#but to imagine losing him to violence??? to hate????? it makes me fucking sick

[sirsealery]

need to rant about some people in the arcane fandom ... some of yall are PISSING ME OFF.

ok to preface this ... you can have whatever opinions you want. i dont give a shit. think what you want, i dont care the slightest. obviously im biased when im gonna say this because im vi's #1 fan but FUCK anybody who hates her for hitting and leaving powder in the scene s1 ep3. i dont care about any other opinion you have about vi but if you think this ... DID YOU WATCH THE SHOW???? WERE YOUR EYES AND EARS CLOSED OR??????

look i dont hit kids, i promise. im not a violent person, and i dont go around beating kids around the face for no reason. but if you have a sibling, YOU WILL KNOW that everyone smacks their siblings at least once in a while. me and my little brother beat each other DAILY for nonsense shit like dishes and leaving the butter out too long. im genuinely surprised vi didnt smack powder earlier, but tbh shes a better person than me and is much more parentified than i ever was. call me controversial or whatever, but in the first couple episodes, powder WAS a bit of a fuckup. and vi was very forgiving about it but there very much is a point where you fuck up too much and you cant just 'let it slide'. and that point for vi wasnt powder hesitating on the rooftop, not her slipping, not her blowing up the kirammann place (did she know that was pow's fault?), not her losing all that they stole, but it was BLOWING UP THEIR ENTIRE FAMILY.

imagine your little sister BLOWS UP YOUR FUCKING FAMILY???? and runs up to you grinning???? id lose it entirely. respectfully, id beat the everloving shit outta that little girl, and then bawl my eyes out and rot into the ground. i love powder, i love jinx, shes like my second favorite character in the entire show (wowww im so special and unique for loving jinx woww), but i would NOT have dealt with it nearly as well as vi did. im not gonna talk about how vi deals with her feelings with violence cuz its the only way she knows how because thatd be its own ramble ..

uh yeah. powder would not make it if i were vi, which might make me a bad person instead of vi a good one, but whatever i dont care. im hard betting that nobody else would be much better than me either. vi, at FIFTEEN, was incredibly mature for hitting powder once, yelling at her, and then backing away. once she realized what she'd done, she did absolutely the right thing by taking a step back to take a breath. thats literally what she did, by the way. walk away so she didnt say or do anything else she would regret and give herself a MOMENT to process the unimaginable loss she just experienced before going back to being powder's protector/caregiver/big sister/parent. and then when she TRIED TO COME BACK BECAUSE SILCO WAS COMING FOR HER SISTER, because she still cared for her by the way, and that girl is the only thing she has left, fucking MARCUS yanked her away and threw her in jail for the next six or seven years. gang did you miss that part??

im tweaking im so tired. sick of the dumbass vi hate cLEARLY you have never been an older sister and it SHOWS. scratch that, not even older sister, just a sibling in general. and then all that about vi hitting kids and bringing up when she smacked isha?? gang. that little girl BIT her, of COURSE she would whack at her its INSTINCT. man if a toddler bites my leg that hard and i dont see it i am BACKHANDING that little guy into space before i turn to look at him. and she regrets it immediately after too !! and if she really wanted to beat kids, she wouldnt have hesitated in bashing ishas head in when she went to protect jinx in that fight in ep .. 3 i think it was, or letting caitlyn shoot at jinx. shes not a child beater are you stupid????

and dont get me wrong either, i do understand that powder never meant any harm. of course i get that. of COURSE she never meant to blow up all of the people she cares about, WHO THE FUCK WOULD?? as she put very plainly, she only wanted to help. and i sympathize with that. the whole situation makes me very, very very sad. she wanted to save them, and thought she finally did it right for once. but vi also DID tell her to stay away. powder didnt completely understand why vi was so upset and hitting her so hard in the same way that she hits her enemies, grabbing her and screaming at her, then getting up and leaving, ignoring her sobbing for her to come back. of course vi wasnt RIGHT for any of it. in a perfect world, she wouldnt have done any of it. but arcane very much isnt a perfect world, and vi isnt a perfect person. she has insane grief and trauma that she doesnt know how else to process and i really do think that her walking away was the best possible solution, if marcus wasnt involved. in a better world, she wouldve gone back to powder after a couple minutes, been mad at her again or apologized or WHATEVER, kept her close, and escaped together. maybe beat the fuck outta silco in the process, i dunno.

tldr; vi punching powder and then walking away was a valid fucking crashout. YOU try getting your family exploded.

[starwalker42]

febuwhump day 19: "you deserve this"

sequel to day 7 | tw: graphic violence, torture | teen and above

The flashes come at random. 

Mulder screaming in pain when she's hunched over paperwork.

A knife blade gleaming in the light from a bare bulb, making her choke on her coffee.

Her name, whimpered through gritted teeth as she stands under the spray of the shower. 

Sometimes, they come when she's asleep, and she wakes up not knowing what was a dream and what was reality. 

They visions are shorter than they were when they first started - it must take the man a lot of energy to project them - but they haven't stopped. Scully considers that maybe that's better, because at least they prove Mulder's still alive… but then another vision will come, and she'll be feeling sick to her stomach again. 

She's giving a briefing to the task force, fighting to keep her force from cracking, when one comes through, the strongest one yet. She’s no longer watching the scene unfold, she’s inside it, hearing and seeing but also smelling the blood and sweat, and feeling the cold, cold air of the basement against her skin.

Mulder lies on the ground at her feet, wrapped as best as he can be in his torn shirt, which is stained with blood and dirt from the ground. He’s shaking, and she’s not sure if it’s from fear, shock, hypothermia, or all of the above.

She feels the words reverberate in her chest before she hears them.

���You deserve this. For what you did to those girls.”

Mulder looks up. He’s in pain, she knows, but his eyes are clear. He’s alert, and he’s vigilant, and she knows that look – he’s realised something.

“Tell me about the girls.” His voice is hoarse. “Tell me what I did to them.”

She hears the snick of a switchblade, just out of her line of sight; Mulder’s eyes flick down to where her hands are. She feels suddenly sick. And then she realises something – the man isn’t attacking Mulder, not yet. The knife is brought in front of her eyes, and she watches as the hand holding it seems to go through the motions of slicing and stabbing, cutting through nothing but thin air. She realises what Mulder’s seen.

The voice again. “You hurt them. You hit them, cut them… you’re a sick fuck. They were only kids.”

History of violence. Young, female victims. 

Mulder says in his negotiator voice, “You want to imagine I did it, right? I look enough like you.”

Caucasian male, mid-to-late thirties, tall, dark hair and dark eyes.

“But I didn’t hurt them. It was you who hurt them.”

The vision in front of her wavers momentarily, and then reassembles itself. He loses control of it when he’s angry. When he loses control of his emotions. Scully prays that Mulder somehow notices, and keeps the guy calm, keeps him talking.

Mulder edges back a little as she advances, mumbling.

“They punished me. Kept me in that cell… now I gotta punish you for it…”

He’s done time in prison. Probably recently…

Mulder can’t back up any further – he’s pressed against the wall as the knife runs along an uncovered spot on his chest, starting a bloom of blood in its wake. He grits his teeth and looks her right in the eyes, and she sees. Not resignation, or a loss of hope, but something far more dangerous, right now: confidence, and trust. In her.

He’s going to throw caution to the wind, because he believes it’ll help her to save him.

“Scully, I can hear cars. There’s no windows.”

Lives somewhere busy. Somewhere with a basement, or an outbuilding.

She hears a growl, and watches helplessly as Mulder is thrown to the floor, overpowered in his weak state by the man, and he’s there, lying on the ground as the blade comes down…

Then she comes out of it, the vision clearing suddenly, and she's on the floor - Skinner is crouched next to her, frantically repeating her name. 

"Agent Scully."

She blinks a few times to clear her vision, gasping as she fights to calm her racing heart.

The information she’s gathered flashes rapidly through her mind, and she hates the fact that Mulder was right. With a suspect history, physical description, and probable location, she can work out where he is. If he’s still alive. God, Mulder, you idiot.

“Scully?” Skinner places a hand on her shoulder, his eyes shadowed with concern.

She looks up at him.

"I think I know how to find Mulder."

@today-in-fic

@bookwyrm1701

[helliontherapscallion]

Why Couldn’t it Have Been Me?

Part 2

Paring: Wilbur Soot x reader (past), Ghostbur x reader

Disclaimer: This contains major spoilers for Tommyinnit’s 4/29 lore stream

Warnings: swearing, violence, death, near death, cheating, 4/29 lore stream, grief, blood, injury, panic attack

Word count: 6,737

(A/N): So in this, you’re Schlatt’s twin and Puffy’s your older sister. Also, sorry for any mistakes, I typed a good 2/3 of this on my phone

This was your own personal hell: being trapped within cement walls with your ex fiance, your asshole of a brother, and a Dream wannabe that seemed to never lose any energy. Your life was like a trope in a novel alive you would’ve liked, however being cursed to live in it made you absolutely loathe any and all mention of it. 

Alive you would’ve killed to hang out with your brother again, not the one that turned to the bottle. Alive you would’ve craved the sweet melodies that streamed from Wilbur’s mouth. You would’ve swooned and maybe, just maybe, you would’ve forgiven him. Alive you would’ve perhaps liked this ‘Mexican Dream’ guy, you would’ve perhaps become the best of friends. 

However you despised the three locked up with you with your whole heart. 

Your ex fiance was someone you adored. Hell, you even idolized him when you were alive. The Wilbur you knew was sweet, loving, attentive, and just all around someone that you swooned over. You could still remember how your heart exploded when he first asked you out under the setting sun by the ocean. You remembered every song he's written for you, every word and rhythm by heart, even after all these years. 

You remembered how you felt your heart completely shatter when you found the songs he had in his drafts for someone that wasn't you. Someone by the name of 'Sally'. After a heated argument you had broken up with him, taking the engagement ring off from your finger and throwing it deep into the ocean. You stayed on L'Manberg's side even after all that, too loyal and proud towards the country you helped forge to drop it. You wouldn't let some stupid boy or rabid tyrants prevent you from raising your beautiful nation up from the ashes.

That had been your downfall. You should've listened to Puffy and left the country behind when you had the chance, now you paid the ultimate price for your deep rooted loyalty and devotion towards independence. And your sacrifice didn't even matter in the end! Your deranged ex blew it all to smithereens. If you didn't despise him before, you absolutely did after your dumbass twin told you about his little 'escapades' while you were gone.

Every little thing Wilbur did, no matter how small it was, made you hate him even more. Every time he would shuffle those damned cards, it made you want to rip them to shreds and throw them across the train tracks. Every time he would sing or even breathe, you wanted to strangle him. You were absolutely certain that Schlatt felt the same. 

Oh, your twin was a real card. Always boasting about how his horns were bigger than yours (who even cares anymore? Yours grew in first anyways), telling the others about your shortcomings through crude jokes, even going as far as fighting you through headbutting; you could still feel the pain of being beaten to death before respawning immediately. Schlatt hadn’t known that you respawn even in the afterlife, so you knew he was serious about killing you. You just wanted Puffy, she was far more tolerable than your twin. 

The rustling of his suit jacket and his small grunts and pants resonated within the walls as he did various forms of exercising. You now knew about all of the differing variations of a pushup and you hated yourself for listening to his explanations. He would beg you, Mexican Dream, and Wilbur to stand on his back while he did his endless routines. The only one to readily take him up on that offer was Mexican Dream.

That man was arguably the only one you slightly tolerated, and you said that very lightly. He was still annoying as all hell, but he was a new face. Well, one that you didn’t know well enough to have a grudge against while you were alive. It was slightly refreshing, in a sense. When he first got here, his songs, stories, and humor gave you a nice break away from Wilbur’s depressing songs and Schlatt’s crude jokes. However when you spend eleven years trapped in a cage with one person, everything they do becomes the bane of your existence. 

You were running out of things that kept you sane in this dump. You've read the same novel, counted the same ceiling and floor tiles (32 ceiling tiles and 57 floor tiles exactly), traced the same cracks in the walls, temporarily killing the same cellmates, you've done anything and everything that this cesspool had to offer. You've done everything billions of times over, a never ending cycle of monotony. 

Tommy joining your group of miserable has-beens was perhaps the highlight of your fifteen, almost sixteen, years spent in this shithole. Though he finally dropped the brave facade and showed just how broken down he was after everything he’s been through, having him around was the saving grace to your sanity. He told you how your sister was, how your nephews were, and most importantly what you missed. You knew about all of the events leading up to Mexican Dream's death, but you were left in the dark with everything past that. Ender, you missed so much since you died; It baffled you how much you missed. 

When the train actually stopped at your cell instead of just passing by and it's doors opened, you were just expecting another poor soul to be dropped off here. You could imagine everybody's surprise when none other than Dream stepped out of those doors. The nephew that had betrayed you without a second thought, that had murdered you, that had your severed head displayed on his mantle (you weren't sure the truth of that last statement, Tommy has a habit of over exaggerating. Though, Schlatt did say that your body was found with a missing head when you first forced him to tell you what you missed). Tommy talked to you about how he died only once, so you knew just what your nephew has been up to. It infuriated you knowing that your adult nephew was manipulating and abusing this young teenager.

While you were releasing your pent up frustrations on the masked man, he merely brushed past you and drug Tommy into the train by the arm. You could remember Wilbur banging on the doors begging for Dream to return his little brother and his angered screams echoing down the railways as the train sped off back towards the land of the living. 

Lucky Tommy, he got to live out the rest of his life and actually age. You and your crew of intolerable jesters were stuck together once again. 

Everybody was silent for a few months, reeling at the newly discovered fact that Dream could actually resurrect people. During those three months, they were quiet and tolerable. In a way, the talks that came out of it was like one of those family therapy sessions your older sister would hold in the living room (you remembered how she would grab you and Schlatt by the horns if either one of you refused to go). You would kill to attend one of those therapy sessions again, and this is the closest you were going to get to it. 

You all talked about the things you regretted most while you were alive. Mexican Dream's was that he didn't protect his girlfriend Mamacita well enough. Schlatt's was choosing alcohol and power over his family (tears were especially shed over Tubbo, he really did regret abandoning him to be raised by you). Yours was that you were too loyal to a cause that would be absolutely decimated a short while after you sacrificed everything for it. Surprisingly, Wilbur's was that he had hurt you.

He had begged and groveled for forgiveness, telling you that he just didn't feel that special connection with you anymore. That didn't take away from the fact that he was seeing another while you two were still dating and that he blew up your life's work. He had stolen everything from you, and you would never forgive him for that. 

After you made your thoughts on him completely clear, he had started treating you like you treated him in the last few months. Tension was building up between you two that had laid dormant for thirteen and a half years like a rope pulled taut about to snap.

Everybody had slowly returned to their annoying selves slowly but surely. Schlatt resumed his workout routine, Mexican Dream had started loudly singing and ranting about Mamacita's everlasting beauty again, and Wilbur eventually started up his solitaire and songwriting once again.

The three of them made you want to rip off your twisting horns and shove them in your ears in hopes of muffling them, but you knew that whomever put you here would restore your hearing and make your horns regrow. You knew that first hand after you spent a couple of years alone in this hellhole; breaking your horns off by repeatedly banging your head against the dull stone walls in a manic state was never fun. The regeneration of the keratin only slightly stung, it was like you were a kid and they were growing in for the first time again. 

You felt your eye twitch as Wilbur sang about that damned train for the umpteenth time since he arrived. It’s always ‘train this' and ‘train that' and quite frankly you were sick of it. You were sick of him. 

“Shut the fuck up about that damned train,” Schlatt seethed. You never once thought you would ever agree with your twin, but here you were nodding in agreement and shooting a glare at Wilbur’s direction. The brunet merely stopped his singing and reshuffled his cards, the sound making an ugly cacophony and grating at your ears. 

“Not my fault you two don’t want to talk to me. I’m just making due with what I’ve been given.” He dealt the cards out in piles and started yet another game of solitaire. Seriously, how many games of solitaire can one play before they lose it? You supposed that you’d find out soon, Wilbur has been playing that monotonous card game nonstop for thirteen and a half years.

“Yeah, let the hombre chill! I like his music.” The masked man reached up to stroke his goatee, the scratching sound further penetrating your focus on your book. 

Everything was quiet before Mexican Dream's voice pierced it, "hey, did I ever tell you guys how beautiful my Mamacita was?"

"You told us millions of times, fuckface. You narrate entire love letters daily, so how could we not know how 'beautiful' she was?" You complained, not once looking up from your book. Schlatt snorted to himself and returned to his workout. Mexican Dream crossed his arms in anger, cursing you out under his breath. Wilbur merely glanced at you and rolled his eyes. "You know, I'm tired of your bitchy attitude. Let him talk about Mamacita, it's not his fault every time you think you love someone it fails." 

Your grip on your book tightened impossibly. If it were physically possible, the book would be crumbling to dust in your voice grip. You practically see red as you slowly dog-eared the worn page you were on and put your book down. 

"Oh shit," you heard Schlatt mumble and move away from you, Mexican Dream following suit. When you both were alive, your anger was always something you knew Schlatt feared. However, you knew that he's never seen you this angry; nobody has. The majority of what you've been holding in for almost fourteen years is about to be unleashed. 

"You know what I'm sick of, Wilbur?"

"Oh, do enlighten us."

"I'm sick of each and every single one of you. You three have been absolutely intolerable ever since you arrived. I was doing just fine alone and the universe just had to fuck everything up for me, just like it always does."

"There you go again," Wilbur laughed sardonically, "making everything about yourself." He gathered his cards and shuffled them repeatedly. 

"I make everything about myself?! Do you even hear yourself? Mr. Oh-I'm-such-a-disappointment-to-Philza, you wallow in self pity twenty-four seven! You fucking write every single song about yourself!”

"I didn't want to come here, okay?! I didn't think it was gonna be like this! God, I might as well be in hell with you here." 

"Believe me, my hell started fourteen years ago when you guys started showing up," you growled out, your ears flattening to the sides of your skull.

"Have you ever stopped to think that you're our hell? All you've done since we came here was complain and be a massive douche to all of us." He fluttered through the deck more and more as the argument escalated, the noise making you want to scream until you tasted blood.

"I'm the one that's in the wrong here? You fucked up my entire life. He," you pointed at Schlatt, "keeps beating me to death. And he," you jutted your chin towards Mexican Dream, "never shuts the hell up… Would you stop with that damn deck?! You're literally so fucking annoying." 

He narrowed his eyes, "make me."

A mixture of an animalistic growl and a guttural scream left your lips as you charged at him, your head tilted downwards so he could feel the brunt of your horns. He moved out of the way just in time, the side of your horn brushing against his arm. You crashed head first into the stone wall before you stabilized yourself and looked at the brunet with seething hatred. 

He was staring at you in shock, "how're you-" You used his shock to your advantage, throwing a right hook at his face. His head whipped to the side and his body followed, sending him to the ground in a heap.

"How am I still conscious? I'm a ram hybrid, dumbass. What'd you expect?" You huffed angrily before you pried the cards out of his hand and stalked over to the tracks. 

He scrambled up to stop you, but before he could even reach you, you held the deck over the tracks and looked down at him. You could just imagine how your horizontal pupils were blazing with fury. 

You reveled in the betrayal and animosity gleaming in his eyes as you dangled the thing he held dearest in this hell over the railroads. If you were to drop them, he'd never be able to see them again.

"We promised not to touch belongings on our first day here!" He yelled at you, his hands wrung in front of him nervously hiding the slight tremor. "Our first day here?" You scoffed, "the last time I checked, I was here for two years before any of you showed up." You gestured around the room in one angry swipe, the cards slipping slightly with how sweaty your hands were. It was then that you saw the fear in Schlatt's eyes. Good, that bastard should be scared of you. "If anything, you all are in my domain."

Wilbur flinched at the sight of the cards slowly slipping out of your hand, his breath hitching and panic stricken across his features. Mexican Dream stood up from his place and put his hands up. He was slowly approaching you like you were a cornered wild animal, making sure that you saw his every move. 

He nervously chuckled, "let's just put the cards down and have a nice talk. Doesn't that sound better than this, mi amigo?"

You shook the cards once again, taking in Wilbur's silent anguish with glee. "I'm not your friend, I'm anything but. Don't tell me what to fucking do or else that picture of Mamacita is the next to go."

"...Okay, you're in charge, man. Do what you want." He reluctantly sat back down next to Schlatt. The ram was watching in fear, yet it looked like he was entertained with what was happening. You couldn't blame him, the last interesting thing that happened was three full months ago when Tommy was taken. That and you probably looked feral at the moment.

"You understand that if you drop those, they're lost forever right?"

You threw your head back and laughed, "of course I know, why do you think I only have one sock? I already tried that shit out before you came." You hummed to yourself in thought, then grinned. Wilbur was going to love this.

While you shuffled the deck, you kept a close eye on the movement happening inside the cell. Another perk to being a ram hybrid was that you had a nearly 360 degree scope of everything around you. The only movement happening was the panicked breaths from Wilbur, good. You huffed in amusement, "alright Wilbur, let's do a card trick. I'd ask you to pick a card, any card, but I don't want to risk you fucking shit up again. So, I'm just going to draw for you." You drew a card from the middle of the deck and showed it to him. "The eight of clubs, how fitting." 

"(Y/n), I don't know what you're getting at, but if you don't give me those cards right now-"

"Shut it, I'm not done. I'm going to shuffle this back into the deck, watch the hands." You kept eye contact with him as you shuffled the cards rigorously, the card you pulled long since hidden with the slight of a hand. After a bit of shuffling and reshuffling, you had sneakily put the card between the two halves and bridged them until the cards were in one pile with the eight of clubs on top. 

You chuckled and pulled the top card, once again showing it to him. "Is this your card?"

He nodded slightly, never once taking his eyes off from the deck. "Yes, now give it back to me!" The angry and anxious undertones were like music to your ears.

You tapped your chin in thought, "hm, I don't think I will. You've taken so much from me, it's only fair that I get some revenge." Without another word, you threw the cards behind your head and smiled widely at the sound of the fluttering down to the tracks. 

Wilbur launched himself forward with a frantic yell, his hands flailing to catch all of the cards before they were lost forever. He only succeeded in catching a few. 

His breath shuddered as he stared at the three cards in his hand: the five of diamonds, the four of spades, and the seven of hearts. The fate of the universe was on your side for once, perhaps preternaturally so. 

"You- do you realize what you just did?!" He spun around to face you. If humans could froth at the mouth, a full waterfall would be streaming through his gritted teeth. His eyes held the rage of a man that had just lost everything in one singular instant, the resentment swirling in his dark brown orbs. Several veins were bulging in his face and neck, painting the skin in a red hue.

You walked over to your book and plopped yourself down. "Yeah," you said with a nonchalant shrug of your shoulders. You opened up your book and started reading it again, leaving the man to his grief. 

Everything was quiet once more much to your delight. Though you read this book from cover to cover thousands of times, enough to know most of the words by heart, you were never able to fully enjoy and immerse yourself in it with them around. You took this time to reclaim your designated corner and spend some quality time reading. 

You spent hours with your nose buried deep in your book, savoring the peace. That was until it was snatched out of your hands and ripped away from you. You looked up in slight shock at the sight of Wilbur snapping it shut and walking over to the tracks. 

No. No. Nononono he can’t. That was the only thing keeping you sane. He can't just get rid of it when he's done so much towards you when you were alive. 

A wail left your mouth as you tackled him to the ground, your arms wrapped around his midsection. He crashed to the ground with a grunt, his forehead smacking against the painted yellow stone. You straddled his back and ripped the book away from him, throwing it across the room and away from the tracks. 

You grabbed a fist full of his hair after yanking off his beanie and tossing it into oblivion with his precious cards. You pulled his head up and leaned close to his ear, "you try that shit again and your hat and cards won't be the only things lost to the void." Venom was seeping through your every word, "do you understand me?" 

He merely jerked his head to the side, colliding it with your nose and mouth. You shouted in surprise and let him go in favor of holding your aching nose. You could feel the warmth of the blood pouring from it. Through teary eyes, you looked up at Wilbur as he grabbed your book and flung it against the wall of the opposite side of the tracks. You scampered to the edge and watched in horror as it disappeared into the void. 

Without warning, you were forced to the ground, a hand holding you by a horn and a knee between your shoulder blades. You struggled before a dark chuckle was heard, "if you keep moving, you'll slip! Do you really want that?" You begrudgingly stopped, realizing that he had all the power in this situation. If he wanted to, he could just slide you off from the platform and toss you away like throwing a piece of paper into the trash.

"Good, you're not as stupid as you were earlier today." He slid you forward, holding your upper body over the tracks by the horn. You came face to face with the swirling abyss that was the void, small shapes appearing from your eyes adjusting to the sudden lack of visual stimulant. Your breathing picked up as he lowered you slightly, "you don't wanna do this." 

"No, I do. Thirteen and a half years of having to be around you was hell, but the shit you pulled today just put the icing on the cake. Do you have any last words before you go?"

You grunted as he shook your head slightly, a slight pain coming from the base of your horn. "Fuck you." 

"How appropriate, now let's see if you'll come back this time. It'll be our fun little science experiment!"

He dropped your horn without a care in the world, sending you plummeting to your demise. A terrified scream ripped it's way out of your throat and you screwed your eyes tightly shut in preparation for the void. Your body came to a jerking halt as you held your breath, preparing for… whatever awaited you. However, nothing came.

You cracked open an eye only to be met with the uncanny inkyness, the invisible mist freezing your face and its frostbitten arms opened wide for you. But you never fell into its embrace. 

Instead, you were pulled back onto the platform. You laid on your stomach with your horn supporting your head staring at the wall, tracing every single nook and cranny of the bricks. Your chest heaved as you greedily gasped for air. You never thought you'd be so relieved to see the cement walls you've been trapped in for over a decade and a half.

You were once again pulled up into a now sitting position and leaned against the wall, your back touching the cool cement. Across from you, you saw Mexican Dream pinning a struggling Wilbur down to the floor. Wilbur's crazed eyes met you, piercing through your very being. However, that didn't affect you in the slightest; you almost were just wiped from existence completely, you stared into the abyss and it stared back at you.

You felt… strange, to say the least. While icy fear and adrenaline coursed through your veins, you felt warmth blossoming in you at the same time. It was like the void was an actual person, politely giving you some form of relief from the hell you've been subjected to for over a decade and a half. It was so welcoming, not terrifying like you initially thought it was. When your fingertips grazed its surface it felt freezing to the touch, yet you felt the staticky power it was showing you. In that split moment of touching it, you had already accepted the power it held over you. 

A hand softly slapped your cheek, "c'mon, (y/n). Talk to me." Your eyes drifted lazily to your twin. He was extremely pale, his eyes frantically searching your face for any sign of responsiveness. When you looked at him, he visibly relaxed. "It was so… so beautiful, Schlatt."

"Yeah, what the actual fuck did you just say? You almost just- just died for good dumbass." He looked at you incredulously, you could just see the cogs in his brain working hard to process what the hell he was seeing. 

You looked back at Wilbur, he had stopped struggling slightly and was instead looking at you with a hint of confusion shining through the crazed daze. Mexican Dream tilted his head, the mask skewing slightly to the side of his face. "Thank you, Wilbur. You've shown me that there's… there's more to this hellhole than suffering. There's beauty in the darkness." His struggling had come to a complete halt, now staring at you with the most confusion you've ever seen from him. You also saw a very small hint of fear from deep within his irises.

A calloused hand gripped your chin and forced you to look back at your twin. "What are you on," he hissed lowly, "the stuff that's comin outta your mouth right now is actually batshit insane. He almost just permanently murked you and you're fucking thanking him." 

"I haven't felt this at ease in nearly two decades. I feel ethereal, Schlatt, and it's all thanks to him." You let your eyes drift over to Wilbur. Giving him a content smile, you nodded your thanks at him.

The next few days went by tensely for the others, eyeing your every move and keeping you away from the ledge. You had only peered over the ledge once since then, it was just so alluring to you. It was nothing, yet everything at the same time. Mexican Dream had pulled you back to the opposite end of the room by your horns. The part that disturbed the three men was that you said absolutely nothing about it. You didn't even struggle against it, you just laid limp and let it happen. 

With each passing second you spent away from the void, the feeling of utter peace was rapidly draining from your body; instead being replaced by icy fear, paranoia, and the realization that you were almost completely swallowed whole by the void. 

After coming back to your senses, you didn't allow anybody near you. Your instincts going haywire and screaming that they were going to hurt you if they came close. The last time Schlatt tried touching you, you damn near took his finger off. They didn't bother trying to approach you anymore, instead glancing at you from the corners of their eyes. Wilbur was perhaps the one you feared the most, you knew that if he didn't hesitate to toss you away the first time, he would surely do it a second time. He spent most of his time staring at you, you didn't know if he was zoned out or not.

Everybody was against you, you knew it. You just knew it. They were plotting to toss you back into the void. That thing- or was it an entity? Whatever it was held a power over you that you didn't know was possible. That trance that it put you in, the craving you felt, was something that was repeating like a broken record in your mind. You could still feel the void calling out to you, it was terrifying. 

You spent most of the time huddled in your corner staring at the fingers that had grazed the textured nothingness. You could still feel the buzzing and popping of the power on your fingertips, that inky residue staining your skin wouldn't come off. No matter how hard you scrubbed, scratched, or scraped, it would not leave your body. It was freezing.

The oncoming train screeching to a gradual stop was perhaps the only thing you fully acknowledged outside of your safety bubble in days. You watched in shock as it stopped at the platform. The doors opened with a fwoosh, fog pouring out onto the smooth stone floors. 

Out stepped Dream, the smile etched into his cracked mask sent chills to your core. Next to him was… was another Wilbur? How in the name of Ender was that even possible? 

This Wilbur was different though. This one was desaturated. This one didn't have an insane glint in his eyes, this one had grief shimmering in the tears that steamed on his cheeks. This one was broken compared to the well established man against the wall. This one was defenseless. 

Dream shoved him to the center of the room, the man falling to his hands and knees. Sobs escaped his mouth as steam left his skin and drifted along the sides of his face before dissolving into the air. 

"Got a new plaything for you guys, this one isn't as… fun as Wilbur is though." Dream's head turned towards you before it tilted. "What happened there? Did our dear little (y/n) get too close to the void?" 

"They are none of your concern, pandejo," Mexican Dream seethed at his counterpart from his position next to the train. "Why are you even here, man?"

"Oh, I'm just here to make a trade. I'm afraid that I'll have to give you guys Ghostbur here in exchange for Wilbur."

Wilbur stared at him with pure hope and glee springing up in his eye for the first time in over a decade. "Really?" 

Dream chuckled, "yes, really. What, do you really think I'd lie to you?" 

"I don't know, ya smiley freak. You've been known to fuck people over." Schlatt scoffed, his ear flicking in annoyance. 

"I'm telling the truth this time. Wilbur, come with me." 

Stars shone in his eyes as he reveled in the sight of the open train doors. He followed the masked man with a skip in his step, ecstatic giggles leaving his mouth as he boarded. 

Anger flooded you as you purse your lips together and you darted towards the train. The doors were closing already, if you could just- 

The door shut with a clank, blocking you from freedom. Your clenched fists banged against the window, glowering at the sight of Wilbur's happiness and Dream looking at you with a wave.

"You fucking bastard! Take me, he doesn't deserve it! He threw his goddamned life away, you're wasting your time with him!" Your angry shouts were ignored by the two however as the train once again started moving with a small hiss. 

A frustrated scream left your mouth as you pummeled the iron with your fists as it moved. If only you could find a train car to jump onto- 

Now. You leapt from the platform towards the junction between two of the train cars. However, your leap of faith was set to a halt midair by Schlatt holding your upper arms. You thrashed against him, desperate to get back to the land of the living, desperate to leave this godforsaken hell called the afterlife, but once again, you were torn away from what you were trying to achieve. 

You fell limp as you watched the last train car pass the platform and disappear down the tracks and into the void. The next possible time it would show it’s face would be in a few months if you were lucky. You let him take you back to your corner, your feet limply being drug against the floor. After you were plopped back down, you stared at the clone of your ex. You were pretty sure Dream said that his name was ‘Ghostbur’. What a strange name, yet you supposed that it was fitting for Wilbur’s apparition. 

“Are ya done with your little ‘moment’, (y/n)?” Schlatt was kneeling in front of you, his hands prepared to grab you if you made a run for it. Though his tone was annoyed, you could detect the very small worried undertone of his voice. 

You nodded and watched as he took a seat next to you, also staring at the newcomer. This is the closest he’s sat next to you in years. 

“...What do you think of the clone over there?” You hummed to yourself, “he looks pathetic, but I think that might be the only thing he and Wilbur share.” 

Mexican Dream took a seat next to you, slinging an arm over your shoulders. Normally, you would’ve shrugged him off, but you were too emotionally drained to do so. “Si, he does look kinda weak. But I think our new hombre here has promise.” 

“Promise for what?” Schlatt snorted. Mexican Dream hesitated, “...I don’t know. This is gonna be interesting, mis amigos.” 

“The party’s just begun, boys. Buckle up, this is gonna be a wild fucking ride.” You mused to them, unsure of what the future would hold with the newcomer. Though after a couple of years, you were sure you were going to hate him; that is if he’s nothing like his clone. Ender help you if he’s anything like Wilbur. 

As you stared at the broken man, you couldn’t help but wonder: why did he get to go back? As far as you were concerned, psychopaths like him do not deserve a second chance at life. If anything, it should be you boarding that train. It should be you getting a second chance. He was the one that so readily threw his life away while you had yours ripped away from you.

One continuous thought was circling in your mind: why couldn’t it have been me?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You wrung your hands together as you anxiously waited for Tommy, Ghostbur, and Friend outside of Pandora’s Vault. Ranboo and Tubbo sat next to you in the grass, giving you silent comfort with their presence. You were mainly worried for your boyfriend, his worst fear was Dream using the resurrection book on him. You had calmed him down from a panic attack prior to meeting up with the teenagers, begging him to let you go in his place. Of course, Ghostbur being the caring and brave soul he was, wove you off and ensured that he’d be okay. 

When you saw someone emerging from the portal, you leapt to your feet and steadied your head on your shoulders before you examined the people emerging. Except you only saw a human and a sheep, no ghost. 

Tommy looked pale and on the verge of tears as he led Friend towards you. Before he spoke, he used his sleeve to wipe at his tears. 

“Hey, Tommy! How did it- where’s Ghostbur?” The enderman hybrid stretched his usually slouched back to peer at the portal, keen eyes searching for any sign of movement. 

“I think he’s dead… He’s dead!” 

Tubbo tilted his head and looked up at the blond in confusion, “well, yeah. He’s a ghost. Of course he’s dead.” Ranboo nodded in agreement, “yeah, he can’t die again. That just isn’t possible.”

You said nothing (not like you could in the first place, your head wasn’t connected to your body), looking into Tommy’s eyes inquisitively. They were chock full of panic, grief, and fear, staring down at the lead in his clenched hands. 

“No, no you don’t understand, it’s not that he’s dead… it’s that Wilbur’s back.”

“Hold on, the Wilbur that blew up L’Manberg? That Wilbur?” Ranboo peered down at him incredulously. “Yes! C’mon, he- we gotta get to L’Manberg.” 

He spun around and led Friend towards L’Manberg, walking quickly with a purpose. You, Ranboo, and Tubbo followed. You hugged your head close to your chest, your eyes peeking over your arms. It was always something you’ve done whenever you were scared or worried about something. You heard stories about Wilbur from your nephew, if the stories of his insanity terrified you, you’d hate to see the man in person. 

“I was about to kill Dream, and- and Ghostbur died. Dream revived Wilbur… Fuck!” Tommy walked faster, L’Manberg far off in the distance. With one hand, you grabbed the blond’s attention and finger spelled, ‘are you serious? He’s actually gone?’

“Yes! How many times do I have to explain this?! Ghostbur isn’t with us anymore and Wilbur’s back. Wilbur’s back and we’re absolutely fucked.” He turned on his heel and resumed his beeline towards the crater in the wall. No, he couldn’t be gone. This was just a cruel prank they were pulling on you, right? 

Tubbo put a comforting hand on your shoulder, giving you a small sympathetic smile. You leaned into his touch slightly and carried on, stepping into the makeshift staircase behind Tommy. 

You moved your arms to cover your eyes as you stepped aside to make room for the other two teenagers. You heard a voice; it sounded exactly like Ghostbur’s voice, yet it sounded... off. You however remained hopeful and uncovered your eyes. 

The man that stood there certainly wasn’t your boyfriend. Everything about him was just so wrong. The emotion in his eyes, his clothing, his smile, his stance, his hair, everything. This was a completely different person. This was Wilbur Soot. 

“Hello again.” His eyes flicked around your group, his gaze lingering on you for longer than the rest. You noticed that he was staring at your neck, but that was okay. You were used to it; everybody did that. What you weren’t used to was the revulsion that flashed in his eyes. The eyes that once lovingly stared at you and reassured you that he’d love you even with your… condition were now filled with disgust. 

That was what broke you, the tears that you tried to hold in came streaming out like a waterfall. Stinging pain hit you as the water worked its way through the cloth of your uniform onto your arms, leaving steam floating upwards towards the cave ceiling. You phased through Ranboo’s body and made a mad dash towards your sister’s house. You needed her, you could feel a panic attack brewing inside you. Usually you would hate to be a bother to your older sister and Ghostbur would always calm you down, but now he’s…

You pushed that thought aside and focused completely on getting to Puffy’s house in the distance. You phased through the door without a thought to knock, frantically beginning your search for Puffy. 

You looked everywhere, but you couldn’t find her. Unable to cope any longer, you fell to your knees in the middle of the living room and hugged your head to your chest, your face being pushed against your uniform. Your shoulders shook with silent painful sobs, the only sound in the room being the sizzling of your skin. 

Why couldn’t it have been you? It should be Ghostbur standing there in that cavern, not Wilbur. This was completely your fault, you should’ve gone instead of him. You should’ve volunteered quicker than he did, you shouldn’t have let him talk you into it with his soothing words. Now because of your complete and utter cowardice, he was stuck in the afterlife once again. You were never going to see him any time soon. Your other half was ripped away from you because of your inaction. 

Between sobs, your lips repeatedly formed the same phrase: why couldn’t it have been me?

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[pretend-writer]

Down Below (Chapter 77)

Summary: After being sent down on Earth with the other prisoners from the Ark, Y/N Reyes faces series of events and learns about survival. With new things happening around her, she is now starting a new chapter in her life.

Pairing: Bellamy Blake x reader, John Murphy x reader, Raven Reyes x sister!reader

Word Count: 3.3k words

Warning: swearing, mention of death, murder and violence

✤  ·  ✤  ·  ✤  ·  ✤  ·  ✤

'Isn't it such a lovely day outside?' Josephine inhaled the fresh air whilst holding onto my hands that were tied up. 'If it weren't for this whole royal blood thing, we could totally have a picnic together.'

'With all due expect, I'll pass the invitation.' We were held against our will from Russell and his guards to guide them to our ship. I wasn't in a playful mood at all, especially when Emori and John were on their side now.

The two walked alongside Russell up front as we marched back to our ship, talking and having a casual conversation with him as if they didn't plot to kill him the night before.

Emori had threw us under the bus to save herself and John, I've never felt so betrayed. It hurt even more that John seemed okay with this, not doing anything to save us from Russell's insanity.

Josephine sighed, 'Come on. Bellamy has no chance with you after what he did and you and Murphy are practically broken up right?'

'I don't know, I have more important things to worry about. Like your homicidal father. And why do you know about what Bellamy did to me?'

'Abby told me. Emori helped me get through to her when I tried to find out how to get the royal blood. We started talking about you and-' She paused with a sad look on her face. 'She told me everything about everyone, spoke really nasty about you and how you're the reason why her life was a mess. Something about Marcus breaking up with her.'

I shook my head, crazy how I had to hear this from Josephine. Abby was never satisfied with anything, she was the one that made my life a living hell. 'She ruined her own fucking life, I didn't even know he broke up with her. He never told me.'

'Well, that's great. I have another competition going after you.'

'Marcus is family, more so my dad.' As I chuckled lightly watching her reaction, I asked her a question. 'Was talking to Emori and Abby the reason why you fooled some of our people?'

'Emori taught me how to be Clarke. It didn't help in the long run because eventually Murphy found out. Apparently I kept calling his "John".'

Madi walked up to me with a guard behind her, also holding onto her tied up hands. 'Y/N, why are you being friends with this murderer?'

'I'm not friends with her.'

'We're not?'

Turning around to face Josephine, I sighed. She curled her lips and nodded. 'I was only joking... kind of.'

'Well, Clarke is dead and nothing is a joke about that.' Madi implied, glaring at Josephine.

'Madi, remember it wasn't her that killed Clarke. It was Russell. She wasn't alive when everything happened so it's not necessarily her fault.'

'But she's a part of the clan that killed her.'

Oh, how I wish that I could just sit next to her and comfort her. I couldn't imagine how she felt when she was told that Clarke was gone from her life forever.

She reminded me of my younger self, how broken I was after my parents had passed. Even with the abuse that I went through, I was sad that my mother was gone.

The difference between us was that Clarke was with her the whole time. It hurt me that Madi lost someone so dear to her heart and she had no time to grieve.

'We shouldn't associate a person just because they're in the same clan. Miller was Wonkru but he was no where near bad as I was. Matter of fact, he was one of the very few people that didn't lose himself.'

Madi kept her head down, couldn't quite tell if she was feeling sad or not but I didn't want to pry. 'I'm no Clarke but if you need someone to talk to about anything, I'm here.'

She nodded her head up and down, not saying anything at all. I began to worry, hoping that she didn't suddenly feel sick. 'Are you okay Madi?'

'Yes, just a little headache. Some commanders in my head are distracting my thoughts.'

'Do you want me to call Gaia to help you? She's just walking a little ahead of us.'

'No, I'll be fine. Thank you Y/N.'

Josephine stared at Madi as she slowed down on pacing herself with us, eventually walking behind us. 'What's a commander?'

'Nothing.'

'You know Y/N, you should lighten up a little. It seems like you've been down since your little incident with Murphy.'

He wasn't the reason I was "down", I was angry at Emori and her selfish ways of selling us out just for some dumb mind drives. Was living for eternity so important, more important than any of our lives?

'It's not that, not that I need to owe you an explanation.'

'Ouch. I don't blame you for hating me though, my dad did kill this girl.'

'I don't hate you because you're his daughter. You're on the killer's side so I'm just hesitant.'

Josephine pouted, 'Aw. Even after our kiss?'

Miller butted in on our conversation, who was walking next to us. 'Kiss!? Y/N Reyes, you're such a player.'

'Shut up, Miller.' I rolled my eyes as he chuckled. 'Besides, she kissed me not the other way around.'

'Yeah, sure.'

Josephine was fairly nice to me, from what I've seen she wasn't a terrible person. Other than enabling John from getting hurt of course, even though that wasn't really her choice.

It would be great to have her on our side, having someone on the inside to help us get out of this mess. Especially her being Russell's daughter, there would be so much we can use against him but I highly doubt Josephine would take the route of betraying her family.

'We're here.' Russell signaled his armed guards to go in the ship as he whispered something into their ears. He then followed them inside after they've managed to open the ship, leading the rest of us inside.

'All clear.' Guards would yell as they invade our space, inspecting one hallway, one room at a time.

'What's going on?' I heard Jackson mumbling from the main area as the guards reached the last room. 'Why are you all here?'

Russell squeezed between his guards, 'We won't hurt you if you do as I say. All we want is for you guys to make the royal blood.'

'Don't do it.' Raven instantly gotten shoved as she spoke against Russell.

Jackson furrowed his brows as he saw Raven groan from pain, soon realizing something was odd. 'I-I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Just do as he says.' Emori jumped in, 'Make the nightblood and no one has to get hurt. Please.'

The rest of the room was silent, despite the old Wonkru people being there, standing behind Jackson. People were scared, I could sense their fear and confusion. I couldn't blame them, they'd thought that the next time we came back was to tell them our compound was ready.

Niylah walked next to Jackson, stared at Emori for a while. 'Why aren't you and Murphy tied up like the rest of them?'

'Can we just ask questions later, please?' John answered for her, 'Do we have everything we need to make the nightblood?'

'We do, once we fly this thing up.' Abby said as she was standing behind me, hands tied up also. 'I could make it, I just need access to the lab.'

Shaking my head, I turned around to Abby. 'You do realize you need Shaw to fly this ship up.'

A breath escaped Raven's mouth. 'Of course you have to drag him into this, Abby.'

'We don't have a choice right now.'

'There's always a fucking choice.' I yelled at her, 'Just like when we were at the bunker, there is always a choice. You are just too much of a pussy to make one.'

Russell let out a breathe, 'Abby. You come with me. The rest of you will stay in here.'

Murphy's POV;

The guards started to let go of everyone's restraints from their wrists, untying the ropes as they were finally free.

Bellamy immediately approached Y/N, worrying about her and asking questions regarding the situation. Perhaps they were plotting something, finding a way to stop Russell.

This had given me mixed feelings, feeling a little bit of guilt as Bellamy and Y/N have gotten closer. Echo was right, I have probably hurt Y/N for betraying her.

We've never talked about the morning she had told me she loved me either, not that it mattered anymore. Given the circumstances, she had probably forgotten about me already. I didn't blame her, I was the reason for us falling apart as it always was.

This also proved that I was right too, I should've killed Russell a long time ago. As soon as I was free from him, I should've ended everything. Instead Emori made a deal with him, made Y/N think that I was a part of this scheme.

Emori signaled me to come with her as Russell and his wife took Shaw and Abby with them out the room. I took a quick glance at Y/N, who was talking to Bellamy and her sister. I didn't want her to see me following Emori.

Walking quickly to avoid Y/N watching me, I exited the room with Emori. 'What's wrong? You don't agree with this all of the sudden?'

'I never agreed to this, Emori. We said we're going to get Russell at night, when he's sleeping. Not make a deal with him and get the rest of them in trouble.'

'You didn't care about Y/N's opinion but now all of the sudden you do?'

'That and this is different! Now she's held against her will where Russell can possibly kill her.' I held my head, pacing back and forth. 'Instead you got us on his side, I never wanted this.'

Emori held my hand, pulling me closer. 'John, don't you get it? I did this for you.'

'But I never wanted this. I just wan-'

'We can live forever, together. I got this damn mind drive just for you.'

I could see the sorrow and desperation in her eyes. This was all my fault, I broke her heart back at The Ring. Knowing how much she needed me, I decided to leave her.

It wasn't an easy choice to make. At The Ring, I still loved Y/N and believed that she was alive, hoping that Abby and Jackson somehow fixed her after she was exposed from radiation. Even though there was a possibility that I would never see her again, I couldn't be with Emori knowing that my heart belonged to someone else.

But that wasn't enough for Emori, I still hurt her. She would've rather had me fake it than leave her.

'John... why her, why not me?'

'I don't know, Emori. I loved you and I'll always love you. We had our great times but I'm in love with Y/N and I think I've always have been. I'm sorry I don't have an explanation for that.'

Emori shocked her head, it seemed like tears were falling but she was trying to hide it. 'Pathetic, you should've told me this when we broke up.'

'You walked away from me when I wanted to talk to you, don't blame this on me.'

'I just wanted you to fight for me. I'd thought that if I walked away, you'd realize what you had lost.'

The past few years, Emori acted as though the break up didn't hurt her. She was good at hiding it, I never thought that she was feeling this way. 'I'm sorry, Emori. I-I don't know what to say.'

‘It’s... fine. You’ve said enough.’ Emori walked away from me, left to the room where Russell, Simone, Shaw and Abby entered. Sighing, I went back to the room I came from.

Joining in their circle, Echo raised her eyebrows. ‘Your best friend, Russell went the other way Murphy.’

‘I’m not a part of this nor did I agree to this. I didn’t know Emori was going to make a deal with him.’

Talking quietly amongst ourselves, Y/N looked at me. ‘You are a part of it because you didn’t say shit to back us up. This is on you and Emori.’

'I thought you said not to associate them?' Madi looked up at Y/N, I didn't quite understand what she meant by that.

'Madi-' Y/N huffed and pulled her closer, whispering something in her ears.

It stung me that Y/N felt that way about me, there was anger and hatred behind her eyes as she looked at me. This was all my fault so she wasn’t to blame at all, although I was bothered that Emori had dragged me into this. It was the fact that I didn’t do anything about it.

‘Y/N, can we talk in private please?’

‘Do you seriously think now is a good time?’

Bellamy bit his lips and stared at the floor. I bet he was amused at this, watching Y/N and my relationship crumble down. Not only did it hurt me that Y/N was upset with me, Bellamy was getting too comfortable and that irritated me.

Raven looked at Y/N, then me. Her eyes said it all, "give her some space." I rolled my eyes, frustrated in myself and how stupid I've been the last few days.

'So later is now, Murphy. Are you going to answer my question?' Jackson had sensed Y/N wasn't happy with me, assuming that she didn't want to speak and instead changed the subject.

'Like I said earlier, Emori made a deal with Russell. I realize once that he had took everyone else except me and her, that she had some sort of new plan that involved me.'

Y/N's POV;

John irritated me. Just everything made me mad, it was betrayal and I felt as though he took his ex's side over mine. Not that I was more important, knowing that we didn't put a label on our relationship. I just expected more but perhaps I was overthinking.

He claimed that Emori orchestrated everything and I believed him, but I was still mad at him. Call me selfish but couldn't quite forgive him just yet.

I've even told Madi after she had tried to use my words against me; I simply told her that it was different. She replied back with "how?"

The girl was too smart because she was right, it wasn't different. I was too stubborn to admit to her and she knew that because she smirked back at me. She was quite the cheeky one, Clarke did something right for once.

'So back to the plan?' Miller ignored Murphy, 'How are we going to stop Russell from getting the nightblood?'

'There's only a few guards, we can easily take them.' Echo said.

'Yeah but if they fire their guns, it's over. Russell's going to find out we're resisting and can kill us. We need to find another way.' I replied back.

It would've been easy to take them down if it wasn't for their weapons, that'll notify Russell and all of our effort would be for nothing. Instead, I thought of a better plan; Something that can work but I needed this little one to agree with me.

As I looked over at Madi, I smiled. She crinkled her brows in response. 'What?'

'Are you up for a challenge? I think I have a plan that can work.'

'Of course, what do you want me to do?'

✤  ·  ✤  ·  ✤  ·  ✤  ·  ✤

'It's been a while since Madi had gone, you think she's okay?' Jackson whispered to us, trying to make sure the guards wouldn't hear us talking.

'She's led Wonkru through the gorge, she'll be fine.' Echo reassured us, not that I was worried. I trusted her with everything, especially with her helping us after Wonkru had fallen when Octavia and I fucked everything up.

Our plan was to have Madi crawl into a vent to get some of the criminals out to help us. Since the vent was too small for any of us to fit, she was a perfect candidate for this plan. Echo and Raven had a fake argument to distract the guards while we helped Madi into the vent.

It had been about fifteen minutes since then, waiting patiently for Madi to come back with help. John would look at me from time to time, figured he was trying to find the right timing to come to talk to me.

Of course I wanted to talk to him too, try to go back to how things were before but given the fact that we were in a life or death situation right now, I had to concentrate. Not only that but I was also feeling a bit of jealousy about him and Emori.

Not going to lie, that was main the reason why I didn’t want to talk to him just yet but I wasn't going to admit that.

‘How are you holding up?’ Bellamy scooted closer to me as I was leaning against the wall. ‘Still want to keep Russell alive?’

Raising my brows, I stared at him with a confusing look. He chuckled lightly. ‘I was kidding, sorry.’

‘You’re funny but Russell was not what I had in mind.’ There was no way I was going to tell him that it was John that crossed my mind, we didn't need a real argument to start at this moment.

‘Yeah I figured but I-I just didn’t know what to say to you. It felt like it had been so long since we had a decent conversation with each other.’

I had to admit, it was cute seeing Bellamy acting shy and awkward. Or maybe perhaps the argument that I had with John was making me see Bellamy in a different way again. I didn’t like it, the way my heart would switch between the two, it wasn’t fair for them and it sure as hell was not fair for me either. Already having so much to deal with, I didn’t want my love life to be more complicated than it already was.

Just as I was about to reply to Bellamy, a noise came from the electrical doorway that was locking us in. Everyone in the room including the guards turned to face that direction, getting ready for whoever was trying to come in.

After that noise was just pure silence, it was as if everyone was holding their breath. That wasn't until a few moments later, the door opened widely, revealing Madi and several armed criminals standing behind her.

‘Put down your weapons, it’s over.’ Madi walked in, ‘You shoot and you are all dead including your precious Primes.’

‘That’s my girl.’ I smiled, approaching Madi while the rest of the criminals worked their way to the guards, tying their hands with the ropes that were used on us earlier. 'Any signs of Russell?'

‘Nope, I don't think him and his wife suspected a thing.’ She grinned back, giving me a high five. ‘You are forgetting something though.’

‘What do you mean?’

She turned around and pointed behind her, where Marcus was standing by the door way with a huge smile on his face. He looked perfectly healthy, as if the surgery and the incident never happened. He waved his hand, greeting me. ‘Hey monkey.’

Instantly I ran off to hug him, jumping onto him as I wrapped my arms tightly around him. ‘Sorry, I know you’re hurt and all but I couldn’t help it.’

‘No, it’s fine.’ I felt his breath on my neck as he lightly laughed, ‘I don’t care about that at all. I’m just glad to see you again kiddo.’

Burying my face into his shoulder, I started to cry. With everything that was happening from Russell’s murder to my problems with Bellamy and John, I was so glad to see Marcus again. ‘I’m glad to see you too.’

He cupped my face, wiping the tears off my cheeks with his thumbs. 'We're going to help our people, together this time.'

It was nice to have Marcus back on his two feet, I was more happy that he was by my side this time. 'Sounds like a plan.'

[darthkruge]

hey could you do a jess mariano x reader where the reader has dyslexia but loves to read. someone at school makes a comment about her being dumb and she gets insecure but jess is super reassuring to the reader about how intelligent she is. also they can either be already dating or have mutual crushes. whatever you think fits better. <3

Jess Mariano x Dyslexic!Reader ~ All of You

Summary: Someone at school insults the dyslexic reader and their boyfriend, Jess, provides reassurance. 

Warnings: Bullying, language, insecurities, I think that’s it? 

Words: 2.1k

A/N: Hey!! I’m so, so sorry this took me so long to get to! I hope you don’t mind, I didn’t mean to keep you in the ask box void. I really enjoyed writing this, so thank you for requesting! I decided to make them already be dating because that’s where my brain went hehe. I hope you like it :)

You walked to school hand-in-hand with your boyfriend, as always. Even though it took him about 15-20 minutes out of the way, Jess never missed walking with you. He hated the thought of you starting your day by yourself and never wanted you to feel forgotten about or lonely. Thus, the tradition began and it has stayed the way you start your day, everyday, for the last few months that you’ve been dating. 

Jess pulled you behind the science building, pressing his lips to yours. Your hands instinctively wove into his hair and his arms wound around your waist, pulling your bodies together. He smiled into the kiss before pulling away from your lips and gently moving his kisses down the side of your neck. You hummed in content before moving to meet his face again, once again pressing your lips to his. 

These stolen moments were what you lived for. You’d never felt too confident in yourself, at least as far as relationships went, and you weren’t used to this kind of affection. Even so, you loved every moment of it. Everything with Jess felt so natural. No matter what, you came first to him and he never failed to show it. 

You both pulled away and he softly kissed your forehead.

“See you after second period?”

“Of course” 

“Okay, love. Text me if you need me. Or if you’re bored. Or if you miss me”

“Oh, yes! That Jess Mariano charm. I’m not sure how I���ll endure two classes without it!”

“I’m sure it’ll prove quite e difficult,” Jess said, laughing. The bell rang and he gave you one last smile before you parted. 

You walked into your English class with a smile on your face, giddy after the experience with him. He made you feel alive. It was the kind of feeling you didn’t know you needed, but once you felt it you couldn’t imagine losing it. 

You sat down in your seat, waiting for the teacher to start class. 

“Okay, everyone. Today we’re just going to be doing some silent reading for the first half of class and then I’ll put you in small groups to work on a new project”

Fuck. Group projects were the fucking worst. Unless you got one of your friends, people were normally assholes and impossible to work with. 

Even though you were upset with the new development, you were excited to have time to read. You pulled out your copy of The Great Gatsby that Jess had lent you and picked up where you last left off. Because you read so much and generally did well or at least half-decent in school, people never assumed you had dyslexia. Lots of people had this false narrative that if you have dyslexia, you must hate reading. It was something you were used to, the stupid comments and assumptions. You tried to not let it get to you but you sometimes felt frustrated. You’d run into loads of ignorant people in your life and while you weren’t ashamed to have dyslexia, you hated having to explain it to every new teacher, every new friend in your life. You never knew how’d they’d react.

Even so, reading was one of your greatest joys in life. Losing yourself in the work, in the story, it was enthralling. You loved to find characters that you connected with. Their emotions were palpable and made you feel validated and less alone. Reading was one of the main things that brought you and Jess together. He knew you had dyslexia and, thankfully, never treated you like you were any less. You were afraid he would break up with you once you told him, but, of course, he didn’t. You were still you, and that’s all he cared about. 

He loved trading books with you and hearing your thoughts on them. In doing so, he felt the two of you were brought closer together. Discussing literature was an almost intimate experience in your relationship. Learning which characters and themes resonated with a person was truly illuminating about their personality and mind. Right now, as you read Gatsby, Jess was reading Pride and Prejudice. You loved Jane Austen, as did Jess, and you completely enjoyed discussing her work. 

After a few moments lost in thought, your teacher’s voice pulled you back to the present. “Alright! Okay so for the group project you will be analyzing the short story “The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson. Please read it together today and discuss what you think the most pertinent theme is. I’ve already assigned the groups and I’ll display them on the board right now.”

Your teacher stepped back and turned on the projector so you could see the groups. Scanning for your name, you internally groaned when you saw who you were with. Sarah, Justin, and Alex. They were all close and their friend group didn’t exactly have the best reputation. You grabbed your bag, walked over to them, and sat down.

“So, y’all just wanna read it? Then just talk about it, I guess. We’re looking for themes, right?” Sarah asked.

Everyone nodded, opening up the copies of the short story placed on your desks. You jumped in and immediately felt yourself pulled into the writing. After a few minutes, your eyes glued to the story, you heard the rest of your group closing their packets. 

“Alright, everyone done?” Justin asked.

“Yeah, you?” Alex said

Sarah nodded in agreement.

You, on the other hand, felt your cheeks flush. You were only about 70% through the story. “Sorry, I just need a bit more time, is that okay?”

“Ugh, fine, whatever. Just hurry up,” Sarah groaned. 

Your face burning, you went back to the reading. It wasn’t like you weren’t trying, you were! They just wouldn’t understand it. You couldn’t count the amount of times people had told you to just “focus more”. It made your blood boil, honestly. It was so dismissive and you couldn't believe people still thought that way. You always focused and it wasn’t your fault, and, yet, morons like these three persisted. After a few more minutes, you heard Alex again.

“Come on! You can’t possibly still be reading?”

“I’m sorry, just-” You sighed, running your hands through your hair. “Please, just a few more minutes?”

“God, you’re so fucking stupid. No wonder no one wants to work with you. All you do is hold people up, you’re a goddamn idiot” Alex said.

Your eyes burned and unshed tears started to push their way up but you fought them down. You wouldn’t let yourself cry in front of them. They didn’t deserve to see how they’d affected you. 

Finally, the bell went off and you were able to leave. Your group glared at you and you realized you  hadn’t discussed the themes. 

“It’s, um, the story’s about the juxtaposition of peace and violence. Even though the people are in a calm, controlled setting, they resort to violence every year. It’s an outdated tradition they keep up and, thus, it highlights the difference between their actions and how they want to be perceived.” You said quickly, voice wavering. 

Your group scoffed before walking off. That didn’t bother you too much. You knew your analysis was accurate and probably far better than anything they could have come up with, even if they’d spent the last 15 minutes of class discussing it. Despite this, you still felt deflated. The shit they’d said, the way they’d treated you? You couldn’t deny it, it got to you. 

You walked over to your locker and put your stuff away. After that, you decided you were just going to go home. You could call the school later and say you were feeling sick or something. Honestly, you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You were just so drained, you needed to get away from this place and the people in it.

However, you didn’t want Jess to worry. You sent him a quick text saying you weren’t feeling well and put on your headphones before walking out of the school.

What you didn’t expect was Jess to come flying out of nowhere, appearing by your side as if you’d summoned him.

“Jess! What are you doing? Don’t you have class!”

He shrugged. “You weren’t feeling well. Did you honestly expect I’d leave you by yourself? And, seriously, Y/N, you know I hate this place. You’re the only thing that makes it bearable so if you  wouldn’t be here, why should I?”

You nodded and kept walking forward. Jess looked at you quizzically, trying to decode your dejected state. He kept quiet, knowing not to push you to talk. He trusted you’d come to him when you were ready. Therefore, he simply followed you until you made it off campus, where you turned into a random alley and suddenly stopped walking.

Jess caught himself, almost running right into you. You suddenly turned around, dropped your bag, and bolted right into his chest. He was caught off guard but instinctively brought his arms around you, trying to comfort you. He noticed you were crying, your broken sobs getting muffled in his shirt. He soothingly rubbed his arms up and down your back, desperately trying to give you solace. After you finally quieted down, Jess gently and slowly pulled you back.

His hands gripped your shoulders as he studied your face, your sad gaze meeting his. “What happened?”

“Stupid English, that’s all”

“Come on, Y/N, don’t shut me out. What happened?” He said, his tone kind.

“I-” You trailed off, trying to keep your composure. “Some kids just said some shit. I was just reading slower than them and they said some shit. It’s not a big deal, I just- it got to me, okay?”

“Who?” Jess said, firmly this time.

“Jess-”

“Who, Y/N?”

“Alex, Justin, and Sarah.” 

Jess groaned, rubbing the heels of his hands over his eyes. “Fuck them, Y/N. They’re fucking ridiculous and they don’t know anything about you”

“I know, I know. That’s why I’m so goddamn frustrated! Because, like, it did get to me. Jess- Jess, they’re right. I felt like an idiot today, I felt stupid. And I hate feeling that way!” Hot tears smarmed in your eyes, the frustration and anger bringing them out. 

Jess’s gaze softened. As livid as he felt toward the three of them, he knew that’s not what you needed right now. 

“Hey, hey, hey. Love, take a breath. I’ve got you, okay?” 

You nodded, your breathing shaky from the stress of the day. 

“I’m sorry that happened today. Listen to me, Y/N. You’re so smart. You’re smarter than I am, hell, you’re smarter than anyone at that school! They’ve got nothing on you!”

You looked at him and smiled at his words but shook your head. “You don’t need to do that, Jess”

“Yes, I do. We promised we’d be honest in our relationship, right? Well, that’s all I’m doing. Seriously, Y/N, who else at that school could debate the themes in literature with me like you? Who could discuss the importance of accurate representation in books with me? Who could talk to me about just how influential YA books are and why they should be taken seriously-?”

“They are and they should!” You cut in.

Jess laughs, nodding in agreement. “Exactly!! You’re amazing, Y/N. And I swear those fuckheads are gonna get what’s coming to them”

“Jess-” You warn.

“Okay, okay!” He laughed, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “They just- they messed with you and made you upset and I fucking hate that”

“I hated it too. I hate doubting myself because of my dyslexia. I feel so shit about myself when I get in that headspace and I start spiraling and it gets out of control so fast.” 

“I know. It’s not your fault when those spirals happen. And I know you know this, but I’m just gonna remind you: you’re not any less because you’re dyslexic. It doesn’t make you stupid or anything. It’s a part of you and I love you, all of you”

Your heart swelled at his words. Everyone thought Jess wasn’t good expressing his emotions but you knew the truth. He was quite eloquent when he wanted to be, he just sometimes had trouble with vulnerability. You didn’t blame him for it, with his past it made perfect sense. But when you needed that reassurement, that compassion, you could always count on him for it. 

He moved to place a kiss on your forehead before slinging his arm around your shoulder. “Let’s go home, okay?”

“Okay” You smiled up at him and kissed him once more before tucking your head into his shoulder. He pulled you closer and you grabbed his free hand with yours as you continued to walk through the Stars Hollow streets together.

[wincestation]

You Are the Moon that Breaks the Night For Which I Have To Howl

Read on ao3

Pairing: Sam x Dean (Supernatural)

Word Count: 1,150

Square Filled: Scent Blockers for @spnaubingo || Came Back Wrong for @badthingshappenbingo || Lovers to Enemies for @anyfandomgoesbingo

Summary: Dean was wrong, and Sam needed to make everything right again, to make his brother human again - but all he could do was lean against that door, and hope it would hold him inside. Because outside, his demon brother was casually roaming the bunker, blood dripping mindlessly from his arm, singing to Sam to come out and taste him.

Warnings: Blood drinking, general violence and gore.

a/n: Uni is a bitch but so am I so I had to write this; excuse me for not beta-ing. I kinda freestyled on the scent blockers trope. Hope y'all enjoy! (@brotherwives psst, I think you might like this)

Inspired by this amazing song.

"A man who is pure at heart and says his prayers by night May still become a wolf when the autumn moon is bright" -"Howl", Florence + the Machine

The stillness around the bunker was louder than a thousand alarms going off simultaneously. Every red flag was raised in Sam’s head as he leaned against the door, chest heaving, breath ripping out of his lungs. Wrong - everything was wrong - Dean was wrong and Sam needed to make everything right again, to make his brother human again - but all he could do was lean against that door, and hope it would hold him inside. Because outside, his demon brother was casually roaming the bunker, blood dripping mindlessly from his arm, singing to Sam to come out and taste him.

Was he imagining Dean’s voice echoing across the halls, calling his name?

Stop. Stop it right now. You’re stronger than this. Sam tried to believe the persistent little voice, but something inside him was nauseous, like a part of his insides was beginning to rot. He was a hunter, damn it, it’s not like he hasn't been around demon blood in the past, and yet it never made him feel like… like…

Relapsing? A mocking voice suggested and Sam violently ignored it.

Was it because it was Dean? The person he was closest to, that he loved the most? Losing him was hell, but having him back like this… He could almost hear a malicious, Scottish laugh. Now that’s hell for you.

Sam could hear his brother’s voice now, and he almost felt relieved until he remembered who he was hiding from. He tried to cover his nose with his t-shirt, tears forming in his eyes. Was this their destiny? Always trying to kill one another, tangled together in an endless cycle of hating the other enough to try and stop him, but loving him too much to do so?

He tried to concentrate on Dean’s voice, but his thoughts were getting in the way. Maybe this is God finally punishing you, you sick fuck. Maybe this is what you get for wanting to fuck your brother.

“Shut up,” Sam gasped, not even realizing he was speaking until he was. A moment passed, but no reply came. At least he wasn’t hearing things again.

“Sammy!” Dean yelled from somewhere in the bunker, and the sound of a door being slammed open made Sam’s heart jump. “Come out!”

Sam wanted to, he really did, but he knew this wasn’t his brother talking. He gripped the demon blade tighter in his fist.

“…wherever you are,” Dean’s voice was low, growling almost, and - close.

Oh, he was fu -

The door flew open and Sam was smashed on the floor along with it. Before his body could register the hit, strong hands grabbed him and dragged him up, leaning him against the bed. Something wet smeared on his face -

Sam tried to fight, to turn his face away, but a hand grabbed a fistful of his hair and held his face in place. “Drink up, boy king. You know you want to.” A knife was placed just below his jawbone, forceful enough to make him understand that Dean had no hesitation to use it.

“Who put you up to this?” Sam spat through his teeth, trying to keep his mouth as shut as he could and simultaneously breath through it because God, his brother’s blood smelled so fucking good.

The demon’s arrogant grin faltered for a moment. “No one, Sammy.” Sam remembered he had a knife in his hand, he did, where was it now? “I wanted to give you a taste of something I knew you liked.”

“Dean, please.” His brother’s blood was getting on his cheek, slowly making his way to his lips. “Please, don’t make me.” He could barely understand his own words through his clenched teeth.

“You’ll thank me later,” Dean said, mercilessly pushing his wrist between Sam’s lips. A tear almost escaped Sam’s eye before his vision turned red.

Like a starved animal, like a drug addict, Sam grabbed his brother’s arm and drank. He barely felt the knife held to his throat as he yanked every drop from the tender flesh. Hands held his face and guided him into the torn skin, the same hands that rocked him to sleep and gave him stitches and gently placed bandaids on his wounds. Those same hands that were soft and kind and careful, like Sam remembered Dean being with him when they were young, were the hands of a hunter now, but Sam didn’t feel like prey.

The knife at his throat was removed, but he didn’t even understand that until Dean pried his wrist away. Sam tried to follow, a hunter just as much as his brother, when he realized Dean was just giving himself another wound for Sam to drain.

“That’s it,” Dean groaned as Sam’s teeth dragged across his tarred skin. A small corner in his brain throw accusations at him, monster, freak, animal. But Sam didn’t feel like any of these. He felt power. He pressed his fingers deep into Dean’s flesh, trying to force out more blood, trying to tear his way in.

No prayer is going to help you now. No angel can save you. The scariest thing about that voice was that it was completely Sam’s. Claw his skin, taste his heart while it’s still beating, hunt him down and rip his arteries out -

“Talk, Sammy,” Dean breathed above him. The hand that was grabbing his hair was running through it now, almost caressing. “Tell me.”

Sam frowned - wasn’t he the one who was supposed to give orders? The little brother in him didn’t seem to mind it as much. “‘S sweet,” he groaned into the wound. “Want all of it.”

Dean laughed. “You’ll have it,” he sighed - with pain or with pleasure? Sam couldn’t tell - “But not right now.” And suddenly the hand in his hair yanked him backwards and the bloody flesh was torn from his mouth.

Fury fled Sam’s body and a snarl escaped his lips.

Dean couldn’t look more smug. “Easy there, tiger. We gotta save some for later, don’t we?”

“No,” Sam growled. He stared at the demon above him, knowing his eyes were fully black.

His brother stared back with the same eyes. “Oh, is that so?”

Sam didn’t break eye contact for a second.

“Fair enough.” Dean exposed his teeth in what could’ve been a smile. He stood up, not letting go of Sam’s hair. The painful tug was stinging his scalp. “You really want more of me?”

“I. Want. Everything.” The room was spinning. All he could see was tar-black eyes and all he could hear was the blood dripping across his brother’s soft flesh onto the floor.

“Then come and get it,” Dean whispered before pushing Sam away. He backed away slowly, grinning.

Sam began his hunt.

[bloomyn]

phonetics ; kagami taiga

pairing: kagami taiga x f!reader

wc: 2.2k

synopsis: there’s something about three syllable sentences that worm their way into your heart.

featuring; minor unrequited love, grammar, other girls that aren’t you, bad characterization, a whole lot of being dumb, and a happy ending

-> i wrote this in two hours during my peer tutoring class please don’t murder me; i saw .5 seconds of him during the netflix trailer and busted the phattest emotional nut

This is how your story begins

You’re five and on the top of a slide, it’s sticky with sweat and electric on your skin but you can’t go down, not yet. There is no way you’re going to give the kid behind you the satisfaction, not until he says please. 

“Say. it.” you demand, your hands gripping the side of the slide tighter. the space between his eyebrows scrunch together, like an inchworm, the type you learned about in class only a few days ago. “just say it. it’s not that hard. only one syllable.”

Your mother would scold you for that sass, but she’s too far away to hear and quite frankly too far to see your current predicament. 

“No. see, that’s one syllable.”

And yes you know that violence is never the way, (that’s also what you learned about at your school, the same day as the inchworms), and that maybe there is a verbal way to resolve this agreement, but the thing is, your five year old brain is tired of using words. and so this is the part where you resort to fists, tiny fingers that gripped the side of the slide ball up slowly and then.

The sky is down. down? and no your hands aren’t on the slide they’re trying to brace your fall from down the slide and all you can see is a muddled red face before you hit the ground crying. 

→ 

Here’s the thing about parks, technically, technically, their public property. So that means, technically, technically, just about anyone can show up and play. It’s terrible. It’s especially terrible when the only person on the playground to play with is also the one that pushed down the slide (quite aggressively! you might add) only a week ago. If there was ever any violent tendencies that lay dormant in those tiny hands of yours they might as well have been awakened. 

But instead of fighting, or attempting to fight, someone who looks like they could be the kids mother ushers said kid in your direction. 

and instead of a “No.” being spit in your direction you get an, 

“I’m sorry. Three syllables, see. I said it.”

and a hesitant hug, awkward and gangly.

And so it begins. 

→ 

“If you’re going to be stupid like this I’m going to stop showing up.” you sigh, taking a seat on the bench, cringing at the scent of sweat and rubber. Beside you, a messy bundle of red hair lays splayed on the hard metal, a rough hand wiping the sweat out of his face. “Hello, is Kagami home? Or do I really have to stop showing up till you remember you need me. ”

A groan leaves his chapped lips and an arm extends across your lap. “ Did you bring it at least?”

You surrender the plastic bag, watching the steam rising from his body melt the ice. It’s disgustingly sensual and for a split second you can almost imagine what the girls interested in him think. Unfortunately they’ve never seen him like you have, bloody noses and sweat, black stains from the court staining his dirty clothes, and just going through middle school in general. It sends shivers up your arms. Gross. He pushes himself backwards, lifting his head up onto the hem of your skirt.

“You’re just so sweaty, all the time.” you sigh, wiping a handkerchief across his forehead.

The sight of the two of you is one to behold. 

It’s always been to Kagami at least, which is a surprise considering that the only things he really cares to look at anymore is game highlights and illicit magazines that he really only gets away with buying because of his height. To be fair it’s not like he really reads the magazines anyway, not without getting distracted, not without the guilt that comes with thinking of you, during, ah, certain periods of time. He’s gross, he knows, and here you are, walking a mile in the summer heat because his ankle was too dead to get ice and there’s no one to watch #2 if he leaves. (fucking Kuroko he swears)

He can see the soft outline of your jaw like this, laying down. He can see the way your tongue casually glosses over your lips and and the way it seems like you're blinking in slow motion, he can see your lashes gently brush your face when you blink. It’s a goddamn sickness. 

Now usually, when this happens, when this wave of amorous nausea fills his head he does what he’s best at, absolutely destroying the court. But in the few steam filled moments between his attempt to get up and realizing he has to get up or he might vomit hearts all over the floor, you’ve already pressed the palm of your hand into his shoulder.

“Don’t think you can get up, stupid. Your ankle looks like a purple yam for goodness sakes. Gross. ”

He’ll hold onto the spare bit of affection in your words till you give him more, which you will, because you’re like this. Stubborn and loving, and always seemingly annoyed with him. He won’t mind, he never does. 

→ 

It’s not until the end of third year that he realizes he does, he does mind. He minds all the damn time now. 

“Don’t complain now that I’m not giving you all my attention,” you had scolded, “You’re the one with a girlfriend Ka-chan.”

“You don’t even bring me ice anymore!”

A shitty retort indeed but, true nonetheless.

“Kagami,” you had warned, “It might not be a great idea for me to bring you stuff anymore. Think about your girlfriend! How is she going to feel, another woman bringing her boyfriend what he needs.”

There was no response back this time. In his defense, Lisa hated the smell of basketball, “it sticks to you!”

Which he thought she might’ve considered before confessing but, semantics. There was nothing wrong with Lisa, she might’ve been everything he looked for in a woman. Hot, decently smart, very, very good looking on his arm, and she loved the attention too. Except her lips were too sticky, and she hated the smell of the gym, and he could go on and on making up petty excuses because she wasn’t the one who demanded that he say “please” on the playground. 

(He’s just picky!) His brain argues!

It takes three more girls until he realizes they’re not you. 

→ 

There is a brief moment in time where you fall for Kagami Taiga. There is a moment so small it slivers past you in the form of iced plastic bags and steaming windows in the gym. But the moment isn’t so small that no one around you notices. It isn’t so small when your best friend goes through three different girlfriends in a moment that doesn’t even make it through a set of nails. Not one nail chips.

It’s an odd moment. Only, at the end of this moment, there is no return to normalcy, there is no getting over it, there is another one waiting for you to leave those chipped nails and iced plastic bags behind.

It starts with praise and glimmer pop of jealousy.

→

“Absolutely not.”

“ You can’t argue an opinion you can’t even have, Taiga.” It comes out nastier than you want and you kick yourself for it. He catches it, the grimace waiting on your face and the quiver in your eye. The two of you are waning, stuck to your respective places in his living room, movie paused. There is a chance you will cry, but a more realistic chance that this will end in useless fight, that the aching silence between the two of you will become your shield against a barrage of his angry glares. 

This might be the only chance you ever feel what it’s like when he’s in the zone, except you're not a five man team (with subs) , you’re a teenage girl with goddamn feelings. It’s the playground all over again, but this time you won’t be pushed.

“He’s a fucking player.” his voice raises at the end and the tense in your calf sharpens. “He’s a disgusting shitty haired player, how are you being so stupid right now?”

By the time he’s done he’s yelling. The two of you have argued sure, but never... not like this. 

“I’m allowed to be dumb sometimes!” you breathe, “ Look at you Taiga, how you are not the same as him? It takes you weeks, days, to get a new girl. How in the world are you even qualified to be talking to me about this.”

It takes half a second for his eyes to narrow, sharper than his looks and for a moment you stagger back. It takes even less time for you to grab your bag and leave. 

You’re not angry, not for the right reason. This boyfriend is going to end in heartbreak, it’s a given, even Kagami knows this. But you can’t help yourself, this might only be a blip in time, it won’t matter in a year right? It won’t matter when Kagami finds himself wrapped around another girl, too busy to even remember what day of the week it is. 

And it kills you. 

You’re killing him. 

There is never a moment where everything is clear, unless he’s playing one on one, but this isn’t him versus you. This is him versus himself, a freaky nightmare he only dreamt about in middle school; and you’re not someone he wins by dunking on. It’s the type of win where he has to lose a little bit of something too. The type of win that he’s been avoiding. 

→ 

Your house has been the same for years, flower boxes on the front porch, a few twigs on the lawn, less than a thousand steps from his own place, somewhere he could sleep walk to. It’s never bothered you, he was your best friend, how could you complain about living so close?

Well, you’re complaining now. 

“I’m sorry.”

His eyes are drilling into the ground, fingers fidgeting like a boy, like a child who’s never had to say sorry before. Even so, you love him, so you relent, allowing yourself to lean on the doorway, absolutely oozing casually (ty?) (ness?) You can’t think.

“Three syllables. Thanks.”

The visible sigh of relief warms your achy breaky heart and absolutely tears into your soul. The grip on your heart he holds falls loose, unveiling the mismatched pieces that you’ve been forcing together for years. And for a moment you feel weak to it. 

“ You should,” he starts, gnawing on his bottom lips this time, “be with who you want. So, I’m sorry.”

It’s exasperating, but even if it is, Kagami Taiga is the most stubborn man you know so these words no doubt are being pulled out like teeth and you love him all the same. 

→

To Kagami’s surprise (and disappointment), a year later you are still quite in love with the man you call your boyfriend. But to his own sick delight, the two of you are fighting (again).  

“So you’re here.”

You nod, pushing the door to his bedroom open and slipping yourself under his covers. If he was anyone but himself he might’ve looked down, seen what was going on and promptly collapsed onto his knees. But, willpower is a strong suite of his (thank god), so he takes a seat on the foot of the bed.

“ Kagami, you can say it.” you mumble from beneath his covers. At your words his eyebrows scrunch and his knuckles tighten around the blanket. You’re not provoking him, just asking for the honesty he carries on his shoulders. 

“Ah, well.”

You shift the blanket off, propping yourself against the headboard. It’s only then that he can see the old tear tracks down your face.

“ I’m glad you’re here ya know. With me. Here.”

The last part is a whisper, one you catch. 

One you can only sigh with.

“ You can’t say that Kagami.”

“It’s true.”

It feels like a lifetime has passed by the time you gather the courage to look up at him, up at those deep red eyes that give away every emotion that passes through him. You don’t think can hurt you, not anymore than he has. Not with the hands that have held you up and stuck bandages on your knees and not with the heart that cared for you so deeply. He wouldn’t dare. 

But the sun is setting between the two of you, and the radiant glow only illuminates your features. You have to remember that he is only man, only human, and humans are easily seduced into stupid things by the sun.

“ I love you.” 

The delicate words aren’t voluntary, nor are they forced. It’s the space inbetween that pushes someone in the right direction, whether they know it or not. 

“ Three syllables Taiga.”

He watches you untangle yourself from the bed and take your place beside him. Carefully, he drops his hand in your lap, palms up and clammy. Slowly, you place your hand in his, taking up the space between his fingers. 

“Four syllables. That’s what you get.” you shake, squeezing his fingers. 

It takes him about two seconds to understand what you mean.

And he does.

→ 

[kyber-crystal]

Bulletproof

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Words: ~1.7k

Summary: In which the Captain gets a little too overprotective, but you end up interpreting his words the wrong way and taking it a little too personally. 

Warnings: slight mentions of violence, angry steve, soft steve

A/N: this was so bad omg I’m so sorry.

The flight back after a mission was always quiet, whether everything had gone well or not. The team was both physically and mentally drained, falling into a comfortable silence as the Quinjet propelled itself through the sky. This mission in particular had taken a toll on all of you.

You were seated in the far corner of the jet as you glanced over at the screen of the flight details, thigh bandaged and throbbing mildly.  While you were able to extract the intel you needed, you'd thrown yourself into the crossfire to do so, being gunned down by a sniper from above. You were lucky enough for it to be just a simple graze, but Steve was treating it as if it was the end of the world.

Of course, you kind of understood where he was coming from. Despite the fact that you had over ten years of experience in the field, you were the youngest member of the team besides Pietro and Wanda, being only two years behind Steve himself. But that didn't stop you from feeling annoyed every time he seemed to act a little too overprotective no matter how many times you claimed you could take care of yourself.

"He's just worried for your safety," Natasha tried to explain when you complained about this one night. "You know how Cap is. A let's-get-down-to-business and always-follow-the-rules type of guy. I wouldn't overthink it if I were you."

You still couldn't help but think that he was overreacting a majority of the time, however. And in this one case in which he'd caught your side comment, it had erupted into a full-on argument.

"The least you could've done was call for backup," he said through gritted teeth. "You went against orders and tried to handle things on your own, and look where that got you."

"Excuse me?" You rolled your eyes. Whenever he made jabs at your decisions like this it made your blood boil with a furious anger; wanting nothing more than to explode at him. "I was successful in doing my job, was I not? And it's not like there were any better options presented to me at that moment."

"That doesn't matter. You could've gotten yourself killed!" he shouted, jaw tensed and arms crossed over his chest as you stared each other down. "How could you have been so stupid, putting your life on the line like that?"

"Stupid?" you scoffed, seething with anger at this point. "If I recall, I was the one who got the intel from the controls room and shut the system down!"

"And you got shot as you were leaving because you didn't keep a good enough lookout of your surroundings. You put the entire team into jeopardy," he told you matter-of-factly. The words stung, but you did your best to remain calm despite being unable to believe he had the nerve to say something like that. "You almost ruined this mission."

The team sat in stunned silence as they watched the screaming match unfold between you two.

"I'm sorry, but you know what, Rogers?" you spat, voice now raised several notches, "Maybe I'm sorry for pissing you off, but there's no way I'm gonna keep putting up with you constantly criticizing me for every little thing I do. We all make mistakes, so I don't get why I'm the only one who gets shit on for making a slip up every. Single. Damn. Time! I'm sick of you ordering me around like you're my boss, because you aren't."

"I'm trying to do what's best for both of us!" Steve yelled. "You just can't seem to get that through your head, can you?"

"Don't need to act like such an asshole about it."

"You know, I wonder which will get you killed faster, your loyalty or your stubbornness? Because one of those things is going to be the death of you someday," he shot back, his harsh words feeling like a spear being thrust through your chest. "And I won't take any credit for it, because it'll be all on you."

You refused to look away, even as your lower lip trembled and your shoulders shook, unwilling to back down. Your lashes brimmed heavy with tears, hands clenched into shaking fists in a desperate last bid to keep it together.

"Okay, cut it out," Tony finally interrupted, Wanda pulling you away from Steve as the murderous look in your eyes told her you were ready to throw hands. "You need to stop bickering like a married couple all the time."

"Tell that to the self-righteous egotistical man who thinks he's always in charge," you muttered.

"To the ignorant woman who's always throwing herself into the crossfire without considering how it might affect the overall completion of the mission," Steve shot back.

"You little—"

"Y/N," Wanda placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, "stop. It's not worth arguing over."

You winced as she helped you sit down, the pain from your wound beginning to catch up to you after standing on your injured leg for too long.

The rest of the flight was spent in silence, with you and Steve refusing to look in each others' direction entirely.

...

As soon as the jet touched down back at HQs, you quickly changed and went straight to the gym. After wrapping protective tape around your palms, you went up to one of the punching bags and began attacking the hell out of it, imagining it as Steve's face making it easier and seeming to further fuel your anger.

You went at this for an hour, pushing yourself to the max, refusing to give your screaming and aching limbs a break. Your muscles contracted and your arms and legs felt like they'd fall off at any minute but you continued going nonetheless, the aching pains that feeling like a million tiny needles stabbing at every inch of your body. Training was probably the worst thing to do for your leg, but the bullet wound was the last thing on your mind at the moment.

I wonder which will get you killed faster, your loyalty or your stubbornness? Because one of those things is going to be the death of you someday.

You put the entire team into jeopardy.

You almost ruined this mission.

You punched the bag harder, feeling your knuckles cracking and blood running down your fingers, fresh bruises beginning to form underneath. Steve had never been this harsh towards you before, and you started wondering if he really was right about the fact that you almost ruined everything.

Yet you still didn't understand why he had to be so overprotective all the time.

"What are you doing? You shouldn't be training, or else that leg won't recover."

At the sound of his voice all his words came flooding back. Your heart began racing and your blood boiled as you stopped what you were doing and looked up at him.

"Leave me the hell alone."

Steve ignored your words and took several steps forward, stopping just a few feet away from where you stood.

"You're bleeding," he said in a surprisingly soft voice.

"I'm fine," you snapped. "Now go away."

"Come on, just—" he pleaded, voice sounding broken, "just let me bandage your hands up for you."

Knowing he wasn't going to leave, you slid down against the wall and let out a defeated sigh, allowing him to kneel in front of you and take your hands in his. The feeling of his rough, callused skin against yours despite the frustration coursing through your veins still sent a little spark up your fingers, and you never hated yourself more for it than you did now.

You briefly scanned over his features, taking note of his tired and red eyes and the crease between his eyebrows as he carefully disinfected your wounds.

"Y/N," he finally spoke up after several minutes of silence, as he finished bandaging up your hands. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said."

"Okay." You refused to make eye contact with him, knowing you would break down the second you looked back up into his bright blue eyes.

"Y/N," his voice broke, the sound making your heart twist in your chest. "Please look at me, sweetheart."

"Don't call me sweetheart," you muttered. "I'm so sorry," he repeated again, "I don't think you're stupid and that you jeopardized the team. You saved us all, in fact. I really shouldn't have said any of that to begin with."

You didn't realize you were crying until you felt the salty tears roll down your cheeks and into your mouth, and you choked on a sob as you finally forced yourself to meet his gaze, breaking down.

"Then why did you act the way you did?"

"It was wrong of me," he exhaled, "I...look, I'm just worried about you, because if that extraction did go wrong and something happened to you, I'd feel like it was all on me. I'd feel like it was my fault, because I failed to look out for you. And I don't think I can handle being responsible for your death."

"As much as you hurt me," you said as you stood up and were pulled into his arms, voice muffled by the fabric of his T-shirt, "I could never bring myself to actually hate you."

"I just care about you too much, I can't lose you," he murmured into your hair, arms tightening their grip around your waist. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," you mumbled, voice muffled by his T-shirt, "I forgive you."

"I love you," he whispered so quietly that he thought you wouldn't catch what he was saying, but you just barely managed to hear it. But honestly, he didn't care. You couldn't help the smile forming on your face at that moment. "I love you too."

"Oh my god, that tension was fucking killing me," Bucky groaned as the doors to the gym burst open, and he and Sam came inside. "I was about to explode if you guys didn't kiss and make up." "Oh uh, also, Y/N, your leg..." Sam pointed out. You and Steve both looked down to see blood seeping through the thick bandaging wrapped around your thigh.

"Well, shit," you choked out. "Oops."

"Language," Steve joked. "Come on. Let's go to Bruce so we can get that treated."

"Don't have too much fun with each other!" the two men called after you.

"Shut up!" you shouted back.

[moonknightly]

and you keep me holding on : santiago “pope” garcia x reader (four)

Word Count: 5.3k

Excerpt: “He cries and he screams and he curses every higher power he can think of until his voice is strained with the effort. He bargains, he pleads. He prays, and then he curses again.”

Warnings: Blood, violence, gun violence, cursing, meh

[SERIES MASTERLIST] 

OCTOBER 20TH - DAY FOUR

The precinct is busier than usual when Santi walks in the following morning. There are twice as many people, twice as many noises, twice as many reasons for Santi to be annoyed.

So many FBI agents. So many sounds. It’s complete sensory overload.

He stops after taking only a few steps off of the elevator, shaking his head, trying his hardest to push his irritation down. He’d been livid when Cameron announced that she was no longer letting the squad work on the case, and he hadn’t been the only one to let their anger show, but if Santi is being completely honest, he knew it had been coming.

It didn’t make it any easier, though. It felt like giving up in a way, even though that was the last thing he was willing to do.

Giving up would never be an option.

And fuck, the idea that it would one day be expected of him made his blood boil.

Santi takes a couple of deep breaths. He lets his eyes fall shut for just a moment, willing himself to stay calm. He shakes his head once, twice, and then starts to move towards an empty desk Cameron was letting him use. He can hear bits and pieces of the different conversations going on around him as he walks, but he can’t bring himself to actually pay attention to what’s being said.

He plops himself down into his chair, and before he has even a moment to make himself comfortable, he feels someone come up behind him and stop just a few feet away. He twists in his chair, spinning it around to face whoever has decided to sneak up on him and was surprised to notice that it wasn’t one, but two people — both agents.

“Need something?”

Santi doesn’t mean to sound so sarcastic, and while one of the agents chuckles a little bit, the other looks rather unimpressed with his attitude.

The second one — the one wearing a glare that quickly morphs into a arrogant smirk — shoves his hands into his pockets and tilts his head curiously at Santi.

“Maybe.”

Yeah, he fucking hates this guy.

Santi waits for the agent to continue, but several seconds pass in silence and he can’t stop himself from slowly raising an eyebrow in question.

“Okay…” Santi mumbles, dragging out the “y”, still waiting.

“I’m Agent Barnes, and this is Agent Graves.”

Santi glances towards the other agent, Graves, who smiles gently at him and gives him a quick nod. He definitely likes this one better.

Barnes rocks back and forth on his heels, still smirking to himself as he says her name under his breath. “We’d like to talk to you about her disappearance, if that’s alright with you.”

Santi can’t help but flinch at the cold way in which Barnes says her name. He can tell the sudden movement piqued Barnes interest, but he isn’t about to explain himself, doesn’t feel the need to.

“Sure, I’d love to talk about my wife,” Santi responds, eyes narrowed and lips upturned into something that resembles a grimace.

Barnes takes a few steps forward and comes to lean against Santi’s desk while Graves stays where he’d been standing. Pope folds his arms across his chest.

“When was the last time you saw her?” Barnes asks, looking down at Santi, his eyes staying trained on his face. Santi holds his gaze, taking it like some sort of challenge almost.

He absolutely loathes the bastard.

“On the sixteenth. She stopped by after she left the hospital and I walked her downstairs.”

“And at what time was that?”

“At about eight,” Santi answers, shrugging his shoulders gently. He hadn’t been looking at the clock, he’d been looking at her.

“And why didn’t you go home with her?”

“I had a lot of paperwork and she was tired. I needed to stay and there was no reason for her to.”

Barnes nods his head once, seeming to think over the information Santi just gave him in a way that makes him roll his eyes again.

“And what time would you say you made it home that night?”

“You know, I’m starting to feel like this is an interrogation, not an interview. Look, I’ve already told all of this to-”

“It’s just a simple question.”

Santi is frustrated, because all of the times, all of the facts, they’re all written down in her file, and he’s positive that the agents had already looked through the notes.

“About fifteen minutes after midnight.”

The passive expression Barnes is sporting quickly morphs into a smirk — one that honestly makes Santi want to deck him but also makes him so sick to his stomach at the same time.

“How long does it usually take for you to get home?”

“Twenty minutes, give or take.”

“That’s funny.”

Santi furrows his eyebrows, ready to slam his hand down onto the desk and demand Barnes just get to the fucking point, but before he can even blink the agent is continuing on with his words.

“You scanned out of your office at eleven that night. Only twenty minutes home...”

No. There’s no fucking way he’s about to-

“That leaves almost an hour that you have unaccounted for.”

Santi is completely and utterly floored at what Barnes is implying. He can only stare in shock for several seconds, jaw slack, tips of his ears turning bright red as heat flooded his body.

“You think that I killed my wife.”

It isn’t a question, but rather a statement — a statement that Santi never imagined he would find himself saying. He scoffs and shakes his head in disbelief.

“We don’t-” Graves starts to say, but his partner quickly cuts him off, silencing him with a simple wave of his hand that only pisses Santi off even further.

“I didn’t say that,” Barnes says, voice lacking any distinguishable emotion.

Santi scoffs again and quickly stands, feeling like it gave him some sort of advantage even though he was several inches shorter than the other man.

“I would never do anything to hurt my wife.”

“I’m not saying that you did, but maybe,” Barnes starts, that damn smirk returning full force. “Maybe you and Nathan...”

“Okay, now you’ve gone too far,” Santi fumes, taking a step closer to Barnes, getting ready to wind his arm back so he can just-.

“Garcia,” Cameron calls out from where she’s standing, about ten feet away.

Santi hadn’t noticed her approach.

“Do you hear this bullshit? Did you hear-”

“Santiago,” she interrupts, effectively silencing him. She rarely calls him by his full name, and when she does, it was used as a form of comfort that Santi didn’t even know he needed until just now. He swallows the lump in his throat and glances towards his feet, trying to push his anger away, giving way to the shame at the fact that someone could ever think he’d hurt her.

“I wouldn’t hurt her. You know I wouldn’t do that.”

Cameron places her hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle yet firm squeeze like she’s done so many times recently. “I know.”

Of course she knows. Santi loves her more than any person had ever loved another. She is, and always will be, his entire world, his reason for getting out of bed in the morning and his reason for breathing, and Cameron can’t understand how someone could even insinuate that he might be involved in her kidnapping. Santi has a temper and that’s no secret to anyone, but he would never, ever do something to hurt his wife, not even in the midst of the most heated argument would he imagine laying a single finger on her.

“I wouldn’t.”

Santi looks towards Cameron with such hopelessness and desperation trapped in his irises. He’s pleading with her, begging her to just believe him. He’s convinced that she agrees with Barnes.

“We all know.”

She squeezes again, and after her words have a few seconds to settle in, it seems to be enough, at least for the moment.

Santi’s shoulders seem to relax, just a fraction, and he sucks in a sharp breath. He nods his head once, solemnly so, and mumbles something that sounds like an excuse under his breath before retreating towards the locker rooms. No one follows, he doesn’t want anyone to. He just needs a few seconds to himself, a moment to push the nausea and the nerves and the worry away, even though he knows they would only return.

What Santi really needs is for this to all just be some sort of twisted, fucked up nightmare.

What Santi really needs is her.

OCTOBER 21ST — DAY FIVE

Cameron makes Santi take the rest of the day off. He tries to argue with her, giving her the same reasons he had before, but nothing seems to convince her to let him stay. Ideally, she didn’t even want him to leave Jay’s apartment the next day either, and this time, he decides to just shut up and listen.

She wants him to sleep in until noon, watch as many movies as he possibly can, call his mother back, and actually eat something more than a few bites of whatever fast food or microwavable meal he’d been forced to buy.

Normally, Santi wouldn’t complain about doing any of those things, but today is different. He needs something to focus on that will keep his mind quiet. He feels that he needs a distraction today more than any other day so far.

Because today is their two year wedding anniversary, and he is losing his mind by doing nothing.

It’s just after six p.m., and he’d woken up at five in the morning with no possible chance of getting back to sleep. The TV is turned off, and Santi has no desire to stand up and find the remote, and even if he does turn something on, he knows he won’t be able to properly focus on it. The bagel he’d made that morning is still sitting half eaten on the coffee table, and he didn’t even bother to make himself lunch.

Nothing Cameron wanted him to do came even close to being done, but Santi just can’t bring himself to do anything other than play a word game on his phone.

But he knows that he needs to call his mother back. He still hasn’t spoken to her, and she’s still calling him a few times each day, leaving message after message each time she’s met with the familiar “beep” of his voicemail. His father had started to do the same, even going as far as to send him a text message that read “If we didn’t know any better, we would think you’re missing too”. He deleted it right after opening it.

He just needs to get it over with

Santi sighs gently, closing out of his game and pulling up his contacts, scrolling until he found his mother’s name. He hits the call button, his stomach flipping as he waits.

She answers after the first ring, the worry in her voice sounding in Santi’s ears, the guilt of not answering any of her hundreds of calls suddenly weighing on his shoulders. He didn’t mean to cause her any sort of panic or grief, but what did he think ignoring her calls would do, especially in a situation like this?

“Hey Mamá,” he mumbles into the phone, voice hoarse from not having used it all day.

The relief in his mother’s voice after she hears him speak instantly makes that guilt grow into something that nearly swallows him whole, and his chest tightens as he listens to her cry in what he hoped was ease after finally hearing from him and not hurt because she just now heard from him.

About five minutes pass before the conversation moves from Santi’s apparent inability to answer his phone to what he knows his mother has been calling about, and what has been the only thing on his mind for the last five days.

“Have you found anything?”

Santi feels a lump form in his throat, and he suddenly loses the ability to speak properly. This has been his reality for the better part of a week — talking about her and thinking about her every second of every day, which really isn’t any different from normal except for the fact that it now made his heart ache rather than fill him with joy.

He briefly tells his mother what happened in Princeton and Allentown, though he assumes she’d already heard. If you turned on the news for even two minutes, you would see her name and her picture flash across the screen, accompanied by Nathan’s, which never failed to make Santi’s rage blossom all over again.

“At least I know she’s alive,” Santi mutters after a brief pause where neither of them could find the right words to say, thinking back to the picture from the other day. “The amount of blood...Mamá, I was so fuckin’ scared that she was de-”

Santi’s voice cracks, and he can’t bring himself to finish his words. Saying that he’s afraid out loud is probably the most candid he’s been since the start of it all. He still hasn’t let himself cry, not really, but the one tear that fell down his cheek is all it took for the dam to break loose.

He pulls the phone away from his ear, but he doesn’t hang up. He simply lets it fall to the couch beside him as he brings his other hand up to his mouth, covering it as a broken sob passes his lips. His mother continues to listen on the other end, and her heart shatters for her son as well as his wife. She recounts an almost silent prayer just as Santi curses God’s name, and she can’t even bring herself to chastise him for using such language. She would’ve done the same if she were feeling even half of what Santi is.

All of Santi’s emotions continue to pour out of him in a violent downfall, like a storm that held no mercy, leaving a gaping hole in his chest that threatens to swallow him whole. He cries and he screams and he curses every higher power he can think of until his voice is strained with the effort. He bargains, he pleads. He prays, and then he curses again. His mother listens the entire time.

Several minutes pass like this, and once he’s sure that there are no more tears left for him to cry, after he feels like he would pass out if he shed even one more, he picks the phone back up slowly, though he stays completely silent. After several seconds, his mother says his name gently.

“I’m here,” he mumbles, no emotion left in his voice at all.

His mother seems to be thinking about her words, choosing them carefully as to not upset him any further. “Maybe you should think about coming home for a few days.”

Santi doesn’t respond, and after another moment spent in silence, she speaks again. “You know, I just don’t think you should be alone tonight…”

“You remembered,” he grumbles quietly, his voice hardly audible.

“Of course I did Santiago, but regardless of whether it’s your anniversary or not, maybe you just-”

“You know what Mamá,” he interrupts, cutting her off. “I, uh — I actually have plans tonight.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, Jay just got this new video game and we were gonna order a pizza or somethin’ for dinner,” he lies, though there was absolutely nothing in his tone to give him away. “I won’t be alone, promise.”

She seems to accept his answer, and doesn’t question him any further. She even sounds slightly enthusiastic about it, saying that it sounds like the kind of distraction Santi needs. He has to physically bite his tongue in order to keep himself from scoffing.

They say their goodbyes shortly after, and Santi throws his phone onto the couch cushion beside him, a deep sigh escaping his lips as he stares at the floor for what feels like an hour when it was probably only two minutes.

He and Jay don’t have any plans.

There’s no video game, no pizza. He feels slightly bad for lying to his mother, but a larger part of him just wants to save her the worry and trouble.

He quickly stands from the couch and switches out his sweatpants for a pair of jeans, but can’t find the effort to change out of his old PT sweatshirt, the one she always stole from him. He runs his fingers through his hair, not bothering to style it. He hasn’t shaved in a few days and he’s sporting a decent beard that he knew she would love.

He grabs his wallet and the spare key Jay’d given him, picked up his phone and sent him a text, also lying to him about his location and his plans, and set out the door.

Not ten seconds pass before Jay is texting him back, telling Santi they’d caught a case and he wouldn’t be home until later that night anyways.

Santi doesn’t think twice about it, and simply shoves his phone into his pocket before heading to the subway.

Their apartment is dark when Santi arrives a half hour later. He doesn’t bother to flip on the light in the entryway, and takes a moment to just stand there, his back against the wooden door, fingers tracing each groove.

It almost feels normal, like any other day. It feels like Santi had just gotten off work for the night and he’s taking a moment to decompress before he would make his way to the bedroom, where he would find her curled up under the sheets, her head on his pillow as she waited for him to come home to her.

But she always made sure that the lamp in the living room was on for him, and she had a habit of leaving the TV running until he got in. Neither are on, and only silence and darkness and solitude surround him.

Santi kicks his shoes off by the door before pushing away from it, taking a few tentative steps into the apartment. The room is slightly illuminated from the glittering lights of Manhattan, just enough for Santi to see around the outlines and shapes of things. It’s strange — everything looks the same, smells the same, but it feels so completely different. So completely foreign.

Lifeless.

A few things are out of place, like the blanket they kept on the back of the couch, now on the floor, and the couple of books they kept stacked on the coffee table are shifted a few inches to the left. Santi folds the blanket and puts it back in its place, moves the books back, and then walks slowly into the bedroom.

The smell of her perfume instantly hits him upon entering, and he has to grip the doorframe to keep himself from stumbling backwards. He sways on his feet, and closes his eyes for just a moment, taking a deep breath to, hopefully, steady himself as he reaches to his right to flip on the light. He keeps his eyes tightly shut for another moment before slowly opening them to finally take in his surroundings.

The bedroom is far worse than the main living area. The pillows from the bed are tossed to the floor, the sheets and comforter twisted together in a knot that Santi knew he would struggle to get out. There’s a small strand of yellow police tape on the floor that Santi doesn’t understand why it’s there, as they had only blocked the front door with it. Both of their bedside drawers are still pulled open, and he can see that the bathroom light is still on.

The bathroom.

Santi moves without intending to do so, and he feels his feet carry him towards their ensuite almost as if he’s on autopilot. He reaches the threshold in just a few short seconds, and at first, his brain doesn’t exactly process what he’s seeing, doesn’t fully make the connection and he only stands there, confused and bewildered.

No one’s been by to clean up yet, and blood still covers every surface Santi chooses to set his eyes on, only now, it’s dry, and more brown than it is red. The shower curtain had been taken away by the crime scene techs, as had the bathmat and the various hand towels that had been covered in crimson. Santi is almost positive that there isn’t as much glass on the floor as there had been before, which made sense — the techs would have taken some of it as well. But the floor and the walls and the counter...it looks like the kind of murder scene one would see in a grotesque horror film.

There’s even a handprint on the side of the tub that Santi knows belonged to himself. He’d used the tub to hold himself up, to keep himself from collapsing further after falling to his knees. He looks towards the cabinet under the sink to find a second handprint, right where he knew it would be. He had caught himself there, too.

He stands in the doorway for what must have been five minutes at least, staring at the blood and the glass and the wreckage, and he feels absolutely nothing. If anything, he feels completely and utterly numb to it all. Part of him can’t believe that what he’s looking at is real, and the other part won’t allow his brain to connect the dots.

He knows it’s her blood, in their cozy little apartment in Manhattan, and yet, he still feels like he’s standing in the middle of any old crime scene, where any old victim had been murdered by their enraged boyfriend. He’d seen it so many times before, back when he was a detective. It doesn’t seem any different now.

He tries to make sense of it in his head, tries to use sound logic and the knowledge of what he’d learned in his psychology classes throughout college to figure out why he’s feeling the way that he is, but nothing made sense. He just feels so entirely disconnected.

Another few minutes pass before Santi is finally able to turn his gaze away from the carnage. A small bout of nausea hits his stomach, but he chooses to ignore it. He’s learned that if he doesn’t pay attention to it, the less likely he is to lose what little his stomach holds at any given time. He wipes a stray tear away from his cheek, one he wouldn’t have noticed if the cool air from the vent hadn’t hit his face, and steps away from the bathroom.

His next destination is the closet. Nothing in there has been touched or moved to his knowledge, and for some reason, he feels comfort in that. He sighs gently and grabs an empty bag from the corner. This time, he’s more careful when choosing what clothes he would bring with him, because he has no plans on returning to the apartment anytime soon, not without a stack of moving boxes and a U-Haul at the very least. He decides right then and there that he’s breaking the lease early and finding somewhere else to move immediately. Just having the apartment in his name makes his skin crawl and he wants out, wants nothing to do with it. And not only that, but as well as he knows his wife, he knows that if-

When they find her, she won’t want to be anywhere near the apartment.

But he also knows that there’s a part of her that will want to keep it just to prove a point, to show that she’s more than what had been done to her, and the thought of that makes him smile just a tiny bit.

“Stubborn ass,” he mumbles under his breath, a small, sad chuckle following just after.

He needs to get out of there.

Santiago gathers all of the clothes he figures he’ll need and turns to leave the closet when his eyes catch a familiar flash of gray, just like they had five nights before.

Nevada is still where Santi had dropped him, just lying on the floor, forgotten. She would’ve been so upset had she seen him just tossed aside like that, and that thought also causes Santi to grin to himself. She loves that damn wolf more than anything, would often swear that she loves him more than she loves Santi but he’s always thought it was so adorable how attached she was to the stuffed animal that he doesn’t even mind. She’d always treated Nevada as if he were a living, breathing thing.

He walks over to him, gently kneeling down to take him into his hands, his smile growing slightly as he feels the matted “fur” against his fingertips.

Santi slowly flips Nevada over, finding that her rings are still shoved onto the tail, just like they had been before. At first, he didn’t think that he would find them there, and he can’t exactly explain to himself why. He gently pulls them off, letting the cool metal settle in the palm of his hand.

All he can do is stare at them for several seconds, and it feels as if a rock settles and grows in the pit of his stomach the longer he he holds them. He closes his fist around the two rings, mumbling something that sounds like a promise — a promise that he’ll find her, and that he’ll bring her justice no matter the outcome — before shoving them into the pocket of his jeans.

He glances at his own wedding band for a moment, sitting on his ring finger, the silver glistening in the light, just like it had every single day since they said “I do”.

Two whole years to the day.

He’d planned to take her away for the weekend to celebrate their anniversary. It was supposed to be special, romantic, just the two of them alone in Boston without a care in the world. He’d had it planned for months now.

Does she know what day it is, wherever she is? Does she remember, or even realize how many days have passed?

Fuck that. Santi hates himself for even wondering, because it made him feel so completely selfish.

And he hates himself even more when he reaches to slide his wedding band off of his finger.

He failed her, he doesn’t deserve to wear it. He doesn’t deserve to call himself her husband.

When-

If they find her — which also makes Santi hate himself, because he’s beginning to pay attention to the numbers and the statistics and he’s starting to look at it as a recovery instead of a rescue — will she even want to still be married to him?

Will she still love him? Or will she hate him for letting this happen to her?

He slowly drops his hand, leaving the band on his ring finger. He’s sure he’ll never be able to take it off. Even if he never sees her again, he was sure the band will remain on his finger until he’s rotting in the ground (like he deserved, but he pushed the thought away, not wanting to wallow in his own self loathing).

He will always be her husband, unless she explicitly tells him that it’s no longer what she wants.

Santi shakes his head and tries to turn his brain off. He doesn’t want to think about that right now.

He shoves Nevada into his bag, zips it close, and makes his way out towards the foyer. He turns off every light in the apartment before leaving, locking the door behind him without looking back once. He can’t stand to be in there any longer, not liking where his mind is headed while standing in the middle of all that had once been theirs.

He arrives back at Jay’s shortly after, expecting him to still be gone on whatever case he’d been talking about, surprised when he finds the other detective standing in the middle of the living room. It looks as if he’d been pacing, his hands on his hips and a blank expression on his face that Santi can’t read.

“What’s up?” Santi asks, throwing his bag onto the floor by the door, deciding he would worry about finding a spot to put it away later.

Jay stays silent for close to a minute, seeming to be lost in thought before he finally speaks, voice low and eyes looking everywhere but at Santi. His tone sounds cold yet so full of emotion at the same time.

“Nathan emailed you a video tonight. Your account is being monitored and we intercepted it before you could see it.”

Santi’s blood runs cold, and he feels frozen in place. He wants to ask Jay what it is, but he can’t make himself speak, doesn’t remember how to use his voice. Instead, he just swallows the lump that had formed in his throat and looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to continue.

It takes Jay several seconds to speak again, and when he finally does, Santi is sure that he would’ve preferred for him to just stay fucking quiet.

“Santi, Nathan shot her.”

Jay has tears in his eyes, and Santi still can’t move. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t fucking move move. Can’t speak, can’t think, can’t process the other man’s words. He can’t do anything.

“They’re working on tracing the email but we...the FBI said they have enough reason to believe that she’s-”

Jay can’t bring himself to finish his sentence, but Santi understands. He understands perfectly, though he wished he didn’t.

Nathan shot her, and they have enough reason to believe it was fatal.

But it doesn’t sit right with Santiago.

Something about it feels off, feels wrong. He was sure he would’ve felt something in his gut, like people say they do in books and movies when someone they care about is hurt or in trouble. But then again, he hadn’t felt anything out of the ordinary when she had been taken. But if she had been killed, he was almost certain he would have felt something — some instinct in the back of his mind, anything.

“She’s not,” Santi snaps, voice hard with emotion though it broke on the last word at the same time. “She’s not dead.”

“Santi,” Jay chastises sternly, exasperation evident in his voice.

“She’s not dead.”

“You didn’t see the video!” Jay yells, sliding his hand down his face as the pain and anger takes over his entire body. “You didn’t see it and you should be thankful that you didn’t have to.”

It’s obvious that what Jay had seen in the video traumatized him, and was enough to make him think for himself that she’s dead, but Santi just can’t accept it. He doesn’t know if it’s the denial talking, or if what he’s feeling is actually real, but after repeating himself for a third time, he feels the world come crashing down around him, he feels everything stop.

Santi’s knees give out, and he crumples, eyes rolling into the back of his head. Jay catches him before he can hit the floor.

Everything is black.

Santi’s heart, his world — it’s nothing but black.

[sunnysviolin]

Reading that one post it makes me imagine Mari comforting her Mob Husband when he had those nights where he feels horribly guilty about those three deaths.

Nonnie....I kinda went off with this ngl. I didn’t really stick to your prompt but like...I went off with this. Hero is my favorite character and I love him so much in this AU and if you want to resend this and get bulletpoints or something then aok but I think you’ll like what I have. I’m...obsessed with it ngl. I’ve been working on it all day long, and I think it’s not half bad. But also ummm Huge fucking TW on this one guys. 

TW: Death TW: Violence TW: Mafia TW: Knives

In his dreams, Hero always ends up back in that parlor. 

It was an opulent room, extravagant to the point of garish. There was a tall ceiling with a simply enormous chandelier hanging down. The tiny crystals glittered in the light, sending dancing shadows along the walls. Along one wall was a bar with a gleaming gold rim. It was gilded with real gold, Hero knew on instinct. He had become an expert in finding the truth since he had taken his place at Mari’s side. 

The only ordinary thing in the room was the knife. Just a straight butcher knife, polished clean. It sat on the table in front of the couch he sat at. Everything else was excellence, the best of the best. This one thing was average. The thing that Tommy “Hedonist” Barone was going to use to kill them was average. The irony would have been funny if it didn’t make Hero feel sick. 

Those are the things that stick out to him- the glittering chandelier, the glowing bar, and the knife. 

Hero knows it's a dream because he’s wearing his pajamas. Just a t-shirt and boxers, remarkably plain for everything in the room. That day he had been in a custom made suit, tailored to fit his exact frame. He had burned that suit, it no longer existed. It had been a beautiful thing, the fabric sinfully luxurious against his skin and light enough he barely noticed. Barone had apparently paid an italian seamstress thousands for each piece of the ensemble, just for the perfection of that night. Hero had hated every second of wearing it. 

He knows its a dream, but he’s still terrified. He’s still shaking as he sits on the too soft cushions of the couch and waits alone in this too big room. There’s no point in trying the doors, he knows that right outside wait two burly guards. They are the same people who marched him here from the cell they had been holding him in. The cell Tommy Barone had tortured him in. 

The cell where he had laughed about how he would kill Hero’s family. How he would rip apart his brothers, Aubrey, Mari, his father, even his mother though she had been dead for over a year. Over and over he had taunted Hero, cutting him and beating him and burning him, all in an effort to get him to scream. Hero had stayed silent. 

The human part of Hero wants him to run and hide or pick up the knife and prepare to go down fighting. Hero keeps himself still and straight. He is the consigliere of the most powerful crime syndicate in the world. His wife is Don Migliore, a legend. Tommy Barone was nothing. He would not be what made Hero break. If he was going to die, he would die, but he wouldn’t be turned into a puppet for Barone to use against his family. The door opposite the one he came in opened, and in walked the Hedonist. 

Tommy Barone was every stereotypical mobster- his greasy hair and his rotund belly. He hid himself under fancy shirts and fingers fat with rings, but Hero had known him most of his life. Hedonist was a slimeball who liked to pretend himself into being a capo. Hero hated that there was fear inside of him from this man, this pig of a man. 

“Well well. You shine like a jewel. I dare say you didn’t even look this nice at your wedding Henry!” Hedonist taunted, the words forever branded into Hero’s mind. He would remember the exact words said to him that night for the rest of his days. Hero loathed being called Henry. Only his mother had ever gotten away with it, but that didn’t matter to Barone. Hero shot a harsh glare towards Barone but kept his mouth shut. 

“Still not talking? And after all the trouble I went through to get you that suit.” Barone stepped further into the room and waddled his way over to the bar. He grabbed a crystal decanter and poured himself a glass of amber, continuing to speak, “I have a little jewel myself- my own personal seamstress. Of course she lives in the old country, she would never want to leave, but I pay her well to be available whenever I need her. She handcrafts everything I wear. Isn’t her work magnificent?”

Hedonist turned from the bar and began to walk to the lounging area. He took a second to do a slow spin, turning to Hero with an expectant look. Hero bit the tip of his tongue between his teeth. A beat passed and Hedonist sighed, coming to sit on the couch directly opposite Hero. 

“I’m fine with continuing to talk if you don’t want to, Henry. You were always a bit quieter though. Your brother, what a chatterbox!” Hero couldn’t help the slight jump in his shoulders when Hedonist mentioned Kel. Barone noticed this and jumped on it, continuing to ramble like the pathetic old man he was, “Even when you two were little you were always teaching him when to be quiet. You should hear him on the phone when your little wifey is arranging your safe return to her. I offered to send them a little piece of you when she tried to say I didn’t have you. Ha I think they had to drag him kicking and screaming from the room,” 

Hero was going to kill him. Hero was going to fucking kill him. Barone had been a part of his father’s business, had watched him and Kel both grow up. Tommy Barone was one of his father’s bannermen, a staple of their organization, but Hero had never liked him. When Mari had taken over she and Hero had cleaned house. Hedonist had been one of the first to go, his methods too messy, his tastes too extravagant. Barone had always lived up to his nickname, and Mari hadn’t wanted to deal with his exorbitant costs. Hero didn’t see it as a waste, and now he knew it wasn’t. 

Barone took a long slow sip of his drink, appraising Hero who continued to stare him down. Hedonist was forced to look away first, and his congenial attitude quickly soured, small blue eyes blown wide in fury.

“You should blame her for this, you know. Your precious Mari. Your family used to be powerful, one of the greats.” Barone sneered, downing the drink and slamming the glass down next to the knife. Hero jumped, his hands trying to pull away from one another. When had he been bound? Weren’t they free only a minute ago? 

Hero looked down at the rope rubbing angry red bracelets onto his wrists. Barone was still going on, but Hero was able to ignore it in favor of looking down and trying to remember how he got this way. He had been forced to listen to Barone’s drabble on an endless loop for the three weeks since he had been taken from outside the Bakery. Hero couldn’t remember anything from before he got in this room, but he knew it had happened. He knew he had been taken, he knew what Tommy had done to him, but it all felt murky. The details existed, but they held no meaning. Barone, clearly done with being ignored, leaned up and grasped Hero’s shoulder, pulling him roughly forward. 

“Now look at you, heir to nothing but being a bitch for some uppity woman who calls herself a Don.” Hedonist leered. Hero shook the man’s hands off of him, leaning back as far as he could. There were a thousand and one things right on the edge of his tongue, but he held himself back. He had gotten this far, he just had to keep playing the game. 

Barone laughed at the boy’s fire, a twisted noise that Hero had always loathed. He had heard it more than he ever wanted in the last few weeks, as Tommy took his pleasure from doing everything he could to get him to buckle. Barone stood, walking towards the door Hero had come in. 

“I hope I do get to hear you scream eventually, Henry. Maybe when Mari gets here,” Hero couldn’t help his quiet gasp. His heart beat a thunderous pattern, sick both with longing and fear. His girl couldn’t come here, not near this monster. Not for him. Hedonist saw that he had gotten a crack, and he chuckled again, “She’s coming herself to get you tonight. Mistress was finally willing to pay the price for her lost puppy back. I told her to come alone, but I’m sure she won’t. I’ll get the satisfaction of wiping your whole miserable family off the planet. At least the last time she sees you, you’ll look perfect. Aside from a few bumps and bruises.”

Barone locked the door, and Hero’s head spun. Mari was coming for him. He knew she had been looking for him, he knew that they had sent her pictures of the damage they had done, humiliating photos that Hero hoped Mari had destroyed before anyone else saw. He knew Mari would eventually come, but now that the reality was at his doorstep, Hero felt his control beginning to slip. Hedonist turned back around and with slow sloping steps began to get closer. Hero was never more aware of the knife in the room, the same knife that had given him the injuries that were still healing all over his body. They pulsed with a familiar wave of pain, and Hero tried to define the exact moment he had gotten so hurt. He didn’t understand, he hadn’t been hurt before. But he had? This was a dream. This wasn’t real. Why did it feel so real?  Hedonist was speaking again.

“The silent treatment is getting boring kiddo, and you know what I’m like when I’m bored.” Hero knew. Hero knew all too well. He had the evidence written into his skin. Hero kept his mouth shut. Mari would be here soon. Mari would make everything okay. Mari would make sure that Tommy begged for mercy, and then she would deny him. 

“Just a few more minutes… actually, I think I’ll kill you now. I was going to kill Mari first, just to get you to finally do something, but it would be more fun to throw your corpse down in front of her and see her lose it.” Barone’s face contorted in glee at the thought, and Hero’s stomach bottomed out. A few more minutes. Mari was coming. Mari would be here soon. 

“You’re the reason she killed her daddy after all. So...maybe all of this is your fault then.” No that wasn’t their fault. That wasn’t Hero’s fault. That was Mari’s father. Mari’s father had made his choices, and forced their hand. Mari had killed him to protect Sunny, to save their families. It hadn’t just been for Hero. It couldn’t have been just for Hero. He couldn’t have been the reason behind everything. It wasn’t true, it couldn’t be. Barone twisted the knife in his hands, throwing his final punch to Hero’s mind, “You’re the reason your family is nothing. You’re the reason your mother is dead.” 

Hero breath began to quicken, and Hedonist jerked him up by an arm, pressing the knife tip against his throat, tracing it almost lovingly against his pulse point. Hero was nearly hyperventilating, his eyes up, staring at the chandelier shaking. Was it the chandelier? It looked fuzzy. Maybe it wasn’t a chandelier at all. This was a dream? Why were his palms sweating? Why was he so terrified? If it wasn’t real, it wouldn’t be like this. He would wake up. 

Please wake up. Please wake up.

“Any last words? Anything to say?” Even if Hero had any, he wouldn’t be able to speak. His mouth was a desert, his throat closed tight. There was no air. This wasn’t a dream. He was going to die. He was only eighteen, and he was about to have his throat slit by an ex-mobster in a parlor. They were using him to get to his wife. Hedonist was going to hurt his Mari. “How disappointing,” 

A series of gunshots tore through the air, throwing them both out of synch. Hero took the two seconds that afforded him. He slammed his bound hands into the side of Tommy Barone’s head, taking all of the rage he had been storing up in the last 24 days and unleashing it. Barone stumbled back and Hero surged forward. He grabbed the blade end of the knife, wincing in pain as it cut into his palms. Hedonist’s grip was loose from disorientation, and that was enough for Hero to wrench it away, spin it around, and thrust it deep into Tommy Barone’s stomach. 

All sound cut out. A high pitched whine was shrieking in his ears. The knife handle was sticky in his grip from the blood. 

Tommy looked at him, confused as a lost child. Hero ripped the knife out of the other man’s gut and buried it in the side of his throat, joined hands holding fast to the black plastic handle. Hot blood sticky and disgusting sprayed out, staining Hero with it. The fabulous suit that Tommy had commissioned was destroyed, ripped from their scuffle and forever marked with red. 

Hero pulled the knife out with a horrific squelching noise, and Tommy fell back. His pale fingers went up to his throat, trying to stem the bleeding. Sound cut back in, there were people yelling and shouting outside. Someone was banging on the door. Hero took two stumbling steps towards it, then paused. 

He was panting from exertion, the feeling of the suit and the blood curdling in his stomach, but he wasn’t done. Not yet. Not after what Barone had done to him. 

Hero turned back. Tommy was a lost cause, panic racing across his features as mortality flew towards him. Hero felt a cruel smile settling on his features, so unlike anything he had ever done before. His face felt like wax, molded and shaped by some unknown force. He practically slid over to where the dying Hedonist lay, tilting his head and staring down at the monster turned human. He stepped over the older man so one foot was on each side of him. 

“You’re going to kill my wife?” Hero’s voice was shredded after so many days of keeping from speaking, but he kept going. He doesn’t recognize his own voice, “Kill my family? You want to hear me scream?” 

Hero turned the knife so the point was directly above Barone’s heart. The man was making a horrific wheezing noise, and the stench of death hung in the air. Someone was rhythmically pounding against the door, clearly trying to break it. Hero ignored them. He had a job to do. He had to protect them from this monster. He had to do what had to be done 

Hero fell to his knees, drove the knife deep into Barone’s chest, opened his mouth, and screamed. 

Hero wakes up still screaming, the iron taste of Hedonist’s blood heavy on his tongue. He thrusts himself into a sitting position, pitching forward and letting his head smack down onto the mattress. A broken howl of agony heaved from his chest, and he continued to wail. His joined hands were pressed up against his chest, no longer bound to one another but stuck in the position all the same.  Hero’s voice gives out on the fourth cry, and Mari’s hands are cool on his back as she runs her fingers along his spine and hushes him. She is speaking to him in soft whispers. He can’t hear her words, but the smell of her shampoo is strong in his nose. She is here. She is safe. 

Hedonist is dead, his body burnt and ashes scattered in a dump. Hero is not bound, his injuries long scarred over. The horrible suit was destroyed. It was a dream. He was safe. He had saved his family. He had done what he had to, and it had broken him, but he had protected them. 

Hero continues to cry out silently until the sun rises pale in the sky.

[kevindayisafrog]

Part 5.5 of the Kevaaron thing (it was too long lmao)

TW - manipulative relationship and panic attack

Kevin woke to the sound of his phone ringing absently in his ear; though he hadn’t been sleeping, not really. He had been staring at the wall and trying to block out the memories of his past from playing in his mind. He rolled over and tensed at the name of the caller: Thea. He answered and shakily pushed the phone to his ear. “Hello”, his voice sounded quiet so he cleared his throat and sat up. “I’ve been ringing you for hours, Kevin. Why don’t you ever pick up?” Thea’s voice already sounded cold and Kevin regretted answering. “Sorry, I was asleep. How are you?”, he ran his fingers through his hair and started to bite the inside of his cheek. “Not good, obviously. I’m sure you’ve heard about Riko”, she waited quietly for him to respond so he hummed in agreement. “It’s fucking disgusting. Just think about it for a second”, Kevin had to bite his cheek harder in attempts to not laugh at her. It’s all he’s been thinking about. “Whilst you were off living it up with the Foxes, he was stuck there all alone. You two were brothers, Kevin, and you just left him behind. And then you had the audacity to humiliate him by making him lose. Do you even feel bad?” her voice turned to ice and Kevin involuntarily flinched. “It’s not my fault”, his voice came out shakier then he wanted it to and swore under his breath. “Of course it’s not your fault, it’s never your fault is it? All you did was abandon him and make him feel like shit. You never thought about him”. Kevin laughed this time and regretted it as Thea screamed his name down the phone. “I know, but you saw what he did to me. Every fucking day for years. He even broke my hand, for fuck’s sake”, Kevin pulled the phone away from his ear as Thea’s shrill laugh hit him. “Maybe you deserved it”, her words stabbed him and he sat up straighter with his hand clutching the phone with tense fists. “You know what, Thea? Fuck you. All you ever did was take Riko’s fucking side. You always stood up for him and told me that it was my fault. Every fucking time. I don’t even know why we’re together, you fucking hate me. All you do is shout at me and remind me that I’m a worthless piece of shit that’s never been good enough. All you do is beat the shit out of me on the court and then fuck me with more violence than love. And frankly, I’ve had enough”, he hadn’t realized that he’d been shouting until Thea began hushing him and telling him to keep his voice down. “Baby, it’s okay”, her voice suddenly became softer and Kevin felt sick, “it’s okay that you’re hurting, but you don’t have to take it out on me. I’ve always been here for you, so treat me with respect for once. I’ll call you back when you’re not acting like a child”. Kevin groaned and punched his thigh. “Thea, I don’t think we should be together anymore”. He waited for her to speak but the silence continued for too long. “Thea?” he waited and flinched as she laughed again. “Are you drunk? Kevin, baby, I told you to stop drinking. I’ll call back when you’re sober”. It was Kevin’s turn to laugh this time. “No, no I’m great. I’m just tired of your shit. Don’t bother calling me back because I won’t answer. We’re over, Thea. Now leave me alone”. He hung up and sat frozen as he imagined the lies that Thea would tell the press. If he’s not in hot water now over Riko, he’ll definitely be hated now. He stared at his phone’s dark screen before grabbing it and throwing it across the room. “Fuck”, he whispered to himself as he heard a knock on the door. “Fuck off”, his voice cracked and he felt his cheeks burn in humiliation. “It’s me”, Aaron’s muffled voice came through the door as he slowly pushed it open. “It’s my turn to keep an eye on you”. Kevin laughed and looked away, “aren’t you supposed to be studying yourself to death right now?” Aaron ignored his words and decided to climb up into Kevin’s bed instead. “Fuck off”, Kevin felt his cheeks burn as Aaron settled himself at the foot of the bed. “I don’t care”, Aaron pulled revision cards from his oversized hoodie pocket and placed them neatly on the crumpled bed sheets.

[hobihobihoe]

Unruly - Part one

Obey me! + Mafia BTS + 0T7 au x reader                                                                

2.5k ish 

Warnings : 18+ slowwww burn ~ eventual smut ~ descriptions of blood and violence ~ cliche city ~ alsooo uhh if you care about grammar this is not 4 U cause imma dumb bitch <3

Andd ahh this is the first thing i’ve ever written so its probably kinda shit.. :)

Great. Just great. Why did you agree to this again? Oh yeah because you’re a good person, or at least you’re trying to be. You’d just agreed to cover Rosies shift, apparently she was sick, but what you hadn't taken into account when you’d agreed to work was that Rosie had been booked to a private venue, well I guess now you had been booked to a private venue. You hated working private venues, as a bartender people would sometimes assume you provided the drinks or that because you weren't working at your company bar you would join in with shots or maybe give them a discount as you were a lone ranger incharge of yourself and providing alcohol for the night. One thing a private venue did mean though was money, getting paid nearly twice the amount you usually did as well as hopefully generous tips from wealthy clients. But still you weren’t quite sure three times the work was worth only double the pay, but well… fuck it you’ve gotta be a good friend/colleague and well person to Rosie so you just have to suck it up.

Thankfully it was a Saturday night so you didn't have to work it after being at university all day. So you bid farewell to the library you had been pretending to study at and headed home to get changed into something more presentable because a hoodie three times your size and leggings covered in dorito dust probably wouldn't fly at this kind of event.

As you opened the door you heard the crocky meows of your little baby, Zuki. He was an all black rescue cat that you'd adopted two years ago, when you’d started university, as a companion and partly because as soon as you saw his cute little face you were screwed and had to bring him home. You bent down to stroke his head and scratch behind his ear just the way he likes, which results in him vibrating with loud purrs that soften your heart. “Okay baby I love you but I gotta go get ready” Zuki looks at you with annoyance now that you've cut his pampering session short, he's such a spoiled little brat you think to yourself, but as he follows you into your bedroom with his tail high in the air and a slight sway in his steps you can't bring yourself to care. He is just too damn cute.

Now donned in your crisp white shirt and black dress pants you tame your hair enough so that it resembles a neatish bun, you say goodbye to your fur baby and head off to your car on your way to hopefully a nice paycheque.

When you arrive you're greeted by Jae. He leads you to the bar and tells you to ask him if there's anything you need. Okay so far so good, you've just gotta make yourself familiar with any specialised drinks on the menu and the rest should be smooth sailing. About 10 minutes after you arrive a large group of men appear, they sit down on two separate sides of the long table that takes up most of the room, they then send two men from each group respectively your way. Game time you think, the man that reaches the bar first is sweating noticeably, his black hair sticking to the front of his forehead matting the hair that it encompases. “sweetheart get me 6 doubles of gentleman jack over ice and 2 dry martinis”, you smile at him, so thankful that you wouldn't have to make any cocktails. They were time consuming and required a lot of faf essentially and a lot of cleaning up, “of course sir” you say as you smile at him, he barely acknowledges you as he goes to sit at one of the stools that lined the bar. As you get to making his drinks you hear the clearing of someone's throat, you look up and realise it was the other man that you had been coming over. You nearly choke on your spit at the sight of him. His pastel pink hair is delicately framing his cherub-like face, “Miss?”, oh shit you’d zoned out, “Oh i'm so sorry I missed what you said completely '' you admitted shly, he just gave a cute little chuckle. “ Its okay angel” you started to blush at the use of such an affectionate nickname “I asked if I could have 6 manhattans and a sex on the beach” great fucking coacktails you signed internaly, “Of course sir” that earned a smirk from him, you were just being professional, shit professional you had to remind yourself to focus on making the drinks as your traitorous eyes kept lingering in the area surrounding him.

As you finish preparing each individual drink you place them on the bar so the men can take them to booths. Just as you were setting down the final cocktail you brush fingers with the pink haired man, “oh... um” you say prepared to give him an apology but as you look up and meet his eyes you seem to lose your ability to form any kind of cohesive sentence “Jimin, angel, my names Jimin” he states  “oh uh, Jimin I hope you enjoy your drinks'' you feel like a pathetic teenager again unable to talk to the pretty boy at the party. “I'm sure I will angel” he throws over his shoulder as he walks back to the group of men he’d emerged from, what was it with him saying that nickname that just made you giddy. God I really need to get out more you thought, maybe you could go out tomorrow as you wouldn't be working since you covered rosies shift, maybe then you could get some real action and should hopefully suasiate you for a bit. Ugh it's like Jimin had awoken something within you, which usually you’d be interested to explore, but considering that you were at work you were gonna just have to put his beautiful face to the back of your mind for when you got home later and could relax properly. Zesh should you feel creepy? No its not your fault that what was practically sex on legs was going about all unobtainable, thats what your imagination and your trusty vibrator were for anyway.

An hour later and you've made exactly three more drinks, wow, maybe if you stare at the champagne flute for another 10 minutes you'll unlock its secrets and it will be more interesting. Just as you were debating wiping down the bar for the hundredth time you hear chairs being pulled out and moved loudly. You look up to see that both groups of men which were previously amicably sat at the table now have guns aimed at each other. You freeze. You haven't ever seen a gun in person before and there must be well over ten now all presumably aimed and ready to fire. You dunk under the bar as you hear yelling start. You weren't able to focus on what was being said by the men, too busy trying to focus on controlling your breathing. Fuck. that sounded like a gun shot. And then another. You've lost track of how many shots you've heard, lots is the amount you settle on, maybe if you just stay behind the bar and stay quiet they'll forget you’re there and leave you alone. There is a long silence in the room, you try your best to mimic it when you notice the movement in one of the wine glasses that are stacked up behind the bar. Someone pushes the staff entrance to the bar open and strides towards you, gun in his right hand. You start to push yourself backward but are soon met with the edge of the bar, the man is dressed in all red and if it weren't for the specks of blood covering his face you would consider him unbelievably attractive. You seem to have been consumed by these thoughts because you suddenly come back into your physical reality, met with a gun now pointed only inches away from your face. You search his eyes for any kind of mercy or empathy you could try to appeal to, what shocks you is you only see a smoldering fire. You see his finger move on the trigger and close your eyes, you don't want the last thing you see to be a stranger. Just as you were going to try to think of pleasant things and the ones you cheriouish you hear a voice. “Hobi stop” Jimin said rather nonchalantly given your current situation, “Chim just let me tie up this loose end then we can get going” the other man, you guess Hobi? Sneered. Wow he just thought of killing you as an inconvenience, what a dick. “Hobi I think we could use her for something else” “what?” Hobi questioned sternly “well even Yoongi mentioned how good his drink was and we always have to get a new bartender every meeting and it would be easier if we had one who knew who we were so when this kind of shit happens again we haven't got any loose ends” Jimin points out. Hobi seems to consider this for a minute before he moves away in a different direction to Jimin, you try to follow his eye line but because of your placement on the floor you can’t see over the bar. “Joon, obviously the call is yours to make” Hobi announces. “It does seem to be a practical suggestion and Jimin must have taken a liking to her if he stopped you, so I don't see why not” the ominous voice declared. After a second of those words sinking in you realise that they have just decided to take you with them, to take you captive.

You start to shake, turning your head to meet Jimin's eye “no uh..um.no please don't take me” you sniffle “I promise I never saw anything, I won't say anything p-please just let me go home” you can barley make out your own words as they are effectively smothered by your tears and your small gasps for breath as you aren't able to regulate your breathing. Jimin elegantly slides over the bar and bends down to your height “Angel don't be so silly, you're coming with us. You should really be thanking me” he gives you a small wink. That causes a fresh wave of panic to settle over you, you know there's a fire exit further down in the bar hidden within the sinks and stock area, with the spike of adrenaline you start to run towards the exit. It looks like it's going well until you hear a loud bang, then the feeling of the side of your head being hit registers, lastly you notice your eyesight unfocusing before darkness seems to override and then suddenly, nothing.

~JIMINS POV~

“Yoongi was that really necessary?” Jimin akses with a slight frown on his face. The older man shrugs “someone had to do something” Jimin sighs and looks at Jungkook, “it will be easier if you carry her.”

~YOUR POV~

When you open your eyes again you see white, adjusting slightly, you realise your laying on a bed. You sit up and look around the room. There are 5 other beds that you can see, they are all small single beds with a chest at the end of each. You look over your surroundings for a few minutes before you remember the circumstances leading up to you being here. You touch the back of your head and wince when your fingers meet a small swollen bump. You decided you should probably try and leave, poor Zuki is probably waiting for you to fill his food bowl. Wow, you realise in this situation you think of your cat's mortality more than your own, well you guess that's what your life has amounted to. Just as you stand up the door opens. “Oh you're awake now” You look over to see the small older woman who was speaking “Umm.. where am i?” The lady gives you a small smile “You're in the maids room sweetie.” Great that's cleared up nothing, you think bitterly. “Can I talk to whoever's in charge? Please?” You think this is probably your best bet, explain to them that you just want to go hope and hopefully they'll be humane enough to agree with that. “Yes, he wanted me to come and get you anyway” She states as she turns around walking away from the doorway, you start to follow her. As you continue walking through the hallways and up the stairs of this seemingly huge mansion you notice several men standing guard with guns rested in their hands, ready at all times. You start to wonder if maybe your idea is ridiculous as you realise wherever you are and whatever you have gotten yourself involved in may be larger than the small group of men you'd seen at the bar. Your worrying is cut short as the women raises her hand and knocks at a door you have stopped outside off, a short “Come in” is what is answered from the other side of the door, the older women looks to you, “You should go in alone, i'll be waiting for you here” You look at her and then to the door “Uh... thank you?” You’re not really sure what the appropriate response is in this situation but you don't want to be rude, she gives you a short nod and smile.

Once you open the door you're faced with one of the men you'd seen before. He regards you with a very slight smile before he gestures to a chair placed in front of the desk he is sitting behind, you walk over to sit at the chair before you look at him directly. You aren't sure if the bang to the head you had received had caused temporary delusions, but as you look at him you swear you see light radiating out of him. You meet his eyes for a second before you decide they are too intimidating and look away, “You wanted to see me?” you ask meekly, deciding to for now abandon your plea for freedom. “Yes, I did, i'm not sure if you remember why we brought you here so i’ll just go over your role again” he starts “You’re going to be working as our personal bartender, this means you will joins us on outings that we deem appropriate and also make our drinks whilst we are here, at the base” he then moves his face into your eye line so that he can make eye contact “And in return of your services we’ll let you live” he finishes his small speech with a slight smile, as if he had just offered you a job and you weren't being threatened and held captive in this place. You take a few minutes to think over what he had just said, you come to the conclusion that for now faking compliance is probably the safest thing you can do until you are able to find a window to escape. “Who do you mean when you say we?” you enquire, you weren't sure if you should be questioning the leader of this organisation?, but your curiosity had won over any of the other responses you considered.

[the-darklings]

—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 

[hoewkeyesblue]

Drown

requested by: anon

“HI!!! Can i request an imagine where the reader is dating john and she takes a bullet for one of his brothers. She lives but it’s all dramatic and angsty?”

pairing: john shelby x reader

summary: you couldn’t stand the thought of losing john, so you took the bullets that were meant for him. john’s point of view.

word count: 1.6K

warnings: angst, panic attacks, alcohol, violence, drugs.

author’s note: wow! what a wonderful ride. it’s not exactly what you wanted, but I hope you can enjoy it. I did. don’t forget english isn’t my first language and be nice.

Day 0

You’re on the floor.

I'm unable to think straight; all I see is you and your blood, everything else is a blur. I can't hear shit, just a weird sound like I am underwater. It feels like I'm completely high.

I know I got shot too, I can feel the pain in my shoulder and leg, but I can't push myself to think about it. All the blood I see is yours.

Just yours.

I fall on my knees, touching your face. “Why would you do that?”, I ask.

Your eyes are still open and you're smiling to me. Fucking smiling. It would be a wonderful view if there wasn't blood running out of your mouth.

I'm panicking. I look around to see Michael bleeding as well. My heart aches, and, for a second, I feel like I'll suffocate; my hands are cold and I'm shaking.

I'm alone. What am I supposed to do?

And why I can't breathe?

“I won't let you die”, I close my eyes, trying to think before standing up and running inside. My legs are trembling and I know that I won't be awake for too long now.

I grab the phone, Tommy will know what to do. He answers quickly.

“We’ve been shot. Y/N and Michael are fucking dying.”

And everything goes dark.

Day 1

The walls are white.

Tommy’s face is the first thing I see.

“Where am I?”, is the only thing I can think about, and say. It's kinda hard to see, it feels like my eyes weight a thousand pounds.

“You're in the hospital, John”, Arthur speaks and only now I notice him, standing next to the door.

Hospital? What the fuck am I doing in a fucking hospital?

And where are you?

No.

No, no, no, no.

“Where’s she?”, my voice cracks. “Fuck, where is she?”

Tommy and Arthur don’t say shit.

Fuck this; if they won’t tell me, I’ll find out. Standing up and ripping those stuff off my body, I feel my shoulder burning, “Shit.”

“John...”

Whatever he is saying, I don't stay to listen. I'm running in the hospital hallways with my two brothers running after me, but I need to find you. I need to.

Someone grabs my arm and then Polly’s in front of me, worried sick as well. Finally, someone who'll actually talk to me.

“They're here”, she mumbles.

“Polly... not now”, Arthur interrupts.

“He needs to know!”, she yells. Some people are staring at us, but I don't give a fuck.

My hands are shaking again.

“Know... what?”

Polly says nothing, just starts walking and I go after her. There's a room at the end of the hallway and, as I come closer, I can see your hair in the mattress.

I feel like throwing up.

No.

I can't see that, “Is she...?”

“No.”

Relief. The weigh I felt on my shoulders are not so heavy anymore. You're not dead, that's enough for now.

I walk closer and touch your face; feeling your skin is wonderful. Even better than before, I understand the value of that now.

“You scared the hell outta me, darling”, I press my forehead against yours. My hand is still on your cheek, caressing it softly. “Don't ever do that again, please.”

“John”, Arthur speaks in a nervous tone. “Doctors said that they’ll try, but she probably won't make it. I'm sorry.”

I close my eyes, my forehead still pressed against yours, and mutter, “The hell you just said?”

Silence.

I turn to face my brother and approach him. My heart is beating like crazy, my hands feel cold and my head is now pounding painfully.

“You're sorry? You're sorry for what? Is she dead yet? Is she fucking dead?”, I yell in his face, my voice cracks again.

I didn't like his tone, he spoke like it was a lost cause.

You're alive, you aren't going to die. I won't let you.

I can't breathe.

Again, I can't breathe.

“I can't... breathe.”

My hands are now in my chest as I try to feel a little less suffocated. My heart... I can feel every beat. I can hear every beat.

Polly says something, I know she did because I saw her lips moving. I just can't figure out what was it.

Day 2

“I'm sorry I blacked out yesterday, I should've stayed here with you the whole day”, I whisper, kissing your hand. “Polly said I had a panic attack, thought that kind of thing was bullshit.”

You don't answer, obviously. I already miss hearing your voice.

“Look what you did to me, darling.”

Day 6

Michael woke up and you just... won't.

The two bullets wounds I got are now healing and I'm perfectly fine. At least, physically.

Why don't you wake up?

I killed two men this week. They chased me on the streets and I put a bullet into their heads. It felt so good, baby. I said your name, I screamed your name.

Did those bastards really think they could hurt you? They were wrong. They are wrong; I'll kill one by one, I promise you.

I don't sleep anymore. Not since day 2.

I work the whole day and come to stay with you when the night begins. I would stay by your side 24/7 if I could, but I need to kill those Italians. I know you understand me.

“How are you feeling today, my love?”, I ask you, touching your lips with my fingers. You're so cold now, it scares me.

“Mr. Shelby”, it's the nurse by the door. “I'm afraid drinking isn’t allowed in the hospital.”

Oh, right. I'm drinking right now; I drink as I breathe. There's a bottle of whiskey in my hands, I take a sip when I feel like it.

Don't you worry, please. It's just a way to get closer to you; when I'm feeling dizzy, I can feel your lips against mine.

“I'm sorry, do I look like I care about the hospital’s rules? Get out.”

Day 9

I'm drowning.

There's snow in the tip of my nose, there's snow on the table beside your bed. I know you hate when I snort, but I need to stay awake.

I need to look after you.

Day 11

The doctor said I should give up and let you go. The damage is done, there nothing they can do to heal you.

Fucking nothing.

I'm shattered.

I don't cry, you know I don't, but I'm screaming in pain with my face pressed against the pillow.

You can't leave me, my love.

I won't let you leave me.

I'll wait until you wake up, I won't give up on you. I told that doctor to fuck off and said that I'd cut his balls off if he doesn't try harder.

He’ll try harder and you'll heal. I know you will.

Because I don't know what I'll do if you don't.

Day 12

“John?”, it’s Arthur’s voice, but where is it coming from?

Looking around the street, I try to find my brother. Someone grabs my shoulder and that scares the hell outta me, the next thing I know is that I'm pointing a gun at Arthur’s face.

“It’s me, John! Geez!”, he curses. “Are you drunk? It's 8 am, brother, what’s happening?”

Day 17

Your skin feels so cold.

Your lips are pale now and it's killing me; I feel like I'm watching you die, day by day.

Your life is escaping your body and I am watching every step of it.

“Tommy won't let me work, I'm so fucking mad at him. All I wanna do is blow the brains of that Italian bastard out and he won't let me”, I complain -- I know I'm complaining a lot these days, I'm sorry.

But you're not speaking to me; you're not here to tell me to stop worrying.

Day 24

Polly said I smelled like shit, so I went home to take a shower.

I don't you to be uncomfortable around me when you wake up, so I'm using my best perfume now.

Doctors said you won't wake up, so I discovered where they lived and shot their windows. Now they're scared and now they won't let you die.

Everything’s gonna be alright.

Day 31

The last time I spoke to you was a month ago.

The last time you touched me as well.

Maybe I have to accept that you are, actually, dying. Maybe already dead.

I should let you go.

Day 45

I'm in the hospital, but not with you.

I drank so much I passed out for an entire day; Ada thought I was dead.

I wish I was.

I can't stop thinking about all the times I let you down in different ways, all the times I screamed at you or cheated on you. I was a piece of shit, the worst husband you could ever have.

You were the best.

I remember the first time I realized I loved you, it's clear like water now. It was 4 am and I knocked on your door, covered in blood.

You invited me in and bathed me, took care of me, and hugged me tight until I fell asleep. It became the best night of my life.

And, after we married, you were still wonderful. Every day and every night.

The love of my life.

Oh, God, I really wish I was dead when Ada found me.

Day 49

I'm going crazy.

I could swear you opened your eyes.

If it wasn't impossible, I'd say you're looking at me with your beautiful eyes.

Am I going crazy?

“John?”

Fuck, it's your voice.

“John, what happened?”

You're alive.

———

blinders taglist

@haphazardhufflepuff​

[moonknightly]

and you keep me holding on : santiago “pope” garcia x reader (five)

Word Count: 2.9k

Excerpt: “Around the four minute mark, he watched as Nathan’s hand moved into frame to stroke her cheek. Santi was just about to turn away, hating the way he touched her so tenderly when he was using her as nothing more than the sick focus in this game he was playing...”

Warnings: Mentions of past sexual assault, blood, gun violence, mentions of death — it’s a lot folks. Read cautiously. 

[SERIES MASTERLIST]

OCTOBER 22ND — DAY SIX

Santi isn’t the one to break the news to her parents. He still has no idea what to say to them, or if he even can say anything to them without making himself sick, without breaking down completely. He isn’t used to feeling emotion like this, doesn’t know what he can handle and what will send him spiraling. The last of his mental stability isn’t something he is willing to risk losing right now.

He is, however, sitting in Cameron’s office when she makes the dreaded phone call, and he can hear her mother sob on the other line, and all he can do is watch, numbly so, as tears flood Cameron’s own eyes. Santi knows that she hasn’t had the time to process it for herself — her complete and utter focus has been on both him and this case, and on top of that she still has a department to run and her own family waiting for her at home.

She has to be tired.

Santi is so, so tired.

The night before is a blur. He remembers Jay telling him about the video, and then there’s nothing until this morning, when Jay shook him awake to tell him Cameron needed him down at the precinct. He still doesn’t know what for. There was no way she was expecting him to do any work for the case, that much he knew, and so he hadn’t bothered fixing his hair or changing out of his sweats.

He sits quietly on the small sofa in Cameron’s office with Jay sitting to his left, both staring at nothing in particular. Santi’s leg is bouncing again, his elbow perched on it and knuckles resting against his bottom lip. He still refuses to believe that she's gone. Santi is so, so sure that she's still alive, but no one else seems to think so. He can’t even begin to put into words how enraged it makes him, how much it makes him want to scream and break anything he can get his hands on.

But then again, he hasn’t seen the video. He hasn’t seen what everyone else had seen, and though he really doesn’t want to, he knows that he needs to, if only for some sense of twisted, morbid closure. To put it all to rest.

And besides that, he can’t just take their word for it when there’s a gnawing, pulling feeling in his stomach telling him that they’re all wrong. It isn’t hope, and it sure as hell isn’t faith, because Santi doesn’t have any faith left to give, not in the squad, not in himself, not even in the boys — they’d offered their help, but he has nothing to give them, no leads to go off of and he knows that’s his fault because he’s not trying hard enough but it’s easier to just blame everyone else.

But that’s something he would deal with later, because all he can focus on is that damn feeling in the pit of his stomach. It’s more than faith or hope, and he honestly doesn’t have a word for it — personal assurance, maybe? All he knows is that he’s so completely positive that she’s somewhere, still breathing, still living.

“Garcia,” Cameron gently begins, causing Santi’s eyes to immediately flicker over to her. She hesitates for a moment as she looks him over, taking in his hunched appearance that was so un-Santi like it doesn’t even look like him for a moment. “I’m so sorry, but I had to-”

“I wanna see the video,” Santi mumbles, not caring about what she had to say, his words slurring together as if he had been drowning himself in liquor the night before instead of lying passed out on the couch.

His words catch Cameron off guard, and her eyes widen, only slightly but enough for Santi to notice. She quickly averts her gaze to Jay as she searches for the right thing to say, but she doesn’t know how to answer him. When almost a full thirty seconds pass in silence, Jay decides that he has to be the one to break it, not able to stand it.

“Santi, I really don’t think that’s a good-”

“Look, I’m just gonna guess that you called me down here because the feds want to talk to me, right? And you know, they’re probably going to show it to me while they’re accusing me of murdering my wife again-”

Both Jay and Cameron flinch, but Santi doesn’t stop talking.

“-and I’d say that’s a pretty shitty way to see it for the first time, don’t you?”

Now it’s Jay’s turn to be stunned into silence. He tries his best to put himself into Santi’s shoes, tries to figure out what he would personally want if he ever found himself in a similar situation.

But he has no idea what he would want in this instance, because he doesn’t know how to even begin imagining something so awful. He would never wish this on his worst enemy, which he knows is a terrible cliche, and it's hard enough as her friend, he just can’t imagine this from her lover’s standpoint.

But he knows that Santi is right, and that his first time seeing the video shouldn’t be when he’s being interrogated by Barnes and Graves. He sighs gently, and closes his eyes slowly before nodding his head.

“Fine. But you’re not watching it alone.”

Santi only nods in return, knowing better than to argue. He knows he won’t be able to watch it on his own anyways.

He stands, somewhat shakily, and inhales deeply, trying to calm the nerves that seem to have made a permanent home in his stomach over the last six days. Cameron offers her seat to him, and he sits without question, already feeling like his knees will give out at any second. Jay comes to stand behind him, and he takes one last look at Santi before clicking on the correct file, regretting it the moment he watches Santi suck in a sharp breath, a small gasp falling from his lips at the image that’s now displayed on the screen.

Just like the photo from a few days before, she’s tied up and gagged and she looks so utterly terrified it makes Santi’s head spin. She looks weaker than before too, and she’s only wearing her underwear. A wave of nausea hits and Santi swallows hard, and Cameron just wants to get it over with, so she hits play.

Immediately, Nathan grabs her jaw, pushing her cheeks together, forcing her lips to purse. It makes Santi’s skin burn, seeing his hands on her like that. His first thought is that he wants to break the fucker’s fingers, one by one.

The longer the camera focuses on her face, the harder and harder her glare becomes, and Santi feels that disgusting pride swell in his chest at the brutal fire in her eyes. That's his girl, so stubborn, never the one to go down without a fight.

She violently shakes her head once before attempting to thrash her arms, but she doesn't get very far with that, the ropes not allowing her to move hardly at all.

“Say hi to your husband, baby,” Nathan snickers, his voice dripping with venom that only adds to the fire moving through Santi’s veins. Maybe it was also due to the fact that he called her “baby”, but he knows he shouldn’t be focusing on that.

Nathan pulls the gag from her lips, and she gasps for air, gritting her teeth together but otherwise staying silent. When she fails to speak, Nathan laughs again.

“Is someone nervous?”

“Fuck you.”

“Again? We just finished not too long ago, sweetheart.”

She stays quiet again. Santi feels like he’s going to vomit, but he pushes the feeling down. He’s gotten really good at doing that in the last six days — at pushing all of his feelings down and away and locking them behind thick walls where he wouldn’t have to face them.

He can feel Cameron’s worried eyes on him, but he ignores them, refusing to pull his attention away from the screen in front of him.

“You wanna tell him about that, huh baby? You wanna tell your husband what I did to you? What you let me do to you?”

This time, she flinches when Nathan says the word “husband”, almost subtle enough to where Santi wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t paying such close attention.

“I didn’t let you do anything.”

“Mm, you did put up a pretty good fight sweetheart. You really know how to tighten my pants, don’t you?”

Santi doesn’t want to see anymore, doesn't want to hear anymore, but he can’t stop watching. He has to see it for himself, he has to. He needs to.

The video continues on for a few minutes, Nathan going into sick detail with every heinous act he performed or otherwise forced her into, because he knew Santi would see the video and he knew what it would do to him. Santi feels closer to faint with each passing second.

Around the four minute mark, he watches as Nathan’s hand moves into frame to stroke her cheek. Santi is just about to turn away, hating the way he touched her so tenderly when he watches her snap her head to the right and in one swift, solid motion, she has Nathan’s hand in her mouth and she’s biting down. Hard.

Nathan’s screams echo through the speakers, and Santi finds himself smirking at the sound. She has a good grip on him for several seconds before he manages to pull away, a bloody bite mark on the back of his hand. His screaming continues, and Santi actually lets out a chuckle that only increases Cameron’s concern.

But then suddenly, Santi isn’t laughing anymore, because Nathan brings the end of a gun down onto her head and the wound in her eyebrow splits open again. She groans, only briefly before she regains her composure, refusing to show how much pain she’s actually in. She’s grinning, and Nathan’s cursing.

“You’re going to pay for that,” Nathan says, a sadistic edge to his voice that puts Santi on complete alert, sets him on edge.

She chuckles, her grin quickly turning into a smirk that Santiago instantly recognizes. It was the same smirk she wore when she was being stubborn or when she was challenging something.

Or in this case, someone.

“Goddammit,” Santi mutters the second he catches it, because he knows her well enough to know that she was about to open her mouth when she should have just kept it shut.

“Bring it. Can’t get any worse than having you on top of me, can it?”

Not a moment later, a single shot rings through the speakers, causing Santi to jump in his chair, though he knows he should have been prepared for it.

He can see her eyes widen, but she doesn’t scream. She doesn't make a single noise whatsoever. She only stares at some faraway spot, her eyes watering and her jaw falling slack as she fades away into a state of shock while Nathan laughs maliciously. He grabs her cheeks again and holds them tightly while he forces her to look into the camera.

“You have anything you want to say to Santiago now? Huh?” he yells, and before she can answer, Cameron bends down and clicks out of the video.

Santi’s head jerks to the side, eyebrows furrowing as he looks up at the lieutenant. “What are you-”

“That’s enough. She didn’t say anything.”

“But-”

“Santi,” Jay murmurs, shaking his head slowly. “It only had a few seconds left. You didn’t need to see anymore of it.”

Santi sits there for several seconds, staring at the computer screen as he tries to decipher the emotions running through his brain. He can’t figure out how to feel or how to even make himself feel it — he’s just numb. He can admit that his chest feels a little bit emptier than it had before he walked into the office, and there’s a hint of anger, but nothing compared to what he’s been feeling all week.

If the movies and the books were right, he should be screaming, crying. Begging and pleading. He should be going through the same emotions he’d experienced on the phone with his mother, he should be inconsolable. Losing his mind and throwing things.

But he doesn’t have the urge to do any of that. At the very least he thinks he should have been having a similar reaction Jay’s from the night before, but there’s just nothing.

There is, however, two things that he’s absolutely certain of.

“She didn’t need to speak to say it,” Santi mumbles quietly. “She said that she’s sorry. That she loves me.”

Cameron raises an eyebrow, her head tilting to the side. “What do you-”

“I could see it in her eyes. You’re with a person long enough and words just kind of become redundant.”

Cameron hesitates as tears spring to her eyes. It’s hard enough losing a friend, but she almost believes it’s even harder watching a friend deal with losing his wife. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone love someone like you two loved each othe-”

“Don’t,” he snaps, effectively cutting her off. “Not past tense. Don’t do that shit to me.”

She sighs. “You know what I mean.”

“She’s still alive.”

“Santi-”

“She is.”

Cameron stays silent, again at a loss for words. Santi’s been forced to grieve for his wife once already, through the hope of finding her alive, and just when he was getting to a place where he was able to find just a little bit of light in the sorrow, he has to grieve her death. He has to go through the five stages of grief all over again, though he had never really finished the cycle the first time around, hadn’t allowed himself to.

Denial was the first. It was textbook—

“We didn’t see where it hit,” he says, interrupting her thought process.

She hesitates, considering his words for a moment. “No, we didn’t. But-”

“So he could have shot her in the fuckin’ foot for all we know. She could still-”

“If she had been shot in the foot, it would hurt more than it would have immediately thrown her into shock-”

“Not necessarily-”

“-and even so, the infection’s gonna kill her. Nathan can’t take her to a hospital.”

Santi only scoffs, leaning back in the chair, trying his hardest to keep his anger at bay. Screaming, arguing won’t get him anywhere.

Jay licks his lips, bracing himself against the desk, leaning forward so he can get a better look at Santiago. “You know the odds are definitely not in her favor.”

“But the odds aren’t completely zero, are they?”

“It’s…” Jay starts, pausing, sighing, knowing Cameron isn’t going to like what he has to say. “It’s possible. We’ve certainly seen people survive worse than a gunshot to the foot.”

“But like Garcia said,” Cameron adds, clearly agitated as she pinches the bridge of her nose. “We didn’t see where the bullet hit. It could have hit anywhere from the chest down.”

“So we should stop searching for my wife because of a possibility rather than take the probability and run with it?”

Cameron again doesn’t have anything to say. She doesn’t know what to say. As a friend, she wants to say no, they shouldn’t stop looking. They should never stop looking.

But as a cop, she wants to say that there’s nothing else they can do, not until they have a substantial lead, something else to go off of. They can’t even trace the video and the email back to an IP address, for some reason that they still can’t quite figure out.

“Cameron,” Santi mumbles, voice gentle, calmer than it had been just seconds before. He blinks, and Cameron can’t tell if it’s to hold back his tears or if it’s to give himself a moment to breathe, to work up the courage to speak again.

“I’m not going to stop looking until there’s a body.”

Cameron’s breath hitches, and she forces herself to swallow the lump in her throat, to not show how his words hit her right in the gut and knocked the air from her lungs completely.

“I know,” she sighs finally, shaking her head slowly and averting her gaze. “But I still think you need to stay away from this. You’re going to drive yourself mad, Santiago. You’re loyal to a fault and it’s going to cost you your own health.”

“It’s not even about loyalty at this point.”

Cameron shifts her eyes back to Santi.

“It’s just about knowing.”

Santi hesitates, running a hand through his disheveled curls, down his face, the pressure in his chest growing the longer he sits there with his thoughts running wildly through his head.

“She’s still alive because I don’t know that she’s dead.”

[neverendingstories00]

Past The Point Of No Return (Ch.6)

Pairing: Safin x F! Reader

Summary: You feel disgusted after your weekend trip. Safin has made you a shell of the woman you were before, planning to marry you and have his way. Just because he had broken you didn't mean that you couldn't fight back.

Word Count: 4.4k

Warnings: Descriptions of violence, blood, and gunshot wounds

A/N: I really need to go to bed. I keep posting these chappies at like 3am. Like this ain’t good for my mental state but oh well! Safin is going to be the death of me anyways. I also just wanna clarify that I am in NO MEANS trying to glorify or condone this relationship, Safin is 100% psychotic so ladies and gays beware of people like this IRL! Hope you guys enjoy and once again, thank you for the amazing support! 💕

Previous Chapter | Masterlist 

You refused to believe it. There was no way that it could have happened. It all seemed too good to be true. The small grip of sanity that you had left was gone. You felt like your whole body was damaged and scarred by Safin. He took pride in the fact that you were truly his now that you had slept with him. The next night, Safin and you had done it again. You remembered as Safin had his way, you looked at a wax candle on your nightstand. It slowly burned as the wax dripped from the sides. When Safin had finished and pulled you close to him, the fire had gone out.

Just like your fight had.

Returning to the submarine pen, everything was the same as it used to be. Serrano, Safin’s extra flirting, everything. Except for the fact that your wedding date was haunting you. Safin had mentioned it once a day, always asking for advice. He asked what flowers to use, what theme you wanted, everything that a couple would do together for a wedding. You would just nod your head, refusing to say anything. Every night he would come to say goodnight to you, resulting in a full out make out session. You refused to have sex with him again until the wedding night, which you had dreaded.

Safin understood and would chuckle, patting your head. “Your so adorable, y/n. I understand it hard to control yourself. I mean, any man would look at you and lose it. I’m glad I have you all yourself.”

There was no denying Safin had broken you. Knowing that he was responsible for so much pain in the world and that you were going to marry him was mind baffling. Whenever he fucked you, you felt no pleasure or pain. All you felt was nothing. You considered escaping off of the island, but it was heavily guarded. Coming back from your weekend trip, Safin had ordered for you to always be accompanied by a guard around the island, no matter what. You couldn’t even imagine what Safin would do to you if you had escaped for a second time. Not to you, but to your family and friends. Knowing that they would live the rest of there lives unknown to your fate haunted you.

It was selfish of you to do. If you had just stayed put and sucked it up, then it wouldn’[t be so bad. But you were scared that no matter what you do, Safin was going to still hurt thousands. Being a soldier, you put yourself before others and vowed to die for your country. Thinking back your roots, you weren’t acting like a soldier, but a scared little girl. Everything you didn’t want to become was what you were becoming out. No matter how broken you were, you knew what you had to do.

You had to take Safin down. No matter what.

Every day, one of the guards would escort you down to the shooting ranges. He wore a black smartwatch that he would take off as he watched you shoot. You immediately recognized it. Was it crazy to think of a plan? You had to start somewhere. It was risky, but all you could do was wait for the right time to snatch it.

It had been like any other ordinary day as you prepared to shoot down another target, imaging it as Safin’s sick face. You knew the sound of a walkie talkie go off. The solider responded and simply left the room. The seconds dragged onto minutes. You stared at the door with your rifle in hand, trying to detect any footsteps. Placing the rifle down and walking up to the table, you noticed that he had left his watch. Safin’s soldiers weren’t the brightest in the bunch. Picking up the watch, it was the first piece of technology you had held in forever. It was an apple watch, commonly used by the agents at M16. They were used as phones, tracking devices, practically everything a spy needed to do was condensed to a little smartwatch.

The door slammed open. You quickly shoved the watch into your chest and pretended like you had been reloading your rifle.

The guard spun around the corner, tilting his head to the head. “Safin wants to see you.”

“For what?” You asked, following beside him. “I already ate with him.”

“I don’t know. Stop asking so many questions.” The guard grumbled. In response, you rolled your eyes and walked beside him. The guard even noticed that you had stolen his watch. It was all going according to plan. All you could do was keep a low profile.

Safin stood in front of your door, hands behind his back. Upon noticing you, he walks up to plant a kiss on your forehead. “Hello love.”

“Hey...” You muttered, feeling the watch drip down your robe. The guard stood there, a little taken aback. Safin noticed, shooing him away. He grabbed your hand and led you into your bedroom. What the hell did he want?

“Does he make you uncomfortable, Y/n?” Safin questioned, referring to the guard.

You shook your head. “No, why?”

“Oh, I thought he made you uncomfortable. I could always switch a female guard if you please.”

“How about no guard at all?” You proposed. Safin simply chuckled, patting your head. It physically angered you to be around him. All you wanted to do was wipe that smirk off of his face.

“Once we are married, I will be your guard.” He walked around your bedroom, looking at of the books and plants. You simply walked over to the couch and sat to watch it burn. Your [y/e/c] eyes followed Safin as he stalked around the room, taking his sweet time.

“Would you like to use my room or your room for our bedroom?” He broke the silence. You looked straight into the blazing fire, your fists crunching with anger. The thought of your wedding night was going to drive you mad. But you had to persist.

“I thought my opinion didn’t matter.” You stated. A sigh escaped from Safin’s mouth as he walked over and sat right next to you. He placed his hand on your thigh. Attempting to lift it up, his strong grip kept you down.

“Y/n, what is the matter?” He counseled, placing his head on your shoulder. You simply looked into the fire, ignoring him. “You are going to be my wife, of course, your say matters. I’ve noticed you’ve been quieter, moodier, and less energetic than you usually are. Tell me what is wrong so I can make it right. Is it the guards? The stress of the wedding?”

Wedding, what a funny word. The thought made you laugh internally. One wrong move and the watch was going to slip out of your shirt. You stayed still, letting Safin get closer and closer to you. His hand rested on his thigh as his head leaned onto your shoulder.

“Your shaking, you’re nervous. I know the wedding is coming soon and you feel...excited but nervous. I feel the same way, my love. But once we marry, all your pain and fear will disappear. We can start our family and do whatever you want for our honeymoon.”

His lips breathe against your neck before he beginnings to suck on it. You bite your lip as you feel the slide into your pants; the cold metal staining your skin. Safin gently pushes you onto the couch and decorates your neck with kisses. You can feel his erection up against your thigh. No, you couldn’t go through it again.

“S-safin.” Your hands grabbed his shoulders.

He immediately stopped, taking his lips off your body to look at you. He seemed worried. “Yes, y/n?”

“We can’t do this.”

“I thought I was calming you, I’m sorry love.” He apologized, getting off of you.

You stayed laying down, huffing. There was no way you could get up without the watch falling out of your pants. You weren’t a double oh, but your acting skills were going to have to do. “I guess I’m just nervous...I’m sorry.”

“I should be the one apologizing, I’m so sorry.” Safin stroked a few pieces of your hair out your face to admire you. God, you were beautiful in his eyes. He hated to see you so upset. “Love, your eyes..”

The bags under your eyes had returned. Your eyes were puffy and dark from crying and lack of sleep, not from being nervous about Safin. But he seemed to fall right into your trap, just like how you had fallen into his. “I haven’t been sleeping well..I just..”

“Say no more. I will leave you be to rest. Goodnight, my bride.” Safin cooed as he placed a kiss onto your hair. He made his way to the door before turning to catch one more glance of you.

“Y/n, let me promise you this.” His silky voice stated, cool to the touch and pleasing to the ears. “Once we are married, you will be free of all of his. I will make you the happiest woman not through gifts, but through love. You are my reflection in the mirror, the one I have yearned for all these years. I am yours, and you are mine.”

Once the door was shut, you stood up from the couch and felt watch fall from your leg pant. You let out a sigh, grabbing the watch. It was still working, showing the time. Your first priority was to try and track your location. It was going to be tricky since the watch was tiny and not connected to a laptop. But your were determined to bring Safin down.

You opened up the tracking location and waited for it to load. It showed your location, which seemed to be a remote area. Zooming out, you saw that you were on a small island in the middle of nowhere. The island south of you was much bigger, which you immediately recognized as Crete. You had been to the islands before as a child, which gave you a boost in trying to identify your location. Being the southmost island, you assumed you were Gavdos, a tiny island that little tourists knew about. It was also an island used by the Communist Italian party in World War two which explained the abandoned submarine base.

Q had taught you a trick your first year at working at M16. It also had happened to be Nomi’s first year. Nomi was going out on a mission in war-ridden Belarus. Q had set her up with a watch and told her that if she was kidnapped, then all she had to do was enter a tracking code which would alert M16 of her direct location. It turned out to be useful since Nomi was kidnapped and had alerted M16 of her location, saving her within forty-eight hours. It was more of a tip for field agents, but you were thankful that you had that piece of advice.

You entered the tracking code (which you hoped was correct) into the “find my device app”, and waited. Your hands were shaking. There was a chance you entered the wrong code and could be alerting an old woman of a lost watch on an abandoned island.

The ringing had stopped. Bolded words flashed on the screen,

“WATCH HAS BEEN FOUND”

You zoomed into the location and saw that the owner in London had been notified of your location. Q, or whoever got the signal, knew of your location. A smile appeared on your face. There was a rush of adrenaline in your body. It wasn’t forced, but a genuine feeling of joy.

You were going to be saved from this nightmare.

-----

The next few days, you had casually acted yourself. Safin had noticed you were in higher spirits. The man had been so blinded by love, so he assumed nothing of it. As long as you were happy and obeying his every command, Safin was a content man. Within a few days, he could be marrying you, the love of his life. You in a few days would hopefully be off of his god forbidden island, back with your friends and family. Safin would be locked away, just like Blofield. The world would be free of there evil.

Your room had been placed in the farthest corner of the Submarine pen. It was usually peaceful and quiet, yet haunting. After waking up, you opened the doors and didn’t notice the usual guard standing outside of it. You considered it odd but shrugged it off. Maybe Safin needed them for a meeting, which gave you more free time. You decided to head to the shooting range where you found peace. Each hallway you walked down, the only company besides yourself was the dim walls. You decided to take a few rounds with your rifle as a way to pass time.

Two hours had gone by, and there was no sign of human life. You had found this to be rather odd. Safin had thousands of guards in the Submarine Pen. He would casually intrude on an activity you were doing and request to join you. What if something had happened? Maybe M16 had come to the island to save you. It was strangely quiet in the Submarine Pen. Too quiet.

You cleaned up yourself at the shooting range and walk down and up the Submarine Pen, trying to find your way to the main room. All of the hallways were empty, void of life, and sound. You felt like a scared little girl alone in the intimidating and dull Submarine pen. You noticed the familiar stairs that lead to Safin’s meeting room. Instead of being pristine clean, spare bullets had scattered the ground. You saw it as a red flag but were curious. What the hell had happened that you had missed. Walking down the stairs, you noticed it was pitch dark in Safin’s lair. It was never dark in Safin’s lair. No noise came from the room or light. You tried to listen for any signs of life, but there was only a cold silence.

As your foot stepped into the room, the hidden lights flickered on revealing a bloody slightly. The dull room was covered in blood and bodies. Your body froze, unable to process the image in front of you. Bodies of Safin’s soldiers laid on the ground, covered in gunshot wounds. Not only were there the bodies of Safin’s soldiers, but there were military soldiers dead on the ground. It all seemed like a horrible nightmare. Your body began to shake as you froze, your thoughts racing. It brought you back to that fateful day. The building, the humidity, the gunshots. Then the explosion and darkness. You thought you had died, but you were stuck under that rubble, unable to feel your lower body.

“Stalker?”

That name brought back a memory you had forgotten. Nobody had called you that name except for your mates in the military. Stalker was a codename given by your captain since you had a tendency to follow your target before shooting them. Looking up, you see a bloodied soldier with ruffled red hair and widened green eyes.

“Bruiser..?”

Brusier was the only other teammate who survived the bombings in Iraq. He looked more masculine than boyish, growing out a beard and a few wrinkles forming on his skin. Instead of being slim, he put on a few pounds but remained muscular. He looked rather confused. “What the hell are you doin’ here? You gotta run, girl.”

“There’s no time to explain.” You stated, walking over to him. “I-”

“Sergeant Thomas Fraser.” A silky accented interpreted. It was none other than Safin, who looked disheveled and bloodied.  Brusier looks at you, fear in his eyes. The man looked like he had seen hell all over again, which he had. You were better known as “Bruiser” due to your fights with fellow teammates. Many people mistook you for Irish due to accent but in reality your simply Scottish. You were awarded the VC for your bravery in Operation Parachute for saving two hundred refugees and being one of the only two members to survive. Yet, you and I’m sure y/n know that...you didn’t crawl out of rubble or kill the culprits..”

“What the hell do you want?” Bruiser cursed, shifting in his chains. His eyes darted over to you. “More importantly, what is she to you? She’s just some damn receptionist at M-”

Safin pulled out a pistol, shooting the floor an inch away from Bruiser’s body. He jumped back in response. Safin wasn’t his normal self, controlled. Instead, he seemed like he was unleashing the monster inside of him.

“Y/n? She’s not a pencil picker. You couldn’t ever process a woman being superior to you in your shallow head,” Safin spat as he pointed his rifle at you. Just seeing you had him lose his mind. You truly looked scared of him. “She deserved Victoria’s Cross more than you ever did. While you had been pulled out of the rubble and reported y/n dead, she had crawled out of the rubble, losing a leg. Awarded for “in the presence of the enemy" when you had run away? That doesn’t sound like a war hero to me.”

“Safin, please,” You begged, pointing at him. Bruiser was feeling all kinds of emotions. His team had been all killed for a second time as he was threatening to be killed by the world’s most feared Anarchist. “He’s not worth your time.”

“Y/n, stay out of this. This isn’t your business.” Bruiser barked. Safin death stared him, shooting another bullet os acre him off.

“Keep your mouth shut, boy.” He snarled, feeling like a wild animal. Y/n slowly began to away from him, knowing that she was walking a fine line. Safin saw her fear and lowered his gun, walking toward her. Instead of looking insane, his expressions had softened. “I’m sorry, Love. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Bruiser looked over at you, utter confusion in his face. You see him and try to explain, but Safin had beat you to it.

“I took y/n from M16 to save her. M16 never deserved such talent or did the armed forces. I didn’t kidnap her to keep her as a slave or a bargaining chip. Just like you had said, she’s a fighter. At first, she hated me, cursed me out, and refused to obey my commands. But over time..she learned to love me. We plan to have our wedding soon.”

Safin’s slow steps were getting close to you. You backed away, shaking your hands. “Bruiser, that’s no-”

“It is the truth. You even say it yourself, you needed me. You wanted me. So I did what any man did and gave you the pleasure you had desired. I’m certain it was more of a better experience than what Bruiser that ever given you.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” The Sergeant said. Not at Safin, but at you. You were at a loss for words. How did Safin know about you and Bruiser’s affair? It was only a few hookups, friends with benefits. But after your discharge, you hated Bruiser and he was well aware of it. There was no way you could normally explain this.

“Please, Thomas.” You feel like your begging at this voice. “I can tru-”

You hadn’t even noticed Safin was an inch away from you. As you tried to explain, he grabbed your wrist and brought his lips onto yours. He wasn’t as gentle as he usually was, but aggressive and hungry. His hand was firm on the small of your back, holding you close. Your hatred for Safin was beginning to show. Kicking him off, you slap him. “Get off of me!”

Safin holds his cheek, in shock that you would strike him. He chuckled, looking up at you. “Y/n, you promised to be mine. The world will now.”

“Your fucked up, y/n. Both of you.” Bruiser cried, moving away. Everything was happening to quickly. “Y/n, you really turned out to be this way? A double agent?”

At this point, tears are streaming down your eyes. You have no idea what to say. “N-No, I’m not. I was kidnapped, please liste-”

“There is no need for words, you two,” Safin added. He walked over to you and grabbed your hand, placing a gun on to it. He positioned your arm to point the gun at Bruiser. Bruiser saw this and squirmed, tears now coming from his eyes.

“He knows too much. The world will know you are a double agent. You know what to do.”

The cries and pleas of Bruiser start to mess with your head. You turn to Safin, shaking your head. “He has a family. A wife, a child. Pleas-”

“Fucking SHOOT HIM!” He yelled. You shivered down as tears streamed down your face. You couldn’t kill Brusier, no matter how much you hated him. After your discharge, you swore only to kill if needed.

“You WHORE!” Bruiser yelled as his voice croaked with pain and betrayal. “I saved you! I could’ve left you to fucking get crushed by that rubble. God, I should have so you wouldn’t end up with that thing. You’ve lost your fucking mind, y/n. Did you and your boyfriend plan all of this to happen? Most likely. I hope those asshats at M16 fuckin ki-”

A gunshot rang through the room. You had let go of the trigger. The bullet flew straight into Bruiser’s head. His words became slurred as blood gushed from his head. As his body fell backward, his legs twitched before going still. All of the discord had gotten to your head. Safin’s yelling, Bruiser’s curses, all you wanted to do was stop all the madness.

“No...FUCK!” You cursed, running over to Bruiser. Now he was dead because of you. It was taken out of hand. Blood oozed all over the flowers and onto your hands as you pushed him up. You kept shaking him, begging for him to wake up. But you knew it. Bruiser was long gong. Not because of Safin, but because of you.

Footsteps approach behind you. It was Safin. Dropping Bruiser’s lifeless body, your eyes burn into the gunshot in his head. It went clean through his forehead. His green eyes had rolled into the back of his head, blood coming from his nose and mouth.

“Get up, y/n.” Safin demanded. “It had to be done. He knew too much.”

There was one more bullet left in the pistol. Your finger fiddled with the trigger. You hear Safin

but refused to respond. He wasn’t your love, boyfriend, or husband. All Safin was to you was nothing but a heartless monster.

Grabbing your shoulder, Safin hisses, “Don’t make me rep-”

As you turned around, you shot Safin. You attempted to shoot him his chest, but ended up shooting his arm. As he hissed in pain, you scrambled to your feet and began to sprint. Your life depended on it. Running down countless hallways, you could hear the yells and rushed footsteps of soldiers. Due to Safin’s orders, they weren’t allowed to shoot at you. If you could just make it to the outdoor exit, then you would be free and never see Safin or the cursed island ever again.

There was a sharp sting in your thigh. Everything started to become numb as your vision blurred. The world spun as you slowed down, grabbing the nearest table but falling on your face. Your arms try to move you forward, but there is no power in your body. One of Safin’s goons had shot you with a tranquilizer. Your body fought to stay awake, to fight. But then you realized that there was no fight left in you as everything went black.

-----

“I cannot believe you!” Safin stated. The guards had Tranquilized you and placed you in a cell in handcuffs. “You deceived me! Was this all to break us apart?

You looked away from him, huffing, “Yes, it was. I want to far away from you as possible. Maybe if your men weren’t boys, than I wouldn’t have been able to hack the system. Face it, Safin, you’re done for.”

“Done for? You are not thinking, woman. M16 sends a military unit to kill me, and all of my men kill every single one of them. Even your little boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” You snorted, walking up the cell bars to get up in his face. “It was a hook up for fuck’s sake. I’m sorry I’ve been with other men. Atleast he didn’t kidnap me and force me to be his bride.”

‘I DIDN’T KIDNAP YOU! I SAVED YOU FROM THEM!” The anarchist exploded. You stepped back, startled by his yelling. As much as your body wanted to respond, you knew it was best to keep quiet. The soldiers behind him were just as startled as you were.

Moving his hair back, Safin looked back at you, eyebrows furrowed anger in his bluish-green eyes. “You promised yourself...You will be mine...You will be my wife. If you believe M16 will save you, don’t live on false hope y/n. I’ll kill all of them. Every last one. Whether you like it or not, you are going to marry me and be by my side, forever. I am not losing you so easily.”

“You have NOTHING left to lose.” You retaliated as you felt fury fume at your cheeks. Safin had enough of your bullshit. He yelled at the guards to keep an eye on you and expect orders from him later. Some of the guards had followed him while two others stayed behind, watching your every mouth.

Backing up against a wall, you slid back down and looked at the dark ceiling. You were officially done. Where you becoming Safin? There was blood on your hands now. Bruiser was an awful person, but you never would harm him. But you did as you shot him clean through the head. M16 had sent a team to retrieve you, and Safin killed every single one of them. Even if M16 came, would they stand a chance against Safin? Would Bond and Nomi truly die? All because he didn’t get to keep you for himself.

Safin was right. You were far past the point of return.