prepared to kick someone out if need be, unlike Aqua.
Aqua goes straight to the first group of men near the door that don't have drinks. She picks the furthest location first on purpose. All to let Tifa stare at her. Of course the brunette does what with the short dark blue skirt that flares out about Aqua's mid thighs. Just where the material ends the thigh high black stockings begin. For ease of moving around Aqua has picked out a pair of matching flats.
What has everyone's attention is her top. Tifa's hot piercing gaze is only making it all the worse, too. Aerith had tried in vain to get it a little looser and had demanded Aqua forgo a bar to keep it fitting properly. Which means her breasts jiggle and bounce at every step beneath the white tube top. Without the aid of a bra, her nipples are easily seen what with them growing hard at all the attention she's receiving – but mostly from Tifa.
She smiles politely at the three men she stops before, "Welcome, what can I get for you gentlemen tonight?"
It takes a moment for them to begin to remember what they came here for and another to place their order. But Aqua takes it all in stride. Once she has it jotted down she turns swiftly on her heel and begins back, allowing Tifa to see the front of the outfit. The brunette is practically drooling by the time Aqua is at the bar's edge, rattling off the list of drinks the customers wanted.
Although the only thing Tifa wants right now is to drag Aqua back behind the bar. Only her eyes should ravage the blue-haired woman like that. Yet there's also something about it that has her more enamored the darker the blush on Aqua's face gets. Acting as calm as she can, Tifa hands Aqua the drinks and watches her masterfully carry them all back to the men.
The entire night passes with Tifa trying not to break or spill anything as she watches Aqua move about. Even her usual banter with fellow customers suffers greatly and they're well aware of the fire that's burning in her crimson eyes. Perhaps that's why some of her usual patrons left well before happy hour when they would usually stay since it's a weekend. Not that Tifa minds.
She's already washing the rest of the glasses by the time Aqua has locked up and wiped all the tables down after sweeping the floors. Striding back behind the bar, Aqua stops just beside Tifa. She crosses her arms and leans on the counter, accentuating her bust and the way her nipples poke roughly against the material. "Anything else you need, Tifa?"
Tifa simply can't help herself. She does manage to rinse the soap from her hand before she tugs softly at Aqua's chin. Droplets of water drips down into Aqua's cleavage as Tifa captures the latter's mouth in a deep and passionate kiss. One that ends with Tifa's tongue flicking over her bottom lip. "No, just wait for me to finish here. I think you looked a little too sexy tonight for my own good."
Aqua pulls away and is just about to pass Tifa when she gets an idea. She takes a step back and after a moment of confusion, from Tifa of course, Aqua places herself between Tifa and the counter. The water from the sink splashes into the basin as Aqua squats down with her back pressing against a cabinet. She doesn't have much time or room to work before Tifa figures out what she's doing.
So she works fast. Down go Tifa's black apron and pants while she pushes the crotch of Tifa's white panties to the side. The second her mouth is on Tifa's lower velvet lips she finds her head pushed back against the cabinet. Aqua can only grab onto Tifa's thighs and allow the brunette to begin moving her hips. The roll and bucking doesn't deter Aqua from latching her lips around Tifa's rock hard clit and sucking hard.
Her fingers, already lubed up thanks to how wet Tifa is, easily slide inside of her pussy. One, two, three fingers curl and flex inside the tight fleshy walls that refuse to let her go. Every time she pulls them out it feels as though Tifa's pussy sucks her fingers back in. Just as roughly as she suckles on Tifa's clit, forcing her to reach her orgasm far faster than she would have normally.
Tifa nearly drops the mug that she still has in her hands as she cums – hard. She grinds her pussy against Aqua's face as her juices squirt onto her lover's face, to which it then drips down Aqua's chin and onto her awaiting cleavage. Removing her mouth from Tifa's clit, Aqua proceeds to lap up at the pinks lips and between them but not until after she's managed to remove her fingers.
Leaning heavily against the counter, Tifa closes her eyes to try and get rid of the spots dancing across her vision. "Aqua..." she breathes out heavily, "Room. Now."
The woman barely manages to slip out and get out the door before Tifa lets out a moan, one she didn't realize she's been holding in this whole time. She only gives herself a moment to catch her breath and pull herself back together. That and her pants back up and situated. The last thought she spares it to make sure to thank Aerith tomorrow before she sets the mug on the counter and pushes away from the sink.
Tifa practically flies up the stairs to the landing; missing more than just a couple of the steps on the way. She can't wait another moment. She needs to be able to touch Aqua. The door to their room is ajar and Tifa graciously sends it flying open the rest of the way. The suddenness startles Aqua as she drops the top she had just pulled off. She's standing just before the bed in nothing but her skin. The position gives Tifa a perfect view of the side of Aqua's breasts as well as her full ass.
Striding right up to her, Tifa pushes Aqua forward. Their eyes are dilated as they make brief eye contact before Tifa murmurs softly, "On your knees."
Aqua does as she's told. She moves further up onto the bed to give Tifa enough room with however she plans to instigate things. Trying not to think too much about the hands that brush along her thighs, Aqua spreads her legs further. It's only when the touch vanishes that Aqua's heart begins to race. The anticipation is thick in her mouth, tongue feeling heavy as she tries to lick at her lips.
She can hear Tifa disrobing and it has her mind filled with images. Having memorized every inch of Tifa's luscious body, Aqua pinches her eyes shut as the heat builds between her thighs. Once her clothes are a pile on the floor atop of Aqua's, Tifa climbs onto the bed behind her. Tifa's fingertips slowly walk up the backs of Aqua's legs and toward her rear.
Fingers sink into the flesh of Aqua's ass, Tifa giving her a prompt, "Up." Aqua follows and lifts her lower body, rising from her knees to steadying on her feet while her front is still almost touching the bed. This places Aqua's lower body right before Tifa's face. Especially as the latter scoots forward ever so slightly. Her large bosom is between Aqua's thighs and below the wet labia of her pussy.
Tifa dares to tease her by cupping Aqua's cove with one hand, "You must have been planning this if you got all shaved for me."
"Mm- N- No, I wasn't."
The mewl of pleasure alone is enough to set off a fire in Tifa's loins. Moving her hand away, Tifa is careful not to touch Aqua's clit too much. Yet as her fingers glide over the juices leaking from the blue haired woman, Tifa dares to slip a finger inside. Aqua's breath hitches as Tifa buries the finger up to her knuckle and proceeds to make 'come hither' motions.
"T- Tifa! Ah! N- Not so fast… mmm.."
Aqua is more than just sensitive from not having done anything with her beloved in awhile. She can barely bite by her moans as they build up at the base of her throat. Instead they come out as breathy moans that are louder than she realizes. It's music to Tifa's ears and even more so when she withdraws her finger and instead places a small peck to Aqua's left butt cheek.
"Ha… haa… Tifa?"
The woman in question feels bad that she's neglected her sweet Aqua. It surely wasn't fair of her to do so. But it does only want her more now that she's in the moment. She wants to hear every moan drip from her lips like the love juice that's daring to do so from her pussy. Tifa nuzzles against Aqua's ass before grabbing a hold of the underside of the right cheek and getting Aqua to rise to her tip-toes.
Aqua knows just what is going to happen before it does and she's prematurely moaning, "Tifa...~"
Tifa doesn't waste any time in burrowing her tongue deep into Aqua's velvety folds. The smell and taste consume her as she laps at Aqua's insides. That is when she's not withdrawing it to suck and lick at her pussy lips, giving them just as much attention as the insides. Aqua's fingers curl into the sheets as she clutches them in an iron clad grip. Her eyes remain shut as she tries to remain still. The hardest part is resisting the urge to push herself against Tifa's face.
It only gets tougher to stay still when Tifa suddenly has two fingers on her clit. There's nothing she can do to get away from the fingers that tug, rub and flick over the high sensitive nub. It's hard beneath Tifa's fingers and only serves to tell her just how aroused Aqua is – how much she really wants it. That and the way the insides of her pussy clench around Tifa's tongue as she works her close to an orgasm.
In fact it doesn't take long at all, not with Aqua needing Tifa to do it for so long. Masturbating is one thing and only gives some relief compared to the way Tifa touches her. Tifa waits for the moan that follows the way her walls tighten, but there is none. The silent moan arrives at the same time as Aqua's climax. Tifa is pulling her face away, although still rubbing Aqua's clit, as the woman cums.
Tifa watches in awe as Aqua's sweet honey squirts out onto Aqua's thigh as well as her own breasts. It's the first time she's ever made Aqua do so and it has Tifa licking at her lips – she wants nothing more than to get her to do it again. The sheer power of the orgasm has Tifa helping Aqua slump forward. The latter becomes almost literal putty in Tifa's hands.
Sitting her up and turning her around, Tifa crashes their lips together in a needy kiss of tongues and saliva that drips down their chins. The action has their breasts smooshing together and Aqua's cum smearing over both of their chests. Tifa pulls her lips away a moment later to begin a trail of kisses down Aqua's neck. She nips and sucks on the creamy white skin, intending to leave red marks that show she's tending to her lover.
That is until Aqua slowly comes back to reality. She gently pushes Tifa away as she remembers what she's supposed to be doing to begin with. She hadn't intended to spark such a fire between them by simply helping Tifa in the bar. But now that she has it's a perfect in to what she planned from the beginning. Tifa is patient in the way she watches Aqua take over. She eats up every second of Aqua dipping her head down to lick at her breasts.
Aqua knows that Tifa can be sensitive if she does it just right. Not only does she lick up her own pussy juices from Tifa's chest, she begins to fondle and massage the massive globes as well. It's all preparation. Aqua locks their gazes once more as she lifts one of Tifa's breasts slightly. She licks around the puffy areola and avoids the nipple altogether, watching as it hardens beneath the lack of treatment.
Tifa hugs the slender woman closer, as if to urge her to touch her already. And touch her, Aqua does. Aqua's left hand grabs roughly at Tifa's right nipple, twisting and pulling at just the right angles. The other continues to hold up Tifa's left breast so that Aqua can suck the rock hard nipple into her mouth. Lips clasping around it, even then she doesn't treat the nipple fairly.
Her tongue brushes and flicks all around the areola while only giving slow, hard grazes over the nipple itself. Tifa clutches at Aqua. One hand dives up into the short baby blue hair and pushes Aqua's face closer to her bosom, practically smothering her. But it only spurs Aqua on more. She begins to suck on Tifa's nipple more fierce than ever before. Aqua is well aware that Tifa can orgasm just from stimulation to her breasts, but she won't be letting that happen. Just when Tifa clings onto her tighter, Aqua stops every movement completely.
Looking down at her, Tifa is practically panting. Aqua moves up to nuzzle her face into the crook of Tifa's neck. "Tifa…" she begins, "Let's do something new tonight. Anything you want."
Not having to face her helps, otherwise Tifa would see the bright red flush across her face. Her mind has run rampant with the endless possibilities that Tifa can choose and it has her squeezing her thighs together. Tifa kisses the top of Aqua's head, "Turn around and get on your knees, I'll be right back."
Aqua is left more than curious as Tifa hurries off the bed, as quick as her wobbly legs will allow her. She feels more than just exposed and vulnerable to whatever Tifa has planned as she returns to her original pose. Not even daring to glance behind her, Aqua listens to the sound of drawers opening and closing before Tifa is sitting on the side of the bed to show her what she has.
Swallowing hard, Aqua can only stare. The bottle of lube is something she expected but the large double-ended dildo with a nicely sized girth isn't. There's a burning arousal that returns to her core as Tifa uncaps the lube and pours some into her hand and all over the entire length. Aqua bites at the corner of her lip, staring at it the entire time.
Tifa smiles softly, "Want to share?"
"Y.. Yes.."
Leaning forward only briefly, Tifa kisses Aqua softly on the lips, "Then just relax. I'll do all the work in the beginning."
Excitement burns through Aqua's veins like fresh molten lava from a volcano. She wants to be joined end to end with Tifa more than she'd like to admit. Otherwise she'd surely die of embarrassment. Those thoughts don't get much life since Tifa is already on the bed behind her, pushing the lubed up tip to Aqua's outer lips. The latter lets out a breath just as Tifa pushes it in enough to stay in, that is only when Aqua quickly tightens up around it.
"Hold it just like that."
Tifa gives herself a moment to take in the sight, of course, before she dares get on the bed and faces the other way. It's the first time she's gotten to see her lover so vulnerable with three-fourths a dildo hanging from her tight little snatch. Tifa feels more than honored. But she doesn't delay very long. Her own dripping pussy begs for sensation as well.
On her hands and knees as well, Tifa reaches around and lines the tip up with her entrance. They've used dildos before on one another – although never going as far as a strap-on or double-ended one. Which is exactly why Tifa's pussy eagerly sucks in half of her side as she crawls back toward Aqua. Each little bit that Tifa gets closer, the more is pushed into Aqua. The latter can't help but wiggle her hips closer and shove it more into Tifa in the process.
The back and forth ends with them ass to ass and connected at the pussy. It's there that they idle for only a few moments to catch their breath. Tifa, long hair flowing forward over her shoulders, inhales greedily. "Ready, Aqua?"
"Hurry… Tifa.."
Aqua's not sure how long she can last, not with her pussy brimming with pleasure as Tifa makes that first move. She gives the brunette every ounce of control over the pace and rhythm. To which it starts out slow and deep. The large dildo spreads their pussies as they begin grinding on it. They switch with who pulls away and who tightens around it before the other helps slam it back into their depths at the same time.
Their panting and moans are only second to the sound of their asses slapping together and the wet squelching that emits from their pussies. Although Tifa is that's closest to her climax from when Aqua gave her no release previously. It's why her body suddenly tenses up and stills, a lewd moan rolling out over her lips as she cums. At the sound, Aqua manages to stop moving, somehow.
"Tif… Tifa?"
The latter can hear the need – the lust – in Aqua's voice. As a dutiful lover, Tifa weakly begins to move. She wants to have Aqua writhing with a pleasure she had only dreamed of. Which is why her pussy tightens around her end of the dildo as she moves away from Aqua. Pulling it out of the latter, Tifa hurriedly removes it from her own pussy shortly after.
Aqua slumps forward, but only before she turns over onto her back. Her chest rises and falls quickly while her legs are spread wide for Tifa to see – to see what she needs to do. And take care of her, Tifa will. Brows knitting together, Aqua reaches out for her, "I need… you."
Tifa moves over to her, but faces the other way as she places her knees on either side of Aqua's head. She's practically sitting on Aqua's face, smothering the woman with the smell and taste of her juices. Not that Aqua complains. She happily gets to work licking and sucking on Tifa's pussy, anything to get Tifa to finish her off.
Leaning forward, Tifa hums softly when Aqua grabs hard onto her firm butt. Aqua grasps onto it for life while Tifa maneuvers Aqua's legs up and spread even wider – almost parallel to the bed. The next second Tifa is plunging the dildo, slick with their juices, deep into Aqua's pussy. The cry of pleasure echoes into Tifa's folds and serves only to spur Tifa's motions on further.
She's hardly gentle in the way the rough thrusts stir up Aqua's pussy. Tifa's grip on the dildo slips now and then, causing it to reach the deepest point possible and sending white sparkling across Aqua's vision. But Tifa has more planned than just that. She dips her head down and latches her lips around Aqua's hard clit. She vigorously sucks at the small pleasure button while fucking Aqua with the dildo, never letting up on either.
All of the stimulation has Aqua falling short on eating Tifa out, barely able to keep up with the way her throes of pleasure reverberate off of Tifa's pussy. She can only manage to reach around Tifa's thigh and begin rubbing her clit in return.
Aqua's toes curl and her bottom lifts off the bed, arching against Tifa's mouth as well as the dildo that plunges into her one final time. Tifa, already spent, slowly releases her grip on the dildo although she doesn't even think of pulling it out. Instead, she slumps forward as Aqua settles back down to give the woman some air. Although Aqua can still only see Tifa's pussy glistening with juices, she can feel every breath her lover makes.
Tifa, breasts against Aqua's lap, runs her fingers in circles along Aqua's thighs. "Were you planning on helping out tomorrow?"
Aqua swallows hard, still trying to catch her breath, "Yes."
"Then I'll have to go easy on you tonight so we can have more fun tomorrow."
Blushing hard, Aqua tries to redirect her own thoughts from what Tifa has in mind. "Um… Tifa.. It's still.. inside me."
"Oh?" Tifa reaches for it, wiggling it back and forth to where Aqua can't help but let out a mewl of pleasure. "You mean this thing?"
Slowly sitting up, Tifa switches around so that they can stare down at one another. She reaches behind herself and grabs at the dildo, keeping it steady as she buries it back into her pussy. Tifa leans forward and presses their bodies together; breasts to breasts, nipples to nipples, clit to clit. All connected, in the end, via the dildo.
Aqua, lost in the pleasure, tugs Tifa down to share a kiss. One that's so erotic and filled with her tongue lavishing all over Tifa's that the brunette is breathless when it's over. Tifa smirks down at her, "That all you got?"
The taunt is just enough to have Aqua giving a small giggle before their lips crash back together. That is while their hips begin to move anew as they won't be stopping until neither can think of crawling off the bed much less one another.
#fanfic#yuri#final fantasy vii#kingdom hearts#tifa lockhart#aqua#aqua kingdom hearts#tifa x aqua#=w= harmless smut#right?#right.
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L’apéritif is sacred in France. That means it comes with all kinds of rituals and even special equipment, though that’s not what counts. You can have a fine apéro, as the French like to shorten it to, with just a glass of wine. The ritual can be done by anybody.
Filling the streets near the Saturday market.
The first and most important ingredient is people. You thought I’d say alcohol, but no. Even if you’re having a soft drink, you can enjoy apéritif hour. It’s a moment of socializing with friends, family, even strangers. The connections and conversation, regardless of whether they’re lubricated with alcohol, are what count.
I photographed this one too early; usually the Saillan is one of the busiest cafés
Around here, there are two times for apéritifs: the typical one, around 6 p.m., for before-dinner drinks. And similarly around 11 a.m., for before-lunch drinks. I find that to guarantee an unproductive afternoon, so instead I raise a cup of coffee to toast friends I bump into at the Saturday market.
Beer: Breakfast of champions? A daring place to place a glass, on a bollard barely big enough.
Indeed, the cafés around the market buzz with activity, and many of the coffee cups get replaced by stemmed glasses of wine as noon approaches. Cafés put tables (chairs optional) or wine barrels into the streets that are closed for the market. It’s a big party, and some are so packed, despite the extra street space, that you can barely wiggle past. Feel free to strike up conversation with anybody. It’s all friendly, especially at noon.
Preparing for a crowd.
A few set up tables serving appetizers, called zakouskis. Zakouskis are part of the ritual. Don’t drink on an empty stomach! Olives and nuts are popular. Pretzels, chips, all that jazz. Charcuterie, or hard sausages, though cheese usually is reserved for after dinner except for little cubes, sprinkled with herbs or celery salt. Also smaller nibbles, which can be elaborate, like tapas, or even become a meal, in which case it’s an apéritif dînatoire.
Plenty of choice in the olive department, and this isn’t even everything.
For drinks, you have the standards: wine (red, white and rosé), sparkling wine, white wine or sparkling wine with a dash of cassis liqueur for a kir or kir royale (if sparkling), the apéro of Dijon.
Best served cold, under a palm tree.
Around here, anise-flavored pastis is popular, called un jaune–a yellow–because the clear, golden pastis oxidizes and becomes a cloudy yellow when ice and water are added. It’s a drink with lots of equipment–special glasses with a line showing how far to pour the pastis; water pitchers and ice buckets. The Ricard brand is so popular that many people just ask for a Ricard, if they don’t say “p’tit jaune.”
Among cocktails, le petit ponch, also shortened to ti-ponch, has rum, lime and cane syrup with origins in France’s tropical colonies.
Oysters are also popular, with a glass of white wine. Not so much in summer….
Apéritif comes from the Latin word aperire, to open. They had a medicinal origin, with the concoctions of herbs for laxative effect, cited in the 13th century. (See some here.) But in modern times (since the mid-1700s), an apéritif is intended to open your stomach, to make you hungry.
Will you be raising a glass with friends this weekend?
Apéritifs L'apéritif is sacred in France. That means it comes with all kinds of rituals and even special equipment, though that's not what counts.
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