#im injecting it into my veins it has me hissing snarling

[somefandomquote]

imma tell you the truth chief, i have been a mania defender since its release but only now that i feel it is on its way of becoming my favorite fall out boy’s album EVER 

[the-darklings]

can i request for march blurb night in advance?? like a santi/v au where they meet after a few years of v being manager and santi being married (and expecting a kid)? im really curious about how the conversation would go down👀👀

—IN MY PLACE;

⤫ pairing: santino x reader!V

⤫ wc: 2.9k+

⤫ notes: BRO. For context, please read this first. Also, blast “In My Place” by Coldplay for extra feels.

“I’m afraid that I cannot—”

Your head snaps up, the pen in your hand stilling as you raise your head towards the door of your office. Charon’s voice is familiar to you but you rarely hear it anything other than soothing monotonous. The unease, the reluctance—those are not things that you hear often, if at all.

Has that dreadful individual arrived already?

No—no, Charon would have rang to inform you first. The Adjudicator is distant in their ruthless professionalism, but they won’t force their way into your office. They better not.

The door slams open and your fingers rest against the comforting weight of a sharpened blade, tensing. Your role now may be to keep order but very few do it as efficiently as you do. There is a reason why you have become such a renowned manager and it has little to do with kindness.

But—

Something clenches around your heart, your spine, dragging you years back at the sight of the face in front of you.

You haven’t seen him since—

Since Santino came to you personally after the news about his engagement broke—not since you told him face-to-face that the only way to keep his power was to follow through with it. Camorra council was getting antsy for heirs, for the security that comes with a continuous line of succession. He could not delay any further without risking an outright rebellion or attempts to take his power.

The power that’s been in his family since Camorra was founded centuries ago.

He hasn’t changed. Same hair, same irritated expression, same arrogant posture, same fancy suit.

Same intense eyes that latch onto you like he’s been starved for the sight of you.

You try to ignore the stab right into your heart at the glimpse of a golden wedding band around his finger.

You try to ignore the way he exhales slowly, like some invisible weight has dropped away from his shoulders now that he’s in front of you.

“My apologies, Miss,” Charon begins and you drag your eyes to your right hand, rising to your feet. “But I’m afraid Mr D’Antonio was rather…insistent on seeing you. I told him you were busy and unavailable—”

Santino’s lips part, his expression dark, but you speak before he can. “Don’t worry,” you reassure Charon, giving him a measured look. “This will not take long. Please continue with the preparations.”

A polite dismissal.

Charon hesitates. Behind his glasses, his dark eyes slide towards the Italian—one of the most powerful men in the world, now—and if you didn’t know any better you would say that Charon gives Santino D’Antonio a warning look before he nods at you. 

He obeys without another word, closing the office door softly behind himself and all is silent.

You have no idea what to say to him. You told him that he should never see you again. That it would be for the best; a clean break. His presence here, now, is like a knife—a slow, dull, searing knife you could spend days twisting inside your heart. Always just a bit more, just a tiny bit longer; you would hold onto him till you can almost pretend that you’re both happy and free. 

“(Name).”

He seems to choke on your name; exhale it from deep inside his chest, soft and loving and hungry. His eyes journey over your features and you see, feel, taste his longing for you in that simple gesture alone. In turn, you chain your own longing tighter. Chain that part of you that wants to do nothing more than to wrap your arms around him and—

I’ve missed your stupid, sleepy face. 

“Congratulations,” you whisper gently instead, trying to keep the pain from your expression and voice by injecting coolness into your words. “It’s wonderful news. I hope it’s an easy pregnancy—”

“Don’t,” he snarls, his expression twisting with rage as he cuts the distance between you but you step back before he can touch you. “I am not here because of that. I’m—”

“Then why are you here, Santino?”

He exhales loudly, the frame of his body restless as it is tense. Upon closer inspection, you realise that you were wrong. He looks miserable. The bags under his eyes are so deep and dark, he looks at least ten years older. Like the cocky ease with which he’s always held himself has crumbled away into nothing. 

“Why?” he breathes unsteadily, and tries to reach for you again but you pull back again, the back of your thighs almost brushing against your work desk. “Why won’t you let me touch you, amore? Let me. Let me.”

His voice is a wrecked whisper as he steps closer, leaning his face closer while his fingers come to cup your cheeks. He’s as frantic as he is hollowed out, unsteady, and you both exhale when your skin meets his. A shudder rolls across your limbs and you have to swallow down your own relief. You know him intimately; the heat of his palms, the tickle of his breath, the scent of his cologne and the security of his presence by your side.

For a moment you simply stand together, your foreheads almost touching, your breaths mingling. You breathe. Deep, haggard breaths. A part of you wonders if this is the first time in a year since either of you has been able to breathe properly. 

“Mi manchi,” he exhales in the space between you, his voice thick, warped. His fingers trace over the curve of your jaw, breathless, and your palm settles against his chest and the thundering beat of his heart alone betrays him. “So much I can’t sleep at night. Every minute, hm, every minute of every day, you haunt me. Tell me—tell me I am not alone in this sickness. This longing. Please, amore.”

Your fingertips hover over the round curve of his cheek, his chin, and you only offer him a pained, “You’re not.” 

You’ve been just as sick with longing for him as he’s been for you but—

He slams into you. The back of your legs crash against the desk but you don’t care because he’s kissing you and god—

It tears through you like a bolt of lightning, just like the first time you’ve kissed and all the times that followed. All those secret, stolen moments between you. The overwhelming heat that explodes through you every time.

His hands are cupping your face, his tongue eager and desperate as it refamiliarise itself with the taste of you and you lean into him too. Your nails scratch against his neck and he groans—that deep, rumbling sound—his hips pressing against yours and you can feel every inch of him. Every exhale and the heat and the taste of him—

You’re burning. You’re not drowning. You’re burning and you want to burn till there is nothing left of you at all. Till you’re both ash and can blow into the wind together, never to be controlled or dependant on the wills of others ever again. 

Your fingers slip into his hair, and he caresses your cheek, jaw, neck. His other hand trails down your neck and the curve of your breast before settling against your waist, greedy and selfish. His movements are barely controlled—like he wants to rush but knows that he needs to savour this—and you grind yourself into him, making him hiss out a breath when you break apart for a second. 

His self-control has snapped long ago, and his fingers snake around your thighs, coaxing and sensual, and your body knows his, so you obey. With his help, it takes only a tiny boost for you to settle on top of your desk. His slender fingers trace up your skin and your legs part for him, making all the room he might want or need. He slips between them easily, without hesitation; a dance and a play you have done a thousand times before. An effortless shifting and coiling of your limbs and—

And his lips are on your neck, the hollow of your throat, the cut of your collarbone. His burning fingers rest against the back of your neck and you sigh at the hotness of his mouth on your skin. Ravenous. His lips and tongue turn the blood in your veins into liquid flame as he explores. Your own fingers are in his hair again and that welcoming, warming heat in your lower stomach blooms—

“Ti amo così tanto.”

You crash back into reality. 

And with it, you push him back so hard, he stumbles.  

You get off the desk at once, smoothing your clothes as you gasp for breath, trying to not look at him. 

“We can’t—” it sounds like you’re talking through a mouthful of crushed glass but ignore the weakness of your own heart. “We can’t do this anymore, Santino.”

“Why not?”

He barely sounds coherent, but you still don’t look in his direction. Because he has such a way of ripping those walls down. Ever since he’s found a way to do it, he can do it with a blink and you hate him for it. You have to be strong now, more than ever, and you resent the fact that it’s you that has to be strong for the two of you.

You douse the heat in your veins, the inferno in your heart that only he has ever managed to ignite to such a degree, and lift your head.

Santino is breathing so heavily, his shoulders are moving with his inhales and you ignore the wild look in those green eyes of his.

“Because you’re married,” you spit out, pained, forcing the words out even as they shred your heart into ribbons, leaving a gushing, bleeding mess behind. “Because you’re expecting a child. Because there are lines we can’t cross anymore. I’m not that kind of person. We—we can’t be together. It’s time to accept that. Let me go. For your own sake just—”

But he’s shaking his head, his fingers flexing, and he approaches you purposely. Fury deepens the line of his face, sets his jaw into a rigid line. “Never.”  

“Please, Santino. You have a wife—”

“I don’t love her,” he snarls lowly, and stalks even closer, his eyes flashing. His gaze is merciless, almost cruel, as he murmurs his next words to you like a confession. “I will never love her. I can’t stand the sight of her, do you understand that, hm? She repels me in every way. On our wedding night, I imagined it was you.”

God, you don’t want to hear this. You can’t—

“Stop.” 

Your plea goes unanswered as his digits settle on your forearms, and he stares at you imploringly, still effortlessly cruel.  

“When I kissed her, I imagined that I was kissing you, tasting you,” he continues softly, and you shake your head, your eyes squeezing shut like you can block his words out if you don’t see the despondent look on his face. “When I fucked her, I imagined that it was you underneath me, amore mio. I imagined that it was love when I forced myself to touch her and make her feel good. And when I came it was with your name on my lips, not hers. How lucky for me that it only took once, no?”

“Stop,” you growl harshly, and shove him away from you again, your blood roaring in your ears. “Stop it. I don’t want to hear this. I—”

Your eyes burn as you turn your head away, trying to control the tsunami of emotion battering against your heart. 

You don’t want to know about a woman—his wife—who exists in your place now.

Santino is silent, his expression drawn, empty. 

It’s so unfair. It’s so fucking unfair. 

“Do you still love me?”

Your heart stops in your chest for a second, your throat closing up as your head jerks back towards him. 

“You know that I do.”

But it doesn’t make a difference. How you feel never makes a goddamn difference. Life never allows you happiness—not really. It throws you scraps of something good before its torn away from you again and again. 

Alone. Always so terribly, awfully alone.

“I don’t want to see you again,” you tell him quietly, and you feel your heart tear itself into tiny pieces. But it needs to be done. It needs to be. “And I forbid you from ever touching me again.”

He’s so still, he doesn’t look like he’s breathing. His expression frozen, his eyes wide, and lips parted in disbelief.

You place your hand against the back of your desk, gripping it so tightly your fingers ache. Something to anchor you to reality, something to help you ignore the lost look on his face, the bob of his throat as he forces himself to swallow. 

“You have your new life, and I have mine,” you tell him, your words devoid of emotion. “We finally got what we both wanted. Power. Don’t you think we should stop ruining each other’s lives? We should both move on and be happy.”

His gaze is frantic. 

“Don’t do this—” 

A sharp knock interrupts him. Santino’s mouth snaps shut and you turn towards the door.

“Come in.”

The door swings open before you’re even done speaking and Charon’s guarded stare goes straight to Santino as he enters. The tall man regards the Italian coolly for a moment before his head tilts in your direction respectfully. 

“Miss, the Adjudicator has arrived and wishes to see you at once.”

Santino is still staring at you, and every second of silence that stretches between you just leaves you colder and colder. 

You both have power now. But there is a price to pay for everything as he’s always been so fond of reminding you. 

Santino straightens, his chin tilting in that painfully familiar, proud manner and you almost crumble then. He empties his features of that longing and desire. Empties himself of everything till you’re left staring at the shell he projects. 

“This is not happiness, amore,” he says, his voice tinted with resentment, and his hands slip into his pockets. “This is not—”

His eyes go to Charon and he looks up the silent man up and down before his eyes cut back to you. 

“Lo sceglierò sempre te,” he states coldly, and you suck in a breath, gripping the table tighter. “Keep that mind, cara mia.” 

With that, he turns around and stalks out of the office, taking your heart with him. 

His footsteps disappear down the corridor and the silence left behind is so dreadful, you can’t bear to look at Charon.  

Minutes drag, but you can’t seem to get rid of the burn in your eyes. You hiss an angry breath from behind your tightly clenched teeth, and press your palm over your eyes. 

“Am I—”

The lump in your throat won’t let you speak, and you work to get rid of it for another few moments before you finally articulate your thoughts. 

“Am I really that undeserving of happiness, Charon?” you wonder in a fragile, wet whisper. “First John, now Santino. Am I really that awful that I can never be h-happy?” 

Crisp steps draw nearer and you lower your hand, staring at the floor. Charon pulls out a serviette from his pocket, offering it to you but you only shake your head, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“You more than deserve happiness, Miss,” he says quietly, almost kindly, and your watery stare raises to his face. “After all you have been through, it is not selfish to desire for such a thing.”

He puts the serviette back into his pocket and seems to hesitate. “Permission to speak freely, Miss?”

Your eyebrows knit. “Always.”

Charon sighs faintly, his head tilting slightly as he gives you a piercing look. “I do believe that if Sir were here, he would tell you to the hell with the rules. Go with your heart as they say.” 

You chuckle weakly, glancing towards the floor before your eyes lift back to the man before you again. “Winston cared about rules above all else.”

Charon’s eyebrow arch into a pointed line. “I do believe, Miss, that it would not be presumptuous for me to say that he cared about you even more. This hotel has always been more than a job, more than a duty to him—it was Sir’s legacy and he entrusted it to you because he believed you could lead better than anyone. But not at the expense of your own happiness.”

Inhaling deeply, you clear your throat, pressing your fingertips against the corners of your eyes. 

“Would you like me to contact Mr D’Antonio—”

“No.”

Charon’s expression slackens with surprise, and you give him a firm look. 

“We have business to attend to,” you tell him resolutely, wiping your face of emotion, of vulnerability you showed him because you trust him just as Winston once did. “Like you said, we have a legacy to uphold. Let’s go and show that terrible, annoying Adjudicator what we’re made of.”   

Charon stands taller, his posture ramrod straight, and he inclines his head with that cool professionalism. “Of course, Miss,” he says, but you see the sadness buried deep in that dark stare. “As you wish.”

Santino has his new family. 

And you have yours. 

It’s time to wake up and live in reality. 

… 

an: AS IF I WAS GONNA WAIT FOR A MONTH FOR THIS PAIN FEST. I would have written this sooner but this ask came through in the middle of my 48 hour COA 11 lockdown and then I had work. But maaaaaan. The pain of this AU………it hit differently. We are here to suffer and suffer only. Hope you “enjoyed” it!!!